Duty and Honor

5

How did he get back on Butler’s radar? He’d already given the detective a statement over the phone, one that seemed to satisfy the cop. Jack went through the possibilities: He’d contradicted his earlier statement; a witness had come forward; they’d found trace evidence on the scene that put him there. Inwardly, Jack winced. He was thinking like a criminal. He didn’t like the feeling.

He unlocked his door and stepped inside, with Butler following. Jack flipped switches on the wall, illuminating the kitchen and living room. He stepped into the kitchen. “I was about to ask how you got up,” Jack said, “but you’ve got a hell of a hall pass, I guess.”

“Comes in handy,” Butler replied.

“You want something? A beer, coffee—”

“Yeah, a beer’d be good. So, what do you carry?”

Jack turned. Butler was standing in the archway, hands shoved in his pants pockets. “What?” asked Jack.

“In your hip holster.”

“Glock Twenty-six. I’ve got a permit.”

“I know you do. Were you carrying when we met at the Supermercado?” When Jack nodded, Butler gave a sad shake of his head. “Can’t believe I missed it. Getting old.”

“I paid extra for the Holster of Invisibility,” Jack replied with a grin.

Butler snorted — not quite a laugh, but as close as he got to one, Jack suspected. He grabbed a pair of Heinekens from the fridge and handed one to Butler, who unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He held up the cap. “Garbage?”

“Counter’s fine,” Jack replied, and took his own sip. “You want me to ditch the gun?”

“Nah. Just don’t draw on me. Might give me a heart attack. Nice place. You rich?”

“Everything’s relative.”

“You work at a financial company, right? Hendley something?”

“Hendley Associates. Yep. Arbitrage, analysis, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“Everything’s relative,” Jack repeated. “I’m on a kind of sabbatical, I guess you could say.” This was the first time he’d explained his situation to anyone outside of his family.

Sabbatical. Forced leave of absence. Each term was accurate enough in its own way, but in essence, Gerry Hendley had told him to go to his room and think about what he’d done. Christ, Jack thought. He realized, slightly stunned, that he was angry. He understood why Gerry had made the call, but that wasn’t the same as acceptance, was it? Had he been fooling himself? Had he come to peace with the suspension, or was that simply what he’d told himself he should feel? He didn’t know, and didn’t feel like thinking about it.

“Got any stock tips?” Butler asked.

“Depends on what you’re looking for. Legal or illegal?”

“Better give the first one.”

“Good. It’s the only kind I know.” Jack took another swig and thought about it. “Buy low, sell high.”

Butler grinned. “Dick.”

“I know a few good private investment managers, if you’re looking.”

“Yeah, maybe, thanks. Another eight and I’m out. Unless I win the lottery or become the next Wambaugh, I’m gonna need something.”

They stood there, sipping their beers and saying nothing for a bit. Jack wondered if Butler was using the silence as an interview tool.

“My grandfather was a cop,” Jack said.

“Yeah?”

“Baltimore Homicide.”

Butler nodded slowly. “Mine, too. Tulsa. Small world.”

“What got you into it?”

“I was military police in the Army. In May of ’03 I ended up in Baghdad. A month after I got there we got mortared and I took some shrapnel. Spent about six months at Walter Reed, then they cut me loose. Alexandria was hiring cops and I figured it would be an easy transition.”

“Was it?”

“Mostly. If I’d stayed in, probably not. I know guys that did tour after tour. Those are the ones that have trouble.”

The silence hung in the air.

“So…” Jack said, hoping to nudge Butler toward the point of his visit. It worked.

“So, are you in some kind of trouble, Jack?”

“You mean aside from last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Not that I know of,” Jack replied. “Why?”

“About a week ago a guy was killed on the 395, up near Holmes Run Trail.”

“I read about it. Carjacking went bad, wasn’t it?”

“Probably. The thing is, the guy lived in this building. He parked in the same garage as you do, drove a black sedan a lot like your Chrysler. And he was a fair match for your description.”

Jack felt his belly tighten. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack. The tire on his car blew out. He pulled over to the side of the road to put the spare on. As far as we can figure it, somebody stopped, maybe offered to help him, then slit his throat and left.”

Jack didn’t reply.

“What I’m wondering now,” Butler said, “is if somebody did something to his tire, then followed along and waited until it blew.”

“What time was this?”

“About two in the morning. He was coming home from his girlfriend’s house — just like he did almost every Monday, Tuesday, and Friday for the past six months.”

Just as he’d done with the gym, Jack thought. “Shit,” he muttered. It was all he could think to say.

“That’s one word for it,” Butler replied. “You didn’t answer my question: Are you in trouble?”

Yes, I think I am. They’d come at him twice and missed twice, leaving an innocent guy lying on the side of the road with his throat open. If he gave them a third chance they’d make damned sure he was dead. What was this about?

Jack had never put much stock in his status as First Son. It was a shadow cast by his father, albeit an unintentional one. Plus, he didn’t like the exalted sound of it all. That aside, the truth remained: Somebody was doing their level best to kill the son of the President of the United States. That took a pair of jumbo balls. What could be that important? Not just good old-fashioned revenge, Jack thought. Yegor Morozov and the people in his circle were dispassionate and logical when it came to violence, ticking boxes and weighing pros and cons before ordering a trigger pulled.

“Maybe it’s gambling, or sex, that kind of thing,” Butler said.

“No, nothing like that.”

“I’m not looking to hassle you. Even if I was that guy, shaking you down would be more trouble than it’s worth, you know? If you’ve gotten into something over your head, maybe I can help. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like you’d be hurting for help if you needed it — CIA, FBI, Department of Agriculture. But if you wanna talk…”

“No, I appreciate it, Detective, but—”

“Doug. You sure?”

Jack nodded. “Did this guy have family?”

“Mark’s his name. Mother, father, and two sisters. They own a chain of specialty bread shops — Macloon’s. Anyway, Mark was the heir apparent. It’s somebody else’s case, so I don’t know if there’s anything shady on the business side. Listen, Jack, this could be all coincidence. It happens more times than you’d think. Just keep an eye out, yeah?”

“I will.”

“Might as well keep that Glock handy, too.”

Jack nodded. “Anything more on my guy from last night? Witnesses? Did anyone come forward to claim the body? How about an autopsy?”

“No and no. As for an autopsy, there really wasn’t much left to cut on. I’m sure the M.E. will run a tox screen and his fingerprints, but that’s about it. Chances are, unless some next of kin show up, he’ll end up a guest of the city.”

“What’s that mean?”

“In the city cemetery. After a month, unidentified bodies are classified as destitute. The taxpayers foot the funeral bill. Anyway…” Butler downed the rest of the beer and set it on the counter. “Thanks for that. Gotta run.”

“Thanks for stopping by.”

“Yep. And Jack, one more thing: Maybe think about calling that Secret Service detail, huh? At least for the near future.”