“Oh. See what you mean. You can’t risk either of those bodies being found and this thing spiraling out of control.”
I was nodding again, like the phone had eyes. “This can’t go public till we know what the official story’s going to be. I could go downstairs and find a cop easy enough-that motorcade’s going on without Kennedy, for some reason, which means there’s still crowd control down there. But I’d have to take potluck.”
“And in Commissioner Wilson’s brave new world, when you call a cop, how do you know what you’re getting? I follow you. You want me to send some of my boys over, or reach out to dependable fellas on the PD?”
“I’ll leave that to you, Dick.”
“Consider it done.”
“So then … I can just walk away?”
“Yeah. You go fill Martineau in. He’s probably back by now-he left O’Hare when the call came from D.C., canceling.”
“Is that where you are, O’Hare?”
“Yeah. We still have Senators Dirksen and Douglas taking the motorcade into town, plus Justice Goldberg, Bob Kennedy’s guy Katzenbach, a few other dimly lit luminaries. Nice to know that even if the President can’t make it, the crowds can go wild getting a load of the comptroller of the currency.”
I laughed at that. “Yeah. And what teenage girl doesn’t go to bed dreaming about Everett Dirksen? Listen, Dick, thanks for this. I knew you were the right guy to call.”
So I took the stairs down, did not encounter the janitor on the way out, and headed back for the Federal Building. Sunny but cool, the walk felt good.
When I got to the ninth-floor offices of the Secret Service, the bullpen was about half full, guys pulled back in from duty that no longer mattered. Martineau’s office blinds were down, but he proved to be home.
I stuck my head in. “Marty, got a few minutes?”
He looked none the worse for wear, after this frantic, stressful morning, working at his desk in his suit coat. Those wiggle-worm eyebrows made his frown look unfriendly, but that was more concern than anything.
“Nate, where the hell have you been?”
I shut the door behind me, went over and sat across from him, feeling very much like a juvie reporting to the high-school principal. I kept the report short and factual, except for the self-defense aspect Dick Cain had suggested, and as dry and humorless as if I’d been a Secret Service agent all my career. Easy to play it straight when the cordite is still clinging inside your nostrils.
Throughout, the broad-shouldered chief was rocking gently in his big swivel chair, his hands tented before him. His expression remained blank but for eyes that were moving in thought. When I’d finished my report, I didn’t prompt him for a reaction. He would give it to me in due time.
Finally Martineau leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and clasping his hands, as if we were about to say grace. I hoped I wasn’t the meal.
“Chief Cain has secured the scene?”
“If not, he soon will have. Either with his own SIU guys or with reliable PD.”
His sigh damn near ruffled papers on his desk. “Nate, you did the right thing. You may have saved the President’s life … yes, I know he canceled, but having two armed, trained assassins floating around out there, with Lancer as their target, would be unacceptable. We might prefer them in custody…”
Interesting choice: might prefer to have them in custody.
“… but we certainly like having them out of the game. You did well calling Chief Cain. I didn’t realize you were aware of his special status.”
“What special status is that?”
Martineau shrugged. “I don’t entirely know, I was just told to work with him on this Presidential visit. He apparently is a government asset. I would assume of the Company. Both the Cook County Sheriff’s Department and the Chicago PD have a strong working relationship with the CIA, you know.”
“I didn’t know.”
That seemed to faintly amuse him. “In this day and age, Nate? Local police in big cities routinely take specialized counterintelligence training with the spooks. Anyway, Cain will help us make this go away.”
I’d been right. This would be covered up.
Martineau sighed again, not so big this time. “The President has a number of scheduled trips on the docket, and I’ve already spoken to your boss-Robert Kennedy, I mean-and he wants no publicity on this assassination plot.”
That didn’t surprise me.
“What about Vallee?” I asked. “Is he still loose out there?”
Martineau’s head snapped back a little and he grinned. “No, didn’t anyone tell you? He’s in Interview One, right now. Lieutenant Gross and Sergeant Shoppa brought him in about fifteen minutes ago. We haven’t even had time to question him.”
“You mean, he’s not a priority anymore?”
“Not really. Just another crank. We’ve had other fish to fry-actually, we’ve already had an agents’ meeting about the general situation.”
I hadn’t been able to attend, busy managing the scenes of two shootings. Of mine. Still, it must have been a short meeting.
“What did I miss, Marty?”
“Well, you’re aware we’ve been operating on a non-documentary basis-strictly oral reports. On Monday, every agent involved in this investigation of potential motorcade assassins will spend time with Charlotte dictating oral reports.”
Charlotte was the top secretary around here.
“From these typed reports,” he said, “I will write an overview that will remain top secret-with our COS designation-which I will send by special courier to Chief Rowley.”
“COS?”
“Central Office Secret. You can see how this benefits your situation.”
I did. I had just killed two suspects and would not have to answer any detailed questions, no hearings, no shooting board, no nothing.
“And the two Cubans?”
Martineau shrugged. “They’ll be released shortly.”
“What the hell?”
“Nate, we don’t have an iota of evidence on them. Checks we’ve run bring up no outstanding warrants, and only back up their cover story. The sole indication that they’re dangerous comes from the FBI, who don’t want any part of this. What else can we do?”
“I saw them with those white pricks!”
“What white pricks?”
He had a point.
“And Vallee?”
“We’ll be turning him over to the Chicago police this afternoon.”
“On what charge?”
“The one Shoppa and Gross hauled him in on-concealed weapons. He was making an illegal left-hand turn; they pulled him over, and saw a hunting knife on the rider’s seat. When his trunk was searched, cartons of ammunition, an M-1 and a.22 revolver were found.”
“Who’s interrogating him?”
“Nobody. What about, at this point? We yanked him off the street to keep a lid on him while the President was in town. And the President isn’t coming. Anyway, Vallee’s just another nut. The team of four were the main attraction.”
“Mind if I have a chat with Vallee?”
“Be my guest.”
I got up and was halfway out when Martineau said, “We do appreciate everything you’ve done. That was a dangerous situation this morning, at that printer’s. I think you handled it well.”
“I appreciate that, Marty.”
“I can’t imagine how chilling it must have been, looking through that sniper scope and seeing another rifle aiming back at you.” He seemed to actually shiver. “That you had the presence of mind to just … take him out, before he could do the same to you? Well, it’s something not just anybody could do.”
I nodded at him. That wasn’t close to what really happened, but what could I say? On the other hand, the way I really handled it wasn’t something just anybody could do, either.
Shoppa and Gross were standing outside Interview One. The two Pickpocket Detail cops were in street clothes, per good surveillance technique, stocky Shoppa in a who-shot-the-couch blue-and-white-speckled sport coat over a white open-neck shirt, horsey Gross in a baggy brown suit and a yellow shirt with no tie. They looked happy but beat, having logged plenty of hours babysitting Vallee. Shoppa was smoking a cigar, Gross a cigarette.