The White House Connection

Chapter Eleven

Blake sat in Parker's office the following morning, drank coffee and ate a ham sandwich. He was quite alone. Outside, the end of March weather was as lousy as it could be. Powdery flakes of wet snow drifted against the window. The door opened and Parker came in in shirt sleeves.

'They said you were here. Hey, feel free with my coffee break.'

'I just flew in from Washington. The weather was so bad they couldn't serve breakfast.'

'Serves you right for joining the jet set.' Parker sat down, picked up the phone and ordered another sandwich and more coffee. He shook his head. 'You are in deep shit, my friend.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Come on – Cohan? All the newspapers indicated an unfortunate accident, but you and I know better.'

At that moment, his assistant, an older woman police sergeant, came in without knocking and put more coffee and sandwiches on the desk.

'Have mine. I've already ordered more. I figured Mr White House here would clean you out.'

She went. Blake said, 'What a treasure – and what a healthy appetite. Too much for you, with your weight to consider.'

He took another sandwich and Parker said, 'Screw you, Blake.' He took a sandwich himself. 'So what's the score?'

'Simple. The Sons of Erin, all gone to the great diners club in the sky. Cohan, Ryan, Kelly, Brady, Cassidy. That's five.' Blake opened one of the coffee containers. 'Come on, you bastard, all those years on the street, how many murders have you investigated?'

'A hundred and forty-seven. I kept count.'

'So what's your verdict? You don't accept this sectarian nonsense, do you?'

'Crap.' Parker finished his sandwich. 'The pattern is clear. The motive is revenge.'

'Revenge for something the Sons of Erin were responsible for.'

'I'd say so.'

Blake sat there thinking about it. 'I agree. But it still doesn't get us very far. I've been thinking about Cohan. Why wasn't he attacked in New York, like the others? You don't happen to have any attempted burglaries on his house, do you? That sort of thing?'

'Let's have a look.'

The last sandwich in his left hand, Parker went to his computer, sat down and tapped the keys. 'No, no such reports.' He paused. 'Just a minute. That's interesting.'

'What is?'

'Last week there were a couple of murders in an alley next to Cohan's house. Typical street bad guys. Shot dead. Autopsy showed lots of alcohol and traces of cocaine. Both of them were in police hands many times. Street dealers, one of them ran whores.'

The screen kept changing. Blake, trying to suppress a rising excitement, said, 'What kind of gun was it?'

Parker tapped, then leaned back. 'Dear God, a Colt. 25.' He turned. 'Let me cross-reference.' He attacked the keys in a kind of frenzy and finally stopped. 'There you go, Blake. You thought you had four members of the Sons of Erin shot by the same weapon. I've got you two more.'

Blake was stunned. 'But why these guys?'

Parker sat there thinking about it. 'Look, the obvious link is Cohan's house. That's in an exclusive area. These guys were lowlifes, probably just passing through.'

"You mean in the wrong place at the wrong time?'

'How in the hell would I know? I'm clutching at straws, man. Maybe someone was waiting for Cohan and these two turned up.'

Blake nodded. 'Yeah. Oh, man!'

'So what are you going to do?'

'I'm going to take a look at the scene of the crime.' He stood up. 'Thanks, Harry, I'm sure I'll be back,' and he left.

Lady Helen went for a walk, holding a golfing umbrella against the rain. She stopped in the pine trees, looked out at the turbulent sea, took out the mobile and phoned Barry.

'Ah, there you are,' she said.

'What do you want?'

'Nothing special. I just thought I'd make a connection. It's a terrible day here. Raining like hell.'

Barry felt surprisingly calm, that link again. 'Where are you?'

'Ah, progress, it's the first time you've asked. I'll tantalize you. The east coast of England.'

'Yorkshire – Norfolk?'

'That would be telling.'

He was surprised at how reasonable she sounded. 'Look, what do you want?'

'You, Mr Barry, that's what I want. Dead, of course.'

She rang off. Barry went to the cupboard, got a bottle of Paddy Whiskey, and poured one. It scalded the back of his mouth. When he lit another cigarette, his hand was shaking. She wasn't going to go away, that was obvious, so he phoned the Connection.

'Look, I didn't tell you everything about the Cohan business.'

Thornton said, 'Well, you'd better do it now.' Which Barry did. When he was finished, Thornton said, 'Tell me again what she said about her son.'

Barry thought for a moment. 'She said I butchered her son in Ulster three years ago, and executed his friends, four others, including a woman.'

'Does that strike a chord with you?'

'For God's sake, I've been at war for years. You want to know how many people I've killed?'

'Okay, okay. Just leave it with me. There may be a link here. I'll check it out.'

Blake had his car drop him in front of Cohan's house on Park Avenue, but on the other side of the street. He sat there reading the scene-of-crime reports. It was all pretty straightforward. It had been after midnight, heavy rain clearing the streets.

He tried to imagine the scene, as he looked across at Cohan's place: dark, wet, not much of a struggle because the pathologist's report indicated instant death in both cases, and then he frowned. There was an anomaly here. He turned to the pathology report and examined it quickly. Victim One, blood group O. Victim Two, blood group A. The only trouble was that there were traces of another blood group on Victim Two's shirt, this time B.

So, there was a third party involvement, some sort of a struggle. Could that have been the killer? Blake frowned. For some reason, he didn't buy that. The way the two guys had been shot had been so instantly effective, so ruthless. Why would there have been a struggle? He frowned again. Unless there had been another person. Four persons, not three.

He decided to try and get the perspective from the pavement, a different viewpoint. 'Go back to police headquarters and wait for me there,' he told his driver. 'I'll get a cab. Just hand me the umbrella.'

The driver did as he was told and drove away, as Blake opened the umbrella. So, it was night and she was waiting for Cohan to return home from some function or other. Where would you wait? This side of the street, not the other, because from here you got a clear view, from here a halfway decent shot was possible.

He turned and looked behind. Plenty of doorways to stand in concealed by the shadows. So what happened? What went wrong? To hell with it, Blake thought, took out a pack of Marlboros and lit one. This wasn't a time to give up smoking. He inhaled deeply and that damn March rain dripped from the umbrella.

The two victims were in the alley, probably sheltering from the rain. They shouldn't have been there, not at such a time and in such an area. So, I'm the killer, Blake thought, and I'm waiting here for Cohan, so what went wrong? He looked across at Cohan's house, and at that moment, a young couple came around the corner further along Park Avenue, huddled under an umbrella. Blake watched them go, move past the alley, walk to the next corner and disappear.

'That's it,' he said softly. 'Just as I thought. Someone walked into something. The wrong place at the wrong time.'

So, the individual with the B blood group had left the scene, God knows in what condition, and to where?

Blake crossed the street and paused at the alley. So, say someone was running, which way would they go? Right or left? What the hell, he would go to the left first, for no better reason than that's the way the young couple had gone.

He lit another cigarette and walked steadily along the sidewalk in the rain, turned the corner and carried on for another block, passing offices, the occasional boutique, all of which would have been closed after midnight.

'But not that place,' he said softly, looking across the intersection. 'They never close.'

The sign said St Mary's Hospital. It was private and a large painted board offered a range of services including ambulance, accident, and emergency.

'So here we are,' Blake said. 'It's the early hours of the morning, it's raining and you're bleeding. Now where would you go?'

He moved into a doorway, got his mobile phone out and called Harry Parker. 'Harry, I need you.'

'Have you got something?'

'Let's say my nose is twitching, and if I'm right, I need a police presence.'

'So where are you?' Blake told him. 'Fine, I'll see you soon.'

When Parker and Blake went into the emergency room of St Mary's, they found it surprisingly luxurious; fitted carpets, comfortable chairs, calming music. The duty nurse at reception wore a uniform which could have been designed by Armani, and probably had been.

'Gentlemen?' She was slightly wary. 'Can I help you?'

Harry flashed his gold badge. 'Captain Parker, N YPD. I need some information. It's tied to a murder investigation.'

'Then I'd better get our Chief Administrator, Mr Schofield.'

'You do that, honey,' Harry said.

Schofield wore a blue chalk-striped suit, and looked tanned and fit. They sat in his rather sumptuous office and Blake told him all he needed to know. That there had been a double shooting not too far away, and that there was a possibility of a third person injured to some degree or another.

'Sounds important,' Schofield said.

'Yes, well, my friend here is FBI, that's how important it is,' Harry Parker told him.

'So what do you want from me?'

Blake reached for a memo pad and scribbled a date. 'The early morning of that day. Did you get anyone coming into the ER sometime after midnight, bleeding?'

'There's a question of patient confidentiality here, gentlemen.'

'And there's the question of a presidential warrant here.' Blake produced the document and presented it.

Schofield said, 'Jesus. Okay, let's take a look.'

At the desk, he looked through the admissions book, then nodded. 'There was a patient noted here. Name of Jean Wiley. Booked in at one-fifteen a.m. on the indicated date. Her face was cut. The night intern handled it, Dr Bryant.'

The lady receptionist said, 'Dr Bryant is on duty today, Mr Schofield. I saw him going down to the cafeteria.'

'Fine,' Parker said. 'Just point the way, Mr Schofield.'

Bryant was around thirty, slightly overweight, with glasses, dark curling hair and a beard. He was sitting at a corner table eating French bread and soup.

He looked up. 'Schofield, my man, what are you trying to sell me?'

'These gentlemen would like a word with you.' He turned to them. 'Dr Bryant graduated top of his class from Harvard Medical School. We're lucky to have him. Do bear that in mind, won't you?'

'Oh, Clarence,' Bryant said. 'Stop stroking me. Now what is this?'

So Parker introduced himself and Blake, got rid of Schofield, and told him. Parker said to Bryant, 'You know something about this, I know you do.'

'Okay, I'm thinking about it.'

Blake said, 'I'll get you some coffee.'

'Tea, man, tea. I spent three years at Guy's Hospital in London, got a taste for it. English Breakfast.'

Blake got the tea, and returned to find Bryant crumpling an empty cigarette pack. Blake took out his Marlboros. 'I thought you doctors were against tobacco?'

'Are you denying me my rights?'

'So let's get to those really lousy early morning shifts and someone called Jean Wiley coming in off the street. What was that problem?'

'Her face had been cut, not too badly, but by a knife unmistakably.'

'Did you ask for details?' Parker said.

'Of course. She said she'd slipped and cut her face in the kitchen.'

'Balls, would you say?' Blake asked.

'No, bollocks they would say in London. Her face had been cut by a knife. I did some excellent embroidery work, she gave us her insurance information and left.'

'Okay,' Parker said. 'If she gave her insurance details, they'll have it on the computer. We can get her blood group that way.'

'No need for that,' Bryant said. 'I remember it.' They looked at him, and he seemed to blush slightly. 'I've seen her around a few times, in the same coffee shop for lunch. Nick's Place around the corner. She's… well, she's attractive.' He shrugged and grinned. 'Anyway, she's a B.'

Parker checked his watch. 'Lunch just coming up.'

Bryant hesitated, and repeated what Schofield had said earlier. 'Hey, there's such a thing as the doctor-patient relationship here.'

'There's also such a thing as a double killing up the street just before she came in here. This is important, doc. The NYPD doesn't put police captains out on shit cases, and neither does the FBI.'

'She's not much more than a kid. You're not saying she killed anybody?'

'No, I'm not,' Blake said. 'But to use a fine old police phrase, in pursuance of our inquiries, we need to cross her off the list.'

'Okay,' Bryant said wearily. 'I'll show you who she is. But take it easy on her, huh?'

'This is the new police department,' Parker told him. 'We're trained for sensitivity. Now let's get going.'

Nick's Place was small, tucked away in a side street, three guys behind the counter rattling away at each other in Greek as they handled short orders and one of them made fresh sandwiches. It was warm and muggy, and because of the rain, the windows were partially steamed up. Bryant peered inside.

'I can't see any sight of her.'

'Okay, so let's stand over here and wait,' Parker said.

'I've got patients,' Bryant said, as they stepped into a shop doorway, and then he stiffened. 'Hey, there she is, crossing the road. The small, dark girl in the blue raincoat. Black umbrella.'

Jean Wiley put the umbrella down and went into Nick's Place. 'Nice legs,' Bryant observed.

'Yes, well, remember your concern over the doctor-patient relationship,' Parker told him. 'Thank you very much, Dr Bryant, you can go now.'

'If you need me, you know where to find me.' Bryant walked away, pulling up his collar.

Blake and Parker moved to the window of Nick's Place and peered in. The girl had taken coffee and a sandwich on a tray and moved to the back of the room to a booth. It was still early and there were few customers.

'How do we play this?' Harry Parker asked.

'Good guy/bad guy shouldn't really be necessary. Let's say you're a nice big avuncular cop doing your duty with deep regret, and I'm Mr Nice Guy Fed. But remember one thing, old buddy,' Blake said, 'I'm in charge. I'm the one who decides what happens to her.'

'The more I find out about this business, the more I'm happy to know it isn't my responsibility,' Parker said. 'In we go.'

Jean Wiley was eating a chicken sandwich with salad, and reading a paperback novel at the same time. Blake noticed it was Jane Austen's Emma. She glanced up, a slight frown on her face.

'May we join you?' Parker said.

'I'd have thought there was plenty of room elsewhere.'

'I think you'd better say yes,' Blake told her gently.

Parker flashed his gold badge. 'N YPD, Captain Harry Parker. My friend here, Mr Johnson, is with the FBI.'

'We think you might be able to help us,' Blake said. 'It relates to a double shooting last week.'

Her face said it all. It seemed to crumple, went very pale. 'Oh, my God.' She aged right there in front of them. 'I need the bathroom.'

'Sure you do,' Harry Parker said. 'Only don't go trying the back door. I know who you are, so I'd have to send a squad car, and I'm sure your boss wouldn't like that.'

She gave a dry sob as she got up, knocking over her coffee cup. She ran to the back of the coffee shop and one of the men came from behind the counter, a cloth in his hand, all belligerence.

'Hey, what gives? She's a nice kid. You can't come in and interfere with my customers.'

'I can close you down if I want.' Harry's gold badge appeared again. 'Police business.'

'The young lady witnessed a crime,' Blake said. 'We just need a few questions answered.'

The man's attitude changed completely. 'Hey, I'm Nick, this is my place. You want some coffee?'

'Great,' Parker told him. 'That's what I like – cooperation.'

The girl returned in a few minutes, still pale, but composed. There was a hint of steel there. This was no bimbo, Blake was certain of it. She sat down, and sipped some of the coffee Nick had brought.

'Right, what do you want?'

'A few details. Jean Wiley, am I right?' Parker said. 'Twenty-four?'

'So?'

'That's a neat scar on your left cheek. It'll fade with time, but it could make you look interestingly different.'

She was angry, her eyes dark. Blake said, 'What do you do?'

'I'm an associate at Weingarten, Moore just round the comer. I got my law degree from Columbia two years ago, so I know my rights, gentlemen.'

'Hey, why are we being nice here?' Parker appealed to Blake and turned to the girl. 'You want to tell us how your blood got on to the shirt of a murdered man?'

That really jolted her. She turned to Blake, startled, inquiring, and he said, 'Look, why fool around? Last week, two lowlifes were shot dead in an alley a few blocks from here, sometime after midnight.'

'The thing is, one guy was blood group A and the other O,' said Parker.

'Except there were traces of blood group B on his shirt,' Blake said.

'Which obviously got there when he cut your cheek,' Parker told her. 'Probably as he held you and you struggled. I'm right, aren't I? Those two grabbed you as you walked past.'

Her face was wild now, her voice low. 'Bastards. Dirty rotten bastards.' She took a deep breath and sipped some coffee, her hand shaking. 'It's a nice story, Captain, but I know my rights and I'm saying nothing.'

'Hell, a DNA check would say everything.'

Blake saw it all now, saw it as it must have been. It all came together. Dillon at Wapping in the Thames staring up at Tim Pat Ryan and certain death, and saved by the woman, the unknown executioner who had taken out the Sons of Erin one by one.

'They intended to rape you, perhaps murder you,' Blake said softly. 'You struggled, you were threatened with a knife, your face was cut, and then a woman walked out of all that darkness and rain and shot them dead.'

Parker turned to him, frowning. 'What is this?'

But it was the girl who was most affected, total shock on her face. 'How did you know that?'

There was total stillness between them. Blake said, 'Sometimes these things are like a jigsaw. You keep getting nowhere and then all the pieces fall into place and there it is, the complete picture.'

Even Parker was gentle now. 'Tell us about her, honey.'

'I can't,' she said. 'I'd rather die than see anything happen to that woman.'

She was shaking. Blake turned and called to Nick. 'Can we have a brandy here? You carry that? Good. And fresh coffee, some of that black Turkish stuff?'

She got her purse open, fumbled out a pack of cigarettes and dropped them. 'Damn!' she said. 'I'm supposed to have stopped.'

'You, me and everyone else I know.' Blake got out his Marl- boros , lit one and passed it to her.

'Just like Now Voyager.' She laughed nervously.

'Yeah, he's really a very romantic guy.' Parker took the brandy from Nick and passed it to her. 'Get that down.' She did as she was told, coughed once then reached for the coffee. 'Best fix in the world,' Parker added. 'And it's legal.'

'And here's something else that's legal,' Blake told her. 'Something they probably only whispered about in your law courses.' He passed her the presidential warrant.

She read it quickly and looked up at him in awe. 'My God.'

'Which means that you could tell Captain Parker here that you killed those two guys and he couldn't do a thing about it.'

She glanced at Parker. 'He's right, honey,' he said.

She nodded and it was as if she was looking back into the past. 'You've no idea what it's like, you men, when you're a woman in a really bad situation. It's the worst thing in the world.' She shuddered. 'So dirty, so foul. It's like the end of everything.'

'And then a guardian angel descends?' Blake suggested. 'Tell us about it.'

'I was on a date that went wrong, a guy who lied, didn't tell me he was married. We were having supper at this Italian place a few blocks away, late supper after a show. He got drunk, let slip the fact that he had a little woman at home and a couple of kids. I ended up walking out.'

'And you couldn't find a cab?' Parker said.

'It was after midnight, but more than that, it was raining like hell, and when can you get a cab in Manhattan when it's raining?'

'So you started walking?' Blake said.

'In all my finery. I had a small umbrella, but I still got soaked. I was so angry, just storming along in a kind of rage, and then I passed this alley and there were voices shouting and then I was grabbed, hustled inside. One guy held me, the other cut my cheek with one of those spring blade knives.' She shuddered deeply. 'They kept saying what they were going to do. The language was foul.'

'And then she appeared?' Blake asked.

It was as if they weren't there, as if she was talking to herself. 'It was unbelievable. Her voice was so gentle. She told them to let me go. I could see her standing there in the entrance to the alley. One of them was holding me from behind and the other shouted at her, all threats, I can't recall the exact words, and he made a move, I think, and her hand came up with a hat on it and she shot him through the hat.'

'A big explosion?' Parker asked.

'No, sort of a muted sound.'

'A silencer.' He nodded. 'And the other?'

'He tried to use me as a shield, he had a knife, but she shot him in the head over my shoulder.'

Parker turned to Blake. 'I'll tell you one thing, she must be good to risk a shot like that. And then there's the silencer. You were right, Blake. A pro in a way I hadn't realized.'

Blake said, 'Tell me about her.'

'That was the strange thing. She was a real lady. Could have been late sixties. She wore a rain hat, a trenchcoat, carried an umbrella. Her hair, what I could see of it, was white.'

'Her face?'

'Don't ask me to go through the photos. It would be a waste of time. I didn't see enough of her to make a positive identification, and I wouldn't.'

'That's okay,' Blake said. 'I wouldn't ask you to. There's a lot to this that you'll never know, matters of national security. This is not a case that ever comes to court. The two guys she shot are just two more on a list of New York street killings never solved.'

'So I won't be pulled in or anything?'

'Absolutely not.' He turned to Parker. 'Please confirm that.'

The police captain said, 'He's in charge, I'm only here to help in any way I can. I'm as much at the mercy of that presidential warrant as you are.'

'I guarantee that your identity will be mentioned to no one,' Blake said. 'I will tell only the facts of this affair, even to the President, but you have my solemn oath that your name will never be mentioned.'

'How about him?' She nodded to Parker.

'Tell her, Harry,' Blake said.

'Don't know what you're talking about, honey,' Harry Parker told her. 'Never seen you before.'

The two men got up. 'With luck, I won't need to speak to you again, Miss Wiley.' He turned and hesitated. 'Just one thing. What did she sound like?'

'Oh, a lady, a real lady, like I said. You know the kind of person? Almost English.'

'Are you saying she could be English?' Parker said.

'Oh, no, just blue-blooded American, that kind of accent.'

'You mean you could have bumped into her going round the designer rooms at Bergdorf Goodman?' Parker asked.

'Or Harrods in London.' She shrugged. 'She was an upper-class lady, what more can I say?'

'Good.' Parker nodded. 'Don't forget to get the restaurant to book you a cab next time,' and he led the way out.

They stood there in the rain. Blake said, 'What do you think?'

'It's the damnedest thing I ever heard of, Blake. You've got some angelic elderly lady out there like the President's mother, knocking off two lowlife rapists like she's an ageing Dirty Harry.'

'Just like she did Tim Pat Ryan in London.'

'And Brady, Kelly and Cassidy in New York, and probably Cohan in London. I told you, Blake, every policeman's instinct tells me this whole thing is very personal.'

'I agree.'

'I think there's more there to do with the Sons of Erin than you realize, but that isn't my problem, it's yours. According to your presidential warrant our lunch with the Wiley girl never happened.' He glanced at his watch. 'Got to go. I've got a meeting with the Commissioner and you know what's so frustrating? I can't tell him what great work I've done on this case.'

He went off like a strong wind, hailing a cab. Blake watched him go, then turned and walked away.

He caught the shuttle back to Washington, thought about things, then called Alice Quarmby and told her to set up a meeting with the President.

'Did you get anywhere?' She was guarded, as usual.

'It's a highly unusual story, Alice,' he said. 'But I'll tell you later.'

As luck would have it, he was alone, the next seat vacant. He lay back, tilted his seat, closed his eyes, and started right at the beginning, allowing one event to flow into another, trying to make sense of it all. The only trouble was that he became so relaxed he fell asleep, and was only aroused by the touch of a hand on his shoulder as they landed at Washington.

Alice had coffee waiting, hot and strong, and he sat behind his desk, sipped it and looked at the in-tray. 'Looks like a lot to me, Alice.'

'I can handle most of it. Just needs a signature. What happened?'

He told her, everything that had taken place, everything Jean Wiley had said, though he didn't disclose her name.

'I think Captain Parker is right,' she said, when he was finished. 'It's something personal we're missing, something to do with those Sons of Erin bastards.'

'Why, Alice, bad language at your age.'

'Don't be funny.' She looked at her watch. 'If you're interested, you've got six minutes to get up to see the President. Try the pool first.'

'Thanks very much.' He pushed his chair back and jumped up. 'I'll do you a favour sometime, Alice,' and he hurried out.