Absolute Power

Citation preview

ABSOLUTE POWER

DAVID BALDACCI

Product Details

* Pub. Date: October 2000 * Publisher: Grand Central Publishing * Format: Mass Market Paperback, * ISBN-13: 9780446603584 * ISBN: 0446603589 * Edition Number: 1

Synopsis

In a heavily guarded mansion in a posh Virginia suburb, a man and a woman start to make love, trapping Luther Whitney, a career break-in artist, behind a secret wall. Then the passion turns deadly, and Luther is running into the night. Because what he has just seen is a brutal murder involving Alan Richmond, the president of the United States, the man with...Absolute Power.

Annotation

Set in Washington, D.C., this fascinating thriller of unparalleled suspense dares to explore an unthinkable abuse of power and criminal conspiracy--a vicious murder involving the president, his mistress, and a coverup orchestrated by his zealously loyal chief of staff and the Secret Service. Unbeknownst to the president and his lackeys, one unlikely witness saw everything. Soon to be a major motion picture starring Clint Eastwood and Gene Hackman.

Reviews

Publishers Weekly

Casting the president of the United States as a crazed villain isn't a new idea-Fletcher Knebel worked it 30 years ago, in Night of Camp David-but in this sizzler of a first novel, Baldacci, a D.C. attorney, proves that the premise still has long legs. The action begins when a grizzled professional cat burglar gets trapped inside the bedroom closet of one of the world's richest men, only to witness, through a one-way mirror, two Secret Service agents kill the billionaire's trampy young wife as she tries to fight off the drunken sexual advances of the nation's chief executive. Running for his life, but not before he picks up a bloodstained letter opener that puts the president at the scene of the crime, the burglar becomes the target of a clandestine manhunt orchestrated by leading members of the executive branch. Meanwhile, Jack Graham, once a public defender and now a highpowered corporate attorney, gets drawn into the case because the on-thelam burglar just happens to be the father of his former finance, a crusading Virginia prosecutor. Embroidering the narrative through assorted plot whorls are the hero's broken romance; his conflict over selling out for financial success; the prosecutor's confused love-hate for her burglar father; the relentless investigation by a northern Virginia career cop; the dilemma of government agents trapped in a moral catch-22; the amoral ambitions of a sexy White House Chief of Staff; and the old burglar's determination to bring down the ruthless president. Meanwhile, lurking at the novel's center like a venomous spider is the sociopathic president. Baldacci doesn't peer too deeply into his characters' souls, and his prose is merely functional-in both respects, he's much closer to Grisham than to, say, Forsyth; but he's also a first-rate storyteller who grabs readers by their lapels right away and won't let go until they've finished his enthralling yarn.

"plenty of danger and surprises.... Characters are complex and Unpredictable enough to be interesting."

San lose mercury news

"a suspense thriller that keeps you engaged."

Denver post

-intense, invigorating, thoroughly enjoyable. David baldacci is one of The best new writers on the fiction scene today. This is the one Absolutely must-be-read novel this year." -herald (ga)

-a gripping, hard-to-put-down yarn.... Baldacci is a born storyteller."

richmond times-dispatch

"a first-novel blockbuster, absolute power is a fascinating suspense Story, entertainment at its best."

if you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as "unsold and

destroyed' to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this 'stripped book."

WARNER BOOKS EDITION

Copyright 0 1996 by Columbus Rose, Ltd.

All rights reserved.

Cover design and illustration by Tony Greco

Warner Books, Inc. 1271 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020

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Printed in the United States of America

Originally Published in Hardcover by Warner Books.

First International Paperback Printing: July, 1996

First U.S. Paperback Printing: November, 1996

Biography

A Washington, D.C.-based lawyer-turned-author, David Baldacci writes legal thrillers that are as tightly constructed as they are authoritative. Readers know his books, with their cinematic plots and colorful details, are sure to offer the sort of breathless entertainment that thrillers always promise but can’t always deliver.

DEDICATION

To MICHELLE, my dearest friend, my loving wife, my partner in crime, without you this dream would have remained a feeble glint in a weary eye

To MY MOTHER AND FATHER, no parents could have done any more

To MY BROTHER AND SISTER, for putting up with a lot from their younger sibling and still always being there for me

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Jennifer Karas, for being a terrific friend and avid supporter and for getting the ball rolling way back when. Karen Spiegel, my biggest fan on the West Coast, may there be many huge movies and small statuettes in your future. Jim and Everne Spiegel, for all their support and encouragement.

Aaron Priest, the man who plucked me from obscurity, my friend and agent for life, and a helluva nice guy on top of it. And his assistant, Lisa Vance, who diligently answers every one of my questions, no matter how off-the-wall. And to the Priest Agency's editor-in residence, Frances Jalet-Miller, whose insights and thoughtful comments made me dig deeper into my characters and made the book far better in the process.

My editor, Maureen Egen, for making my freshman publication experience so painless and rewarding. And to Larry Kirshbaum, who saw something in the pages very late at night and changed my life forever.

Steven Wilmsen, a fellow writer, who well knows how hard it is, and who fed me good advice and tons of encouragement all along the way. Thank

you, my friend.

Steve and Mary Jennings, for technical advice, legwork, and being the best friends anyone could hope for. Richard Marvin and Joe Barry, for technical advice on security systems.

And to Art, Lynette, Ronni, Scott, and Randy for all their love and support.

Here, the words really do fail me.

'Absolute power corrupts absolutely." -LORD ACTON

ABSOLUTE POWER

CHAPTERS

CHAPTER ONE

HE GRIPPED THE STEERING WHEEL LOOSELY AS THE CAR, ITS lights out, drifted slowly to a stop. A few last scraps of gravel kicked out of the tire treads and then silence enveloped him. He took a moment to adjust to the surroundings and then pulled out a pair of worn but still effective nightvision binoculars. The house slowly came into focus. He shifted easily, confidently in his seat. A duffel bag lay on the front seat beside him. The car's interior was faded but clean.

The car was also stolen. And from a very unlikely source.

A pair of miniature palm trees hung from the rearview mirror. He smiled grimly as he looked at them. Soon he might be going to the land of palms. Quiet, blue, see-through water, powdery salmon-colored sunsets and late mornings. He had to get out. It was time. For all the occasions he had said that to himself, this time he felt sure.

Sixty-six years old, Luther Whitney was eligible to collect Social Security, and was a card-carrying member of AARP.

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At that age most men had settled down into second careers as grandfathers, part-time raisers of their children's children, when weary joints were eased down into familiar recliners and arteries finished closing up with the clutter of a lifetime.

Luther had had only one career his entire life. It involved breaking and entering into other people's homes and places of business, usually in the nighttime, as now, and taking away as much of their property as he could feasibly carry.

Though clearly on the wrong side of the law, Luther had never fired a gun or hurled a knife in anger or fear, except for his part in a largely confusing war fought where South and North Korea were joined at the hip. And the only punches he had ever thrown were in bars, and those only in self-defense as the suds made men braver than they should have been.

Luther only had one criterion in choosing his targets: he took only from those who could well afford to lose it. He considered himself no different from the armies of people who routinely coddled the wealthy, constantly persuading them to buy things they did not need.

A good many of his sixty-odd years had been spent in assorted medium-

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and then maximum-security correctional facilities along the East Coast. Like blocks of granite around his neck, three prior felony convictions stood to his credit in three different states. Years had been carved out of his life.

Important years. But he could do nothing to change that now.

He had refined his skills to where he had high hopes that a fourth conviction would never materialize. There was absolutely nothing mysterious about the ramifications of another bust: he would be looking at the full twenty years. And at his age, twenty years was a death penalty. They might as well fry him, which was the way the Commonwealth of Virginia used to handle its particularly bad people. The citizens of this vastly historic state were by and large a God-fearing people, and religion premised upon the notion of equal retribution consistently demanded the ultimate payback. The commonwealth succeeded in disposing of more death row criminals than all but two states, and the leaders, Texas and Florida, shared the moral sentiments of their Southern sister. But not for simple burglary; even the good Virginians had their limits.

Yet with all that at risk he couldn't take his eyes off the

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home-mansion, of course, one would be compelled to call it. It had engrossed him for several months now. Tonight that fascination would end.

Middleton, Virginia. A forty-five-minute drive west on a slingshot path from Washington, D.C. Home to vast estates, obligatory Jaguars, and horses whose price tags could feed the residents of an entire inner-city apartment building for a year.

Homes in this area sprawled across enough earth with enough splendor to qualify for their own appellation. The irony of his target's name, the Coppers, was not lost upon him.

The adrenaline rush that accompanied each job was absolutely unique. He imagined it was somewhat like how the batter felt as he nonchalantly trotted the bases, taking all the time in the world, after newly bruised leather had landed somewhere in the street. The crowd on its feet, fifty thousand pairs of eyes on one human being, all the air in the world seemingly sucked into one space, and then suddenly displaced by the arc of one man's glorious swing of the wood.

Luther took a long sweep of the area with his still sharp eyes.

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An occasional firefly winked back at him. Otherwise he was alone. He listened for a moment to the rise and fall of the cicadas and then that chorus faded into the background, so omnipresent was it to every person who had lived long in the area.

He pulled the car further down the blacktop road and backed onto a short dirt road that ended in a mass of thick trees. His iron-gray hair was covered with a black ski hat.

His leathery face was smeared black with camouflage cream; calm, green eyes hovered above a cinder block jaw. The flesh carried on his spare frame was as tight as ever. He looked like the Army Ranger he had once been. Luther got out of the car.

Crouching behind a tree, Luther surveyed his target. The Coppers, like many country estates that were not true working farms or stables, had a huge and ornate wrought iron gate set on twin brick columns but had no fencing. The grounds were accessible directly from the road or the nearby woods.

Luther entered from the woods.

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It took Luther two minutes to reach the edge of the cornfield adjacent to the house. The owner obviously had no need for home-grown vegetables but had apparently taken the country squire role to heart. Luther wasn't complaining, since it afforded him a hidden path almost to the front door.

He waited a few moments and then disappeared into the embracing thickness of the corn stalks.

The ground was mostly clear of debris and his tennis shoes made no sound, which was important, for any noise carried easily here. He kept his eyes straight ahead; his feet, after much practice, carefully picked their way through the slender rows, compensating for the slight unevenness of the ground. The night air was cool after the debilitating heat of another stagnant summer, but not nearly cool enough for breath to be transformed into the tiny clouds that could be seen from a distance by restless or insomniac eyes.

Luther had timed this operation several times over the past month, always stopping at the edge of the field before stepping into the front

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grounds and past no-man's-land. In his head, every detail had been worked and reworked hundreds of times until a precise script of movement, waiting, followed by more movement was firmly entrenched in his mind.

He crouched down at the edge of the front grounds an took one more long look around; no need to rush. No dogs to worry about, which was good. A human, no matter how young and fleet, simply could not outrun a dog. But it was the noise they made that stopped men like Luther cold. There was also no perimeter security system, probably because of the innumerable false alarms that would be caused by the large populations of deer, squirrel and raccoon roaming over the area. However, Luther would shortly be faced with a highly sophisticated defense package that he would have thirty-three seconds to disarm-and that included the ten seconds it would take him to remove the control panel.

The private security patrol had passed through the area thirty minutes earlier. The cop clones were supposed to vary their routines, making sweeps through their surveillance sectors every hour. But after a month of observations, Luther had easily discerned a pattern. He had at least three hours before another pass would be made. He wouldn't need nearly that long.

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The grounds were pitch black, and thick shrubs, the lifeblood of the burglary class, clung to the brick entryway like a caterpillar nest to a tree branch. He checked each window of the house: all black, all silent. He had watched the caravan carrying the home's occupants parade out two days ago to points south, and carefully took inventory of all owners and personnel. The nearest estate was a good two miles away.

He took a deep breath. He had planned everything out, but in this business, the simple fact was that you could never count for everything.

He loosened the grips on his backpack and then glided out from the field in long, smooth strides across the lawn, and in ten seconds was facing the thick, solid-wood front door with reinforced steel framing together with a locking system that was rated at the top of the charts for holding force. None of which concerned Luther in the least.

He slipped a facsimile front-door key out of his jacket pocket and inserted it into the keyhole without, however, turning it.

He listened for another few seconds. Then he slipped off his backpack

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and changed his shoes so there would be no traces of mud. He readied his battery-operated screwdriver, which could reveal the circuitry he needed to fool ten times faster than he could by hand.

The next piece of equipment he carefully pulled from his backpack weighed exactly six ounces, was slightly bigger than a pocket calculator and other than his daughter was the best investment he had ever made in his life. Nicknamed "Wit" by its owner, the tiny device had assisted Luther in his last three jobs without a hitch.

The five digits comprising this home's security code had already been supplied to Luther and programmed into his computer. Their proper sequence was still a mystery to him, but that obstacle would have to be eradicated by his tiny metal, wire and microchip companion if he wanted to avoid the ear-piercing shriek that would instantly emit from the four sound cannons planted at each corner of the ten-thousandsquare-foot fortress he was invading. Then would follow the police call dialed by the nameless computer he would battle in a few moments. The home also had pressure-sensitive windows and floor plates, in addition to tamperproof door magnets. All of which would mean nothing if Wit could tear the correct code sequence from the alarm system's grasp.

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He eyed the key in the door and with a practiced motion hooked Wit to his harness belt so that it hung easily against his side. The key turned effortlessly in the lockland Luther prepared to block out the next sound that he would hear, the low beep of the security system that warned of impending doom for the intruder if the correct answer was not fed into it in the allotted time and not a millisecond later.

He replaced his black leather gloves with a pair of more nimble plastic ones that had a second layer of padding on the fingertips and palms. It was not his practice to leave any evidence behind. Luther took one deep breath, then opened the portal. The shrill beep of the security system met him instantly. He quickly moved into the enormous foyer and confronted the alarm panel.

The automatic screwdriver whirled noiselessly; the six metal pieces dropped into Luther's hands and then were deposited in a carrier on his belt. Slender wires attached to Wit flashed against the sliver of moonlight seeping through the window beside the door, and then Luther, probing momentarily like a surgeon through a patient's chest cavity, found the correct spot, clipped the strands into place and then flipped on the power source to his companion.

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From across the foyer, a slash of crimson stared down at him. The infrared detector had already locked on Luther's thermal offset. As the seconds ticked down, it patiently waited for the security system's "brain" to pronounce the intruder friend or foe.

Faster than the eye could follow, the numbers Bashed across Wit's digital screen in neon amber; the allotted time blinked down in a small box at the top-right-hand corner of the same screen.

Five seconds elapsed and then the numbers 5, 13, 9, 3 and 11 appeared on Wit's tiny glass face and locked.

The beep stopped on cue as the security system was disarmed, the red light flashed off and was replaced with the friendly green, and Luther was in business. He removed the wires, screwed the plate back on and repacked his equipment, then carefully locked the front door.

The master bedroom was on the third floor, which could be reached by an elevator down the main first-floor hallway to the right, but Luther chose the stairs instead. The less dependent he was on anything he did not have complete control over the better. Getting stuck in an elevator

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for several weeks was not part of his battle plan.

He looked at the detector in the corner of the ceiling as its rectangular mouth smiled at him, its surveillance arc asleep for now. Then he headed up the staircase.

The master bedroom door was not locked. In a few seconds he had his low-power, nonglare work lamp set up and took a moment to look arount The green glow from a second control panel mounted next to the bedroom door broke the darkness.

The house itself had been built within the last five years; Luther had checked the records at the courthouse and had even managed to gain access to a set of blueprints of the place from the planning commissioner's office, it being large enough to require special blessing from the local government as though they would ever actually deny the rich their wishes.

There were no surprises in the building plans. It was a big, solid house more than worth the multimillion-dollar price tag that had been paid in cash by its owner.

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Indeed, Luther had visited this home once before, in broad daylight, with people everywhere. He had been in this very room and he had seen what he needed to see. And that was why he was here tonight.

Six-inch crown molding peered down at him as he knelt next to the gigantic, canopied bed. Next to the bed was a nightstand. On it were a small silver clock, the newest romance novel of the day and an antique silver-plated letter opener with a thick leather handle.

Everything about the place was big and expensive. There were three walk-in closets in the room, each about the size of Luther's living room. Two were occupied by women's clothes and shoes and purses and every other female accoutrement one could rationally or irrationally spend money on.

Luther glanced at the framed prints on the nightstand and wryly observed the twenty-something "little woman" next to the seventy-something husband.

There were many types of lotteries in the world and not all of them state-run.

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Several of the photos showed off the lady of the house's proportions to almost maximum degree, and his quick examination of the closet revealed that her dressing pleasures leaned to the downright sleazy.

He looked up at the full-length mirror, studying the ornate carvings around its edges. He next surveyed the sides. It was a heavy, nifty bit of work, built right into the wall, or so it seemed, but Luther knew that hinges were carefully hidden into the slight recess six inches from the top and bottom.

Luther looked back at the mirror. He had the distinct advantage of having seen a target like this full-length model a couple of years ago although he hadn't planned to crack it.

But you didn't ignore a second golden egg just because you had the first in hand, and that second golden egg had been worth about fifty thou'. The prize on the other side of this private looking glass he figured would be about ten times that.

Using brute force and the aid of a crowbar he could overcome the locking system built into the mirror's carvings but that would take precious time. And, more than that@ it would leave behind obvious signs of the

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place having been violated.

And although the house was supposed to be empty for the next several weeks, one never knew. When he left the Coppers there would be no obvious evidence he had ever been there. Even upon their return the owners might not check the vault for some time. In any event, he did not have to take the hard route.

He walked quickly over to the large-screen TV located against one wall of the vast chamber. The area was set up as a sitting room with matching chintz-covered chairs and a large coffee table. Luther looked at the three remotes lying there. One to work the TV, one for the VCR and one that would cut his night's work by ninety percent. Each had a brand name on it, each looked pretty much like the other, but a quick experiment showed that two worked their appropriate apparatus and one did not.

He walked back across the room, pointed the control at the mirror and pushed the lone red button located at the bottom of the hardware. Ordinarily that action meant the VCR was recording. Tonight, in this room, it meant the bank was opening for business for its one fortunate customer.

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Luther watched the door swing open easily, silently on the now-revealed no-maintenance hinges. From long habit, he replaced the control exactly where it had been, pulled a collapsible duffel bag out of his backpack and entered the vault.

As his light swept through the darkness he was surprised to see an upholstered chair sitting in the middle of the room, which looked to be about six feet by six feet. On the chair's arm rested an identical remote, obviously a safeguard against being locked in by accident. Then his eyes took in the shelves down each side.

The cash, bundled neatly, went in first, then the contents of the slender boxes that were definitely not costume jewelry. Luther counted about two hundred thousand dollars' worth of negotiable bonds and other securities, and two small boxes of antique coins and another of stamps, including one of an inverted figure that made Luther swallow hard.

He ignored the blank checks and the boxes full of legal documents, which were worthless to him. His quick assessment ended at almost two million dollars, probably more.

He took one more look around, taking care not to miss any stray nook.

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The walls were thick-he figured they had to be fireproof, or as fireproof as man could make something. The place wasn't hermetically sealed; the air was fresh, not stale.

Somebody could stay in here for days.

THE Limo MOVED QUICKLY DOWN THE ROAD FOLLOWED BY THE van, each driver expert enough to accomplish this feat without the benefit of headlights.

Inside the spacious back seat of the linio were a man and two women, one of whom was close to being drunk and who was doing her best to undress the man and herself right there, despite the gentle defensive efforts of her victim.

The other woman sat across from them tight-lipped, ostensibly trying to ignore the ridiculous spectacle, which included girlish giggling and much panting, but in reality she closely observed every detail of the pair's efforts. Her focus was on a large book that sat open in her lap where appointments and notes battled each other for space and the attention of the male sitting across from her, who took the opportunity of his companion wrenching off her spike heels to pour himself another

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drink. His capacity for alcohol was enormous. He could drink twice the amount he had already consumed tonight and there would be no outward signs, no slurring of speech or impeded motor functions-which would have been deadly for a man in his position.

She had to admire him, his obsessions, his truly raw edges, while at the same time his being able to project an image to the world that cried out purity and strength, normalcy but, at the same time, greatness. Every woman in America was in love with him, enamored with his classic good looks, immense self-assurance and also what he represented, for all of them. And he returned that universal admiration with a passion, however misplaced, that astonished her.

Unfortunately, that passion had never pointed itself in her direction despite her subtle messages, the touches that lingered a shade too long; how she maneuvered to see him first thing in the morning when she looked her best, the sexual references used in their strategy sessions. But until that time came-and it would come, she kept telling herself-she would be patient.

She looked out the window. This was taking too long; it threw everything

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else off. Her mouth curled up in displeasure.

LUTHER HEARD THE VEHICLES ENTER THE FRONT DRIVE. HE flitted to a window and followed the mini-caravan as it went around back, where it would be hidden from view from the front drive. He counted four people alighting from the limo, one from the van. His mind scrolled swiftly through possible Identities. Too small a party for it to be the owners of the house. Too many for it to be someone simply checking on the place. He could not make out any faces. For one ironic instant Luther debated whether the home was destined to be burgled twice on the same night. But that was too enormous a coincidence. In this business, like a lot of others, you played the percentages. Besides, criminals did not march up to their targets wearing clothing more suitable for a night on the town.

He thought quickly as noises filtered up to him, presumably from outside the rear of the house. It took him a second to realize that his retreat was cut off and to calculate what his plan of action would be.

Grabbing his bag, he raced to the alarm panel next to the bedroom door and activated the home's security system, silently thanking his memory for numbers. Then Luther slipped across to the vault and entered it,

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carefully closing the door behind him. He pushed himself as far back into the little room as he could. Now he had to wait.

He cursed his misfortune; everything had been going so smoothly. Then he shook his head clear, forced himself to breathe regularly. It was like flying. The longer you did it, the greater your chance of something bad happening. He would just have to hope that the house's most recent arrivals would have no need to make a deposit in the private bank he was now occupying.

A burst of laughter and then the drum of voices filtered up to him, together with the loud beep from the alarm system, which sounded like a jet plane screeching directly over his head. Apparently there was slight confusion about the security code. A bead of sweat appeared on Luther's forehead as he envisioned the alarm exploding and the police wanting to examine every inch of the house just in case, starting with his little roost.

He wondered how he would react as he listened to the mirrored door being opened, a light blazing in, without the slightest possibility of missing him. The strange faces peering in, the drawn guns, the reading of his rights. He almost laughed. Trapped like a fucking rat, nowhere to go. He

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hadn't had a cigarette in almost thirty years,"but now he desperately craved a smoke. He put his bag down quietly and slowly let his legs out straight so they wouldn't go to sleep.

Heavy steps on the oak plank staircase. Whoever they were they didn't care who knew they were there. Luther counted four, possibly five. They turned left and headed his way.

The door to the bedroom opened with a slight squeak.

Luther searched his mind. Everything had been picked up or put back in its place. He'd only touched the remote, and he had replaced it right in line with the slight dust pattern. Now Luther could only hear three voices, a man and two women.

One of the females sounded drunk, the other was all business. Then Ms. Business disappeared, the door closed but wasn't locked, and Ms. Drunk and the man were alone.

Where were the others? Where had Ms. Business gone? The giggles continued. Footsteps came closer to the mirror.

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Luther scrunched down in the corner as far as he could, hoping that the chair would shield him from view but knowing that it couldn't possibly.

Then a burst of light hit him right in the eyes and he almost gasped at the suddenness of his little world going from inky black to broad daylight. He blinked rapidly to adjust to the new level of brightness, his pupils going from almost full dilation to pinpoints in seconds. But there were no screams, no faces, no guns.

Finally, after a full minute had passed, Luther peered around the corner of the chair and received another shock. The vault door seemed to have disappeared; he was staring right into the goddamned room. He almost fell backward but caught himself. Luther suddenly understood what the chair was for.

He recognized both of the people in the room. The woman he had seen tonight already, in the photos: the little wife with the hooker taste in clothes.

The man he knew for an altogether different reason; he certainly wasn't the master of this house. Luther slowly shook his head in amazement and let out his breath. His hands shook and a queasiness crept over him. He

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fought back the gri of nausea and stared into the bedroom.

@ p The vault door also served as a one-way mirror. With the light on outside and darkness in his little space, it was as though he were watching a giant TV screen.

Then he saw it and a fist of breath kicked out of his lungs: the diamond necklace on the woman's neck. Two hundred thou to his practiced eye, maybe more. And just the sort of bauble one would routinely put away in a home vault before retiring for the evening. Then his lungs relaxed as he watched her take the piece off and casually drop it on the floor.

His fear receded enough to where he rose and inched over to the chair and slowly eased himself into it. So the old man sat here and watched his little woman get her brains screwed out by a procession of men. From the looks of her, Luther figured that some members of that procession included young guys making minimum wage or hanging on to freedom by the width of a green card. But her gentleman caller tonight was in an altogether different class.

He looked around, his ears focused for any sound of the other

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inhabitants of the house. But what could he really do? In over thirty years of active larceny, he had never encountered anything like this, so he decided to do the only thing he could. With only an inch of glass separating him from absolute destruction, he settled down quietly into the deep leaffier and waited.

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CHAPTER TWO

THREE BLOCKS FROM THE BROAD WHITE BULK OF THE UNITED

States Capitol, Jack Graham opened the front door of his apartment, threw his overcoat on the floor and went straight to the fridge. Beer in hand he flopped down on the thread bare couch in his living room. His eyes quickly perused the tiny room as he took a drink. Quite a difference from where he'd just been. He let the beer stand in his mouth and then swallowed. The muscles of his square jaw tensed and then relaxed. The nagging prickles of doubt slowly drained away, but they would reappear; they always did.

Another important dinner party with Jennifer, his soon-to be wife, and her family and circle of social and business acquaintances. People at that level of sophistication apparently didn't have mere friends they hung with. Everyone served a particular function, the whole being greater than the sum of the parts. Or at least that was the intent, although Jack had his own opinion on the matter.

Industry and finance had been well represented, brandishing names Jack

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read about in the Wall Street Journal before he chucked it for the sports pages to see how the 'Skins or Bullets were doing. The politicos had been out in full force, scrounging future votes and current dollars. The group was rounded out by the ubiquitous lawyers of which Jack was one, the occasional doctor to show ties to the old ways and a couple of public-interest types to demonstrate that the powers that he had sympathy for the plight of the ordinary.

He finished the beer and flipped on the TV. His shoes came off, and the forty-dollar patterned socks his fiance had bought for him were carelessly flung over the back of the lamp shade.

Given time she'd have him in two-hundred-dollar braces with matching hand-painted ties. Shit! Rubbing his toes, he seriously considered a second beer. The TV tried but failed to hold his interest. He pushed his thick, dark hair out of his eyes and focused for the thousandth time on where his life was hurtling, seemingly with the speed of the space shuttle.

Jennifer's company limo had driven the two of them to her Northwest Washington townhouse where Jack would probably move after the wedding;

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she detested his place. The wedding was barely six months off, apparently no time at all by a bride's standards, and he was sitting here having severe second thoughts.

Jennifer Ryce Baldwin possessed instant head-turning beauty to such a degree that the women stared as often as the men. She was also smart and accomplished, came from serious money and was intent on marrying Jack. Her father ran one of the largest development companies in the country.

Shopping centers, office buildings, radio stations, entire subdivisions, you name it, he was in it, and doing better than just about anyone else. Her paternal great-grandfather was one of the original Midwest manufacturing tycoons, and her mother's family had once owned a large chunk of downtown Boston. The gods had smiled early and often on Jennifer Baldwin. There wasn't one guy Jack knew who wasn't jealous as hell of him.

He squirmed in his chair and tried to rub a kink out of his shoulder. He hadn't worked out in a week. His six-foot-one body, even at thirty-two, had the same hard edge it had enjoyed all through high school where he was a man among boys in virtually every sport offered, and in college

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where the competition was a lot rougher but where he still managed to make first-string varsity as a heavyweight wrestler and first-team All-Academic. That combination had gotten him into the University of Virginia School of Law, where he made Law Review, graduated near the top of his class and promptly settled down as a public defender in the District of Columbia's criminal justice system.

His classmates had all grabbed the big-firm option out of law school. They had routinely called with phone numbers of psychiatrists who could help coax him out of his insanity. He smiled and then went and grabbed that second beer. The fridge was now empty.

Jack's first year as a PD had been rough as he learned the ropes, losing more than he won. As time went on, he graduated to the more serious crimes. And as he poured every ounce of youthful energy, raw talent and common sense he had into each of those cases, the tide began to turn.

And then he started kicking some serious ass in court.

He discovered he was a natural at the role, as talented at cross-examination as he had been at throwing men much bigger than he

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across a two-inch-thick mat. He was respected, liked as an attorney if you could believe that.

Then he had met Jennifer at a Bar function. She was vice president of development and marketing at Baldwin Enterprises. Dynamic in presence, she had the added skill of making whomever she was talking to feel important; their opinions were listened to if not necessarily followed. She was a beauty who had no need to rely solely on that asset.

When you got past the eye-catching looks, there was a lot more there. Or seemed to be. Jack would have been less than human had he not been attracted to her. And she had made it clear, early on, that the attraction was mutual. While being ostensibly impressed at his dedication in defending the rights of those accused of crimes in the Capital City, little by little Jennifer had convinced Jack that he had done his bit for the poor, dumb and unfortunate, and that maybe he should start thinking about himself and his future, and that maybe she wanted to be a part of that future. When he finally left PD, the U.S. attorney's office had given him quite a send-off party, and good riddance. That should have told him then and there that there were a lot more of the poor, dumb and unfortunate who needed his help. He didn't expect to ever top the thrill he had felt being a PD; he figured times

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like that came around once in life and then they were gone. It was time to move on; even little boys like Jack Graham had to grow up someday. Maybe it was just his time.

He turned off the TV, grabbed a bag of corn chips and went to his bedroom, stepping over the piles of dirty laundry strewn in front of the doorway. He couldn't blame Jennifer for not liking his place; he was a slob. But what bothered him was the dead certainty that, even spotless, Jennifer would not consent to live here. For one thing it was in the wrong neighborhood; Capitol Hill to be sure, but not a gentrifled part of Capitol Hill, actually not even close.

Then there was the size. Her townhouse must have run five thousand square feet, not counting the live-in maid's quarters and the two-car garage that housed her Jag and brand new Range Rover, as if anybody living in D.C., with its traffic-strangled roads, needed a vehicle capable of driving up the vertical side of a twenty-thousand-foot-high mountain.

He had four rooms if you counted the bathroom. He reached his bedroom, stripped off his clothes and dropped into bed. Across the room, on a small plaque that had once hung in his office at work until he had grown

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embarrassed looking at it, was the announcement of his joining Patton, Shaw & Lord. PS&L was the Capital City's number-one corporate firm. Legal caterer to hundreds of blue-chip companies, including his soon-to-be father-in-law's, representing a multimillion-dollar account that he was credited with bringing to the firm and that, in turn, guaranteed him a partnership at the next review. Partnerships at Patton, Shaw were worth, on average, at least half a million dollars a year. That was tip money for the Baldwins, but then he wasn't a Baldwin. At least not yet.

He pulled the blanket over him. The building's insulation left a lot to be desired. He popped a couple of aspirin and washed them down with the rest of a Coke that was sitting on his nightstand, then looked around the cramped, messy bedroom. It reminded him of his room growing up. It was a warm, friendly memory. Homes should look lived in; they should always give way to the screams of kids as they dashed from room to room in search of new adventures, of fresh objects to break.

That was the other thing with Jennifer: she had made it clear that the sound of little feet was a distant project that was far from certain. Her career at her father's company was first and foremost in her mind and heart-maybe more so, Jack felt, than he was.

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He rolled over and tried to close his eyes. The wind pushed against the window and he glanced in that direction.

He looked away, but then with a resigned air, his eyes drifted back over to the box.

It held part of his collection of old trophies and awards from high school and college. But those items were not the object of his focus. In the semidarkness he reached out a long arm for the framed photo, decided against it, and then changed his mind again.

He pulled it out. This had almost become a ritual. He never had to worry about his financee stumbling onto this particular possession of his because she absolutely refused to enter his bedroom for longer than a minute. Whenever they slid between the sheets it was either at her place, where Jack would lie on the bed staring up at the twelve-foot ceiling where a mural of ancient horsemen and young maidens shared space while Jennifer amused herself until she collapsed and then rolled over for him to finish on top of her. Or at her parents' place in the country where the ceilings were even higher and the murals had been taken from

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some thirteenth-century church in Rome, all of which made Jack feel that God was watching him being ridden by the beautiful and absolutely naked Jennifer Ryce Baldwin and that he would languish in eternal hell for those few moments of visceral pleasure.

The woman in the photo had silky brown hair that curled slightly at the ends. Her smile looked up at Jack and he'remembered the day he had taken the picture.

A bike ride far into the countryside of Albemarle County.

He was just starting law school; she was in her second year of college at Mr. Jefferson's university. It was only their third date but it was like they had never lived without each other.

Kate Whitney.

He said the name slowly; his hand instinctively traced the curves of her smile, the lone dimple right above the left, cheek that gave her face a slightly lopsided look. The almond-shaped cheekbones bordered a dainty nose that sloped toward a pair of sensual lips. The chin was sharp and

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screamed out "stubborn." Jack moved back up the face and stopped at the large teardrop-shaped eyes that always seemed full of mischief.

Jack rolled back over and lay the photo on his chest so that she stared directly at him. He could never think of Kate without seeing an image of her father, with his quick wit and crooked smile.

Jack had often visited Luther Whitney at his little row house in an Arlington neighborhood that had seen better days. They spent hours drinking beer and telling stories, mostly Luther telling and Jack listening.

Kate never visited her father, and he never attempted to contact her. Jack had found his identity almost by accident, and despite Kate's objections, Jack had wanted to get to know the man. It was a rare thing for her face to hold anything but a smile, but that was one thing she never smiled about.

After he graduated they moved to D.C. and she enrolled in law school at Georgetown. Life seemed idyllic. She came to his first few trials as he worked the butterflies from his stomach and the squeak from his throat and tried to remember which counsel table to sit at. But as the

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seriousness of the crimes his clients were accused of committing grew, her enthusiasm diminished.

They had split up his first year in practice.

The reasons were simple: she couldn't understand why he had chosen to represent people who broke the law, and she could not tolerate that he liked her father.

At the very last breath of their lives together he remembered sitting with hex in this very room and asking, pleading, for her not to leave. But she had and that was four years ago, and he hadn't seen or heard from her since.

He knew that she had taken a job with the Commonwealth Attorney's office in Alexandria, Virginia, where she was no doubt busily putting former clients of his behind bars for stomping on the laws of her adopted state. Other than that Kate Whitney was a stranger to him.

But lying there with her staring at him with a smile that told him a million things that he had never learned from the woman he was supposed

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to marry in six months, Jack wondered if Kate would remain a stranger to him; whether his life was destined to become far more complicated than he ever intended. He grabbed the phone and dialed.

Four rings and he heard the voice. It had an edge that he didn't remember, or maybe it was new. The beep came and he started to leave a message, something funny, right out of the blue, but then right on cue he got nervous and quickly hung up, his hands shaking, his breathing accelerated. He shook his head. Jesus Christ! He had done five murder one cases and he was shaking like a goddamned sixteen-year-old sucking up the courage to call his first date.

Jack put the picture away and imagined what Kate was doing right that very minute. Probably still in her office pondering over how many years to take off somebody's life.

Then Jack wondered about Luther. Was he at this very minute on the wrong side of someone's doorstep? or leaving with another bundle of financial joy slung over his back?

What a family, Luther and Kate Whitney. So different and so much the

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same. As focused a pair as he had ever encountered, but their respective focuses occupied different galaxies. That last night, after Kate had walked out of his life, he had gone around to Luther's to say good-bye and to drink a last beer. They had sat in the small well-tended garden, watching the clematis and ivy cling to the fence; the scent of lilacs and roses lay thick like a net over them, The old man had taken it all right, asked few questions, and wished Jack well. Some things did not work out; Luther understood that as well as anyone. But as Jack left that night he had noticed the glistening in the old man's eyes-and then the door closed on that part of his life.

Jack finally put out the light and closed his eyes with the knowledge that another tomorrow was close upon him. His pot of gold, his once-in-a-lifetime payoff, was one day closer to reality. It did not make for easy sleep.

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CHAPTER THREE

As LUTHER STARED THROUGH THE GLASS, THE THOUGHT struck him that the two made a very attractive couple. It was an absurd Opinion to have under the circumstances, but that didn't make the conclusion any less valid. The man was tall, handsome, a very distinguished mid-forties. The woman could not have ventured far into her twenties; the hair was M and golden, the face oval and lovely, with a pair of enormous deep blue eyes that now looked up lovingly into the man's elegant countenance. He touched her smooth cheek; she nestled her lips against his hand.

The man had two tumblers and filled them with the contents of the bottle he had brought with him. He handed the Woman one. After a clink of glasses, their eyes firmly set on each other, he finished his drink in one swallow while she only managed a small sip of hers. Glasses put down, they embraced in the middle of the room. His hands slid down her backside and then back up to the bare shoulders.

Her arms and shoulders were tanned and well-toned. He grasped her limbs admiringly as he leaned down to kiss her neck.

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Luther averted his eyes, embarrassed to be viewing this very personal encounter. A strange emotion to have when he was still clearly in danger of being caught. But he was not so old that he could not appreciate the tenderness, -the passion that was slowly unfolding in front of him.

As he raised his eyes up, he had to smile. The couple was now engaged in a slow dance around the room. The man was obviously well-practiced at the endeavor; his partner was less so, but he gently led her through the simple paces until they again ended up beside the bed.

The man paused to fill his glass again and then quickly drained it. The bottle was now empty. As his arms encircled her once more, she leaned into him, pulled at his coat, started to undo his tie. The man's hands drifted to the zipper of her dress and slowly headed south. The black dress slid down' and she slowly stepped out of it, revealing black panties and thigh-high stockings, but no bra.

She had the sort of body that made other women who didn't instantly jealous. Every curve was where it was supposed to' be. Her waist Luther could have encircled with both hands, touching. As she turned to the side to slide out of her stockings, Luther observed that the breasts

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were large, round an& full. The legs were lean and defined, probably from hours of: daily exercise under the watchful eyes of a personal trainer.

The man quickly undressed down to his boxers and sat on the side of the bed watching the woman as she took her time slipping out of her underwear. Her rear end was round and firm and creamy white against the backdrop of a flawless@ I tan. With her last piece of clothing shed, a smile cut across anything else that this spectacle would soon be over and that these people would leave. It would only take him a few minutes to return to his car, and this night would be filed away in his memory as a unique, if potentially disastrous, experience.

That's when he saw the man grip the woman's buttocks hard and than slap them, again and again. Luther winced in vicarious pain at the repeated blows; the white skin now glowed red. But either the woman was too drunk to feel the pain or she enjoyed this sort of treatment, because her smile didn't fade. Luther felt his gut clinch again as the man's fingers dug into the soft flesh.

The man's mouth danced across her chest; she ran her finger through his

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thick hair as she positioned her body inside his legs. She closed her eyes, her mouth gathered into a contented smile; she arched her head back. Then she opened her eyes and attacked his mouth with hers.

His strong fingers moved up from the abused buttocks and started to gently massage her back. Then he dug in hard until she winced and pulled back from him. She half-smiled and he stopped as she touched his fingers with hers. He turned his attention back to her breasts and suckled them. Her eyes closed once again, as her breathing turned perceptibly to a low moan. The man moved his attention again to her neck.

His eyes were wide open, looking across at where Luther sat but with no idea of his presence.

Luther stared at the man, at those eyes, and didn't like what he saw. Pools of darkness surrounded by red, like some sinister planet seen through a telescope. The thought struck him that the naked woman was in the grip of something not so gentle, not so loving as she probably anticipated.

The woman finally grew impatient and pushed her lover the man's face. The white teeth were straight and thick. De down on the bed. Her legs

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straddled the man, giving Luther a spite the alcohol, his eyes seemed clear and focused. view from behind that should have been reserved for her gy She smiled at his attention and slowly advanced. As she't necologist and husband. She hoisted herself up, but then with drew within his reach, his long arms gripped her, pulled her! a sudden burst of energy he roughly pushed her aside and to him. She rubbed up and down against his chest.

went on top of her, grabbing her legs and lifting them up Again, Luther began to avert his eyes, wishing more than until they were perpendicular with the bed.

Luther stiffened in his chair at the man's next movementHe grabbed her by the neck and jerked her up, pulling her head between his legs. The suddenness of the act made her gasp, her mouth a bare inch from him there. Then he laughed and threw her back down. Dazed for a moment, she finally managed a weak smile and sat up on her elbows as he towwered over her. He grabbed his erection with one hand, @ spreading her wide with the other. As she lay placidly back' to accept him, he stared wildly at her.

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But instead of plunging between her legs, he grabbed heri breasts and squeezed, apparently a little too hard, because, finally, Luther heard a yelp of pain and the woman abrupt slapped the man. He let go and then slapped her back, viciously, and Luther saw a patch of blood emerge at the corner of her mouth and spill onto the thick, lipstick-coated lips. @@ "You fucking bastard." She rolled off the bed and sat on@ the floor rubbing her mouth, tasting her blood, her drunken@ brain momentarily lucid. The first words Luther had clearly: heard spoken the entire night hit his brain like a sledgehammer. He stood up, inched toward the glass.

The man grinned ' Luther froze when he saw it. It was more like the snarl of a wild animal close to a kill than a human being.

"Fucking bastard," she said again, a little more quietly , the; words slurred. As she stood up he grabbed her arm, twisted it, and she fell hard to the floor. The man sat on the bed and looked down triumphantly.

His breathing accelerating, Luther stood before the glass, his hands clenching and unclenching as he continued to watch and hoped that the other people would come back. He eyed the remote on the chair and then his eyes shot back to the bedroom.

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The woman had raised herself half off the floor, the wind slowly coming back to her. The romantic feelings she had been experiencing had vanished. Luther could see that in her, body movements, wary and deliberate. Her companion al), parently failed to notice the change in her movements and the flash of anger in the blue eyes, or else he would not have stood up and put out a hand for her to take, which she did.

The man's smile abruptly vanished as her knee caught him squarely between the legs, doubling him over and ending any arousal he had been experiencing. As he crumpled to the floor, no sound came from his lips, except for his labored breathing while she grabbed her panties and started to put them on.

He caught her ankle, threw her to the floor, her underwear halfway up her legs.

"You little cunt." The words came out in short gasps as he tried to get his breath back, all the time holding on to that ankle, drawing her closer to him.

She kicked at him, again and again. Her feet thudded against his rib cage, but still he hung on. "You fucking little whore," he said.

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At the menace he heard in those words, Luther stepped toward the glass, one of his hands flying to its smooth surface as if to reach through it, to grab the man, make him let go.

The man painfully dragged himself up and his look made Luther's flesh turn cold.

The man's hands gripped the woman's throat.

Her brain, clouded by the alcohol, snapped back to high gear. Her eyes, now completely filled with fear, darted to the left and right as the pressure on her neck increased and her breath started to weaken. Her fingers clawed at his arms, scratching deeply.

Luther saw the blood rise to the man's skin where she attacked him but his grip did not loosen.

She kicked and jerked her body, but he was almost twice her weight; her attacker didn't budge.

Luther again looked at the remote. He could open the door. He could stop

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this. But his legs would not move. He stared helplessly through the glass, sweat poured from his forehead, every pore in his body seemed to be erupting; his breath came in short bursts as his chest heaved. He placed both hands against the glass.

Luther's breath stopped as the woman fixed on the night-' stand for an instant. Then, with a frantic motion, she grabbed the letter opener, and with one blinding stroke she slashed' the man's arm.

He grunted in pain, let go and grabbed his bloody arm. For one terrible instant he looked down at his wound, almost in, disbelief that he had been damaged like that. Pierced by this; woman.

When the man looked back up, Luther could almost feel the murderous snarl before it escaped from the man's lips.

And then the man hit her, harder than Luther had seen any man hit a woman. The hard fist connected with the soft flesh and blood flew from her nose and mouth.

Whether it was all the booze she had consumed or what,@ Luther didn't know, but the blow that ordinarily would have crippled a person merely

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incensed her. With convulsive strength she managed to stagger up. As she turned toward the mirror, Luther watched the horror in her face as she suddenly viewed the abrupt destruction of her beauty. Eyes widening in disbelief, she touched the swollen nose; one finger@' dropped down and probed the loosened teeth. She had become a smeared portrait, her major attribute had vanished.

She turned around to face the man, and Luther saw the' muscles in her back tense so hard they looked like small pieces of wood. With lightning quickness, she again@ slammed her foot into the man's groin. Instantly the man was weak again, his limbs useless as nausea overcame him. He collapsed to the floor, rolled over onto his back, moanin& His knees curled upward, his hand protectively at his crotch.

With blood streaming down her face, with eyes that bad gone from stark horror to homicidal in an instant, the woman dropped to her knees beside him and raised the letter opener high above her head.

Luther grabbed the remote, took a step toward the door.!@ his finger almost on the button.

plunged toward his chest, screamed with every bit of strength he had

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left. The call did not go unheeded.

His body frozen in place, Luther's eyes darted to the bedroom door as it flew open.

Two men, hair cropped short, crisp business suits not concealing impressive physiques, burst into the room, guns drawn. Before Luther could take another step they had assessed the situation and made their decision.

Both guns fired almost simultaneously.

KATE WHifNEY SAT IN HER OFFICE GOING OVER THE FILE ONE

more time.

The guy had four priors, and had been arrested but ultimately not charged on six other occasions because witnesses had been too frightened to talk or had ended up in trash Dumvsters. He was a walking time bomb ready to explode on ar@other victim, all of whom had been women.

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The current charge was murder during the commission of robbery and rape, which met the criteria for capital murder under Virginia's laws. And this time she decided to go for the home run: death. She had never asked for it before, but if anybody deserved it, this guy did, and the commonwealth was not . squeamish about authorizing it. Why allow him life when he had cruelly and savagely ended the one given to a nineteen-year-old college student who made the mistake of doing to a shopping mail in broad daylight to pick up some nylons and a new pair of shoes?

Kate rubbed her eyes and, using a rubber band from the pile on her desk, pulled her hair back into a rough ponytail.

She looked around her small, plain office; the case files were piled high around the room and for the millionth time she wondered if it would ever stop. Of course it wouldn't. If anything it would get worse, and she could only do what she could do to stem the flow of blood. She would start with the The man, seeing his life about to end as the letter opener execution of Roger Simmons, Jr., twenty-two years old, and as hardened a criminal as she had ever confronted, and she. unmarked by the burden she found increasingly difficult to t carry. Her

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twenty-nine-year-old face, after four years of nineteen-hour days and countless trials, had held its own.

She sighed as she realized that probably would not last. In college she had been the gracious recipient of turned heads, the cause of raised heartbeats and cold sweats. But as she got ready to enter her thirties, she realized that what she had taken for granted for so many years, that what she had, in She shook her head and checked her-watch: well after'! fact, derided on so many occasions, would not be with her had already faced an army of them in her as yet short career.

She remembered the look he had given her that day in court.

It was a countenance totally without remorse or caring or any other positive emotion. It was also a face without hope, an observation substantiated by his background history, which read like a horror story of a childhood. But that was not her problem. It seemed like the only one that wasn't.

midnight. She went to pour some more coffee; her focus was starting to wander. The last staff attorney had left five hours ago. The cleaning

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crew had been gone for three. She moved down the hallway in her stocking feet to the kitchen. If Charlie Manson were out and doing his thing now, he'd be one of her milder cases; an amateur compared to the monsters roaming loose today.

Cup of coffee in hand, she walked back into her office and' paused for a moment to look at her reflection in the window.

With her job looks were really unimportant; hell, she hadn't been on a date in over a year. But she couldn't pull her eyes away. She was tall and slender, perhaps too skinny in certain areas, but her routine of running four miles every day had not changed while her caloric intake had steadily dwindled.

Mostly she subsisted on bad coffee and crackers, although she limited herself to two cigarettes a day and was hoping with luck to quit altogether.

She felt guilty about the abuse her body was taking with the endless hours and stress of moving from one horrific case to another, but what was she supposed to do? Quit because she didn't look like the women on

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the cover on Cosmopolitan? She consoled herself with the fact that their job twenty-four hours a day was to make themselves look good- Hers was to ensure that people who broke the law, who hurt others, were punished. Under any criteria she reasoned she was doing far more productive things with her life.

She swiped at her own mane; it needed to be cut, but where was the time to do that? The face was still relatively I that much Ion er. And like so many things you took for granted or dismissed as unimportant, being able to quiet a room by your mere entrance was one she knew she was going to miss.

That her looks had remained strong over the last few years was remarkable considering she had done relatively little to preserve them. Good genes, that must be it; she was fortunate. But then she thought of her father and decided that she wasn't very lucky at all in the genes department. A man who stole from others and then pretended to live a normal life. A man who deceived everyone, including his wife and daughter. A man you could not depend on to be there.

She sat at her desk, took a quick sip of the hot coffee, poured in more sugar and looked at Mr. Simmons while she stirred the black depths of

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her nighttime stimulus.

She picked up the phone, called home to check messages.

There were five, two from other lawyers, one from the policeman she would put on the stand against Mr. Simmons and one from a staff investigator who liked to call her at odd hours with mostly useless information. She should change her telephone number. The last message was a hang-up. But she could hear very low breathing on the end, she could almost make out a word or two. Something in the sound was familiar, but she couldn't place it. People with nothing better to do.

The coffee flowed through her veins, the file came back into focus. She glanced up at her little bookshelf. On top was an old photo of her deceased mother and ten-year-old Kate.

cut out from the picture was Luther Whitney. A big gap next to mother and daughter. A big nothing.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED States sat up, one hand covering his limp and damaged priivates, the other holding the

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letter opener that a moment before was to have been the instrument of his death. It had more than just his blood on it now. "Jesus Fucking Christ, i Bill, you fucking killed her!" The target of his barrage."

9t woman's condition: a perfunctory examination, considerin two heavy-caliber bullets had blown through her brain.

"I'm sorry, sir, there wasn't time. I'm sorry, sir."

Bill Burton had been a Secret Service agent for twelve years, and a Maryland state trooper for eight years before young woman's head. Despite all his intense training, he was i shaking like a preschooler just awakened from a nightmare.

He had killed before in the line of duty: a routine traffic stop gone wrong. But the deceased had been a fbur-time@ loser with a serious vendetta against uniformed officers and wielding a Glock semiautomatic pistol in a sincere attempt to'" lift Burton's head from his shoulders.

He looked down at the small, naked body and thought he@ would be sick. His partner, Tim Collin, looked across at him, grabbed his arm. Burton swallowed hard and nodded his head. He would make it.

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They carefully helped up Alan J. Richmond, President of the United States, a political hero and leader to young, middle-aged and old alike, but now simply naked and drunk. The President looked up at them, the initial horror finally passing, as the Alcohol worked its effects. "She's dead?" The wor& were a little slurred; the eyes seemed to roll back in the head, like loose marbles.

Yes, sir." Collin answered crisply. You didn't let a question from the President go unanswered, drunk or not.

Burton hung back now. He glanced at the woman again and then looked back at the President. That was their oh, his job. Protect the goddamned President. Whatever it took, that life must not end, not like that. Not stuck like a pig by some drunken bitch.

The President's mouth curled up into what looked like a smile, although neither Collin nor Burton would remember it that way later. The President started to rise.

"Where are my clothes?" he demanded.

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"Right here, sir." Burton, snapping back to attention, stooped to help him up while his companion checked thef stooped to pick up the clothes. They were heavily spotted everything in the room seemed to be-with her.

"Well, get me up, and get me ready, goddammit. I've got a speech to give for somebody, somewhere, don't I?" He laughed shrilly. Burton looked at Collin and Collin looked at Burton. They both watched as the President passed out on that, and one of his rounds had just blown apart a beautiful; the bed.

AT THE SOUND OF THE EXPLOSIONS, CHIEF OF STAFF GLORIA Russell had been in the bathroom on the first floor, as far away from that room as she could get.

She had accompanied the President on many of these assignations, but rather than growing used to them, they disgusted her more each time. To imagine her boss, the most powerful man on the face of the earth, bedding all these celebrity whores, these political groupies. It was beyond comprehension, and yet she had almost learned to ignore it.

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Almost.

She had pulled her pantyhose back up, grabbed her purse, flung open the door, run down the hallway and even in heels took the steps two at a time. When she reached the bedroom door Agent Burton stopped her.

"Ma'am, you don't want to see this, it's not pretty."

She pushed past him and then stopped. Her first thought was to run back out, down the stairs, into the linio, out of there, out of the state, out of the miserable country. She wasn't sorry for Christy Sullivan, who'd wanted to get screwed by the President. That had been her goal for the last two years.

three inches from going into his chest. Only thing fast enough was a bullet."

He stood as erect as he could and looked her right in the eye. He and Collin had done their job, and this woman wasn't going to tell them otherwise. No blame would be put on his Well, sometimes you don't get what you want; sometimes ti shoulders.

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"There was a goddamned knife in the room?" She looked at Burton incredulously.

"If it was up to me, the President wouldn't go out on these, these little excursions. Half the time he won't let us check anything out beforehand. We didn't get a chance to scope the room." He looked at her. "He's the President, ma'am," he added, for good measure, as if that justified everything. And for Russell it usually did, a fact Burton was well aware of.

Russell looked around the room, taking in everything. She had been a tenured professor of political science at Stanford I with a national reputation before answering the call in Alan Richmond's quest for the presidency. He was such a powerful force, everybody wanted to jump on his bandwagon.

Currently Chief of Staff, with serious talk of becoming Secretary of State if Richmond won reelection, which everyone expected him to do with ease. Who knew? Maybe a Richmond-Russell ticket might be in the making. They made a brilliant combination. She was the strategist, he was the consummate campaigner. Their future grew brighter every day. But now?

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Now she had a corpse and a drunken President inside a home that was supposed to be vacant.

She felt the express train coming to a halt. Then her mind snapped back. Not over this little piece of human garbage.

Not ever!

Burton stirred. "You want me to call the police now, ma'am?"

Russell looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Burton, let me remind you that our job is to protect the President's interests at all times and nothing-absolutely nothing-takes precedence over that. Is that clear?"

you get a lot more.

Russell steadied herself and faced off with Agent Collin.

"What the hell happened?"

Tim Collin was young, tough and devoted to the man he was assigned to

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protect. He was trained to die defending the President, and there was no question in his mind that if the time came he would. Several years had passed since he had, tackled an assailant in the parking lot of a shopping center where then presidential candidate Alan Richmond had been making an appearance. Collin had had the potential assassin down on the asphalt and completely immobile before the guy had even gotten his gun fully out of his pocket, before an one else had even reacted. To Collin, his only mission in life , was to protect Alan Richmond.

It took Agent Collin one minute to report the facts to Russell in succinct, cohesive sentences. Burton solemnly confirmed the account.

"It was either him or her, Ms. Russell. There was no other;, way to cut it." Burton instinctively glanced at the President, who still lay on the bed oblivious to anything. They had cOvered the more strategic portion of his body with a sheet.

"Do you mean to tell me you heard nothing? No sounds of violence before, before this?" She waved at the mess of the room.

The agents looked at each other. They had heard many sounds emanating

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from bedrooms where their boss happened to be. Some might be construed as violent, some not. But everybody had always come out okay before.

"Nothing unusual," Burton replied. "Then we heard the President scream and we went in. That knife was maybe

"Ma'am, the lady's dead. I think we-2' momentarily relishing this switching of roles. "And then stay

"That's right. You and Collin shot the woman, and she's@ by the front door just in case we get any late-night visitors.

dead." After exploding from Russell's mouth, the words'l

"Collin, go to the van, and talk to Johnson and Varney.

hung in the air. Collin rubbed his fingers together; a hand Don't tell them anything about this. For now just tell them went instinctively to his bolstered weapon. He stared at the! there was an accident, but that the President's okay. That's late Mrs. Sullivan as if he could will her back to life.

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Burton flexed his burly shoulders, moved an inch closer W' Russell so that the significant height difference was at its maximum.

"If we hadn't fired, the President would be dead. That's our job. To keep the President safe and sound."

"Right again, Burton. And now that you have prevented: his death, how do you intend to explain to the police and: the President's wife and your superiors, and the lawyers, and the media and the Congress and the financial markets and the country and the rest of the goddamned world, whyi the President was here? What he was doing while he wasi here? And the circumstances that led up to you and Agen!!

Collin having to shoot the wife of one of the wealthiest and' most influential men in the United States? Because if you call the, police, if you call anybody, that is exactly what you' will have to do. Now if you are prepared to accept full responsibility for that undertaking, then pick up that phone over there and make that call."

Burton's face changed color. He backed up a step, his Superior size useless to him now. Collin was frozen, watching the two square off. He

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had never seen anyone talk that way i I to Bill Burton. The big man could have snapped Russell's neck with a lazy thrust of his arm.

Burton looked down at the corpse one more time. How could you explain that so that everybody came out all right?

The answer was simple: you couldn't.

Russell watched his face carefully. Burton looked back at her. His eyes twitched perceptibly; they would not meet herstl now. She had won. She smiled benignly and nodded. The I I show was hers to run.

"Go make some coffee, a whole pot," she ordered Burton,@

i all. And that they're to stay put. Understood? I'll call when I want you. I need to think this out."

Burton and Collin nodded and headed out. Neither had been trained to ignore orders so authoritatively given. And Burton didn't want to be calling the shots on this one. They couldn't pay him enough to do that.

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LuTHER HADN'T MOVED SINCE THE SHOTS HAD BLOWN APART the woman's head. He was afraid to. His feelings of shock had finally passed, but he found his eyes continually wandering to the floor and to what had once been a living, breathing human being. In all his years as a criminal he had only seen one other person killed. A thrice-convicted pedophile whose spinal cord had collided with a four-inch shiv wielded by an unsympathetic fellow inmate. The emotions sweeping over him now were totally different, as though he were the sole passenger on a ship that had sailed into a foreign harbor.

Nothing looked or seemed familiar at all. Any sound now would do him no good, but he slowly sat back down before his trembling legs gave way.

He watched as Russell moved around the room, stooped next to the dead woman, but did not touch her. Next she picked up the letter opener, holding it by the end of the blade 'with a handkerchief she pulled from her pocket. She stared long and hard at the object that had almost ended her boss's life and had played a major role in ending someone else's.

She carefully put the letter opener in her leather purse, which she had placed on the nightstand, and put the handkerchief back in her pocket.

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She glanced briefly at the contorted flesh that had recently been Christine Sullivan.

She had to admire the way Richmond accomplished his extracurricular activities. All his "companions" were women of wealth and social position, and all were married. This ensured that no exposd of his adulterous behavior would appear in any of the tabloids. The women he bedded had as much to lose if not more as he, and they understood that fact very well.

And the press. Russell smiled. In this day and age the President lived under a never-ending barrage of scrutiny. He, couldn't pee, smoke a cigar or belch without the public know- i ing all of the most intimate details. Or so the public thought.

And that was based largely on the overestimation of the press and their abilities to nudge out every morsel of a story from its hiding place. What they failed to understand was that while the office of the President might have lost some of its enormous'power over the years as the problems of a troubled globe soared beyond the ability of any one person to confront them on an equal basis, the President was surrounded by absolutely loyal and supremely capable people. People whose skill

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level at covert activities were in another league from the polished, cookie-cutter journalists whose idea of trailing down a tough story was asking puffball questions of a conf gressman who was more than willing to talk for the benefit o the evening news coverage. It was a fact that, if he so desired, President Alan Richmond could move about without fear that anyone would be successful in tracking his whereabouts. He could even disappear from public view for as long as he wished, although that was the antithesis of what a successful politician hoped to accomplish in a day's work. And that privilege boiled down to one common denominator.

The Secret Service. They were the best of the best. This elite group had proved it time and again over the years, as they had in planning this most recent activity.

length hooded cloak pulled from her bag. Sunglasses covered her eyes. She had walked for several blocks, randomly window-shopping, then taken a red-line Metro train to Metro Center. Exiting the Metro she had walked two more blocks and entered an alley between two buildings scheduled for demolition. Two minutes later, a car with tinted windows , had emerged from the alley. Collin had been driving. Christy Sullivan was in the back seat. She had been sequestered in a safe place with Bill Burton

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until the President had been able to join her later that night.

The Sullivan estate had been chosen as the perfect spot for the planned interlude because, ironically, her home in the country was the last place anyone would expect Christy Sullivan to be. And Russell knew it would also be perfectly empty, guarded by a security system that was no barrier to their Plans Russell sat down in a chair and closed her eyes. Yes, she had two of the most capable members of the Secret Service in this house with her. And, for the first time, that fact troubled the Chief of Staff. The four agents with her and the President tonight had been handpicked, out of the approximately one hundred agents assigned to the presidential detail, by the President himself for these little activities. They were all loyal and highly skilled. They took care of the President and held their tongues, regardless of what was asked of them. Up until tonight President Richmond's fascination with married women had spawned no overwhelming dilemmas. But tonight's events clearly threatened all of that. Russell shook her head as she forced herself to think of a plan of action.

A little after noon, Christy Sullivan had walked out of her LUTHER

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STUDIED THE FACE. IT WAS INTELLIGENT, ATTRAcTive beauty salon in Upper Northwest. After walking one block but also a very hard face. You could almost see the mental she had stepped into the foyer of an apartment building and[. maneuvering as the forehead alternately wrinkled and then thirty seconds later she had walked out encased in a full-@@ went lax. Time slipped by and she didn't budge. Then Gloria i Russell's eyes opened and moved across the room, not missing any detail.

Luther involuntarily shrank back as her gaze swept by him i like a searchlight across a prison yard. Then her eyes came to the bed and stopped. For a long minute she stared at the sleeping man, and then she got a look on her face that Luther could not figure out. It was halfway between a smile and a grimace.

She got up, moved to the bed and looked down at the man.

A Man of the People, or so the people thought. A Man for the Ages. He did not look so great right now. His body was half on the bed, legs spread, feet nearly touching the floor; an awkward position to say the least when one was wearing no clothes.

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She ran her eyes up and down the President's body, linger-I ing on some points, an activity that was amazing to Luthed considering what was lying on the floor. Before Gloria Russell had entered the room and faced off with Burton, Luther had expected to hear sirens and to be sitting there watching policemen and detectives, medical examiners and even spin doctors swarming everywhere; with news trucks piling up in vast columns outside. Obviously, this woman had a different plan.

Luther had seen Gloria Russell on CNN and the major networks, and countless times in the papers. Her features were distinctive. A long, aquiline nose set between high cheekbones, the gift from a Cherokee ancestor. The hair was raven black and hung straight, stopping at her shoulders. The eyes were big and so dark a blue that they resembled the deepest of ocean water, twin pools of danger for the careless and unwary.

Luther carefully maneuvered in the chair. Watching the woman in front of a stately fireplace inside the White House pontificating on the latest political concerns was one thing.

Watching her move through a room containing a corpse and examining a drunk, naked man who was the leader of the Free World was an entirely

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different matter. It was a spectacle Luther did not want to watch anymore but he could not pull his eyes away.

Russell glanced at the door, walked quickly across the room, took out her handkerchief, and closed and locked it.

She swiftly returned to again stare down at the President. Her hand went out and for a moment Luther cringed in anticipation, but she simply stroked the President's face. Luther relaxed, but then stiffened again as her hand moved down to his chest, lingering momentarily on the thick hair, and then dropped still lower to his flat stomach, which rose and fell evenly in his deep sleep.

Then her hand moved lower and she slowly pulled the sheet away and let it drop to the floor. Her hand reached down to his crotch and held there. Then she glanced at the door again and knelt down in front of the President. Now Luther had to close his eyes. He did not share the peculiar spectator interests of the house's owner.

Several long minutes passed, and then Luther opened his eyes. Gloria Russell was now shedding her pantyhose, laying them neatly on a chair. Then she carefully climbed on top of the slumbering President.

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Luther closed his eyes again. He wondered if they could hear the bed squeak downstairs. Probably not, as it was a very large house. And even if they did, what could they do?

Ten minutes later Luther heard a small, involuntary gasp from the man, and a low moan from the woman. But Luther kept his eyes closed. He wasn't sure why. It seemed to be from a combination of raw fear and disgust at the disrespect shown to the dead woman.

When Luther finally opened his eyes, Russell was staring directly at him. His heart stopped for a moment until his brain told him it was okay. She quickly slipped on her pantyhose. Then, in confident, even strokes, she reapplied her lipstick in the looking glass.

A smile clung to her face; the cheeks were flushed. She looked younger. Luther glanced at the President. He had returned to a deep sleep, the last twenty minutes probably filed away by his mind as an especially realistic and pleasant dream. Luther looked back at Russell.

It was unnerving to see this woman smile directly at him, in this room of death, without knowing he was there. There was power in that woman's

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face. And a look Luther had already seen once in this room. This woman, too, was dangerous.

"I WANT THIS ENTIRE PLACE SANITIZED, EXCEPT FOR THAT."

Russell pointed to the late Mrs. Sullivan. "Wait a minute. He was probably all over her. Burton, I want you to check every inch of her body, and anything that looks remotely like it doesn't belong there I want you to make disappear. Then put her clothes on."

Hands gloved, Burton moved forward to carry out this order.

Collin sat next to the President, forcing another cup of coffee down the man's throat. The caffeine would help clear away the grogginess, but only the passage of time would clean the slate completely. Russell sat down next to him. She took the President's hand in hers. He was fully clothed now although his hair was in disarray. His arm hurt, but they had bandaged it as best they could. He was in excellent health; it would heal quickly.

"Mr. President? Alan? Alan?" Russell gripped his face and pointed it toward her.

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Had he sensed what she had done to him? She doubted it He had so desperately wanted to get laid tonight. Wanted to be inside a woman. She had given him her body, no questions asked. Technically she had committed rape. Realistically she was confident she had fulfilled many a male's dream. It didn't matter if he had no recollection of the.event, of her sacrifice. But he would damn sure know what she was going to do for him now.

The President's eyes came in and out of focus. Collin rubbed his neck. He was coming around. Russell glanced at her watch. Two o'clock in the morning. They had to get back. She slapped his face, not hard, but enough to get his attention. She felt Collin stiffen. God these guys had tunnel vision.

"Alan, did you have sex with her?"

"Wha ...

"Did you have sex with her?"

"Wha ... No. Don't think so. Don't remem . .

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"Give him some more coffee, pour it down his damned throat if you have to, but get him sober." Collin nodded and went to work. Russell walked over to Burton, whose gloved hands were dexterously examining every inch of the late Mrs. Sullivan.

Burton had been involved in numerous police investigations. He knew exactly what detectives looked for and where they looked for it. He never imagined himself using that specialized knowledge to inhibit an investigation, but then he had never imagined anything like this ever happening either.

He looked around the room, his mind calculating which areas would need to be gone over, what other rooms they had used. They could do nothing about the marks on the woman's throat and other microscopic physical evidence that was no doubt imbedded in her skin. The medical examiner would pick those up regardless of what they tried to do. However, none of those things could be realistically traced to the President unless the police identified the President as a suspect, which was pretty much beyond the realm of possibility.

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The incongruity of attempted strangulation of a small woman with death caused by gunshot was something they would have to leave to the police's imagination.

Burton turned his attention back to the deceased and started to carefully slide her underwear up her legs. He felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Check her."

Burton looked up. He started to say something.

"Check her!" Russell's eyebrows were arched. Burton had seen her do that a million times with the White House staff.

.They were all terrified of her. He wasn't afraid of her, but he was smart enough to cover his ass whenever she was around.

He slowly did as he was told. Then he positioned the body exactly as it had fallen. He reported back with a single shake Of his head.

Are you sure?" Russell looked unconvinced, although she knew from her

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interlude with the President that chances were he had not entered the woman, or that if he had be hadn't finished. But there might be traces. It was scary as hell, the things they could determine these days from the tiniest specimens.

"I'm not a goddamned oh-gyn. I didn't see anything and I think I would have, but I don't carry a microscope around with me."

Russell would have to let that one go. There was still a lot to do and not much time.

"Did Johnson and Varney say anything?"

Collin looked over from where the President was ingesting his fourth cup of coffee. "They're wondering what the hell's going on, if that's what you mean."

"You didn't te-"

"I told them what you said to tell them and that's all, ma'am." He looked at her. "They're good men, Ms. Russell.

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They've been with the President since the campaign. They're not going to do anything to mess things up, okay?"

Russell rewarded Collin with a smile. A good-looking kid r and, more important, a loyal member of the President's pe sonal guard; he would be very useful to her. Burton might be a problem. But she had a strong trump card: he and Collin had pulled the trigger, maybe in the line of duty, but who re- i ally knew? Bottom line: they too were in this all the way.

LUTHER wATcHED THE Acnvrff wrm AN APPREcm-rion THAT he felt guilty about under the circumstances. These men were good: methodical, careful, thought things through, and didn't miss anything. Dedicated lawmen and professional criminals were not so different. The skills, the techniques were much the same, just the focus was different, but then the focus made all the difference, didn't it?

The woman was now completely dressed, lying exactly where she had fallen. Collin was finishing with her fingernails. A solution had been injected under each, and a small suction device had cleaned away traces of skin and other incriminating remnants.

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The bed had been stripped and remade; the evidence-laden sheets were already packed in a duffel bag for their ultimate destination in a furnace. Collin had already scoped the downstairs area.

Everything any of them had touched, except for one item, had been wiped clean. Burton was now vacuuming parts of the carpet and he would be the last one to leave, backing out, as he painstakingly extinguished their trail.

Earlier Luther had watched the agents ransack the room.

Their obvious goal made him smile in spite of himself. Burglary. The necklace had been deposited in a bag along with her plethora of rings. They would make it appear as if the woman had surprised a burglar in her house and he had killed her, not knowing that six feet away a real-life burglar was watching and listening to everything they were doing.

An eyewitness!

Luther had never been an eyewitness to a burglary other than those he

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had committed. Criminals hated eyewitnesses These people would kw Luther if they knew he was there; there was no question about that. An elderly criminal, a three-time loser, was not much to sacrifice for the Man of the People.

The President, still groggy but with Burton's aid, slowly made his wa out of the room. Russell watched them go. She y did not notice Collin frantically searching the room. Finally, his sharp eyes fixed on Russell's purse on the nightstand. Poking out from the bag was about an inch of the letter opener's handle. Using a plastic bag, Collin quickly pulled out the letter opener and prepared to wipe it off. Luther involuntarily jerked as he watched Russell race over and grab Collins hand.

"Don't do that, Collin."

Collin wasn't as sharp as Burton, and certainly wasn't in Russell's league. He looked puzzled.

"This hashis prints all over it, ma'am. Hers too, plus some other stuff if you know what I mean-it's leather, it's soaked right in."

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"Agent Collin, I was retained by the President as his strategic and tactical planner. What appears to you an obvious choice appears to me to require much more thought and deliberation. Until that analysis has been completed you will not wipe that object down. You will put it in a proper container, and then you will give it to me."

Collin started to protest but Russell's menacing stare cut him off. He dutifully bagged the letter opener and handed it to her.

"Please be careful with that, Ms. Russell."

"Tim, I am always careful."

She rewarded him with another smile. He smiled back.

She had never called him by his first name before; he had been unsure if she even knew it. He also observed, and not for the first time, that the Chief of Staff was a very goodlooking woman.

"Yes, ma'am." He began to pack up the equipment.

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"Tim?" He looked back at her. She moved toward him, looked down, and then her eyes caught his. She spoke in low tones; she almost seemed embarrassed, Collin felt.

"Tim, this is a very unique situation we're faced with. I need to feel my way a little bit. Do you understand?"

Collin nodded. "I'd call this a unique situation. Scared the hell out of me when I saw that blade about to go into the President's chest."

She touched his arm. Her fingernails were long and perfectly manicured. She held up the letter opener. "We need to keep this between us, Tim. Okay? Not the President. Not even Burton."

"I don't know-2'

She gripped his hand. "Tim, I really need your support on this. The President has no idea what happened and I don't think Burton is looking at this too rationally right now. I need someone I can depend on. I need you, Tim. This is too important. You know that, don't you? I wouldn't ask you if I didn't think you could handle it."

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He smiled at the compliment, then looked squarely at her.

"Okay, Ms. Russell. Whatever you say."

As Collin finished packing up, Russell looked at the bloody seven-inch piece of metal that had come so close to ending her political aspirations. If the President had been killed, there could have been no cover-up. An ugly wordcover-up-but often necessary in the world of high politics.

She shivered slightly at the thought of the headlines. "PREsiDENT FOUND DEAD IN BEDROOM OF CLOSE FRIEND'S HOME.

WIFE ARRESTED IN SLAYING. CHIEF OF STAFF GLORIA RUSSELL HELD RESPONSIBLE BY PARTY LIADERS." But that had not happened. Would not happen.

This thing she held in her hand was worth more than a mountain of weapons-grade plutonium, more than the total oil production of Saudi Arabia.

With this in her possession, who knew? Perhaps even a Russell-Richmond

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ticket? The possibilities were absolutely infinite.

She smiled and put the plastic bag inside her purse.

THE SCREAM MADE LUTHER wHIP His HEAD AROUND. THE PAIN shot through his neck and he almost cried out.

The President ran into the bedroom. He was wide-eyed, but still half-drunk. The memory of the last few hours had come back like a Boeing 747 landing on his head.

Burton ran up behind him. The President started toward the body; Russell dropped her purse on the nightstand, and she and Collin met him halfway.

"Goddammit! She's dead. I killed her. Oh sweet Jesus help me. I killed her!" He screamed and then cried and then screamed again. He tried to push through the wall in front of him but was still too weak. Burton pulled at the President from behind.

Then with convulsive strength, Richmond tore loose and launched himself across the room and slammed into the wall, rolling into the nightstand.

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And finally the President of the United States crumpled to the floor and curled up like a fetus, whimpering, next to the woman he had intended to have sex with that night.

Luther watched in disgust. He rubbed at his neck and slowly shook his head. The incredibility of the entire night's events was becoming too much to endure.

The President slowly sat up. Burton looked like Luther felt, but said nothing. Collin eyed Russell for instructions.

Russell caught the look and smugly accepted this subtle changing of the guard.

"Gloria?"

"Yes, Alan?"

Luther had seen the way Russell had looked at the letter opener. He also knew something now that no one else in the room knew.

I "Will it be okay? Make it okay, Gloria. Please. Oh God, Gloria!"

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She rested her hand on his shoulder in her most reassuring manner, as she had done across hundreds of thousands of miles of campaign dust. "Everything's under control, Alan.

I've got everything under control."

The President was far too intoxicated to catch the meaning, but she didn't really care.

Burton touched his radio earpiece, listening intently for a moment. He turned to Russell.

"We better get the hell out of here. Varney just scoped a patrol car coming down the road."

"The alarm...?" Russell looked puzzled.

Burton shook his head. "It's probably just a rent-a-cop on routine, but if he sees something.

anything else.

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Leaving in a limo in this land of wealth was the best cover they could have. Russell thanked God for the routine she had developed for using rented limos without the regular drivers for these little adventures. The names on all the forms were dummies, the rental fee and deposit paid in cash, the car picked up and dropped off after hours. There were no faces associated with the transaction. The car would be sterilized.

That would be a dead end for the police if they ever snagged that line, which was highly doubtful.

"Let's go!" Russell was now slightly panicked.

The President was helped up. Russell went out with him.

Collin grabbed the bags. Then stopped cold.

Luther swallowed hard.

Collin turned back, grabbed Russell's purse off the nightstand and headed out.

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Burton started up the small vacuum, completed the room and then left, closing the door and turning off the light.

Lun4ER's WORLD RETURNED TO INKY DARKNESS.

This was the first time he had been alone in the room with the dead woman. The rest of them had apparently grown used to the bloody figure lying on the floor, unconsciously stepping over or around the now inanimate object. But Luther had not grown accustomed to the death barely eight feet away.

He could no longer see the pile of stained clothing and the lifeless body inside of them, but he knew it was there.

"Sleazy rich bitch" would probably be her informal epitaph.

And, yes, she had cheated on her husband, not that he seemed to care about that. But she hadn't deserved to die like that. He would've killed her, there was no question about that. Except for her swift counterattack, the President would've committed murder.

The Secret Service men he could not really fault. That was He didn't

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need to say their job and they did it. She had picked the wrong man to attempt to kill in the heat of whatever she had been feeling.

Maybe it was better. If her hand had been a little faster or the agents' response a little slower, she might be spending the rest of her life in jail. Or she'd probably get death for killing a President.

Luther sat down in the chair. His legs were almost numb.

He forced himself to relax. Soon he would be getting the hell out of there. He needed to be ready to run.

He had a lot to think through, considering that they were unwittingly setting up Luther Whitney to be the number-one suspect in what would no doubt be deemed a heinous and gruesome crime. The wealth of the victim would demand that enormous law enforcement resources be expended in finding the perpetrator. But there was no way they would be looking to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue for the answer. They would search elsewhere, and despite Luther's intense preparations, they might very well find him. He was good, very good, but then he had never faced the types of forces that would be unleashed to solve this crime.

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He quickly thought back through his entire plan leading up to tonight. He could think of no obvious holes, but it was the not-so-obvious ones that usually did you in. He swallowed, curled and uncurled his fingers, stretched his legs to calm himself. One thing at a time. He still wasn't out of here. Many things could go wrong, and one or two undoubtedly would.

He would wait two more minutes. He ticked off the seconds in his head, visualized them loading the car. They would probably wait for any further sight or sound of the patrol car before heading out.

He carefully opened his bag. Inside were much of the contents of this room. He had almost forgotten that he had come here to steal and in fact had stolen. His car was a good quarter mile away. He thanked God he had quit smoking all those years ago. He would need every ounce of lung capacity he could muster. How many Secret Service Agents was he confronted with? At least four. Shit!

The mirrored door slowly opened and Luther stepped out into the room. He hit the remote one more time and then tossed it back onto the chair as the door swung closed.

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He eyed the window. He had already planned an alternate escape through that aperture. A hundred-foot coil of extremely strong nylon rope, knotted every six inches, was in his bag.

He made a wide berth around the body, careful not to step in any of the crimson, the position of which he had programmed into his memory. He glanced only once at the remains of Christine Sullivan. Her life could not be brought back. Luther was now faced with keeping his own intact.

It took him a few seconds to reach the nightstand, and probe down behind it.

Luther's fingers clutched the plastic bag. The President's collision with the furniture had toppled Gloria Russell's purse on its side. The plastic bag and its immensely valuable occupant had fallen out and slid down behind the nightstand.

Luther's finger nudged the blade of the letter opener through the plastic before secreting it in his duffel bag. He went quickly over to the window and carefully peered out.

The limo and van were still there. That wasn't good.

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He went across to the other side of the room, took out his rope, secured it under the leg of the enormously heavy chest of drawers, and ran the line across to the other window, which would drop him at the opposite end of the house, hidden from the road. He carefully opened the window, praying for a well-oiled track, and was rewarded.

He played out the rope and watched it snake down the brick sides of the house.

GLORIA RUSSELL LOOKED UP AT THE MASSIVE FACE OF THE mansion. There was real money there. Money and position that Christine Sullivan did not deserve. She had won it with her boobs and artfully displayed ass and her trashy mouth that had somehow inspired the elderly Walter Sullivan, ---------awakening some emotion buried deep within his complex depths. In six months he would not miss her anymore. His world of rock-solid wealth and power would hurtle on.

Then it struck her.

Russell was halfway out of the limo before Collin caught her arm. He

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held up the leather bag she had bought in Georgetown for a hundred bucks and was now worth incalculably more to her. She settled back down in her seat, her breath normalized. She smiled, almost blushed at Collin.

The President, slumped in a semicatatonic state, didn't notice the exchange.

Then Russell peeked inside her bag, just to be sure. Her mouth dropped open, her hands frantically tore through the few contents of the bag. It took all her willpower not to shriek out loud as she stared horror-stricken at the young agent. the letter opener was not there. It must still be in the house.

Collin tore back up the stairs, a thoroughly confused Burton racing after him.

Luther was halfway down the wall when he heard them coming.

Ten more feet.

They burst in the bedroom door.

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Six more feet.

Stunned, the two Secret Service men spotted the rope;

Burton dove for it.

Two more feet, and Luther let go, hitting the ground running.

Burton flew to the window. Collin threw the nightstand aside: nothing. He joined Burton at the window. Luther had already disappeared around the corner. Burton started to head out the window. Collin stopped him. The way they had come would be faster.

They bolted out the door.

LuTmm CRASHED nmouoh THE coRNFEaD, NO LONGER CONcerned with leaving a trail, now only worried about surviving.

The bag slowed him down slightly, but he had worked too hard over the last several months to walk away emptyhanded.

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He exploded out from the friendly cover of the crops and bit the most dangerous phase of his flight: a hundred yards of open field. The moon had disappeared behind thickening clouds and there were no streetlights in the country; in his black clothing he would be almost impossible to spot. But the human eye was best at spotting movement in the darkness, and he was moving as fast as he could.

THE Two SECRET SERVICE AGENTS STOPPED MOMENTARILY AT the van. They emerged with Agent Varney and raced across the field.

Russell rolled down the window and watched them, shock on her face. Even the President was somewhat awake, but she quickly calmed him and he returned to his half-slumber.

Collin and Burton slipped on their night-vision goggles and their view instantly resembled a crude computer game. Thermal images registered in red, everything else was dark green.

Agent Travis Varney, tall and rangy, and only vaguely aware of what was going on, was ahead of them. He ran with the easy motion of the

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collegiate miler he used to be.

In the Service three years, Varney was single, committed entirely to his profession, and looked to Burton as a father figure to replace the one killed in Vietnam. They were looking for someone who had done something in that house.

Something that involved the President and that therefore involved him. Varney pitied whoever he was chasing if he caught up to him.

LUTHER COULD HEAR THE SOUNDS OF THE MEN BEHIND HIM.

They had recovered faster than he had thought. His head start had dwindled but it still should be enough. They had made a big mistake by not jumping in the van and running him down.

They had to have known he would have transportation. It wasn't like he would have coptered in. But he was grateful that they weren't quite as smart as they probably should have been. If they had he would not be alive to see the sun come up.

He took a shortcut through a path in the woods, spotted on his last

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walk-through. It gained him about a minute. His breath came in quick bursts, like machine-gun fire. His clothes felt heavy on him; as in a child's dream, his legs seemed to move in slow motion.

Finally he broke free from the trees, and he could see his car and was again grateful for having taken the precaution to back in.

A HUNDRED YARDS BEHIND, A THERMAL FIGURE OTHER THAN Varney's finally came alive on Burton's and Collins screens.

A man running, and running hard. Their hands flew to their shoulder holsters. Neither weapon was effective long-range but they couldn't worry about that now.

Then an engine roared to life and Burton and Collin ran like a tornado was raging at their heels.

Varney was still ahead of them and to the left. He would have a better line of fire, but would he shoot? Something told them he would not; that was not part of his training, to fire at a fleeing person who was no longer a danger to the man he was sworn to protect. However, Varney

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did not know that at stake here was more than a mere beating heart. There Was an entire institution that would never be the same, in addition to two Secret Service agents who were certain they had done nothing wrong, but were intelligent enough to realize that the blame would fall heavily on their shoulders.

Burton was never much of a runner, but he picked up his pace as these thoughts flew through his head, and the younger Collin was hard-pressed to keep up with him. But Burton knew it was too late. His legs started to slow down as the car exploded out and turned away from them. In moments it was already two hundred yards down the road.

Burton stopped running, dropped to his knee, aimed his gun, but all he could see was the dust kicked up by the fleeing vehicle. Then the taillights went out and in a moment he lost the target entirely.

He turned to see Collin next to him, looking down at him, the reality of the whole event starting to set in. Burton slowly got up andput his gun away. He took off his goggles; Collin did likewise.

They looked at each other.

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Burton sucked air in; his limbs shook. His body was finally reacting to the recent exertions now that the adrenaline had stopped flowing. It was over, wasn't it?

Then Varney came running up. Burton was not too distraught to note with an envious twinge and a small measure of pride that the younger man wasn't even out of breath. He would see to it that Varney and Johnson didn't suffer with them. They didn't deserve that.

He and Collin would go down, but that was all. He felt bad about Collin; however, there was nothing he could do about that. But when Varney spoke, Burton's thoughts of the future went from complete and absolute doom to a small glimmer of hope.

"I got the license plate number."

"WHERE THE HELL WAS HE?" RUSSELL LOOKED INCREDUlously around the bedroom. "What? Was he under the goddamned bed?"

She tried to stare Burton down. The guy hadn't been under the bed, nor in any of the closets. Burton had examined all those spaces when he was

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sanitizing the room. He told her so in no uncertain terms.

Burton looked at the rope and then the open window.

"Jesus, it was like the guy was watching us the whole time, knew right when we left the house." Burton looked around for other possible bogeymen hovering nearby. His eyes rested on the mirror, then moved on, stopped and went back.

He looked down at the carpet in front of the mirror.

He had gone over that area repeatedly with the vacuum until it was smooth; the carpet nape, already plush and expensive, had been a good quarter inch thicker by the time he was finished. No one had walked there since they had come back into the room.

And yet now as he stooped down, his eye discerned very rough traces of footprints. He hadn't noticed them before because now the whole section was matted down, as if something had swept out.... He slapped on his gloves, rushed to the mirror, pulling and prying around its edges.

He yelled to Collin to get some tools while Russell looked on stunned.

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Burton inserted the crowbar about midway down the side of the mirror and he and Collin threw all their weight against the tool. The lock was not that strong, depending on deception rather than brute strength to safeguard its secrets.

There was a grinding sound and then a tear and a pop and the door swung open.

Burton plunged inside with Collin right behind. A light switch was on the wall. The room turned bright and the men looked around.

Russell peered in, saw the chair. As she looked around, her face froze on the inner side of the mirror door. She was staring right at the bed. The bed where a little while before ... She rubbed her temples as a searing pain ripped through her skull.

A one-way mirror.

She turned to find Burton looking over her shoulder and through the mirror. His earlier remark about someone watching them had just proven itself prophetic.

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Burton looked helplessly -at Russell. "He must have been right here the whole time. The whole goddamned time. I can't fucking believe this." Burton looked at the empty shelves inside the vault. "Looks like he took a bunch of stuff. Probably cash and untraceables."

"Who cares about that!" Russell exploded, pointing at the mirror. "This guy saw and heard everything, and you let him get away."

"We got his license plate." Collin was hoping for another rewarding smile. He didn't get it.

"So what? You think he's going to wait around for us to run his tag and go knock on his door?"

Russell sat down on the bed. Her head was spinning. If the guy had been in there he had seen everything. She shook her head. A bad but controllable situation had suddenly become an incomprehensible disaster, and totally out of her control. Particularly considering the information Collin had relayed to her when she had entered the bedroom.

The sonofabitch had the letter opener! Prints, blood, everything,

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straight to the White House.

She looked at the mirror and then at the bed, where a short time before she had been on top of the President. She instinctively pulled her jacket tighter around herself. She was suddenly sick to her stomach. She braced herself against the bedpost.

Collin emerged from the vault. "Don't forget he committed a crime being here. He can get in big-time trouble if he goes to the cops." That thought had struck the young agent while he peered around the vault.

He should have thought a little more.

Russell pushed back a strong urge to vomit. "He doesn't have to exactly go and turn himself in to cash in on this.

Have you ever heard of the goddamned phone? He's probably calling the Post right now. Dammit! And then next the tabloids and by the end of the week we'll be watching him on Oprah and Sally being shot on remote from whatever little island he's retired to with his face blurred. And then comes the book and after that the movie. Shit!"

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Russell envisioned a certain package arriving at the Post or the J. Edgar Hoover Building or the U.S. Attorney's office or the Senate Minority Leader's office, all possible depositories promising maximum political damage-not to mention the legal repercussions.

The note accompanying it would ask them to please match the prints on it and the blood with specimens of the President of the United States. It would sound like a joke, but they would do it. Of course they would do it. Richmond's prints were already on file. His DNA would be a match. Her body would be found, her blood would be checked and they would be confronted with more questiorts than they could possibly have answers to.

They were dead, they were all dead. And that bastard had just been sitting in there, waiting for his chance. Not knowing that tonight would bring him the biggest payoff of his life. Nothing as simple as dollars. He would bring down a President, in flames and tatters, crashing to earth without a chance of survival. How often did someone get to do that? Woodward and Bernstein had become supermen, they could do no wrong. This topped the hell out of Watergate. This was too fucking much to deal with.

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Russell barely made it to the bathroom. Burton looked over at the corpse and then back at Collin. They said nothing, their hearts pounding with increased frequency as the absolute enormity of the situation settled down on them like the stone lid of a crypt. Since they could think of nothing else to do, Burton and Collin dutifully retrieved the PI sanitizing equipment while Russell emptied the contents of her stomach. In an hour they were packed and gone.

THE DOOR CLOSED QUIETLY BEHIND HIM.

Luther figured he had a couple of days at best, maybe less. He risked turning on a light and his eyes went quickly over the interior of the living room.

His life had gone from normal, or close to it, straight to horror land.

He took off the backpack, switched off the light, and stole over to the window.

Nothing--everything was quiet. Fleeing from that house had been the most nerve-racking experience of his life, worse than being overrun by screaming North Koreans.

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His hands still twitched. All the way back, every passing car seemed to bore its headlights into his face, searching out his guilty secret. Twice, police cars had passed him, and the sweat had poured off his forehead, his breathing constricted.

The car had been returned to the impoundment lot where Luther had "borrowed" it earlier that night. The plate would get them nowhere, but something else could.

He doubted they had gotten a look at him. Even if they had, they would only know generally his height and build.

His age, race and facial features would still be a mystery, and without that they hadnothing. And as fast as he had run, they probably figured him for a younger man. There was one open end, and he had thought about how to handle that on the ride back. For now, he packed up as much of the last thirty years as he could into two bags; he would not be coming back here.

He would clear out his accounts tomorrow morning; that would give him

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the resources to run far away from here.

He had faced more than his share of danger during his long life. But the choice between going up against the President of the United States or disappearing was a no-brainer.

The night's haul was safely hidden away. Three months of work for a prize that could end up getting him killed. He locked the door and disappeared into the night.

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CHAPTER FOUR

AT SEVEN A.M. THE GOLD-COLORED ELEVATOR DOORS opened, and Jack stepped into the meticulously decorated expanse that was Patton, Shaw's reception area.

Lucinda wasn't in yet, so the main reception desk, solid teakwood and weighing about a thousand pounds, and costabout twenty dollars for each of those pounds, was unmg manned.

He walked down the broad hallways under the soft lights of the neoclassical wall sconces, turned right, and then left and in one minute opened the solid-oak door to his office. In the background, a smattering of ringing phones could be heard as the city woke up for business.

Six floors, well over one hundred thousand square feet in one of the best addresses downtown housing over two hundred highly compensated attorneys, with a two-story library, fully equipped gymnasium, sauna, women's and men's showers and lockers, ten conference rooms, a supporting staff of several hundred and, most important, a client list

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coveted by every other major firm in the country, that was the empire of Patton, Shaw & Lord.

The firm had weathered the miserable end to the 1980s, and then picked up speed after the recession had finally subsided. Now it was going full-bore as many of its competitors had downsized. It was loaded with some of the best attorneys in virtually every field of law, or at least the fields that paid the best. Many had been scooped from other leading firms, enticed by signing bonuses and promises that no dollar would be spared when chasing a new piece of business.

Three senior partners had been tapped by the current administration for top-level positions. The firm had awarded them severance pay in excess of two million dollars each, with the implicit understanding that after their government stint they would be back in harness, bringing with them tens of millions of dollars in legal business from their newly forged contacts.

The firm's unwritten, but strictly adhered to, rule was that no new client matter would be accepted unless the minimum billing would exceed one hundred thousand dollars. Any f the firm's time. And they had no problem be a waste o sticking to that rule, and flourishing. In the

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nation's capital, people came for the best and they didn't mind paying for the privilege.

The firm had only made one exception to that rule, and ironically it had been for the only client Jack had other than Baldwin. He told himself he would test that rule with increasing frequency. If hf, was going to stick this out, he wanted it to be on his terms as much as that was possible. He knew his victories would be small at first, but that was okay.

He sat down at his desk, opened his cup of coffee and glanced over the Post. Patton, Shaw & Lord had five kitchens and three full-time housekeepers with their OwIl computers. The firm probably consumed five hundred pots of coffee a day, but Jack picked up his morning brew at the little place on the corner because he couldn't stand the stuff they used here. It was a special imported blend and cost a fortune and tasted like dirt mixed in with seaweed.

He tipped back in his chair and glanced around his office.

It was a good size by big-firm associate standards, about fourteen by fourteen, with a nice view up Connecticut Avenue.

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At the Public Defenders Service, Jackhad shared an office with another attorney and there had been no window, only a giant poster of a Hawaiian beach Jack had tacked up one repulsively cold morning. Jack had liked the coffee at PI) better.

When he made partner he would get a new office, twice this size--maybe not a corner just yet, but that was definitely in the cards. With the Baldwin account he was the fourth biggest rainmaker in the firm, and the top three were all in their fifties and sixties, looking more toward the golf courses than to the inside of an office. He glanced at his watch. Time to start the meter.

. He was usually one of the first ones in, but the place would soon be stirring. Patton, Shaw matched top New York forts. The clients were enormous and their legal demands were of equal size. Making a mistake in this league might mean a four-billion-dollar defense contract went down the tubes or a city declared bankruptcy.

Every associate and junior partner he knew at the firm. had stomach problems; a quarter of them were in therapy of one kind or another. Jack watched their pale faces and softening bodies as they marched daily

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through the pristine hallways of PS&L bearing yet another Herculean legal task. That was the trade-off for compensation levels that put them in the top five percent nationwide among all professionals.

He alone among them was safe from the partnership gauntlet. Control of clients was the great equalizer in law. He had been with Patton, Shaw about a year, was a novice corporate attorney, and was accorded the respect of the most senior and experienced members of the firm.

thing less, the management committee had decided, would firm wages, and for the big bucks, they expected big-time ef All of that should have made him feel guilty, undeserving--and it would have if he hadn't been so miserable about the rest of his life.

He popped the final miniature doughnut into his mouth, leaned forward in his chair and opened a -file. Corporate work was often monotonous and his skill level was such that his tasks were not the most exciting in the world. Reviewing ground leases, preparing UCC filings, forming limited liability companies, drafting memorandums of understanding and private placement documents, it was all in a day's work, and the days were growing longer and longer, but he was learning fast; he had to in

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order to survive, his courtroom skills were virtually useless to him here.

The firm traditionally did no litigation work, preferring instead to handle the more lucrative and steady corporate and tax matters. When litigation did arise it was farmed out to select, elite litigation-only firms, who in turn would refer any nontrial work that came their way to Patton, Shaw. It was an arrangement that had worked well over the years.

By lunchtime he had moved two stacks of drift from his in to his out basket, dictated three closing checklists and a couple of letters, and received four calls from Jennifer reminding him about the White House dinner they would be attending that night.

Her father was being honored as Businessman of the Year by some organization or other. It spoke volumes about the President's close nexus to big business that such an event would be worthy of a White House function. But at least Jack would get to see the man up close. Getting to meet him was probably out of the question, but then you never knew.

"Got a minute?" Barry Alvis popped his balding head in the door. He was

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a senior staff associate, meaning he had been passed over for partner more than three times and in fact would never successfully complete that next step. Hardworking and bright, he was an attorney any firm would be fortunate to have. His schmooz skills and hence his client-generating prospects, however, were nil. He made a hundred sixty thousand a year, and worked hard enough to earn another twenty in bonuses each year. His wife didn't work, his kids went to private schools, he drove a late-model Beemer, was not expected to generate business and had little to complain about.

A very experienced attorney with ten years of intense and high-level transactional work behind him, he should have resented the hell out of Jack Graham, and he did.

Jack waved him in. He knew Alvis didn't like him, understood why, and didn't push it. He could take his lumps with the best of them, but then he would only allow himself to be pushed so far.

"Jack, we've got to get cranking on the Bishop merger."

Jack looked blank. That deal, a real pain in the ass, had died, or at least he thought it had. He took out a legal pad, his hands twitching.

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"I thought Raymond Bishop didn't want to get into bed with TCC."

Alvis sat down, placed the fourteen-inch file he was carrying on Jack's desk and leaned back.

"Deals die, then they come back to haunt you. We need your comments on the secondary financing documents by tomorrow afternoon."

Jack almost dropped his pen. "That's fourteen agreements and over five hundred pages, Barry. When did you find out about this?"

Alvis stood up and Jack caught the beginnings of a smile tugging at the other man's face.

"Fifteen agreements, and the official page count is six hundred and thirteen pages, single-spaced, not counting exhibits. Thanks, Jack. Patton, Shaw really appreciates it." He turned back. "Oh, have a great time with the President tonight, and say hello to Ms. Baldwin."

Alvis walked out.

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Jack looked at the bundle in front of him and rubbed his temples. He wondered when the little sonofabitch had really learned the Bishop deal had been resurrected. Something told him it wasn't this morning.

He checked the time. He buzzed his secretary, managed to clear his schedule for the rest of the day, picked up the eightpound file and headed for conference room number nine, the firm's smallest and most secluded, where he could hide and work. He could do six intense hours, go to the party, come back, work all night, hit the steam room, shower and shave here, finish up the comments and have them on Alvis's desk by three, four at the latest. The little shit.

Six agreements later, Jack ate the last of his chips, finished off his Coke, pulled on his jacket and ran the ten flights down to the lobby.

The cab dropped him at his apartment. He stopped cold.

The Jag was parked in front of his building. The vanity plate succEss told him his soon-to-be date for life was up there waiting. She must be upset with him. She never condescended to come to his place unless she was upset with him about something and wanted to let him know it.

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He checked his watch. He was running a little late, but he was still okay. He unlocked his front door, rubbing his jaw; maybe he could get by without shaving. She was sitting on the couch, having first draped a sheet across it. He had to admit, she looked stunning; a real blue blood, whatever that meant these days. Unsmiling, she stood up and looked at him.

"You're late."

"I'm not my own boss you know."

"That's no excuse. I work too."

"Yeah, but the difference is your boss has the same last name, and is wrapped around his daughter's pretty little finger "Mother and Dad went on ahead. The limo will be here in twenty minutes."

"Plenty of time." Jack undressed and jumped in the shower. He pulled the curtain aside. "Jenn, can you get out my blue double-breasted?"

She walked into the bathroom, looked around in ill-concealed disgust. "The invitation said black tie."

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"Black tie optional," he corrected her, rubbing the soap out of his eyes.

"Jack, don't do this. It's the White House for godsakes.

it's the President."

"They give you an option, black tie or not, I'm exercising my right to forgo the black tie. Besides, I don't have a tux."

He grimed at her and pulled the curtain closed.

"You were supposed to get one."

"I forgot. C'mon, Jenn, for chrissakes. Nobody's going to be watching me, nobody cares what I'll be wearing."

"Thank you, thank you very much, Jack Graham. I ask you to do one little thing."

"Do you know how much those suckers cost?"

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The soap was stinging his eyes. He thought of Barry Alvis and having to work all night and having to explain that fact to Jennifer and then to her father, and his voice got angrier.

"And how many times am I going to wear the goddamned thing? Once or twice a year?"

"After we're married we'll be attending a lot of functions where black tie isn't optional, it's mandatory. It's a good investment."

"I'd rather put my retirement funds into baseball cards."

He poked his head out again to show her he was kidding, but she wasn't there.

He rubbed a towel through his hair, wrapped it around his middle and walked into the tiny bedroom where he found a new tux hanging on the door. Jennifer appeared, smiling.

"Compliments of Baldwin Enterprises. It's an Armani.

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It'll look wonderful on you."

"How'd you know my size?"

"You're a perfect forty-two long. You could be a model.

Jennifer Baldwin's personal male model." She wrapped her perfumed arms around his shoulders and squeezed. He felt her considerable breasts push into his back and inwardly cursed that there wasn't time to take advantage of the moment. Just once without the goddamn murals, without the cherubs and chariots, maybe it would be different.

He looked longingly at the small, untidy bed. And he had to work all night. Goddamned Barry Alvis and the wishywashy Raymond Bishop.

Why was it every time he saw Jennifer Baldwin he hoped that things could be different between them? Different meaning better. That she would change, or he would, or they both would meet somewhere in the middle? She was so beautiful, had everything in the world going for her. Jesus, what was wrong with him anyway?

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THE Limo MOVED EASILY THROUGH THE DREGS OF POST-RUSHhour traffic. Past seven o'clock on a weeknight, downtown D.C. was pretty much deserted.

Jack looked over at his fiance. Her light but very expensive coat didn't conceal the plunging neckline. The perfectly chiseled features were covered by flawless skin that occasionally flashed a perfect smile. Her thick auburn hair was piled high on top of her head; she usually wore it down. She looked like one of those one-name supermodels.

He moved closer to her. She smiled at him, checked her makeup, which was immaculate, and patted his hand.

He stroked her leg, slid her dress up; she pushed him away.

"Later, maybe," she whispered so the driver wouldn't hear.

Jack smiled and mouthed that later he might have a headache. She laughed and then he remembered there would be no "later" tonight.

He slumped back in the thickly padded seat and stared out the window. He

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had never been to the White House; Jennifer had, twice before. She didn't look nervous; he was. He tugged at his bow tie, and smoothed his hair as they turned onto Executive Drive.

The White House guards checked them methodically; Jennifer as usual got second and third looks from all of the men and women present. When she bent down to adjust her high heel, she almost spilled out of her five-thousand-dollar dress and made several White House staffers far happier men for it. Jack got the usual envious looks from the guys. Then they moved into the building and presented their engraved invitations to the Marine sergeant who escorted them through the lower-level entry corridor and then up the stairs to the Fast Room.

DAmMIT!" THE PRESIDENT HAD BENT DOWN TO PICK UP A copy of his speech for the night's event and the pain had shot up to his shoulder. I think it nicked a tendon, Gloria."

Gloria Russell sat in one of the wide, plush chairs with which the President's wife had decorated the Oval Office.

The First Lady had good taste if not a lot else. She was nice to look

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at, but a little light in the intellect department. No challenge to the President's power, and an asset in the polls.

Her family background was impeccable: old money, old ties. The President's connection to the conservative wealth and influence segment of the country had not hurt his standing with the liberal contingent in the least, however, owing mainly to his charisma and skills at consensus-building. And his good looks, which counted for a lot more than anyone cared to admit.

A successful President had to be able to talk a good game, and this President's batting average was up there with Ted Williams's.

"I think I need to see a doctor." The President was not in the best of moods, but then neither was Russell.

"Well, Alan, then exactly how would you explain a stab wound to the White House press?"

"What the hell ever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?"

Russell rolled her eyes. He could be so stupid sometimes.

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if 's

"You're like a Fortune 500 company, Alan, everything about you is public information."

"Well, not everything."

"That remains to be seen, doesn't it? This is far from over, Alan." Russell had smoked three packs of cigarettes, and drunk two pots of coffee since last night. At any moment their world, her career, could come crashing down. The police knocking on the door. It was all she could do to keep herself from running screaming from the room. As it was nausea continuously swept over her in vast waves. She clenched her teeth, gripped the chair. The image of total destruction would not budge from her mind.

The President scanned the copy, memorizing some, the rest he would ad-lib; his memory was phenomenal, an asset that had served him well.

"That's why I have you, Gloria, isn't it? To make it all better?"

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He looked at her.

For a moment she wondered if he knew. If he knew what she had done with him. Her body stiffened and then relaxed.

He couldn't know, that was impossible. She remembered his drunken pleadings; oh how a bottle of Jack could change a person.

"Of course it is, Alan, but some decisions have to be made. Some alternative strategies have to be developed depending on what we find ourselves faced with."

"I can't exactly cancel my schedule. Besides, this guy can't do anything."

Russell shook her head. "We can't be sure of that."

"Think about it! He'll have to admit to burglary to even place himself there. Can you see him trying to get on the evening news with that story? They'll put him in a rubber room in a New York minute." The President shook his head. "I'm safe. This guy cannot touch me, Gloria.

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Not in a million years."

They had worked out a threshold strategy on the limo ride back to town. Their position would be simple: categorical denial. They would let the absurdity of the allegation, if it ever came, do their work for them. And it was an absurd story despite the fact that it was absolutely true. Sympathy from the White House for the poor, unbalanced and admitted felon and his shamefaced family.

There was, of course, another possibility, but Russell had chosen not to address that with the President just yet. In fact she concluded it was the more likely scenario. It was really the only thing allowing her to function.

"Stranger things have happened." She looked at him.

"The place was cleaned, right? There's nothing left to find, right, except her?" There was a hint of nervousness in his voice.

"Right." Russell licked her lips. The President didn't know that the letter opener with his prints and blood on it was now in the possession of their felonious eyewitness.

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She stood up and paced. "Of course I can't speak about certain traces of sexual contact. But that wouldn't be linked to you in any event."

"Jesus, I can't even remember if we did it or not. It seems like I did."

She couldn't help smiling at his remark.

The President turned and looked at her. "What about Burton and Collin?"

"What about them?"

"Have you talked to them?" His message was clear enough.

"They have as much to lose as you, don't they, Alan?"

"As us, Gloria, as us." He fixed his tie in the mirror. "Any clue to the Peeping Tom?"

"Not yet; they're running the plate."

"When do you think they'll realize she's missing?"

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"As warm as it's been during the day, soon I hope."

"Real funny, Gloria."

"She'll be missed, inquiries will be made. Her husband will be called, they'll go to the house. The next day, maybe two, maybe three tops."

"And then the police will investigate."

"There's nothing we can do about that."

"But you'll keep on top of it?" A trace of concern crossed the President's brow as he thought swiftly through various scenarios. Had he tucked Christy Sullivan? He hoped that he had, At least the night wouldn't have been a total disaster.

'@As much as we can without arousing too much suspicion."

"That's easy enough. You can use the angle that Walter Sullivan is a close friend and political ally of mine. It would be natural for me to have a personal interest in the case. Think things through, Gloria,

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that's what I pay you for.,"

And you were sleeping with his wife, Russell thought.

Some friend.

"That rationale had already occurred to me, Alan."

She lit a cigarette, blew the smoke out slowly. That felt good. She had to keep ahead of him on this. Just one small step ahead and she would be fine. It wouldn't be easy; he was sharp, but he was also arrogant. Arrogant people habitually overestimated their own abilities and underestimated everyone else's.

"And nobody knew she was meeting you?"

"I think we can assume she was discreet, Gloria. Christy didn't have too much upstairs, her gifts were slightly lower, but she understood economics with the best of them." The President winked at his Chief of Staff. "She had about eight hundred million to lose if her husband found out she was screwing around, even with the President."

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Russell knew about Walter Sullivan's odd viewing habits from the mirror and chair, but then again, for the assignations he didn't know about, didn't get to watch, who knew what his reaction would've been? Thank God it hadn't been Sullivan sitting there in the dark.

"I warned you, Alan, that one day your little extracurricular activities would get us into trouble."

Richmond looked at her, disappointment on his features.

W

r

"Listen, you think I'm the first guy to hold this office to catch a little action on the side? Don't be so goddamned naive, Gloria. At least I'm a helluva lot more discreet than some of my predecessors. I take the responsibilities of the job ... and I take the perks. Understand?"

Russell nervously rubbed at her neck. "Completely, Mr. President."

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"So it's just this one guy, who can't do anything."

"it only takes one to bring the house of cards tumbling down."

"Yeah? Well there are a lot of people living in that house. Just remember that."

"I do, Chief, every day."

There was a knock at the door. Russell's deputy assistant leaned in. "Five minutes, sir." The President nodded and waved him off.

"Great timing on this presentation."

"Ransomed Baldwin contributed heavily to your campaign, as did all of his friends."

"You don't have to explain political paybacks to me, sweetheart."

Russell stood up and moved over to him. She took his good arm, looked intently at him. On his left cheek was a small scar. A souvenir from some shrapnel during a brief stint in the Army toward the end of the

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Vietnam War. As his political career had taken off, the female consensus was that the tiny imperfection greatly enhanced his attractiveness. Russell found herself staring at that scar.

"Alan, I will do whatever it takes to protect your interest.

You will get through this, but we need to work together.

We're a team, Alan, we're a helluva team. They can't take us down, not if we act together."

The President studied her face for a brief moment, and then rewarded her with the smile that routinely accompanied front-page headlines. He pecked her on the cheek, squeezed her against him; she clung to him.

"I love you, Gloria. You're a trouper." He picked up his speech. "It's showtime." He turned and walked out. Russell stared after his broad back, carefully rubbed at her cheek and then followed him out.

JACK LOOKED AROUND THE OVERSTATED ELEGANCE OF THE immense East Room. The place was full of some of the most powerful men and women in the

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country. Skillful networking was taking place all around him, and all he could do was stand and gawk. He looked across the room and spied his fiance cornering a congressman from some state out west, no doubt plying Baldwin Enterprises's needy case for the good legislator's assistance on riparian rights.

His fiance spent much of her time gaining access to holders of power at all levels. From county commissioners to Senate Committee chairmen, Jennifer stroked the right egos, fed the right hands, and made certain that all the important players were in place when Baldwin Enterprises wanted another mammoth deal orchestrated. The doubling of the assets of her father's company during the last five years was due in no small part to her excelling at that task.

In truth, what man was really safe from her?

Ransorne Baldwin, all six feet five inches, thick white hair and baritone voice, made his rounds, solidly shaking hands with politicians he already owned and rubbing elbows with the few he didn't as yet.

The award ceremony had been mercifully brief. Jack glanced at his watch. He would need to be getting back to the office soon. On the way over

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Jennifer had mentioned a private party at the Willard Hotel at eleven. He rubbed his face. Of all the friggin' luck.

He was about to pull Jennifer aside to explain his early exit, when the President walked up to her, was joined by her father, and a moment later all three headed his way.

Jack put his drink down and cleared his throat so he wouldn't sound Re a complete fool when the words stumbled out of his mouth. Jennifer and her father Were talking to the President like old friends. Laughing, chatting, touching elbows like he was cousin Ned in from Oklahoma. But this wasn't cousin Ned, this was the President of the United States for godsakesl

"So you're the lucky fellow?@ The President's smile was immediate and pleasant. They shook hands. He was as tall as Jack, and Jack admired that he had kept trim and fit with a job like his.

"Jack Graham, Mr. President. It's an honor to meet you, Sir. "I feel like I already know you, Jack, Jennifer's told me so much about you. Most of it good." He grinned.

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"Jack's a partner at Patton, Shaw & Lord." Jennifer still held on to the President's arm. She looked at Jack and smiled a cutesy smile.

"Well, not a partner yet, Jenn."

"Matter of time is all." Ransorne Baldwin's voice boomed out. "With Baldwin Enterprises as a client, you could name your price at any firm in this country. Don't you forget that. Don't let Sandy Lord pull the wool over your eyes."

"Listen to him, Jack. The voice of experience." The President raised his glass and then involuntarily jerked it back.

Jennifer stumbled, letting go of his arm.

"I'm sorry, Jennifer. Too much tennis. Damn arm's giving me problems again. Well, Ransorne, you look like you've got yourself a fine protdg6 here."

"Hell, he'll have to fight my daughter for the empire.

Maybe Jack can be queen and Jenn can be the king. How's that for equal

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rights?" Ransomed laughed a big laugh that swept everybody up with it.

Jack felt himself redden. "I'm just a lawyer, Ransomed; I'm not necessarily looking for an empty throne to occupy.

There are other things to do in life."

Jack picked up his drink. This wasn't exactly going as well as he would have liked. He felt on the defensive. Jack crunched an ice cube. And what did Ransomed Baldwin really think about his future son-in-law? Especially right now? The point was Jack didn't really care.

Ransomed stopped laughing and eyed him steadily. Jennifer cocked her head the way she did when he said something she thought was inappropriate, which was most of the time. The President looked at all three of them, smiled quickly and excused himself He went over to the corner where a woman was standing.

Jack watched him go. He had seen the woman on TV, defending the President's position on a myriad of issues. Gloria Russell did not look very happy right now, but with all the crises in the world, happiness

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was probably a rare commodity in her line of work.

That was an afterthought. Jack had met the President, had shaken hands with him. He hoped his arm got better.

He pulled Jennifer aside and made his regrets. She was not pleased.

"This is totally unacceptable, Jack. Do you realize how special a night this is for Daddy?"

"Hey, I'm just a working stiff. You know? Billable hours?"

"That's ridiculous! And you know it. No one at that firm can make those demands of you, let alone some nothing associate."

"Jenn, it's not that big a deal. I had a great time. Your dad got his little award. Now it's time to go back to work.

Alvis is okay. He's kicking my butt a little bit, but he works just as hard, if not harder than I do. Everybody has to take their lumps."

"This isn't fair, Jack. This is not convenient for me."

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"Jenn, it's my job. I said don't worry about it, so don't worry about it. I'll see you tomorrow. I'm gonna grab a cab back."

"Daddy will be very disappointed."

"Daddy won't even miss me. Hey, hoist one for me. And remember what you said about later? I'll take a rain check on that, maybe we can make it my place for a change?She allowed herself to be kissed. But when Jack was gone she stormed over to her father.

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CHAPTER FIVE

KATE WHITNEY PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT OF HER building. The grocery bag clunked against one leg, her overflowing briefcase against the other as she jogged up the four flights of stairs. Buildings in her price range had elevators, just not ones that worked on a consistent basis.

She changed quickly into her running outfit, checked her messages, and headed back out. She stretched the cramps and kinks out of her long limbs in front of the Ulysses S Grant statue and started her run.

She headed west, past the Air and Space Museum, and then by the Smithsonian castle that, with its towers and battlements and twelfth-century-style Italian architecture, looked more like a mad scientist's home than anything else.

Her easy, methodical strides took her across the Mall at its widest point and she circled the Washington Monument twice.

Her breath was coming a little quicker now; the sweat began to seep

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through her T-shirt and blot the Georgetown Law sweatshirt she was wearing. As she made her way along the fringes of the Tidal Basin, the crowds of people grew thicker. The early fall brought plane-, bus- and carloads of people from across the country hoping to miss the summer crush of tourists and the infamous Washington heat.

As she swerved to avoid one errant child she collided with another runner coming the other way. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs.

"Shit." The man rolIed over quickly and then sprang back up. She started to get up, looked at him, an apology on her lips, and then abruptly sat back down. A long moment went by as camera-toting clans of Arkansans and Iowans danced around them.

"Hello, Kate." Jack gave her a hand up and helped her to a spot under one of the now bare cherry blossom trees that encircled the Tidal Basin. The Jefferson Memorial sat big and imposing across the calm water, the tall silhouette of the country's third President clearly visible inside the rotunda.

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Kate's ankle was starting to swell. She took off her shoe and sock and began to rub it out. , "I didn't think you'd have time to run anymore, Jack."

She looked over at him: no receding hairline, no paunch, no lines on the face. Time had stood still for Jack Graham.

She had to admit it, he looked great. She, on the other hand, was an absolute and total disaster.

She silently cursed herself for not getting that haircut and then cursed herself again for even thinking that. A drop of sweat plunged down her nose, and she brushed it away with an irritable swipe of her hand.

"I was wondering the same thing about you. I didn't think they let prosecutors go home before midnight. Slacking Off?"

"Right." She rubbed her ankle, which really hurt. He saw the pain, leaned over and took her foot in his hands. She flinched back. He looked at her.

"Remember I used to almost do this for a living and you were my best and

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only client. I have never seen a woman with such fragile ankles, and the rest of you looks so healthy."

She relaxed and let him work the ankle and then the foot, and she soon realized he had not lost his touch. Did he mean that about looking healthy? She frowned. After all, she had dumped him. And she had been absolutely right in doing so.

Hadn't she?

"I heard about Patton, Shaw. Congratulations."

"Aw shucks. Any lawyer with millions in legal business could've done the same thing." He smiled.

"Yeah, I read about the engagement in the paper too. Congratulations twice." He didn't smile at that one. She wondered why not.

He quietly put her sock and shoe back on. He looked at her. "You're not going to be able to run for a day or two, it's pretty swollen. My car's right over there. I'll give you a lift."

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"I'll just take a cab."

"You trust a D.C. cabbie over me?" He feigned offense.

"Besides, I don't see any pockets. You going to negotiate a free ride? Good luck."

She looked down at her shorts. Her key was in her sock.

He had already eyed the bulge. He smiled at her dilemma.

Her lips pressed together, her tongue slid along the bottom one. He remembered that habit from long ago. Although he hadn't seen it for years, it suddenly seemed like he had never been away.

He stretched out his legs and stood up. "I'd float you a loan, but I'm busted too."

she got up, put an arm against his shoulder as she tested the ankle.

"I thought private practice paid better than that."

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"It does, I've just never been able to handle money. You' know that." That was true enough; she had always balanced the checkbook. Not that there was much to balance back then.

He held on to one of her arms as she limped to his car, a ten-year-old Subaru wagon. She looked at it amazed.

"You never got rid of this thing?"

"Hey, there's a lot of miles left on it. Besides, it's full of history. See that stain right over there? Your Dairy Queen butterscotch-dipped ice cream cone, 1986, the night before my tax final. You couldn't sleep, and I wouldn't study anymore. You remember? You took that curve too fast."

"You have a bad case of selective memory. As I recall you poured your milkshake down my back because I was complaining about the heat."

"Oh, that too." They laughed and got in the car.

She examined the stain more closely, looked around the interior. So much coming back to her in big, lumpy waves.

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She glanced at the back seat. Her eyebrows went up. If that space could only talk. She turned back to see him looking at her, and found herself blushing.

They pulled off into the light traffic and headed east. Kate felt nervous, but not uncomfortable, as if it were four years ago and they had merely jumped in the car to get some coffee or the paper or have breakfast at the Corner in Charlottesville or at one of the cafes sprinkled around Capitol Rill. But that was years ago she had to remind herself That was not the present. The present was very different. She rolled the window down slightly.

Jack kept one eye on traffic, and one eye on her. Their meeting hadn't been accidental. She had run on the Mail, that very route in fact, since they had moved to D.C. and lived in that little walk-up in Southeast near Eastern Market.

That morning Jack had woken up with a desperation he had not felt since Kate had left him four years ago when it dawned on him about a week after she had gone that she wasn't coming back. Now with his wedding

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looming ahead, he had decided that he had to see Kate, somehow. He would not, could not, let that light die out, not yet. It was quite likely that he was the only one of the two who sensed any illumination left. And while he might not have the courage to leave a message on her answering machine, he had decided that if he was meant to find her out here on the Mail amidst all the tourists and locals, then he would. He had let it 90 at that.

Until their collision, he had been running for an hour, looking for the face in that framed scanning the crowds, I minutes before their photo. He had spotted her about five t already doubled beabrupt meeting. If his heart rate hadn'

it would've hit that mark as soon as he cause of the exercise, saw her moving effortlessly along. He hadn't meant to sprain her ankle, but then that was why she was sitting in his car; it was the reason he was driving her home.

Kate pulled her hair back and tied it in a ponytail, using a braid that had been on her wrist- "So how's work going?"

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"Okay." He did not want to talk about work. "How's your old man?" than me." She did not want to talk "You'd know bet about her father. -I haven't seen him since.

"Lucky you." She lapsed into silence.

Jack shook his head at the stupidity of bringing up Luther.

He had hoped for a reconciliation between father and daughter over the years. That obviously had not happened.

"I hear great things about you over at the Commonwealth's Attorney."

"Right."

"I'm serious."

"Since when."

"Everyone grows up, Kate-"

"Not Jack Graham. Please, God, no He turned right onto Constitution, and

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made his way toward Union Station. Then he caught himself. He knew which direction to go, a fact he did not want to share with her. "I'm kind of rambling here, Kate. Which way?"

"I'M sorry. Around the Capitol, over to Maryland and left on 3rd Street."

"You like that area?"

"On my salary, I like it just fine- Let me guess. You're ABSOWTE POWEP, * 83 Probably in Georgetown, right, one of those big federal Pr

'th maid's quarters townhouses with same placers He shrugged. haven't moved. I'm in the th all of your She stared at him. ,jack, what do you do wi money I just don't want that much," He stared

"I buy what I want; , airy Queen butterscotch-dipped ack. ctHey, how about a D

b ice cream cone"'

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this town, I've tried." -There's none to he had in the honkers, and roared off He did a U-turn, grinned at didn't try hard enough."

"Apparently, counselor, you THIRTY MINUTES LATER HE PULLM INTO HER PARKING LOT. HE ran around to help her out. The ankle had stiffened a little more. The butterscotch cone was almost gone. -I'll help you up."

,you don't have to."

"I busted your ankle. Help me relieve some of my guilt."

"I've got'it, Jack." That tone was very familiar to him, even after four years. He smiled wearily and stepped back.

lowly. He was get She was halfway up the stairs, moving sting back in his car when she turned around.

"Jack?" He looked up. "Thanks for the ice cream." She went into the building.

Driving off, Jack did not see the man standing near the lit tie cluster of trees at the entrance to the parking lot Luther emerged from the

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shadows of the trees and looked up at the apartment building.

His appearance from two days ago had drastically His hair had been changed. It was lucky his beard grew fast.

cut very short, and a hat covered what was left. Sunglasses obscured his intense eyes and a bulky overcoat concealed the lean body one more time before he left. He He had hoped to see her had been shocked to see Jack, but that was all right. He liked Jack.

He huddled in his coat. The wind was picking up, and the chill was more than Washington usually carried at this time of year. He stared up at his daughter's apartment window.

Apartment number fourteen. He knew it well; had even been inside it on a number of occasions, unbeknownst to his daughter, of course. The standard front-door lock was child's play for him. It would've taken longer for someone with a key to open it. He would sit in the chair in her living roonj and look around at a hundred different things, all of them carrying years of memories, some good times, but mostly disappointments.

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Sometimes he would just close his eyes and examine all the different scents in the air. He knew what perfume she wore-very little and very nondescript. Her furniture was big, solid and well-worn. Her refrigerator was routinely empty. He cringed when he viewed the meager and unhealthy contents of her cabinets. She kept things neat, but not perfect; the place looked lived in as it should have.

And she got a lot of calls. He would listen to some of them leaving messages. They made him wish she had picked a different line of work. Being a criminal himself, he was well aware of the number of real crazy bastards out there. But it was too late for him to recommend a career change to his only child.

He knew that it was a strange relationship to have with one's offspring, but Luther figured that was about all he deserved. A vision of his wife entered his mind; a woman who had loved him and stood by him all those years and for what? For pain and misery. And then an early death after she had arrived at her senses and divorced him. He wondered again, for the hundredth time, why he had continued his criminal activities. It certainly wasn't the money. He had always lived simply; much of the proceeds of his burglaries had been simply given away. His choice in life had driven his wife mad with worry and forced his daughter from his

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life. And for the hundredth time he came away with no compelling answer to the question of why he continued to steal from the well-protected wealthy. Perhaps it was only to show that he could.

He looked up once again at his daughter's apartment. He hadn't been there for her, why should she be there for him?

But he could not sever the bond entirely, even if she had. He would be there for her if she so desired, but he knew that she never would.

Luther moved quickly down the street, finally running to catch a Metro bus heading toward the subway at Union Station. He had always been the most independent of people never relying to any significant degree on anyone else. He was a loner and had liked that. Now, Luther felt very alone, and the feeling this time was not so comforting.

The rain started and he stared out the back window of the bus as it meandered its way to the great rail terminus, which had been saved from extinction by an ambitious railway-shopping mall renovation. The water bubbled up on the ' smooth surface of the window and clouded his view of where he had just been. He wished he could, but he couldn't go back there now.

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He turned back in his seat, pulled his hat down tighter, blew into his handkerchief. He picked up a discarded newspaper, glancing down its old headlines. He wondered when they would find her. When they did, he would know about it immediately; everyone in this town would know that Christine Sullivan was dead. When rich people got themselves killed, it was front-page news. Poor people and Joe Average were stuck in the Metro section. Christy Sullivan would most certainly be on page one, front and center.

He dropped the paper on the floor, hunched down in his seat. He needed to see a lawyer, and then he would be gone.

The bus droned on, and his eyes finally closed, but he wasn't sleeping. He was, for the moment, sitting in his daughter's living room, and this time, she was there with him.

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CHAPTER SIX

LUTHER SAT AT THE SMALL CONFERENCE ROOM TABLE IN THE very plainly furnished room. The chairs and table were old and carried a thousand scrapes. The rug was just as ancient and not very clean. A card holder was the only thing on the table other than his file. He picked up one of the cards and thumbed it. "Legal Services, Inc." These people weren't the best in the business; they were far from the halls of power downtown. Graduates of third-rate law schools with no shot at the traditional firm practice, they eked out their professional existence hoping for some luck down the road. But their dreams of big offices, big clients and, most important, -big money faded a little more with the passage of each year.

But Luther did not require the best. He only required somebody with a law degree and the right forms.

"Everything is in order, Mr. Whitney." The kid looked about twenty-five, still full of hope and energy. This place was not his final destination. He still clearly believed that.

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The tired, pinched, flabby face of the older man behind him held out no such hope. "This is Jerry Burns, the managing attorney, he'll be the other witness to your will. We have a self-proving affidavit, so we won't have to appear in court as to whether or not we witnessed your will." A stem-looking, forty-something woman appeared with her pen and notary seal. "Phyllis here is our notary, Mr. Whitney." They all sat down. "Would you like me to read the terms of your will out to you?"

Jerry Burns had been sitting at the table looking bored to death, staring into space, dreaming of all the other places he would rather be. Jerry Burns, managing attorney. He looked like he would rather be shoveling cow manure on some farm in the Midwest. Now he glanced at his young colleague with disdain.

"I've read it," Luther replied.

"Fine," said Jerry Burns. "Why don't we get started?"

Fifteen minutes later Luther emerged from Legal Services, Inc., with two original copies of his last will and testament tucked in his coat

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pocket.

Fucking lawyers, couldn't piss, shit or die without them.

That was because lawyers made all the laws. They had the rest of them by the balls. Then he thought of Jack and smiled. Jack was not like that. Jack was different. Then he thought of his daughter and his smile faded. Kate was not like that either. But then Kate hated him.

He stopped at a camera shop and purchased a Polaroid OneStep camera and a pack of film. He didn't plan to let anyone else develop the pictures he was going to be taking.

He arrived back at the hotel. An hour later he had taken a total of ten photos. These were wrapped in paper and placed in a manila folder that was then secreted far down into his backpack.

He sat down and looked out the window. It was almost an hour before he finally moved, sliding over and then collapsing onto the bed. Some tough guy he was. Not so indifferent that he could not flinch at death, not be horrified by an event that had ripped the life out of someone who

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should've lived a lot longer. And on top of it all was the fact that the President of the United States was involved in all of it. A man Luther had respected, had voted for. A man who held the country's highest office had almost murdered a woman with his own drunken hands. If he had seen his closest relative bludgeon someone in cold blood, Luther would not have been any more sickened or shocked. It was as though Luther himself had been invaded, as though those murderous hands had been around his throat.

But something else gripped at him; something he could not confront. He turned his face to the pillow, closed his eyes in a futile effort to sleep.

"IT'S GREAT, JENN." JACK LOOKED AT THE BRICK AND STONE mansion that stretched more than two hundred feet from end to end and had more rooms than a college dorm, and wondered why they were even there. The winding driveway ended in a four-car garage behind the massive structure. The lawns were groomed so perfectly that Jack felt he was staring at an enormous jade pool. The rear grounds were triple-terraced, with each

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terrace sporting its own pool. It had the standard accoutrements of the very wealthy: tennis courts and stables, and twenty acres-a veritable land empire by northern Virginia standards--on which to roam.

The Realtor waited by the front door, her late-model Mercedes parked by the large stone fountain covered with fistsize roses carved out of granite. Commission dollars were being swiftly calculated and recalculated. Weren't they a terrific young couple? She had said that enough to where Jack's temples throbbed.

Jennifer Baldwin took his arm and two hours later their tour was finished. Jack walked over to the edge of the broad lawn and admired the thick woods, where an eclectic grouping of elm, spruce, maple, pine and oak jostled for dominance. The leaves were beginning to turn and Jack observed the beginnings of reds, yellows and oranges dance across the face of the property they were considering.

"So how much?" He felt he was entitled to ask that question. But this had to be out of their ballpark. His ballpark anyway. He had to admit it was convenient. Only forty-five rush-hour minutes from his office. But they couldn't touch this place. He looked expectantly at his flanc6e.

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She looked nervous, played with her hair. "Three million eight.

Jack's face went gray. "Three million eight hundred thousand? Dollars?"

"Jack, it's worth three times that."

"Then why the hell are they selling it for three million eight? We can't afford it, Jenn. Forget it."

She answered him by rolling her eyes. She waved reassuringly to the Realtor, who sat in her car writing up the contract.

"Jenn, I make a hundred twenty thou a year. You make about the same, maybe a little more."

"When you make partner--2'

"Right. My salary goes up, but not enough for this. We can't make the mortgage payments. I thought we were moving into your place, anyway."

"It's not right for a married couple."

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"Not right? It's a friggin' palace." He walked over to a forest-green-painted garden bench and sat down.

She planted herself in front of him, arms crossed, a determined look on her face. Her summer tan was starting to fade.

She wore a creamy brown fedora from under which her long hair tumbled across her shoulders. Her pants were perfectly tailored to her elegantly slender form. Polished leather boots encased her feet and disappeared under the pant legs.

"We won't be carrying a mortgage, Jack."

He looked up at her. "Really? What, are they giving us the place because we're such a terrific young couple?"

She hesitated, then said, "Daddy is paying cash for it, and we're going to pay him back."

Jack had been waiting for that one.

"Pay him back? How the hell are we going to pay him back Jenn?"

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"He's suggested a very liberal repayment plan, which takes into account future earnings expectations. For godsakes, Jack, I could pay for this place out of accumulated interest on one of my trusts, but I knew you'd object to that."

She sat down next to him. "I thought if we did it this way, you'd feel better about the whole thing. I know how you are about the Baldwin money. We will have to pay Daddy back.

It's not a gift. It's a loan with interest. I'm going to sell my place. I'll net about eight from that. You're going to have to come up with some money too., This is not a free ride." She playfully stuck a long finger into his chest, driving home her point. She looked back at the house. "It's beautiful, isn't it, Jack? We'll be so happy here. We were meant to live here."

Jack looked over at the front of the house but without really seeing it. All he saw was Kate Whitney, in every window of the monolith.

Jennifer squeezed his arm, leaned against him. Jack's headache moved into the panic zone. His mind was refusing to function. His throat went

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dry and his limbs felt stiff. He gently disengaged his arm from his fiancee's, got up and walked quietly back to the car.

Jennifer sat there for several moments, disbelief chief among the emotions registering across her face, and then angrily followed him.

The Realtor, who had intently watched the exchange between the two while seated in her Mercedes, stopped writing up the contract, her mouth pursed in displeasure.

IT WAS EARLY MORNING wHEN LuTHER EMERGED FROM THE small hotel hidden in the cluttered residential neighborhoods of Northwest Washington. He hailed a cab to the Metro Center subway, asking the driver to take a circuitous route on the presumption of seeing various D.C. landmarks. The request did not surprise the cabbie and he automatically went through the motions to be replicated a thousand times before the tourist season was officially over, if it was ever truly over for the town.

The skies threatened rain but you never knew. The unpredictable weather systems swirled and whipped across the region either missing the city or falling hard on it before sliding into the Atlantic. Luther looked up at

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the darkness, which the newly risen sun could not penetrate.

Would he even be alive six months from now? Maybe not.

They could conceivably find him, despite his precautions.

But he planned to enjoy the time he had left.

The Metro took him to Washington National Airport, where he took a shuttle bus across to the Main Terminal. He had prechecked his luggage onto the American Airlines flight that would take him to Dallas/Fort Worth, where he would change airlines and then head to Miami. He would stay there ovenught and then another plane would drop him in Puerto Rico and then a final flight would deposit him in Barbados. Everything was paid for in cash; his passport proclaimed him to be Arthur Lanis, age sixty-five, from Michigan. He had a half-dozen such identifying documents, all professionally crafted and official-looking and all absolutely phony. The passport was good for eight more years and showed him to be well-traveled.

He settled into the waiting area and pretended to scan a newspaper. The place was crowded and noisy, a typical weekday for the busy airport.

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Occasionally Luther's eyes would rise over the paper to see if anyone was paying more than casual attention to him, but nothing registered. And he had been doing this long enough that something would have clicked if he had anything to worry about. His flight was called, his boarding pass was handed over and he trudged down the ramp to the slender projectile that within three hours would deposit him in the heart of Texas.

The Dallas/Fort Worth run was a busy one for American, but surprisingly he had an empty seat next to him. He took his coat off and laid it across the seat daring anyone to trespass. He settled himself in and looked out the window.

As they began to taxi to the takeoff runway, he could make out the tip of the Washington Monument over the thick, swirling mist of the clammy morning. Barely a mile from that point his daughter would be getting up shortly to go to work while her father was ascending into the clouds to begin a new life somewhat ahead of schedule and not exactly easy in his mind.

As the plane accelerated through the air, he looked at the terrain far

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below, noted the snaking of the Potomac until it was left behind. His thoughts went briefly to his long-dead wife and then back to his very much alive daughter.

He glanced up at the smiling, efficient face of the flight attendant and ordered coffee and a minute later accepted the simple breakfast handed to him. He drank down the steaming liquid and then reached over and touched the surface of the window with its queer streaks and scratches. Wiping his glasses clean, he noted that his eyes were watering freely. He looked around quickly; most passengers were finishing up their breakfast or reclining for a short nap before they landed.

He pushed his tray up, undid his seat belt and made his way to the lavatory. He looked at himself in the mirror. The eyes were swollen, red-blotched. The bags hung heavy, he had perceptibly aged in the last thirty-six hours.

He ran water over his face, let the droplets gather around his mouth and then splashed on some more. He wiped his eyes again. They were painful. He leaned against the tiny basin, tried to get his twitching muscles under control.

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Despite all his willpower, his mind wandered back to that room where he had seen a woman savagely beaten. The President of the United States was a drunk, an adulterer and a woman beater. He smiled to the press, kissed babies and flirted with enchanted old women, held important meetings, flew around the world as his country's leader, and he was a fucking asshole who screwed married women, then beat them up and then got them killed.

What a package.

It was more knowledge than one person should be carrying around.

Luther felt very alone. And very mad.

And the sorry thing was the bastard was going to get away with it.

Luther kept telling himself if he were thirty years younger he would take this battle on. But he wasn't. His nerves were still stronger than most, but, like river rock, they had eroded over the years; they were not what they were. At his age battles became someone else's to fight, and win or lose. His time had finally come. He wasn't up to it. Even he

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had to understand that, to accept that reality.

Luther looked at himself in the tiny mirror again. A sob swelled in his throat before it reached the surface and filled the small room.

But no excuse would justify what he had not done. He had not opened that mirrored door. He had not flung that man off Christine Sullivan. He could have prevented the woman's death, that was the simple truth. She would still be alive if he had acted. He had traded his freedom, perhaps his life, for another's. For someone who could have used his help, who was fighting for her very life while Luther just watched. A human being who had barely lived a third of Luther's years.

It had been a cowardly act, and that fact gripped him like some savage anaconda, threatening to explode every organ in his body.

He bent low over the sink as his legs began to fail him. He was grateful for the collapse. He could not look at his reflection anymore. As choppy air buffeted the plane he was sick to his stomach.

A few minutes elapsed and he wet a paper towel with cold water and wiped

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it across his face and the back of his neck.

He finally managed to stumble back to his seat. As the plane thundered on his guilt grew with each passing mile.

THE PHONE WAS RINGING. KATE LOOKED AT THE CLOCK.

Eleven o'clock. Normally she would screen her calls. But something made her hand dart out and pick it up before the machine engaged.

"Hello."

"Why aren't you still at work?"

"Jack?"

"How's your ankle?"

"Do you realize what time it is?"

"Just checking on my patient. Doctors never sleep."

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"Your patient is fine. Thanks for the worry." She smiled in spite of herself "Butterscotch cone, that prescription has never failed me."

"Oh, so there were other patients?"

"I've been advised by my attorney not to answer that question."

"Smart counsel."

Jack could visualize her sitting there, one finger playing with the ends of her hair, the same way she had done when they studied together; he laboring through securities regulations, she through French.

"Your hair curls enough at the ends without you helping it."

She pulled her finger back, smiled, then frowned. That statement had brought a lot of memories back, not all good ones.

"It's late, Jack. I've got court tomorrow."

He stood up and paced with the cordless, thinking rapidly.

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Anything to hold her on the phone for a few more seconds.

He felt guilty, as though he were sneaking around. He involuntarily looked over his shoulder. There was no one there, at least no one he could see.

"I'm sorry I called late."

"Okay."

"And I'm sorry I hurt your ankle."

"You already apologized for thaL' "Yeah. So, how are you? I mean except for your ankle?"

"Jack, I really need to get some sleep."

He was hoping she would say that.

"Well tell me over lunch."

"I told you I've got court."

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"After court."

"Jack, I'm not sure that's a good idea. In fact I'm pretty sure it's a lousy idea."

He wondered what she meant by that. Reading too much into her statements had always been a bad habit of his.

"Jesus, Kate. It's just lunch. I'm not asking you to marry me." He laughed, but knew he'd already blown it.

Kate was no longer fiddling with her hair. She too stood up. Her reflections caught in the hallway mirror. She pulled at the neck of her nightgown. The frown lines were prominent on her forehead.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. Look, it'll be my treat. I have to spend all that money on something." He was met with silence. In fact, he wasn't sure if she were still on the line.

He had rehearsed this conversation for the last two hours.

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Every possible question, exchange, deviation. He'd be so smooth, she so understanding. They would hit it off so well.

So far, absolutely nothing had gone according to plan. He fell back on his alternate plan. He decided to beg.

"Please, Kate. I'd really like to talk to you. Please."

She sat back down, curled her legs under her, rubbed at her long toes. She took a deep breath. The years hadn't changed her as much as she had thought. Was that good or bad? Right now she had no way to deal with that question.

"When and where?"

"Morton's?"

"Forlunch?"

He could see her incredulous face at the thought of the ultra-expensive restaurant. Wondering what type of world he now lived in. "Okay, how

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about the deli in Old Town near Founder's Park around -two? We'll miss the lunchtime crowd "Better. But I can't promise. I'll call if I can't make it."

He slowly let out his breath. 'Thanks, Kate."

He hung up the phone and collapsed on the couch. Now that his plan had worked, he wondered what the hell he was doing. What would he say? What would she say? He didn't want to fight. He hadn't been lying, he did just want to talk to her, and to see her. That was all. He kept telling himself that.

He went to the bathroom, plunged his head into a sink of cold water, grabbed a beer and went up to the rooftop pool and sat there in the darkness, watching the planes as they made their approach up the Potomac into National. The twin bright, red lights of the Washington Monument blinked consolingly at him. Eight stories down the streets were quiet except for the occasional police or ambulance siren.

Jack looked at the calm surface of the pool, put his foot in the now cool water and watched as it rippled across. He drank his beer, went

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downstairs and fell asleep in a chair in the living room, the TV droning in front of him. He did not hear the phone ring, no message was left. Almost one thousand miles away, Luther Whitney hung up the phone and smoked his first cigarette in over thirty years.

THE FEDERAL EXPRESS TRUCK PULLED SLOWLY DOWN THE isolated country road, the driver scanning the rusty and leaning mailboxes for the correct address. He had never made a delivery out here. His truck seemed to ride ditch to ditch on the narrow road.

He pulled into the driveway of the last house and started to back out. He just happened to look over and saw the address on the small piece of wood beside the door. He shook his head and smiled. Sometimes it was just luck.

e weathered aluminum window awnings, popular about twenty years before the driver had been born, sagged down, as if they were tired and just wanted to rest.

The elderly woman who answered the door was dressed in a pullover flowered dress, a thick sweater wrapped around her shoulders. Her thick

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red ankles told of poor circulation and probably a host of other ailments. She seemed surprised by the delivery, but readily signed for it.

The driver glanced at the signature on his pad: Edwina Broome. Then he got in his truck and left. She watched him leave before shutting the door.

THE wALiuE-TALKm CRACKLED.

Fred Barnes had been doing this job for seven years now.

Driving around the neighborhoods of the rich, seeing the big houses, manicured grounds, the occasional expensive car with its mannequinlike occupants coming down the perfect asphalt drive and through the massive gates. He had never been inside any of the homes he was paid to guard, and never expected to be.

He looked up at the imposing structure. Four to five million dollars, he surmised. More money than he could make in five lifetimes. Sometimes it just didn't seem right.

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He checked in on his walkie-talkie. He would take a look around the place. He didn't exactly know what was going on.

Only that the owner had called and requested a patrol car check.

The cold air in his face made Barnes think about a hot cup of coffee and a danish, to be followed by eight hours of sleep until he had to venture out again in his Saturn for yet another night of protecting the possessions of the wealthy. The pay wasn't all that bad, although the benefits sucked. His wife worked full-time too, and with three kids, their combined incomes were barely enough. But then everybody had it tough.

He looked at the five-car garage in back, the pool and the tennis courts. Well, maybe not everybody.

As he rounded the corner, he saw the dangling rope and thoughts of coffee and a creamy danish disappeared. He crouched down, his hand flying to his sidearm. He grabbed his mike and reported in, his voice cracking embarrassingly.

The real police would be here in minutes. He could wait for them or

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investigate himself. For eight singles an hour he decided to stay right where he was.

Barnes's supervisor arrived first in the stark white station wagon with the company's logo on the door panel. Thirty seconds later the first of five patrol cars pulled down the asphalt drive until they were stacked like a waiting train in front of the house.

The window was covered by two officers. It was probable that the perps had long since exited the premises, but assumptions were dangerous in the police business.

Four officers went to the front, two more covered the back. Working in pairs, the four policemen proceeded to make their way in. They noted that the front door was unlocked, the alarm off. They satisfied themselves with the downstairs and cautiously moved up the broad staircase, their ears and eyes straining for any trace of sound or movement.

By the time they reached the second-floor landing, the nostrils of the sergeant in charge told him that this would not be a routine burglary.

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Four minutes later they stood in a circle around what had recently been a young, beautiful woman. The healthy coloring of each of the men had faded to dull white.

The sergeant, fiftyish and a father of three, looked at the open window. Thank God, he thought to himself; even with the outside air the atmosphere inside the room was stupefying. He looked once more at the corpse, then strode quickly to the window and sucked in deep gulps of the crisp air.

He had a daughter about that age. For a moment he imag ABSOWTE POWER * 99 ined her on that floor, her face a memory, her life brutally over. T