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Authors: David Rollins
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you’ll be in danger. Removing them to a more secure place puts you out of harm’s way.”
It was a good speech, but wide of the truth. Security was an issue, sure, but, more accurately, Masters had acted quickly to remove the general’s records from his house so that we could pick through them at our leisure, in a place of our choosing, rather than have Mrs. Harmony Scott continually hovering over our shoulders. A couple of seconds with the general’s widow told me Masters had done the right thing. And, as Masters said, just maybe we’d find something of interest among these records. I had to admit, it was a good piece of decisive police work.
“I want you to know officially that I object, and that I will do everything in my power to have my husband’s effects returned. I will also do my best to put a full stop on your impertinent careers.”
Mrs. Scott had a whiskey aura. It wasn’t quite midday and already she was into the sauce. Despite her unpleasant manner, I felt sorry for her on the one hand and thirsty on the other. Losing someone close was tough, but at least she had single malt to lean on. Whiskey was also my crutch of choice, with bourbon as the footstool. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Scott,” I said, “but I agree with Special Agent Masters. We have no leads on your husband’s killer. We don’t know who, or why. Removing his records might help remedy that situation. I will also be recommending to General von Koeppen that you receive twenty-four-hour protection.”
Harmony Scott stared at me with a cold ferocity in her pale gray eyes and I saw in them her father, the Vice President: Jefferson Cutter, the man often referred to as “Jeff the Cutter,” “the Ripper,” or “Toe Cutter” by the Washington press corps. At sixty-eight years of age, JC was getting on in life now but he was still supposedly the most powerful man in D.C. In fact, Cutter was also called the Ventriloquist, on account of that’s how far his hand went up the President’s ass. Harmony Scott’s stare was unsettling, the way a viper holds you before it strikes. But only her eyes held anger, danger. The rest of her face was completely devoid of expression, like it belonged to someone else, a mask of porcelain and just as cold. Botox. “You will do no such thing,” she said, taking a step toward me, getting inside my personal space—coiling—so that I had to take half a step back. Then she turned and went inside her home, slamming the heavy front door in our faces.
“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” I said. I had a bunch of questions I wanted to put to the widow, but they would have to wait until she was in a more amenable mood to answer them. “Where’s the hired help?” I asked.
“Let go,” said Masters as we walked down the stairs. “Fired months ago. She gets a professional cleaning company in once a week.”
“The woman’s in that big house alone? No friends or relatives?”
Masters nodded.
“What about her mother?” I asked.
“She doesn’t have one.”
“What, ever?”
“I believe her mother died in childbirth.”
“You’re starting to scare me,” I said.
Masters shrugged. Her cell began playing that KC and the Sunshine Band number. She answered it. “It’s for you.”
“Me?” I took the phone and stepped off the porch into the garden, and began to walk slowly back to the front gate.
“What in fuck’s name is going on there, Cooper?” snarled the voice through the speaker. “You’ve been there less than a day and already I’m being pressured to have you sent home.” It was General Gruyere.
“General, I’m just doing my job.”
“That’s not what I’m hearing.”
I glanced at my Seiko. I figured von Koeppen must have called her as soon as he got off the line with his president, a good forty minutes ago. It was just after 0600 back at Andrews. I sympathized with Gruyere’s mood. If someone woke me at that ungodly hour, I’d have to shoot them. “Also, I’ve
It was a good speech, but wide of the truth. Security was an issue, sure, but, more accurately, Masters had acted quickly to remove the general’s records from his house so that we could pick through them at our leisure, in a place of our choosing, rather than have Mrs. Harmony Scott continually hovering over our shoulders. A couple of seconds with the general’s widow told me Masters had done the right thing. And, as Masters said, just maybe we’d find something of interest among these records. I had to admit, it was a good piece of decisive police work.
“I want you to know officially that I object, and that I will do everything in my power to have my husband’s effects returned. I will also do my best to put a full stop on your impertinent careers.”
Mrs. Scott had a whiskey aura. It wasn’t quite midday and already she was into the sauce. Despite her unpleasant manner, I felt sorry for her on the one hand and thirsty on the other. Losing someone close was tough, but at least she had single malt to lean on. Whiskey was also my crutch of choice, with bourbon as the footstool. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Scott,” I said, “but I agree with Special Agent Masters. We have no leads on your husband’s killer. We don’t know who, or why. Removing his records might help remedy that situation. I will also be recommending to General von Koeppen that you receive twenty-four-hour protection.”
Harmony Scott stared at me with a cold ferocity in her pale gray eyes and I saw in them her father, the Vice President: Jefferson Cutter, the man often referred to as “Jeff the Cutter,” “the Ripper,” or “Toe Cutter” by the Washington press corps. At sixty-eight years of age, JC was getting on in life now but he was still supposedly the most powerful man in D.C. In fact, Cutter was also called the Ventriloquist, on account of that’s how far his hand went up the President’s ass. Harmony Scott’s stare was unsettling, the way a viper holds you before it strikes. But only her eyes held anger, danger. The rest of her face was completely devoid of expression, like it belonged to someone else, a mask of porcelain and just as cold. Botox. “You will do no such thing,” she said, taking a step toward me, getting inside my personal space—coiling—so that I had to take half a step back. Then she turned and went inside her home, slamming the heavy front door in our faces.
“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” I said. I had a bunch of questions I wanted to put to the widow, but they would have to wait until she was in a more amenable mood to answer them. “Where’s the hired help?” I asked.
“Let go,” said Masters as we walked down the stairs. “Fired months ago. She gets a professional cleaning company in once a week.”
“The woman’s in that big house alone? No friends or relatives?”
Masters nodded.
“What about her mother?” I asked.
“She doesn’t have one.”
“What, ever?”
“I believe her mother died in childbirth.”
“You’re starting to scare me,” I said.
Masters shrugged. Her cell began playing that KC and the Sunshine Band number. She answered it. “It’s for you.”
“Me?” I took the phone and stepped off the porch into the garden, and began to walk slowly back to the front gate.
“What in fuck’s name is going on there, Cooper?” snarled the voice through the speaker. “You’ve been there less than a day and already I’m being pressured to have you sent home.” It was General Gruyere.
“General, I’m just doing my job.”
“That’s not what I’m hearing.”
I glanced at my Seiko. I figured von Koeppen must have called her as soon as he got off the line with his president, a good forty minutes ago. It was just after 0600 back at Andrews. I sympathized with Gruyere’s mood. If someone woke me at that ungodly hour, I’d have to shoot them. “Also, I’ve
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