Capital Crimes

19

THE POST OFFICE DELIVERED the mail to the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary at mid-morning, and the magazines and newspapers were hand-trucked to the library. A prisoner sorted them and put them into the racks, displacing the old issues.

Ed Rawls, who had a very good job in the library, got to the Washington Post first, as he always did, and his attention was drawn to the interview with the Arlington arson inspector, about the Van Vandervelt killing.

As Rawls read the piece, something began to sound very familiar. His mind traveled back to a murder that he himself had committed more than twenty years before, in Beirut. He remembered the bomb that had been specially designed and built for the purpose, the flat one with the squat switch, meant to go under a car seat, and he remembered who had designed and built it.

Rawls found a sheet of paper and an envelope and wrote a letter. He addressed it to a very special box number in the White House zip code and wrote personal and confidential on the envelope, though he had no idea if that would do any good.

He had not been this excited for a very long time.

The letter took two days to reach its destination, then it was X-rayed and sniffed by a machine designed to detect explosives. When the envelope was deemed to be safe it was routed to the first lady’s office, where two secretaries opened every piece of mail and read it before deciding what the first lady should see. The secretary who received the envelope balked at opening it when she saw the personal and confidential note scrawled across the front. She handed the envelope to her older colleague.

“Should I open this? And what’s that box number for the return address? It sounds familiar.”

“The box number is the prisoners’ return address for the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary,” the older woman said. She held the envelope up to the light. “Seems to be just a piece of paper, and it’s already been through security.”

“Should I open it?” the younger woman persisted.

“It would probably be all right, but I’m not sure I would want to have opened it, if it turned out to be something really personal. Just put it in with the others and let the first lady deal with it.”

“All right.” The younger woman placed the envelope on a stack of other letters addressed to the box number and forgot about it.

KATE GOT HOME from Langley at a quarter to seven, and Will, who was already in his slippers in the family quarters, fixed her a drink and handed it to her. She accepted it, took a sip, and walked to the desk where her personal mail was placed every day. Riffling through the stack, the letter from Atlanta caught her eye; it was the first one she’d had for several months. She restacked the mail, leaving the envelope in the batch, and sat down next to her husband. “So, how was your day?”

“Pretty routine, except Kitty thinks the right-wingers are going to start blaming me for these murders.”

“I didn’t know you were that good a shot, or had the bomb-making skills,” Kate said.

“You’re probably a better candidate than I am,” Will said. “You’re certainly a better shot, and you have all that technical advice at the agency.”

“You have a point, and I’m motivated, too. You know how I feel about those people. Who would you like me to take out next?”

Will thought about that. “How about Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun, in Atlanta,” Will said. “He’s featured prominently on the ACT NOW website. That son of a bitch has been annoying me since I ran against him for the Senate, and he’s getting better at it.”

“Will do,” Kate said.

“And make it as painful as possible, please.”

“Certainly.”

“I hope to God nobody is bugging the family quarters,” he said, and they both laughed.

The phone rang and Will picked it up.

It sounded like a long call, so Kate picked up her mail and went into her little study. She ripped open the letter from Atlanta and read it.

I believe I might be of use to you in figuring out who’s doing those murders of right-wingers. I might even be able to name the killer, if the reward is attractive enough. You know I don’t want money, but I do pine for the piney woods of Maine. Let me know if you’d like my help.

Hope you are both well and happy.

Kate read the letter again then ran it through the shredder beside her desk. She didn’t like hearing from Ed, and she wasn’t going to bite, either. She went back into the living room, where Will was winding up his phone conversation.

He hung up. “What’s for dinner?”

“You’re asking me?” She laughed heartily.

“How about I grill us some steaks?”

“If you can get the staff out of the kitchen. And can your cholesterol level take it?”

“Walter Reed says I’m in great shape,” Will replied. “And they won’t be testing my cholesterol for another three months.”

“Then what the hell,” she said. “Let’s have those steaks.”