Authors: Max Allan Collins
Sloan nodded, then whispered back: “Clear the first floor and basement. We’re going on upstairs.”
The SAIC led the way. Even with the other two agents downstairs, the duplex was draped in a terrible silence that made the hair on Reeder’s neck prickle. Like Sloan, he kept his feet toward the outside edge of each step—the well-worn center was more likely to squeak.
At the top, just to the left of the landing, was a corridor that bisected this half of the structure—a door at right, down a ways, a door at left, down a ways farther, and a bathroom, yawning open, at the dead end of the hall.
Sloan pointed at the floor, indicating Reeder should take a position guarding the exit these stairs provided. The SAIC pointed to himself, then pointed down the hallway, indicating he would clear these rooms.
Reeder nodded, and Sloan gave him a raised-eyebrow look that said be ready for anything.
As Sloan entered the first room, Reeder gripped the Glock tight.
Was
he ready for anything? He’d been a field agent, and a damn good one, for a long time; but that was yesterday, and today he, for all his years, was the rookie here.
Then Sloan exited the room, mouthed
Clear,
and was moving past the second door to check the bathroom first. He did so. Nothing, apparently. Again, Sloan mouthed broadly:
Clear.
Reeder felt himself trembling—not much, just enough to unsettle him and be angry with himself. He watched Sloan enter the final room.
Then came Sloan’s voice: “
Federal agents
!
”
And Reeder took off down the hall, and he was halfway there when the shot came—
Jesus!
—thunderous in the close quarters. Then the second shot, and a voice he didn’t recognize cried out in wordless pain.
“Shit!” Reeder yelled, and he was almost there, the open door just ahead, God knew what waited within—Sloan dead, or dying, a killer with a gun?
Then Sloan came stumbling out into the hall.
At first Reeder thought the SAIC had been hit, but it was something else. Not fear, not even shock—dejection.
“Clear,” Sloan said, barely audible.
Behind him, he heard Eaton and Cribbs barreling up the stairs, and Reeder called, “
Clear
!
”
Sloan had gone back in.
Reeder peered into a shabby bedroom, where the SAIC, weapon loose and limp at his side, stood at the foot of a double bed. Dwight “Butch” Brooks, in shorts and wifebeater, lay there on his back as if asleep—the kind of sleep indicated by a small round hole in his forehead. The headboard had a lively spattering of blood and brains, dripping like an abstract art piece that hadn’t dried yet.
A gun rested in Brooks’s limp right hand. Glancing to his left, Reeder saw a bullet hole in the trim by the door, about six inches from where Sloan’s head would have been in entering.
Eaton and Cribbs came up behind Reeder, forcing him deeper into the room. Clothes were strewn on the floor, and a dresser was home to beer cans and ancient porn DVDs, though the wall the bed faced had an Ultra HD screen. Big as the one in Reeder’s living room.
“Fuck me,” Eaton said.
Cribbs let out a long sigh.
“Damnit,” Sloan muttered. Then to the corpse, he blurted, “You just
had
to shoot! You just had to shoot . . .”
Sloan slumped, and Reeder put a hand on one of his friend’s shoulders. They exchanged glum looks.
Whatever Butch Brooks had known was leaking out the back of his head.
And by now Charlie Granger would have that lawyer he’d requested.
“A man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on.
”
John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Thirty-Fifth President of the United States of America, former senator and representative from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
Section 45, Grid U-35, Arlington National Cemetery.
EIGHT
Supreme Court Justice Rodolfo Gutierrez rose precisely at five every morning. He admired precision, considered it a virtue. He would then shave, put on his sweats, and limber up for five minutes, one of his few concessions to turning sixty-eight over this winter past, then—at five-thirty—set out for his daily run.
As usual, Adriana—his wife of forty-five years—accompanied him. Her pink-and-white running suit with New Balance running shoes put to shame his gray sweatpants and white T-shirt, and as a runner she was at least his equal. This morning ritual had gone on for years, and Adriana was every bit as competitive as the Justice. Her hair might be grayer than his, but hers was still the taut, athletic body of the young woman he’d married.
They jogged out of the driveway of their eight-bedroom brick residence to run north along the tree-lined shoulder on Chain Bridge Road at the far end of the Crest Lane cul-de-sac; then they would turn back and retrace their route to the Chain Bridge, before circling north to the house. The forty-one-minute run covered 3.2 miles.
Five eight and 168 pounds, his short black hair graying at the temples, Gutierrez ran with an easy, even graceful gait that—like his wife—gave him the appearance of a much younger runner. There was little traffic this time of morning, so the lack of sidewalks seldom hindered their exercise. While their morning workout helped keep him in shape, what the Justice relished most about it was time for reflection. Today, as every day, husband and wife ran in amiable silence.
Behind them the sun edged over the horizon, the road running more northwest than true north. The Justice’s sneakers didn’t slap the ground so much as glide, touching down, pushing off. This lovely morning was as quiet and peaceful as an empty cathedral, interrupted only by Adriana’s easy in-and-out take of breath and the crunch of her shoes on the gravelly shoulder.
Both good Catholics, the Justice and his wife had raised six children who had given them, so far, half a dozen grandchildren and one great-grandchild. The couple went, well, religiously to confession and Mass, and tithed generously; but Gutierrez knew his greatest gift to the church had been writing the majority opinion returning prayer to public schools.
Creating that document had been the easiest, most pleasurable contribution he’d made since donning the sacred robes of his station. Yes, there had been criticism, but he didn’t care—his only desire was that all children, even those unfortunate enough to attend public school, have the spiritual and patriotic underpinnings he’d enjoyed growing up in parochial.
His own success in life had been fueled by his parents’ insistence that he achieve academic excellence, and, thanks to them, he had. But praise must also go to the Diocese of Trenton, New Jersey—from St. Joseph Grammar School to Monsignor Donovan High School, he’d received nothing less than a world-class education.
Rodolfo Gutierrez had been a small, frail child, doomed always to be the brightest in his class. Yes, he’d been bullied in Catholic schools from St. Joe’s onward—but wasn’t that par for the course with a boy of his enviable intellect? And who knew what horrors might have awaited him in
public
school . . .
Discipline was Gutierrez’s bedrock principle, instilled by his parents and aided and abetted by the nuns and brothers. This—along with faith and education—was the trinity upon which the Justice had built his life. His children, as they grew older, often joshed him that his traditional “discipline” was, in fact, obsessive-compulsive disorder—but they said so with love and a smile.
Anyway, what was wrong with maintaining a sense of order in one’s life? His schedule, and his sense of same, was so precise that he no longer needed to switch on his alarm clock. How many in this life could say as much?
Reaching their Crest Lane turnaround, the couple typically kicked up their speed and ran hard back to Chain Bridge Road, before slowing to their normal stride and turning the corner.
The Justice checked his watch—right on time, of course. He smiled to himself, continuing down the shoulder of Chain Bridge Road, where now a few cars were starting their morning commute, passing by on the southeast-bound side opposite.
“On schedule?” Adriana asked, her first words since starting the run.
“Like you,
Querida
—perfection.”
She gave him a little smile—he’d seen that before—and he wondered if she really knew how much he meant it. She was still the lovely dark-haired girl with the olive complexion who’d smiled at him outside Seton Hall and accomplished the impossible: making him late for class.
“Going in today?” she asked between breaths. It was a casual enough question, but there was something calculated about it. Did she wish he would play hooky?
There was no real reason to go to the office—the latest Supreme Court session was winding down, and anyway, with the Venter tragedy, business would be suspended. But Rodolfo Gutierrez went to the office every workday.
“For a while,” he said just as casual, punctuating his breathing with clumps of words, “but I’ll come home . . . an hour early . . . so we can change . . . before this evening.”
He and Adriana would be going to the Venter visitation, the private one for family and friends. By tomorrow Henry’s body would lie in state in the Great Hall of the Supreme Court Building. Not all justices lay in state; in fact, few in history had—less than a dozen. This was a rare high honor, but a most worthy one.
Henry Venter had served on the Court with distinction for nearly two decades—not just a respected colleague, but a valuable ally in righteous jurisprudence, a credit to his race, and a damned good friend.
As they neared the Chain Bridge, Gutierrez’s sense of loss was heightened by the knowledge that his colleague would almost certainly be replaced by a liberal, thanks to the Devlin Harrison presidency. Conservatives would still control the Court, true, but the balance would now be only five to four.
The concern to maintain conservative control was another reason these morning runs were so important. Gutierrez had to keep up his stamina and protect his health for at least another two years. This clod Harrison gave all the appearances of being a one-term president, but a second term remained a possibility—and a second Harrison term would put the Court’s conservative control in serious jeopardy.
Henry’s death left Gutierrez the second-most senior conservative member, meaning now more than ever his leadership would be crucial.
After all, the senior member on the conservative side—Ella Caywood Novinger—was pushing eighty. Eighty-one-year-old Edward Curtis Echo Hawk—the Court’s first Native American justice—was oldest among the liberals. Gutierrez’s opposite in seniority on the liberal side, Associate Justice Stephen Terrell, was a robust seventy-one.
Next down the ladder of age was conservative Chief Justice Whitaker Jackson, two years less seniority than Gutierrez but seven years older. Sylvia McCarren, youngest of the liberals, was in her early fifties, having been appointed by Harrison shortly after his election. She would be a problem for years to come.
The two remaining conservatives—Paul Van Steenhuyse and Grace Sorenson—were both in their fifties and should be around a good long time to battle the likes of McCarren. Like Gutierrez, Steenhuyse and Sorenson were President Bennett appointees, initiating much whining criticism about Bennett “stacking the Court.” Gutierrez only wished that great man had stacked it further.
The goal, the strategy, now was clear: Stay in good health, and in top shape, and no matter what awful thing might happen in your personal life, don’t even
think
of resigning. The conservative justices needed to maintain the balance of the Court until the right kind of president sat behind the desk in the Oval Office.
This was true whether two years from now or six—the power needed to be maintained. Too many had worked too hard for too long, getting this country back on the right track.
As the couple turned north for the short leg home, Gutierrez knew that sooner or later, he and his wife would have to deal with the elephant in the room—the Golden Age years they had planned. Adriana had long been nudging him toward retirement, and he knew all too well that his lovely wife wanted them both to spend more time with the grandchildren. And then there was travel, and all the things they’d looked forward to over nearly half a century of marriage.
“I love you,” he said as they slowed to a jog, as they always did at this point.
She smiled at his unscheduled expression of affection; but there was something sad in it.
“
Querida?
Is something wrong?”
“Rodolfo—I already know.”
“Know what?”
“That you can’t retire. Not now. Now yet. With Henry gone, you’ll have to stay. I’ve done the math.”
Her uncanny ability to all but read his thoughts was proof from God that they belonged together.
“You’re not . . . angry with me?”
Shaking her head, beads of perspiration flying, Adriana said, “Not at you—at the men who killed Henry. Petty thieves who not only took a good man’s life, but cost us precious time together.”
They were almost walking now.
“If our side can get the fool Harrison out after one term,” Gutierrez said, “then two years from now? You and I will have everything we’ve dreamed about. I can walk away satisfied. Job well done.”
Making the turn into their driveway, they slowed to a walk, and he checked his watch—forty-one minutes. He glanced smilingly over to tell her, but his wife had stopped at the mouth of the driveway.
She was staring at him.
Unsettled, returning to her, he asked, “What?”
She hugged him fiercely. Not her usual behavior in public, at least not since he’d risen to the Court.
“You are everything I ever dreamed about, Rodolfo.”
She kissed him, just a little kiss, with so much in it.
“
Querida
. . .”
“Go feed your birds or you’ll get off schedule. I’m going inside to shower.”
She moved past him, and he watched her go, lingeringly. He loved her very much, but especially at moments like these.
The driveway was lined with low-lying, geometrically shaped shrubs; so were the front of the house and the southern end of the property. The ample yard looked well tended and green, and gave him a smile—another job well done—admittedly in association with Adriana. He moved around the north side, past the magenta bougainvillea that provided a needed dash of color. Also Adriana’s doing—whatever color there was in this life of theirs was thanks to her.
The equally spacious backyard was home to a large patio on the far corner, a tranquility garden near one back corner, and a brick toolshed matching the house. Though hired people did most of the yard work, the Justice liked to mow himself on occasion. This he found as peaceful as his morning runs, and the same was true for his time feeding wild birds, up next in his day.
The shed was a good size, with a second story for Adriana’s pots and gardening tools. They had spent years in apartment living, which made the outdoors of their gated paradise precious to them.
The feeder food was in a drum just inside the shed. The drum kept the mice away, should one be brave enough to invade this well-to-do neighborhood. The shed door had no lock—burglars had even less chance than rodents of survival among these estates.
Inside the shed, Gutierrez held the door open with his hip as he lifted the drum’s lid and filled the generous scoop. The bird feeder was about eight feet from the shed, giving a better view from the house of feathered guests stopping by for a snack.
The digging of the scoop prompted a rustling—the family of wrens just outside the house built into the shed’s second floor. The wrens knew the scoop meant breakfast was soon to be served. By the time Gutierrez eased the shed door closed, they were airborne.
He crossed the grass to the feeder, lifted the lid, dropped the food in. He shut the lid, turned back to the shed, noticing sunlight glinting off something beneath a shrub near the serenity garden, a few feet away.
He had no idea what it was, just that it didn’t belong there. He took one step toward it, then pain seared his gut, followed a millisecond later by a shotgun report.
. . . Had he been out for a second or two, or maybe a minute?
He didn’t remember falling, but suddenly he was on his back on the soft, dewy grass, squinting up into the sun, a coldness in his abdomen. He raised a hand to block out the brightness.
Tried to sit up, couldn’t. Somebody had set a big, heavy stone on his chest, only there wasn’t any—just the sensation. His fingers walked to his stomach, where they met a throbbing, wet stickiness. Bringing his hand back, blocking the sun with it, he realized his fingers were dripping blood.
His blood?
Deer slug,
his hunter’s mind told him.
But from where? Why?
He shut his eyes to fight the sun, which felt warm on his face, though every other part of him grew colder, colder.
He’d been shot
—that much he knew.
Then, in a moment of terrible clarity, his mind stopped its bouncing to tell him he was dying.
There was no fear, no swift parade of memories in his mind, not even a sense of the irony that in moments he would be facing a higher court for final judgment. His thoughts were much more basic. Simple.
The man who had tried to keep everything so neat, so precise, who had always cleaned up after himself when so many men didn’t, knew that lovely Adriana, after her shower, would come looking for him in her robe, smiling, because it was their time for their every-third-day sex. But all she would find was the mess that he had, for once, left her.
A bloody one.