Under the color of law

Chapter 4

Charlie Perry opened the press conference reading a two-page prepared statement that had been distributed to the media. Minus the hype about cooperation with local law enforcement, it boiled down to nothing more than that the FBI was on the scene and in charge of the investigation.

Kerney hung back while Perry finished his canned remarks and fielded questions.

The reporters, all from area newspapers and Albuquerque television stations, focused their attention on the ambassador's wife, eager to get quotes and sound bites that would guarantee a wire service byline or network news spot.

One young man, a television reporter standing at the back of the room, called out Kerney's name.

Kerney stepped to the microphone and acknowledged the reporter.

"Did you request FBI involvement, Chief?" the reporter asked.

"Whenever a crime is committed against a federal government official or a family member, the FBI has jurisdiction. My department welcomes the Bureau's help and the resources they can bring to the investigation,"

Kerney replied.

"Do you have any reason, at this stage of the investigation, to believe that the murder was a terrorist act?"

Charlie Perry crowded close to Kerney, impatient to take back the podium. Kerney refused to yield.

"At this point all avenues are being explored," he said.

"That's why the FBI is here."

"Was the ambassador the target?" the reporter asked.

"I think Special Agent Perry should answer that question."

Perry stepped up to the microphone.

"From what we know so far, that does not appear to be the case," he said.

"While we don't have a clear motive, it's very possible that Mrs.

Terrell was killed by someone known to her. But as Chief Kerney said, it's too early to rule anything out. We'll keep you advised of any new developments."

The conference broke up and the reporters hurried away to write their stories or videotape their lead-ins outside on the armory steps.

Perry pulled Kerney aside.

"Were you trying to let that reporter box me in?" he asked hotly.

"Not at all, Charlie," Kerney said innocently, as he walked away.

"I just didn't feel like speaking for you."

Ten minutes after Kerney arrived at his office, Andy Baca walked in. He grinned at the sight of Kerney in uniform, but said nothing.

"What brings you up the street?" Kerney asked.

Andy put his hat on the conference table and took a seat.

"I picked up some collateral information from my source."

"Who's your source?" Kerney asked.

"Fred Browning," Andy replied.

"He headed up the governor's security unit before retiring about six years ago. He now works as chief of plant security for a computer chip company in Albuquerque."

"What did Browning tell you?"

"Don't rush me, Kerney," Andy said with a laugh.

"There's some background to this. Browning is a big booster for a society of corporate and industrial security professionals. A sizable percentage of the membership consists of retired FBI and other federal law enforcement types who work in the private sector. The society is headquartered in Alexandria, Virginia, right outside the Beltway and within easy driving distance to Quantico."

"That's chummy," Kerney said.

"Fred serves on the national board of directors. The society recruits from professionals in corporate and industrial security, gaming and wagering, hotel and hospital security, loss prevention and retail sales-you name it."

"Sounds fairly typical," Kerney said.

"Yeah, but I have some suspicions, which I'll get to in a minute," Andy said.

"Fred came around several months ago on a membership recruitment drive and suggested my department needed to get on board. He gave me a big pitch about the benefits of the society's professional certification program."

"Did you sign up?"

"I passed the information down the line and left it at that. What's interesting is that Fred also told me that the FBI requires all special agents with national security assignments to be members of the society."

"Are you saying the Bureau stays cozy with the private-sector security boys so they can keep an eye on them?"

"It would be one way to watch for high-tech corporate espionage that could compromise national security."

"Okay, but where are you going with this?"

"I asked Fred this morning if he had a membership directory. There is no Special Agent Applewhite carried on the national roster. However, the special agent assigned as liaison coordinator with the State Department is, and his name isn't Elaine Applewhite."

"Well, well," Kerney said, leaning back in his chair.

"There's one membership group I haven't mentioned," Andy said.

"The military.

When Applewhite's name didn't pop on the society records, I asked Fred to do a first-name-only search. A Major Elaine Cornell, U. S. Army, is a member. She's assigned to the Defense Intelligence Agency at the Pentagon."

"How many other first-name hits did Browning get?"

"Five. Fred checked the membership applications for each one. Except for Major Cornell none of them has any law-enforcement or intelligence experience. The others work for hospitals, big retail and hotel chains, and one heads up security at a Las Vegas casino."

"If Applewhite really is Cornell, why is an army intelligence officer operating undercover on this case?" Kerney asked.

"My question exactly," Andy said.

"Does Browning know Cornell personally?"

"No, but if we can get him a photograph, he has a friend who does."

"I should have one later today," Kerney said.

"Will Browning keep his mouth shut about this?"

"That's not a problem. He was a solid cop, and he's not a big FBI fan."

"Who is?" Kerney said.

"What about his friend?"

"Fred says not to worry. The guy is a civilian."

"Good enough," Kerney said.

"Can you lend me a few agents?"

Andy raised an eyebrow.

"What do you need them for?"

"We caught another homicide. A priest was murdered early this morning at the College of Santa Fe. I'm stretched thin with the Terrell investigation and only have one detective assigned to the case."

"Fill me in." Kerney told him what had been uncovered so far and his conjectures about the case.

"I could use four agents for three days," he said.

"I can give you three for two days," Andy said.

"I wish it were more, but I'm short on people myself. Batten down the hatches, Kerney. The news media is going to be riding your butt on these homicides."

"Thanks for the help."

Andy picked up his hat and stepped to the door.

"Watch your back with the feds.

I'd hate to see that snappy uniform you're wearing get shot up by friendly fire."

"That's a pleasant thought."

Sal Molina entered the office immediately after Andy's departure. He had dark circles under his eyes and his shoulders were hunched with tension.

He sat wearily and rubbed his eyes.

"Is the state police entering the Terrell case?"

"No, Chief Baca has agreed to help us out on the Mitchell homicide,"

Kerney said.

"Sloan will get three agents for two days."

Molina smiled.

"That's a big help. Sloan has been begging for some more manpower."

"Has he made any progress?" Kerney asked.

Molina shook his head.

"He's still putting together a list of people Father Joseph had any contact with on campus. Library staff, students who attended the two masses Father Joseph celebrated at the college when the chaplain was ill, faculty members who met the priest at social functions-stuff like that."

"Any forensics?"

"The techs are fingerprinting everyone with access to the residence hall for comparison to latents lifted at the scene. But it's gonna take time.

They've identified about fifty different prints, most of them at the entrances to the sleeping quarters, although there were a few in Mitchell's room," "Where are you with the Terrell case?" Kerney asked.

"The house search turned up zilch. And the bone the FBI threw us this morning about Terrell's lovers went nowhere: the two men we've interviewed have solid alibis."

"Start with the house search," Kerney said.

"How clean was it?"

"Scoured, Chief, right down to the hard drive on Mrs. Terrell's computer. There were no personal letters, no address books, and nothing pertaining to the ambassador at all. About the only thing we got was some records of Mrs. Terrell's financial assets-the woman was worth big bucks-and a few good pictures of Agent Applewhite. They're being processed now."

"And Terrell's lovers?" Kerney asked.

"Solid alibis, like I said. Both men are married. One was the architect who designed Terrell's house, and the other is an attorney she met through a friend. The attorney has been out of town for the last three days pleading a civil case in North Carolina. He was with his client until eleven-thirty last night. He just got back to town after getting a continuance on the trial until next week. The architect spent all night at home. The wife said he got up at three in the morning when the baby started crying. It was his turn. He didn't leave home for the office until nine. We'll probe more, but it doesn't look promising."

"Did you get any insight into Terrell from the men?"

"The architect said Terrell liked to sport-fuck-that she had endurance, a really high sex drive, liked it lots of different ways, and wasn't shy about expressing her preferences."

"Had Terrell broken off relationships with either man?"

"Yeah, with the architect," Molina said.

"But from what I gather, it wasn't like she had a relationship with either of them. It was more like a sex-on-demand situation, with Terrell calling the shots, so to speak."

"Any word on Terrell's lover who lives in Ramah?" Kerney asked.

"According to the FBI, Scott Gatlin is Proctor Straley's ranch manager."

Molina snorted.

"I asked Charlie Perry about that. He said his agent hadn't reported hack yet. While we're waiting to hear, I've got people checking on all deliveries and service calls made to the residence in the last six months, and following up on the list of names we got from Terjo. I've asked the postal service to put an intercept on Terrell's mail. I've also expanded the canvass to a wider area and we're re interviewing the neighbors."

"What's the status on Terrell's sister and father?" Kerney asked.

"Both are still being questioned by Agent Perry's boys. I don't know when I'll have a chance to get to them."

"If you get stonewalled, let me know."

"Terjo walked, Chief. The DA said we didn't have enough to take to an arraignment for either drug dealing or possession."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. The jail called me after they released him. He left on foot. I've got an officer stationed at the girlfriend's house in case he shows."

"Let's hope he's not hitchhiking his way to Mexico," Kerney said.

"I've alerted the Border Patrol, and I've got units looking for him in the south-side barrios. I'd like to pull in the swing shift gang unit, Chief. They know that area well."

"Do it, Lieutenant, and from here on out don't slow yourself down waiting to get my permission. You're authorized to use all available plainclothes personnel.

Cancel days off if you need to."

"I'm not used to having so much latitude, Chief."

"Well, get used to it, Sal."

Molina grinned.

"That's not going to be a problem."

"Where's that background information on the ambassador I asked for?"

"We've got a file of newspaper clips that give a resume version of Terrell's military career and diplomatic appointments, but not much else."

"What were his major duty assignments after Vietnam?"

"He attended the War College, did an extended tour at the Pentagon in the Defense Intelligence Agency, then assumed command of the School of the Americas at Fort Benning, Georgia. After getting his first star he served as deputy commander for army intelligence. In his final posting as a major general he headed up the army's intelligence and security command."

Andy Baca had found a link to army intelligence through Fred Brown, and now Sal Molina added another connection that pointed in the same direction.

"Thanks for the update, Lieutenant," Kerney said.

"Keep me informed."

Molina nodded.

"Thanks for getting us some help, Chief. I'll give Sloan the word."

Sal left to call Sloan. Kerney put his head against the chair back, stared at the ceiling, and wondered what set of circumstances might tie Elaine Applewhite to Hamilton Lowell Terrell and his murdered wife.

Fred Browning stood in his office at a west-side Albuquerque computer-chip production plant looking at the copy of the photograph Andy Baca had faxed to him. The woman wasn't particularly attractive, but then most female FBI agents and police officers Browning had known over the years didn't look anything like the actresses who played cop parts in movies and on television. He called Tim Ingram and said he was on the way.

"I'm leaving work a little early," Tim said.

"Why don't you do the same? Come by the house and I'll buy you a drink."

"It's a deal," Browning said.

In the year since Tim Ingrams arrival in Albuquerque a strong friendship had developed between the two men. Both were divorced, and they spent a lot of free time together, meeting for after work drinks, taking off for day-long fishing trips on the weekends, and frequently working on state business for the Society of Professional Corporate Security Executives.

Tim had come west from a job with a Virginia high-tech think tank to take over as chief of security for a Department of Defense contractor that did top secret research and development at Kirtland Air Force Base.

His job required him to live on the base and he'd been given a choice field-grade officer's housing unit.

A guy with a casual style who made friends easily, Tim liked to throw parties and entertain. Fred had been his guest many times, usually sitting in at a regular Thursday-night poker game, or hanging out on Sunday afternoons at the cookouts Tim organized during the NFL season.

Adjacent to the Albuquerque International Sunport, Kirtland began as a World War Two bomber training facility. After the war, part of the Los Alamos atomic bomb project moved to the base, and over the next fifty-odd years, Kirtland grew into a high-security facility for the storage of nuclear warheads and cold-war weapons development and testing.

Sandia National Laboratory, an Energy Department facility, was housed on the base along with an Air Force Test and Evaluation Center and a Space Technology Center. Although much of the work on the post remained secret, the development of satellite and computer based systems for verifying arms-treaty nuclear-weapons reduction had received a great deal of press attention over the last few years.

Construction around the main gate to the base slowed Browning's entry.

He waited patiently for traffic to move, thinking if anyone could confirm the identity of the FBI special agent as a military officer, Tim Ingram could. Tim had spent countless hours during his years back east in Beltway meetings with defense intelligence types, and he loved to tell funny stories about their ineptitude and dull wits. He particularly disliked pedantic military analysts and knee jerk FBI bureaucrats.

The air-police guard stopped him as he rolled up to the checkpoint, consulted his clipboard, scanned Browning's driver's license, and waved him through. He drove toward the officers' housing area wondering why Andy Baca, who hadn't told him much, wanted an ID check on an FBI agent.

Maybe it was tied to the murder of the ambassador's wife up in Santa Fe.

But then again, New Mexico was home to two national laboratories, several high-security military installations, and dozens of defense contractors engaged in sensitive government work. There was always the possibility that one government spy shop or another had some big investigation going on. Any good cop would want to learn what he could about the people who came snooping around in his backyard.

He parked at the curb and rang the bell. Tim opened up right away.

"Hey," Browning said.

Ingram smiled. About five eight, Tim had a boyish face, curly light brown hair, and the trim frame of a middleweight boxer.

"I'm just about to make myself a drink," Ingram said.

"It's been a hell of a week so far. Take off your jacket and join me."

"Gladly," Browning replied, pulling off his suit coat.

In the kitchen he watched Tim pour generous double shots of his favorite whiskey into tumblers.

"So, you've got a friend who wants some back-door information on a fed,"

Tim said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. He handed Browning a glass and led him into the living room.

"That's pretty cheeky, but you've got to love it.

Anybody willing to risk stepping on a few FBI toes must be a good guy."

"I thought you'd get a kick out of it," Browning replied.

"What got his antenna up?" Ingram asked as he settled into an easy chair.

"He's got good instincts," Browning said. He sat across from Ingram and put his drink on the coffee table.

"How did he come to tap into you as a source?"

"We go way back," Browning replied.

"I tried to pitch him to join the society a few months ago. Told him about the membership and what the organization does. He remembered enough to think I might be able to help."

"Sounds like he's pretty sharp."

"He is."

"If the feds aren't playing straight, he's got a right to know. I'm guessing it's about the ex-ambassador's wife who got iced up in Santa Fe."

"That was my guess too."

Ingram made a face.

"Those damn prima donnas. Somebody ought to tell the Bureau we don't have a national police force in this country-thank God. I'd love to know what he's got cooking. I bet it would make a great story. Did your pal give you any specifics at all?"

"Nope, he just asked for a records search of FBI agents who belong to the society. When this agent's name didn't pop up, he asked me to expand the search to all members with the same first name."

"Well, let's see the picture."

Browning reached for his coat jacket, fished out the fax, and handed it over.

"This isn't Major Elaine Cornell," Ingram said.

"You're sure?"

"Positive," Ingram replied snapping a finger against the fax paper.

"Compared to Cornell this woman looks halfway decent. I think the major is one of the 'don't ask, don't tell' soldiers."

"Good enough," Browning said, retrieving the fax.

"Stay for dinner." Ingram picked up the cordless phone from the end table and tossed it to Browning.

"Call your friend with the news while I get the grill cranked up. You like your steak medium rare, right?"

"Hey, you don't have to feed me," Browning said.

"No bother, amigo," Tim said as he made his way to the kitchen.

"Besides, I need some company."

After a few more drinks, a steak and potatoes dinner, and an hour of laid-back conversation, Browning left. Ingram took his cordless phone into the study, used the redial key to access the number Browning had called, and identified its location using a software program on his laptop computer. Then Special Agent Ingram called Charlie Perry and gave him the news.

"What's the state police chief mucking around in this for?" Perry grumbled.

"Not my problem, Charlie. You can tell Applewhite-who in hell came up with that name? — that her cover is intact. Make sure you put a lid on this so it doesn't spread any further."

"Yeah, sure," Perry said.

"I know what to do."

Ingram's next call went to the executive who managed the operations of the computer-chip facility.

"At the end of the week, downsize Fred Browning," he said.

"In the meantime keep him completely out of the loop."

"He doesn't know anything in the first place," the man replied.

"Care to tell me why?"

"Double up on production security and be prepared for a complete facility shakedown next week."

"I still need a reason."

"Make one up."

"He'll put up a stink about it."

"Not if you give him a generous severance package and recommend him for a new job with another company," Ingram said.

"I'll get back to you with the specifics."

"Do we have a leak?"

"Unknown at this time," Ingram answered.

"Your new security chief will report to you on Monday. Assessing any security breach will be his first assignment."

"And who exactly is that person going to be?"

"Someone with impeccable credentials."

Ingram's last call of the evening went to a Silicon Valley company vice president. He hung up after making sure Fred Browning would have a job in California with more money and greater responsibilities, at least for a while.

That should keep Browning from pondering too carefully the events of the week or jumping to conclusions.

If not, stronger arrangements might be necessary.

Kerney stayed in his office well past quitting time, half expecting to get a phone call summoning him to city hall to explain his decision to pull Officer Herrera off the streets. According to Helen Muiz, Herrera had stormed out of police headquarters at the end of his shift after receiving his transfer papers, saying he had no desire to be a paper shuffler or a desk jockey. She gave Kerney five-to-one odds that Cloudy had gone directly to his uncle, the city councilman, to complain. So far, there had been no repercussions, but that could change quickly.

His meeting with Captain Larry Otero had gone better than expected, and Helen was typing up the promotion order and the personnel paperwork for Kerney's new deputy chief.

Before leaving his office she predicted the deep-freeze reception Kerney had received as chief was about to thaw rapidly. She gave him twenty-to-one odds on it, along with a big smile of approval.

Ten minutes into his talk with Otero, Kerney knew he'd found his second-in-command. The captain was smart, level headed, and a good fit with his temperament and management style. Otero agreed not only to take over supervision of day-to-day department operations, but also to spearhead the completion of the five-year strategic plan that had been left hanging by the last administration.

Andy Baca's call to report that Special Agent Applewhite wasn't an army intelligence officer had left Kerney questioning whether he'd been paranoid or just way off the mark about his gut reaction to the woman.

He still felt uneasy. While he had no reason to doubt the national security implications of the case, he found it hard to understand why Applewhite had fed him a line about her State Department assignment.

Kerney knew he would never be given all the facts or reasons, regardless of the outcome, and that galled him.

He was equally bothered by his thirty-year-old recollections of Hamilton Lowell Terrell, aka the Snake, Kerney's first in-country commander. He had not been a man to be trusted.

Under Terrell's command routine patrols were reported as inserts into enemy territory, every skirmish became a major firefight, any setbacks in field operations were blamed on the attached ARVN units, and body counts were always inflated. But old grievances about Terrell probably had no bearing on the present situation.

Because he saw no point to it, Kerney had opted out of attending a task-force debriefing session currently in progress. He already knew that Terjo was still missing and that the special agent sent to Ramah had yet to locate or interview Proctor Straley's ranch manager, Scott Gatlin, alleged to be the third of Phyllis Terrell's recent lovers. He also knew that Sal Molina hadn't been allowed anywhere near Proctor Straley or his daughter Susan, who were sequestered in a Santa Fe hotel suite with FBI bodyguards.

Meanwhile, Detective Bobby Sloan and the three agents on loan from Andy Baca were wading knee-deep through interviews in the Father Mitchell slaying with nothing substantial to report.

Kerney leaned back in his desk chair and looked around the stark office.

He'd done nothing to decorate it since moving in, and he wasn't inclined to hang up framed certificates, plaques, or other memorabilia from his law enforcement career as most other police chiefs did. He'd read recently that such a "trophy wall" was standard equipment for corporate VIPs and Capitol Hill politicians.

Now that he was a bigwig, maybe he should get with the program. If nothing else, it would spark some amusing sarcasm from Helen Muiz. And Sara would never let him hear the end of it, he thought with a smile.

Sara was coming in from Fort Leavenworth this weekend. After they toured the land in Galisteo that was up for sale, maybe she'd help him pick out a few prints he could have framed for the office.

Because of his hectic week and the intensity of her class schedule at the U. S. Army Command and General Staff College, he hadn't spoken to her for days. He missed the sound of her voice, the updates about the progress of her pregnancy, and all their exciting talk about building a home and starting a family.

With Larry Otero on board as deputy chief, unless something major broke in the homicide cases, the weekend would be his to spend with his bride.

He'd married Sara less than a year ago, soon after her return from a tour of duty in Korea, where she'd been decorated and promoted for crushing a North Korean assassination plot against the visiting secretary of state.

Although he saw her infrequently, she'd made Kerney feel far happier about his life than he ever could have imagined. The considerable wealth he'd recently inherited from the proceeds of Erma Fergurson's land bequest paled in comparison to the rich texture of his relationship with Sara. He couldn't imagine loving someone other than smart, sexy, feisty Lieutenant Colonel Sara Brannon.

He left his office, signed the paperwork for Otero's promotion Helen had waiting for him on her desk, said good-night, and drove to his cramped quarters, thinking it was time to get serious about building a new house.

The top-floor presidential suite at the Hotel San Marcos consisted of a sitting room, bedroom with master bath, fully equipped and stocked galley kitchen, and study. Furnished with high-quality reproductions of Spanish Colonial pieces and decorated with original lithographs of well-known New Mexico artists, it had corner fireplaces in each room, hand-troweled plaster walls, and Mexican tile accents in the kitchen and bath.

Ambassador Hamilton Lowell Terrell stood gazing out the sitting-room window with his back to Charlie Perry. The narrow street was empty of foot traffic and only a few cars remained parked at the curbs. From his vantage point he looked down on a line of flat-roofed buildings that housed retail shops, all closed for the night. At the corner of the block rose a three-story building. It had two rows of old-fashioned wood sash windows evenly spaced above the ground floor, some with broken glass, others with damaged screens. Although two stores, a gift shop, and a boutique operated at street level, the rest of the building looked empty and unused.

"You're quite certain everything is set?" Terrell asked, turning to face Perry, who stood in the galley kitchen stirring sugar into a freshly poured cup of coffee.

"We should be able to wrap it up tomorrow," Perry said as he dropped the spoon into the sink.

Terrell moved to the kitchen, rinsed and dried the spoon, and put it in the proper drawer.

"I don't like this probing by the local authorities into Applewhite's cover."

"That has been contained," Perry said, moving away from Terrell.

"It better be," Terrell said as he dried his hands.

"Is Proctor Stra ley on board?"

Perry sat on the couch facing the fireplace where pinon and cedar logs crackled in a warm blaze, and sipped his coffee.

"Along with his daughter Susan. They know about the affair between your wife and Straley's ranch manager. Mrs. Terrell made no effort to hide it, and both were well aware of Mrs. Terrell's appetites."

"Give me the specifics," Terrell said.

"As we discussed, you'll be the grieving husband."

Terrell stared at Perry, a cocky young man he didn't much like.

"I know my role.

What about the preparations for Scott Gatlin, the ranch manager?" he said.

"It's better if you don't know, Ambassador."

Terrell walked to the fireplace and warmed his hands.

"Don't presume to coddle me, Agent Perry."

Perry's smile vanished.

"Gatlin has been on vacation, fortunately traveling alone with no set agenda. He's due to return late tonight. He'll be intercepted as he arrives, taken to Gallup to be interviewed, and then released. He'll go home, get drunk, write a suicide note confessing to the killing, and put a bullet in his head."

"Is there anyone staying at the Straley ranch?"

"No, and there aren't any nearby neighbors."

"How will you make the confession stand up?"

"Threatening letters from Gatlin to your wife, vowing to kill her if he couldn't have her, were recovered by the FBI last night at her residence. A packet of letters written by Mrs. Terrell to Gatlin demanding that he stop harassing her will be found among his personal effects. Gatlin will be portrayed as a fixated, mentally ill stalker who killed his ex-lover."

"Straley isn't a stupid man," Terrell said, "and my sister-in-law has never liked me. Are you sure this will work?"

"Both of them know Gatlin as a lady's man with a temper and a jealous streak.

With the proof we'll provide there should be no reason for them not to buy it."

"Which is?" Terrell demanded.

"That Gatlin raped your wife the night of her murder. If necessary, we'll produce witnesses who saw him in Santa Fe before the crimes were committed."

Terrell nodded.

"I hope this Kerney fellow is as inept as you say he is."

Perry snickered.

"Kerney? Absolutely."

"I've read Kerney's background file, Agent Perry. His credentials as an investigator are strong, and he's made some impressive arrests over the years."

"I've worked with him before, Ambassador. Believe me, he's a loose cannon.

Besides that, he's running a department filled with shit-for-brains detectives."

"I don't think Chief Kerney remembers I was his commanding officer for a time in Vietnam."

"I didn't know that," Perry said.

"You didn't serve in the military, did you, Perry?"

"No, sir."

"Too bad. Ben Franklin once said that there is no such thing as a 'little enemy." The politicians didn't keep that in mind when we fought in Vietnam.

Don't make the same mistake with Chief Kerney, Agent Perry."

"I won't. We'll continue monitoring the situation."

"Very good. See that you do."

Perry left and Terrell moved to the writing desk, turning his attention to funeral arrangements. He thought about Phyllis as he began making a list: private services at the cathedral, burial at the national cemetery, invitations limited to a small group of government officials and the immediate family.

Aware of Phyllis's loose reputation, he'd married her anyway, because it allowed him access to Proctor Straley's sphere of considerable influence. At the time Straley had almost swooned with delight to see his tramp daughter finally so well wed. The great sex she gave Terrell until the marriage soured had been an enjoyable bonus.

Phyllis would be alive today, if she hadn't been so damn nosey. He paused and looked at his list. A letter of condolence to Proctor Straley from the President was in order. He made a note to call the White House in the morning.