She tucked the handkerchief and syringe in her purse, retrieved her jacket, then undid one of the buttons of Bob’s shirt. She slid her right hand inside and felt his chest. There was no heartbeat. She stood back.
“Sorry, Bob,” she said. “But at least you died advancing a cause you believed in.”
Bob had removed her scarf. She used it to wipe fingerprints from the solid surfaces she had touched — the drinking glass and the wooden armrests of the chair. Then she slipped it back on her head. The woman removed a pair of white gloves from her purse and put them on, along with her sunglasses. She left the room and returned to the elevator, careful to keep her face downturned. All that the cameras in the elevator would see was her jacket and the top of her head.
Just like the night before.
Hopefully, no more killings remained.
EIGHTEEN
Darrell McCaskey came by to see Rodgers after the meeting with Hood. He invited Rodgers for a drink but the general declined. He said he needed to be alone, to think about the job offer from the senator. In fact, Rodgers did not feel like socializing with anyone from Op-Center. It was nothing personal, but the odor of disloyalty hung about the place and its people. Rodgers hoped it would pass. He liked McCaskey and Bob Herbert. But he needed to get away from it now. He spent a few hours cleaning his office, deleting personal files from his computer, and storing them on disks.
He reached his ranch-style home in Bethesda, Maryland, at seven-thirty. He removed his jacket and dropped it over the arm of the sofa. Then he poured a drink and sat down at the small dining room table. As he went through the mail, he sipped the small “medicinal dose” of Southern Comfort, as his grandfather used to call it. It was exactly what he needed to heal his wounded soul.
The mail was all catalogues and bills, no letters. Not that Rodgers was surprised. He could not remember the last letter he received. He remembered what it meant to get letters in Vietnam, to read words that had made a journey from hand to hand. It was immediate and intimate, like looking over someone’s shoulder as they gave something of themselves. Opening an envelope that contained an offer for a 0 percent credit card or discount coupons from the local strip mall did not have the same effect.
Then something nearly as good happened. Rodgers got a call from Kat Lockley. She was not calling about business.
“I’m sorry I did not get to see you before,” she said. “It was a very press-intensive day. And it’s not over. We’ve got Nightline coming up.”
“I understand completely,” he said. “Are you going with the senator to the Nightline broadcast?”
“Actually, I’m not. I had a meeting outside the office about the convention. He went with his attorney, David Rico. Dave had some concern about what Koppel might ask and wanted some ground rules about the homicide.”
“Understandable.”
“So, since I’m free, and since it looks like we’re going to be working together, I was wondering if you felt like grabbing dinner or a snack or a drink,” she said.
“Actually, dinner is a good idea,” he replied. “I didn’t have time for lunch. Where are you?”
“In my car, on Delaware Avenue.”
Rodgers thought for a moment. “How about Equinox, 818 Connecticut Avenue NW?”
“Perfect,” she said. “American cuisine.”
“That’s why I suggested it,” Rodgers said. “I’ll be there in thirty-five or forty minutes.”
“I’ll be at the bar with a vodka martini,” she said. “By the time you get there, it will be my second.”
“I hear that,” Rodgers said.
He hung up, left his own unfinished glass in the sink, snatched his jacket from the sofa, and headed out. The call from Kat was more healing than the Southern Comfort. It was reassuring to feel part of a team, especially when a woman was right there in the huddle. It occurred to him that he did not even know if she was married, engaged, dating, or straight. Right now, the camaraderie was more important.
The roads to D.C. were lightly trafficked, and Connecticut Avenue NW was virtually empty. Rodgers made the drive in a half-hour flat. The dark bar was crowded with staffers from the White House, which was nearby, along with a cross section of Washington power brokers. Kat was at the end of the bar, talking to a slender, very attractive woman. The woman was holding a small beaded purse in her left hand and a glass of red wine in her right.
“Mike, I’d like you to meet Lucy O’Connor,” Kat said as he approached. It was loud in the bar, and Kat had to shout to be heard. No wonder nothing ever stayed a secret in Washington.
The woman put her drink on the bar. “Delighted,” she said as she shook Rodgers’s hand.
“Lucy writes about the Hill for the American Spectator and has a syndicated radio show,” Kat said. “How many markets now?”
“Forty-seven,” she said.
“Impressive,” Rodgers said.
“Not compared to what you have done,” Lucy said.
Rodgers rolled a shoulder. “I was in the wrong places at the right time.”
“A true hero, taciturn and modest,” Lucy remarked. “But since you’ve very happily fallen in my lap, General Rodgers, tell me, in as few words as you like. Is Op-Center busy redefining its mission?”
“If having your budget whacked is redefining, I suppose the answer is yes,” Rodgers replied.
“I heard about the cuts, but that isn’t what I meant. I’m talking about the Wilson investigation.”
“Wow, that’s really the talk of the town, isn’t it?” Rodgers asked.
“Everything is the talk of this town,” Lucy said.
“The Wilson investigation is a fluke,” he said.
Rodgers leaned past the reporter and ordered a Samuel Adams. He hated being pushed, and he hated being pushed by journalists even more. They attacked the front door, the back door, the windows, and when that did not work, they crawled under the front stoop and waited like snakes.
“Is that what you two are here to discuss?” Lucy asked.
“Good guess, but no,” Kat told her.
Lucy frowned. “You’re not going to tell me it’s purely social.”
“Actually, it is,” Rodgers said as the bartender handed him his beer. “I was at the senator’s party last night. Ms. Lockley wanted to meet me and called. Here I am.”
“Why were you at the party?”
“Free food,” Rodgers said.
Lucy smiled. “All right, General. I won’t press. But Kat? I want a half-hour window if there’s any news. That will give me time to put it on my web site.”
“And give you bragging rights for being the first,” Rodgers said.
“That’s what gives a reporter heft,” Lucy replied. “You remember those days, don’t you, Kat?”
Kat said she did and agreed to give Lucy a scoop if there was one to be had. The reporter left the bar to scout for leads elsewhere. Kat picked up a shopping bag that was beside the stool, and Rodgers escorted his date and his beer to the restaurant atrium for dinner.
“Sorry about all that,” Kat sat as they were seated. “She got there right before you did, so there was no time to disengage. I hope it wasn’t too painful.”
“Define ‘too.’ ”
“Enough to make you not want to work with us,” Kat said. “We have to be much more accessible than the key people at Op-Center.”
“It will take getting used to, but I’ll survive,” Rodgers said. “All I need to do is keep up that Gary Cooper facade.”
“That may be even more appealing,” Kat pointed out.
“Maybe, but at least there are only two words to the script,” Rodgers said. “ ‘Yup’ and ‘nope.’ I can handle that. But how about we do what we told Ms. O’Connor. Keep this social.”