Capital Crimes

2

THE PRESIDENT OF THE United States, William Henry Lee IV, sat on the edge of his bed and contemplated his toenails. His wife, Katharine Rule Lee, came out of the bathroom and stopped.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I hate clipping my toenails,” he said. “Tell me again why I can’t have pedicures.”

“Because the Republicans would find out about it and cast you as an effete, liberal snob. And I’m not going to clip them for you. I have a very important meeting in less than an hour, and I have to get dressed.” Katharine Rule Lee was director of Central Intelligence, appointed to that post by her husband, after an act of Congress had allowed him to do so.

“I know you have an important meeting,” Will said. “I expect to be there, too, since you and the director of the FBI and the military are briefing me.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot you’d be there.”

The telephone rang, and Will picked it up. “Will Lee,” he said.

“Sir, this is the White House operator.”

“Good morning, Inez,” Will said. “What’s up?”

“We just had a phone call from a Sheriff Tom Stribling, of Chester, South Carolina.”

“That’s where Senator Wallace lives, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. Sheriff Stribling asked that we inform you that Senator Wallace was shot to death less than an hour ago.”

Will took a quick breath and tried not to think about the ramifications of such news. “Any details?”

“The sheriff said he is at your disposal, if you want to call him.”

“Thank you, Inez,” Will said, then hung up.

“What is it?” Kate asked.

“Freddie Wallace is dead. Somebody shot him early this morning.”

“Anybody we know? I’d like to send him a box of chocolates.”

“I hope to God it was a Republican.”

“Well,” Kate said, “it would be interesting to sit around and speculate about who did it and why. Heaven knows there are enough people with enough cause, not to speak ill of the dead. But, as I said, I have an important meeting to go to.”

“I remember,” Will said, picking up the phone.

“Put down the phone for a minute,” she said.

Will put down the phone. “What?”

“I’ll tell you something you don’t know about Freddie Wallace, if you won’t ask me how I know.”

“Why can’t I ask you how you know?”

“Because I’m the director of Central Intelligence, and how I know is classified.”

“Am I not cleared at that level?”

“Maybe. Let’s call it need to know.”

“Tell me.”

“For more than twenty years, Freddie has had an African-American mistress, with whom he is-was-deeply in love. They have two sons, one at Brown, one at Harvard.”

“Holy shit. I thought that was just a canard.”

“It wasn’t.”

“How do you know this?”

“You promised not to ask me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Your promise was implied as part of an oral contract.”

“Now you’re talking like a lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer.”

“I forgot. I always think of you as a spy.”

“I think I rather like that,” she said, walking over to him, raising his chin with a finger, and kissing him.

“Maybe tonight we can find time to discuss at some length why you like that,” he said, reaching for her ass and missing as she stepped away.

“I very much doubt it,” she said. “We have a very important White House dinner this evening, and we’ll both be worn out by bedtime.”

“I could cancel it because of Freddie’s death,” he said hopefully.

“I don’t think that the prime minister of Japan would think that appropriate, and since he’s the guest of honor-”

“All right,” Will said. He picked up the phone again. “Please get me Sheriff Tom Stribling, in Chester, South Carolina,” he said. He loved never having to find a pencil to write down a phone number; all he had to do was speak a name, and he was connected to anyone, anywhere. It was one of the better perks of being president.

A few seconds later, the operator said, “You’re connected, Mr. President.”

“Sheriff?”

“Yes, Mr. President, I’m right here.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I’m at the scene now, sir,” the sheriff said. “The senator took a small-caliber bullet through the left temple and died instantly, far as we can tell. Nobody heard a gunshot.”

“Who was with the senator?”

“No one, sir, he was alone.”

“Then who didn’t hear a gunshot?”

“Ah, well-”

“I know about the black lady, Sheriff.” It was worth a shot.

Stribling let out a breath, as if he had been holding it. “She was here, sir. She heard him fall to the floor, but she didn’t hear a shot.”

“Is she still there?”

“No, sir, she’s at her home, and so are all her things.”

“I take it she’s not going to be a part of any public announcement or inquiry.”

“No, sir. The senator left very clear instructions about that a long time ago.”

“Have you given this to the press yet?”

“No, sir. I expect it will be close to noon before we’re finished with the crime scene. I’ll fax an announcement to the Columbia papers and the AP after that.”

“I see. Have you spoken to Betty Ann Wallace?”

“Yes, sir, a few minutes ago.”

“How did she take it?”

“Hysterically.”

“She’s in Washington?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll call her,” Will said. “Thanks for letting me know, Tom.”

“I’m glad to be of service, sir.”

They both hung up.

Will got the operator back. “Get me Senator Wallace’s wife, at their Washington home.” He waited while he was connected, dreading the conversation ahead.