Capital Crimes

8

WILL LEE SWITCHED OFF the TV after the FBI director’s press conference and turned to half a dozen of his staff who had been watching with him. “Do you think if I call him now he’ll be able to tell me anything else?” he asked the group.

Kitty Conroy, his chief of staff, spoke up. “If he had anything else, he’d have said so on television, and I very much doubt if he expects to have suspects soon. He’s just waffling, which is what he does.”

“Makes you wonder why he bothered to call a press conference, doesn’t it?” Will said.

“Makes me wonder why he’s still director,” said Tim Coleman, the press secretary.

“Don’t start, Tim,” Will said. “You know that’s on my list of things to do.”

“Do you want us to start developing a list of possible replacements?” Kitty asked.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Will said, “and I’m inclined to go a different route than in the past.”

“How do you mean?”

“The past few directors have been federal judges or U.S. Attorneys, like Heller, and frankly, I don’t think those jobs particularly qualify a person to be director of the FBI. I’d rather have somebody like a police chief who’s done a good job in a big city, somebody who’s run a large law enforcement agency and who has a background as an officer himself. Or herself.”

“You think the FBI is ready for a female director?” Tim asked.

“I don’t think the FBI will ever be ready for a female director, but I’m willing to give them one, if the right woman comes along.”

“What about promoting from within?” Kitty asked.

“I tend to think that we need somebody who can shake up the FBI culture, make it more responsive to other agencies, and, for that matter, to me, and that would most likely be an outsider. But if you can find a superbly qualified senior man in the Bureau who hasn’t been tainted by Waco or Ruby Ridge or the Richard Jewel mess or some other debacle, then I’ll consider him.” The president stood up. “I think that’s the day,” he said.

The group broke up, and Will, accompanied by a Secret Service agent, made for the elevator to the family quarters of the White House. “

BOB KINNEY, freshly showered and shaved and dressed in a blue blazer with an open-necked shirt, left his room and wandered through the public rooms of the apparently deserted inn. It was handsomely decorated, he thought, and he hoped Nancy Kimble would find enough guests to make a go of it. He walked into a nicely paneled library, spotted a carved mahogany bar in a corner, and made for it.

“Can I buy you a drink?” she asked from the doorway.

“Let me buy you one,” he said, slipping behind the bar.

She walked across the room toward him, tall, leggy, dressed in well-cut black trousers and a white silk blouse. “All right,” she said. “I’ll have a Laphroaig.”

“A what?”

“Single-malt Scotch,” she said, pointing. “On the rocks.”

“I think I’ll try one, too,” he said. He found a pair of glasses, filled them with ice, and poured the amber liquid.

They touched glasses and sipped.

“Mmm,” he said. “That’s remarkable.”

“I always think I can taste the peat from the Scottish soil,” she replied.

“So you’re new to the innkeeping business?” he asked.

“Yes. My husband dropped dead of a heart attack at his desk seven months ago. He was with a brokerage firm in Charlotte, and we had just finished decorating this house.”

“How old was he?”

“He was fifty-two. How old are you?”

“Fifty-four and a half,” he replied.

“I’m forty-four,” she said.

“You don’t look it.”

She smiled for the first time. “That’s just what you were supposed to say. I’ve never met an FBI agent before. Are you typical of the breed?”

“No, I’m larger, smarter, and more ornery. I’ve never met an innkeeper before, except across a check-in desk.”

“Are you married?”

“Separated, pending divorce,” he replied. “It’ll be final next month.”

“Kids?”

“Two, both girls, both all grown up and married. One of them is going to present me with a grandson in a couple of months. How about you?”

“Childless. We tried, it didn’t work. It’s probably just as well. I’m not sure what kind of a mother I would have been. Do you like veal?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because we’re having blanquette de veau, whether you like it or not.”

“A blanket of veal?”

“It’s a stew, and it covers the rice, like a blanket.”

“Sounds great.”

“I thought you might like something other than southern cooking, so I sent the cook home.”

“I like southern cooking, too.”

“Stick around a couple of days, and you’ll get plenty.”

“I’m going to do everything I can to stick around for at least a couple of days,” he said.

“Good. Who shot the senator?”

“We’ve narrowed the list of people with a motive to about ten thousand.”

She laughed aloud. “Add me to the list,” she said. “I hated the bastard and his politics.”

“What kind of shot are you?” he asked.

“I’ve never fired a gun of any kind.”

“Where were you at dawn this morning?”

“Showing the cook how to scramble eggs slowly.”

“Well, you have a motive, but no means or opportunity,” he said. “You’re officially cleared.”

“Aw shucks. I was hoping to be more thoroughly investigated.”

He peered at her over the rim of his glass. “I didn’t say you weren’t going to be investigated,” he said.

She smiled a little. “Oh, good.”