Born to Run

Meet me. Monday. Two P.M. Wait outside the mall-side entrance to the National Museum of Natural History. Alone.”

“Clearly he’s talking about assassination,” said White. “How else could someone ‘guarantee’ that a vice presidential nominee will become president?”

White was in his fifth year as the Washington ASAC, bumping right up against the FBI’s mandatory retirement age of fifty-five. He struck Jack as the anti-G-man. Had they allowed smoking in the building, he probably would have lit up. If neckties were optional for a man of his position, he wouldn’t have owned one.

White glanced toward the profiler, inviting her comments.

“Very similar to the previous message,” she said.

“Previous message?” said Jack. “I didn’t get a previous message.”

“No, you didn’t,” said White. “Someone else did.”

“Who?”

“That’s a detail the FBI can’t share with you.”

“Do you have a suspect?” said Jack.

“We’ve constructed a profile,” said the ASAC. He glanced again at the profiler, as if to say “Give him a little.”

“In general terms,” she said, “a self-deluded loner who fancies himself an assassin who works for hire.”

Jack said, “Why would he contact me instead of my father directly?”

Another agent jumped in. “Between a lawyer and a politician, maybe he thought the lawyer was more open to murder for hire.”

That brought a few smiles from law enforcement-even Andie.

“Traitor,” Jack said beneath his breath.

“Sorry,” said Andie.

White said, “More likely, he fears that every communication to Harry is being screened by law enforcement. You’re a criminal defense lawyer with privileged communications. Surely someone like you isn’t going to allow law enforcement to monitor his incoming e-mails.”

“He had to know I’d run to the FBI. He’s probably just a nut who gets off by broadcasting his intentions. I saw plenty of that doing death penalty work.”

“I don’t think he’s broadcasting anything,” said the profiler. “He’s negotiating.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Jack. “You truly think that this guy wants to meet with me tomorrow morning outside the Smithsonian and talk about killing the president for money?”

“We did say ‘self-deluded loner,’” said White.

Jack said, “So if I show up at two P.M. tomorrow, he’ll be there?”

The ASAC shrugged. “One way to find out.”

“Wait a minute,” said Andie. “I’ve been quiet because of my relationship with Jack, but this is starting to sound dangerous.”

“What Andie’s trying to say is that I’m a great catch but I make lousy bait.”

“Cut the cornball, Jack, or I’ll switch sides.”

The ASAC raised a hand, as if to step between prizefighters. “Let’s break this down. One, we have a threat against the president. Two, we believe it’s credible.”

“For reasons you won’t share with me,” said Jack.

“Three,” said the ASAC, “we know where he’ll be and when he’s going to be there. The Washington Mall, especially around the Smithsonian, is a very public place at two o’clock in the afternoon. All we need is Jack to hang out in the crowd and wait for him.”

“No,” said Andie.

“I suppose you’re right,” said White. “It takes a pretty courageous civilian to step up and help the FBI apprehend a would-be presidential assassin.”

“I’m courageous,” said Jack.

“No you’re not,” said Andie.

“I date you.”

The ASAC raised a hand again. “We’re not going to take chances here, Jack. You’ll wear a Kevlar overcoat. Undercover agents will be posted all around. You’ll be linked to the command center by surveillance electronics.”

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“What?” said Andie.

“But I want Andie talking me through it. Appearances notwithstanding, she’s probably the least likely to get me killed.”

“You sure about this?” said Andie.

“You mean about doing this, or the part about you not getting me killed?”

“Both.”

“I’m sure.”

“Good man,” said White. “It’s a go.”

Chapter 10

It was Paulette’s first visit to her sister’s apartment.

The phone call had come Sunday at 3:12 A.M. As a White House correspondent, Paulette was accustomed to breaking news and ringing telephones at all hours of the night. The detective’s tone of voice, however, made it immediately clear that this call had nothing to do with world peace, a terrorist bombing, or the latest Washington scandal. She drove straight from her Georgetown town house to the medical examiner’s office, and in a split second, she knew: “That’s Chloe,” she’d told the assistant ME.

Seven hours later, Paulette still felt numb.

The sun had yet to poke through the gray morning sky, and last night’s nip had yet to burn off. The apartment door was open, but Paulette watched from the outside, behind a taut line of yellow police tape. Inside, a photographer captured the efficiency apartment exactly the way Chloe had left it, from the notebook computer on the loveseat to the can of diet soda on the table. Investigators searched for drops of blood, evidence of a struggle, indicators of a violent boyfriend, or any other details that might tell Chloe’s story.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” said Detective Edwards, “but I can’t let you come inside just yet.”

“I promise not to touch anything.”

He was sympathetic, but firm. “Ms. Sparks, how many years do you think I’ve been working homicides in this city?”

She could have guessed “too many.” A long career was written all over his face-the jaded look in his eyes, the worry lines that seemed chiseled in stone. It spoke of too many crimes unsolved, too little satisfaction in the occasional service of justice.

“Twenty?” she said.

“More. So I totally understand when loved ones want to help. But it’s best to let the professionals do their job. Even though this isn’t where the crime took place, I’ve seen crucial evidence turn up at a victim’s home. Sadly, I’ve also seen crucial evidence contaminated by the victim’s family.”

“Okay, I’ll wait,” she said, but it was hardly her nature to stand aside. She remained in the doorway, watching.

Chloe’s efficiency apartment was tiny even by LaDroit Park neighborhood standards. A Murphy bed and loveseat on one wall. A table, two chairs, and a small television on the other. There was a small stove right next to her closet, and a small alcove in the back apparently doubled as the dressing and cooking area. In the very back was the bathroom. The only window was in the corner, and it looked directly at the alley. Paint was peeling from the ceiling. Several brown stains and a distinct musty odor told of leaky pipes from the apartment above. An investigator was on hands and knees, searching the old sculptured green carpet with a flashlight. It struck Paulette that he could easily have found something buried in those fibers from two or even three decades removed.