The Divine Appointment (18 page)

Washington DC

Holland Fletcher tried to find out who owned the town house Tiffany Ramsey lived in—the one she had previously shared with Jessica Caldwell. But the deeper he dug, the more confused he was. All he discovered from the District of Columbia public records was an elaborate maze of limited partnerships, subchapter S corporations, and dead ends. Somebody wanted to hide the ownership of the town house and had succeeded.

Holland was playing by
her
rules again and he didn’t like it. It was like a bad spy novel. Untraceable phone calls. No name. Coded messages. All that was lacking was a Russian defection. He was tired of it.

“I’ve been working on this for over a month, and nothing. I’m through.”

It was early morning on the Fourth of July. Holland was in his apartment on the telephone. He held the cordless phone from the den and strolled incessantly around and between the furniture.

“My editor is screaming at me to show some results or I’m fired. And I don’t want to be fired.”

“You won’t be fired, I assure you,” she said. “This will make your career.”

“I won’t have a career in about a week.”

“I’ve got some information for you, but you’ve got to do exactly what I say.”

He stopped by his threadbare plaid couch. “Here we go again. I did exactly what you said last time and found absolutely nothing at the Supreme Court building.”

“You found Ms. Ramsey, didn’t you?”

Holland stared at the wall. A lump formed in his throat. He hadn’t mentioned meeting Tiffany Ramsey to anyone. Not to his editor, his parents, his friends. No one.

“How do you know about her?”

“She’s a beautiful young lady who lives on Thirty-seventh, right?”

Holland went back to his walking trail around and between the furniture.

“Do I have your attention again?” she asked.

“I’m listening.”

Holland parked his old Camry in a parking lot off Fourteenth Street NW, near the Ellipse. He put on an army green military jacket and a red Washington Nationals baseball cap. He preferred a New York Yankees cap, but again, they were
her
rules. He paid the attendant ten dollars for one hour of parking and berated her about the cost. He said it was highway robbery, but she threatened to have his car towed if he didn’t pay. So he paid and walked away mad. He stomped off onto Fourteenth Street NW toward the National Mall. It was 7:30 p.m. on the Fourth of July.

The Mall was thick with people—men, women, and children—who were there for the fireworks scheduled for 8:00 p.m. over the Reflecting Pool. Holland shoved his way through the crowd and said, “Excuse me,” several times. Some people refused to move and he detoured around them. A few fathers cursed at him for almost knocking their children to the ground, and several more yelled at him.

“Bud, you don’t have to get any closer,” one man said. “You can see the fireworks fine from here.”

Undeterred, he kept moving. Her instructions were specific. Stand under the Washington Monument on the west side at precisely 8:00 p.m. He had complained about the jacket. It was hot and humid in Washington in July, he’d said.

But she hadn’t wavered. He would be the only one with a red cap and a military jacket and would be easy to spot.

When he finally reached the monument, he was out of breath. Sweat dripped from under his baseball cap and he wiped it away with his hand. He glanced at his watch: 7:55.

The fireworks would begin in five minutes. He scanned the crowd in all directions but knew he wouldn’t recognize her even if he saw her. Five minutes later the fireworks began, and the crowd cheered and pointed.

Two minutes after the fireworks started he felt something hard in his back. He had never felt the business end of a pistol, but if this wasn’t it, he didn’t want to feel the real thing. A chill ran over him.

“Don’t turn around,” a voice said near his right ear.

It was a man’s voice and raspy. It was the gravelly rattle a voice made after years of smoking cigarettes. It was a voice that he wouldn’t forget. Holland’s heart raced, the sweat poured from all parts of his body, and he almost wet his pants. But he didn’t turn around. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. He barely breathed.

“I’m going to place an envelope in your coat pocket and leave. Count to ten before you move, and remember, we’re watching you.”

Holland felt a hand in his pocket. Then the voice and the man were gone.

Holland counted to ten and jerked around. He breathed easier and looked at and over the crowd. Nothing. There were white faces and black faces and brown faces, but he didn’t see anyone looking at him. He felt something in his pocket as he fought his way through the crowd until he broke free. When he was finally back on Fourteenth Street, he began to run. He could feel the nausea rising up through his esophagus. A block and a half from his car he couldn’t fight it any longer. He propped himself against a brick wall and heaved. Once his stomach was empty, he stumbled to his car. Throwing the army jacket in the rear seat, he sat down in the front. He was breathing hard. He was scared. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for being an investigative reporter. Things were completely out of his control.

Washington DC

Cooper Harrington’s limo eased along the Beltway that encircled the capital area. It was the day after the Fourth of July. He reclined in the back of the car, sipping at a bottle of sparkling water. He wasn’t in any hurry. FBI Director Leslie Hughes sat across from him. He had refused Cooper’s offer of a bottle of water or another drink. The soundproof glass separating the driver from the rear of the car was closed. It wasn’t the first time Cooper and Director Hughes had met like that.

“We just want you to delay in finding Moretti, that’s all.”

“Is this officially coming from the senator’s office?”

Cooper saw right through Director Hughes. He wanted some cover, some protection, and Cooper couldn’t provide it. Not this time. There was only so much he was willing to do for Stella Hanover—and particularly without Senator Proctor’s knowledge. Talking to Director Hughes about it was one thing. Providing official cover was another and completely out of the question.

Cooper smiled and drummed his fingers on the leather seat. “Les—I’m sorry—Director Hughes, you know that nothing is ever official. There won’t be any memo or letter. I’m just telling you that the senator wants this investigation to go as slowly as possible.”

Director Hughes glanced through the window at the automobiles that sped past. “You know the president’s breathing down my neck. Moretti almost killed his precious Supreme Court nominee.”

“But he didn’t, and that’s the important thing.”

“It’s not going to be easy to keep the president at bay. And Moretti killed two other people. What about them?”

“I’m not saying you don’t ever bring Moretti in. Just not right now. Give it a couple of weeks. That’s all I’m asking for. A couple of weeks. And if you say yes, there’ll be a nice surprise in your Panama bank account in the morning.”

Cooper’s voice was smooth and convincing. He showed his white teeth again. Money always bought loyalty from Director Hughes. And Cooper didn’t mind spending as much of NFAR’s money as necessary. It was Stella’s problem, not his, and she would have to pay to correct it.

“Two weeks, Cooper, but that’s it. I’m already looking bad enough that I haven’t caught him before now.”

Cooper’s limo exited the Beltway onto River Road and soon entered the parking lot at Congressional Country Club. It stopped beside Director Hughes’s waiting limo. Several other cars were scattered around the parking lot. The director departed Cooper’s limo. Cooper shook his hand, patted him on the back, and thanked him for helping.

As soon as the door closed, Cooper breathed easier and was on his wireless with Stella Hanover. The limo pulled back onto River Road, toward the District. It moved with a little more haste than previously.

“He said two weeks,” Cooper said. “You better tell Moretti to disappear.”

Cooper listened and ran his hand through his long blond hair. His brow furrowed. Just talking to her caused a headache to begin at the base of the back of his head, and it rose over the top to his forehead. He grimaced and pinched the area between his eyes with his index finger and thumb.

“No, I haven’t talked to Senator Proctor about it. He’s not to know anything, Stella. If this thing goes bad, he’ll be in the clear. And I’m not going down either. You understand me, Stella. This is all on you. I can’t believe you were stupid and desperate enough to try to assassinate a Supreme Court nominee.”

Cooper listened again.

“He’s still going to be confirmed,” Cooper replied after a minute. “This hasn’t changed anything.”

Cooper said good-bye to Stella and rode quietly in the rear of his limo back to the Hart Building. He finished the last of his water and laid the empty bottle on the seat. At least now Stella had one less marker to cash in on him.

Director Hughes settled into the back of his limo. He was all alone. He gave the driver instructions, then the driver raised the soundproof glass. The car began to move, and soon it, too, was on the Capital Beltway. Director Hughes removed a tape recorder from his breast coat pocket. It squawked as he rewound it a short distance and then pressed Play. Cooper’s voice was crystal clear.

“I’m just telling you that the senator wants this investigation to go as slowly as possible,” Cooper’s voice said.

Director Hughes pressed the Stop button and rewound the tape to the beginning. The statement about the Panama bank account would be erased later, he decided. The tape would be labeled and placed in the safe in his office with the other hundred or so similar ones. There was only one real rule in Washington: always cover your back.

The Faulkner residence, Jackson, Tennessee

Eli and Sara spent the Fourth of July holiday in Anne and Tommy Ferguson’s backyard. There were three other families at the cookout. Tommy grilled hot dogs for the kids and steaks for the adults. Eli admitted that he ate too much but took pleasure in it. There were eight kids in all, and they spent the better part of the afternoon splashing around in Anne and Tommy’s swimming pool. Tommy set off an arsenal of fireworks at dark. All the dogs in the neighborhood howled, but only one neighbor complained and threatened to call the police. Tommy told the neighbor that his lawyer—Eli Faulkner—was at the party, and he wasn’t afraid of the police. The police never arrived, and the five men laughed all evening about how tough Tommy had acted.

All during the afternoon, Eli caught Sara gazing at the eight kids. She stood and talked with the other ladies, but Eli saw her glance in the direction of the children often. At least one time he saw her standing near the swimming pool, watching. Eli stopped and watched Sara as she watched the children. He could see that look in her eyes.

That had been two days ago, but Sara hadn’t said anything about it.

When Eli arrived home from work, the lights were dim. Candles flickered on the dining room table, and their places were set with fine china. Romantic music played through the house’s stereo system. He caught the aroma of his favorite meal just as Sara appeared from around the corner. She wore a black cocktail dress, a strand of white pearls, and her blond hair brushed the tops of her shoulders. She was incredibly beautiful, and her appearance made Eli weak in the knees.

“What’s going on?” Eli asked.

“I thought we’d have a quiet, romantic dinner at home tonight.”

She took his hand and led him to the dining room table. Sara’s hand was warm and soft, and Eli loved holding it.

“Is there an anniversary or birthday that I forgot about?” Eli quipped.

When Sara cut her eyes at him, he knew that meant to stop being coy. He pulled a chair out for Sara to sit in and then took his seat at the end of the table. Sara sat to his right.

“No.” Sara smiled. “It’s not an anniversary or a birthday. I just thought it would be nice to sit down and have a candlelight dinner.”

“I think it’s a great idea. I’ve been working late every night. It’s nice to sit down and relax.”

The meal was delicious, and the ambience even better. Eli and Sara sat and talked and laughed more than they had in weeks. He had been working too much, he admitted. The Grissom case was always demanding. And other files had piled up from neglect. She knew he worked too hard, she said. But she also knew that what he did for other people was important.

Eli kissed her hand and gazed into her lovely blue eyes. He was reminded again of how much he loved her and the many reasons he had married her.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too.”

Eli released Sara’s hand and sipped from his water glass. “You’re still thinking about having children, aren’t you?”

“I haven’t thought about it much since we were in Nashville, but being at Anne and Tommy’s the other day made me think about it again.”

Eli rested his water glass on the table and looked into Sara’s eyes again. “I was watching you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The other day at Tommy’s. I was watching you as you were watching the kids playing in the swimming pool.”

Sara averted her eyes from Eli’s gaze. “I wasn’t watching—”

“You don’t have to deny it. I thought it was wonderful the way you looked at them. You’ll make a great mother.”

Eli knew that Sara wanted children. He knew how much Sara wanted to be a mother. But he also knew that she worried about it. She worried about whether she could do all the things a mother did.

She needn’t worry, Eli told her.

“The real question is whether
you’ve
thought any more about it. This is an important decision that we both have to make,” she said.

He lifted his chin. “I have thought about it.”

“And?” She appeared to be holding her breath.

“And I can’t wait.”

Eli and Sara laughed and talked into the evening. They enjoyed each other’s company. Before long, the dishes were put away and the candles were extinguished. The music continued to play softly from the ceiling speakers in each room of the house. And Eli and Sara quietly disappeared into their bedroom.

The Fletcher residence, Washington DC

The white envelope had been perched on the kitchen counter in Holland’s apartment ever since the Fourth of July. He had walked by it often and had even picked it up and looked at it on three separate occasions. But he had always tossed it back down. He just couldn’t bring himself to open it.

He’d thought about the possibility of running it through the shredder and forgetting about it. And when
she
called again, he would tell her that he was through. Finished. She could take whatever information was in the envelope to someone else. He didn’t want it. He was convinced that he was a pawn in a game he knew he didn’t want to be in.

Or he could be brave and open it. But he didn’t feel very brave. In fact, he still felt very scared. He didn’t like having a pistol—he was convinced it was a pistol—stuck in his back. Maybe bravery wasn’t the right motivation.

Holland had had that conversation with himself many times over the past several days. But he decided that today, Saturday, was the day he had to either fish or cut bait. No more talking with himself about it. Either open it or shred it. He finally decided that if he was going to be a reporter—an
investigative
reporter—he had no choice but to open it. He owed it to his employer, the public, and to himself to find out what was inside the mysterious envelope.