would want to kill a security guard in a cemetery?”
More detectives and officers showed up with the regular team of investigators and forensic analysts. Among them, Marilyn London.
She twice gave the place a once-over, making sure nothing could lead back to Simon or the others. Satisfied, she asked for samples of the blood and fingerprints.
“Make sure you get a sample of the blood on this crypt over here,” she told one of the detectives.
“Which one?” he asked, sounding annoyed.
“Over here,” said Marilyn, unconcerned with his attitude. “It’s on the third tomb from the right, second from the bottom. It reads Julie Rice, A Friend Worth More Than Gold.”
26
Every muscle in Robert’s body ached, but he ignored it. Thorne, silent, showed no sign of stress, strain, or anger. Through schoolyard fights and wars, Robert knew her easy calm meant one thing. Hell lurked just around the corner.
“We better hit the office,” she said, her eyes searching, checking the rearview mirror. “I know the place is probably wired for sound, but the Georgia State Police will be calling about Julie Rice, and we better make sure Evelyn’s okay.”
Robert pulled out his cell phone and dialed. No answer. Not even the machine. He checked his watch. Too early for lunch. “ Drive to the alley across the street,” he said. “We can cut across and enter from the parking deck.”
Thorne sliced through the city like a pro, pulled into the alley a block from Dupont Circle, and parked alongside the Dupont Hotel. They ran down the alley to the street and looked up, mouths agape.
Smoke and flames raged from their office window. Black flakes of ash snowed down on everything, and everyone, with not a fire truck in sight. Thorne started for the building. Robert pulled her back. “It’s way past too late. See if you can spot Evelyn.” They searched the growing mob for several minutes. Nothing.
“There she is,” Thorne said, pointing, breathing a sigh of relief.
Evelyn, surrounded by six other frantic tenants, sprinted from the building and disappeared inside the hotel. Robert’s cell phone rang.
“Evelyn, are you okay?” Robert heard her fight back tears.
She arrived at the office late, found it ransacked and full of smoke, dropped her purse and ran.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Robert told her.
She sobbed gently. “What if I’d been there when they came to the office? I’d be…”
“You’re alive. That’s all that counts right now,” said Robert. “Look, don’t go home,” he ordered. “It’s not safe. Do you have the safe key?”
“Yes,” she replied, blowing her nose.
Inside a locker at Union Station, they kept a large green gym bag filled with emergency items. The bag contained two guns, a forty-five automatic and a ten millimeter Glock, plenty of ammunition, a set of open airline, bus, and train tickets, two encrypted cell phones, keys to their safehouse in upstate New York, and twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. They each kept a key; Evelyn usually pinned hers in her bra.
Robert told her to get the bag and take the bus to the safehouse. He’d call when things blew over. Evelyn sniffled and cleared her throat.
Thorne took the phone and offered last minute advice. They said their goodbyes, and waited until her cab pulled away.
Fire trucks finally hit the scene and hopelessly showered the building, their job more containment than salvage.
Let’s get to Fiona’s house,” said Robert.
Thorne hesitated. “Robert, we’d better check on Barbara.” He dialed. The phone rang too many times; she always picked up by the third ring. He hung up and dialed again. Three rings, five, six. She finally answered. “I was indisposed, ” she told him.
“I need you to meet me at Fiona’s house right away! I’ll call ahead so they know you’re coming.”
Cantankerous, she drilled him for information, demanding to know why.
“Mother, get over to Fiona’s house! Now!” Dead silence.
“Okay, son. I’ll leave right away.”
27
News trucks, police cars, and government issued Chryslers packed every available space in front of Fiona’s house. Reporters, camera-toting photographers, and a highly visible contingent of agents and police officers scurried up and down the block, checking every crack and crevice.
The reporters, some Robert recognized from half a block away, looked pensive and restless, standing behind a taped off barrier like groupies.
Thorne, puzzled, leaned forward on the steering wheel. “What the hell is this?”
“I have no idea, but the sharks are out, so the blood must be fresh.”
“Or it’s Rothschild,” shot Thorne.
Before Robert could respond, two black police escorted SUV’s with dark tinted windows and flashing lights, led a long black limousine inside the estate. Thorne pulled in behind the caravan, showed the guard their credentials and followed them inside.
They climbed out and looked around. Thorne let out a long, slow whistle. “It looks like Fort Knox around here.” Robert agreed. “I’ve never seen this much security at a private residence. It looks like the Quantico training yard.” Thorne shook her head and laughed. “If the Bear makes it past this mess, we should hire him.”
Inside the house, new faces scampered back and forth; some on cell phones, others huddled in groups. They passed through the kitchen and playroom into the living room. Loud conversations fell to whispers, stares turned into hard looks.
“Is my bra showing?” asked Thorne. “Or did we make America’s Most Wanted?”
“I’m not sure, but right now I don’t give a shit Robert spotted his mother sitting on the couch, next to a portly fellow dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. Barbara’s face lit up when she saw them, and a smile pushed its way across her lips. She excused herself mid-chatter, and stopped half a foot short of Robert’s chest.
He gently touched her shoulder. “Glad you made it here okay.”
“What’s going on Robert? It has to be something important for you to snap at me the way you did.”
“I’ll explain it to you later. Where’s Fiona?”
“She’s in the den with the Chief of Staff. Robert, I heard your office burned down. What’s going on?”
“Louis Pearle?” said Robert, in an unpleasant overtone. Thorne smiled. “I’ll let Thorne fill you in, about our office and all the rest. I need to talk to Fiona right away.”
Barbara studied him, searching his face. “Okay, but I want to talk to you after you’re finished.”
Robert stepped toward the den. A tender touch stopped him.
“Whatever it is, son, we’ll deal with it.” Even at her age, his mother’s tone assured him she meant it.
“I know,” he said, kissing her hand. “Just don’t hurt anyone till I give the word.”
“You know I will,” she said in jest, her eyes glassy. “Now go.” She shooed him away, dabbed at the corners of her eyes and left the room with Thorne. Robert watched them walk into the garden, wondering how his mother would react. Too old to fight, it didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.
The den, subdued compared to the rest of the house, still felt thick and tense. A handful of yuppie stiff shirts, huddled around a laptop like children watching Sesame Street, packed up and left the room.
Louis Pearle, the President’s Chief of Staff, sat in front of the couch, his arms crossed, an unlit cigar in his
