The White House Connection

'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.'