Murder in the Supreme Court (Capital Crimes Series Book 3) (17 page)

He started to say something but she went on quickly.
“No, Chester, you don’t have to worry about me, and I think you know that. We’ve been sucked into something that ended up destroying Clarence. It’s over now. His death, as tragic as it was, has at least seen to that.”

Sutherland sat back, straightened out his fingers and examined his nails, positioning them on the palm of his other hand like a jeweler creating a scrim for his gems. Apparently satisfied with their condition, he looked at her and said, “It will all work out, won’t it, Vera?”

“Of course it will, doctor.”

“Thank you, Vera.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” she said, going to the door. “We do what we have to do… I mean, we go on…”

Sutherland sat on his couch after she was gone and stared at that portion of the wall where the file cabinets and safe were hidden behind. He went to the phone in his smaller office, consulted a small black book he’d taken from his desk, dialed a number. William Stalk, director of the Central Intelligence Agency’s science and technology division, who at the moment happened to be playing a video space-invader game with his son, answered. “Good morning, Chester. To what do I owe the pleasure of this
early
morning call to my home?”

“I’m sure you know why I’m calling, Bill.”

Silence.

“There’s been a break-in at my office. It happened last night.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Any damage?”

“No, but my files were invaded.”

He laughed. “I hope they didn’t snitch anything juicy about your patients. That could be embarrassing for a lot of people.”

Sutherland started to mention the missing MKULTRA
files but held back his words, saying instead, “I’d like to see you, Bill.”

“I’ll be at home all morning. My wife reminded me a few weeks ago that I’d been spending too little time with my boy, so I blocked out part of today. We’ve been playing one of those games on TV where electronic enemy blobs keep coming at you fast and furious. He’s a lot better at it than I am, but then again he gets more practice. The damn things are addictive.”

“When can I see you?”

“How about this afternoon, at my office? Three o’clock.”

“I’ll be there, count on it.”

***

Vera Jones sat behind her desk. A lighted button on the telephone went out. She picked up a pencil and began writing on a pad. Moments later Sutherland came into her office. “Cancel any patients I have today,” he said.

“All right. There were only four. I’ll call them.”

“And you might as well go home after you’ve made the calls. I’ll be gone all day.”

“Perhaps I will. Thank you.”

She stayed at the office the rest of the day, rearranging files, typing dictated notes of patient sessions left for her by Sutherland and doing what was an obsession with her—retyping pages in a master telephone book that contained not a single handwritten entry or cross-out.

At six-thirty, after washing her coffee cup, she took from a concealed compartment in her desk a file folder with a typed label at the top that read, POULSON, J., opened the cover and read the first page, then went through a dozen additional pages, each filled with lines of pristine typing. Had someone taken the time and interest to compare the pages in Poulson’s file with materials in other files, they might have wondered why his pages, presuming to cover months of sessions and resulting notes, were all freshly
typed, as though they’d been done in a single sitting, which was the case. Vera was aware of the inconsistency and wished it weren’t so, but there had been no other way to duplicate the missing file. She’d typed the new pages from what she’d remembered of the originals, the doctor’s comments and analytic perceptions. It was the best she could do and, she reminded herself, the chances of it being discovered were remote. The Poulson file was a dead one. He hadn’t been a patient in a long time. There was no reason for Dr. Sutherland to review his case, which was why his asking about it concerned her. She’d kept the reconstructed file in her special hiding place ever since making it, reluctant to put it to the test in the MNOP drawer. Now, she knew she would have to. She double-checked every lock in the office, turned out the lights and went to her car, where she sat for some ten minutes, the motor running, her body trembling against the cold and inner anxiety. Once the heater had come to life she drove off to her apartment. She sat for a moment in front of it, trying to decide whether to go inside or to go on. The thought of spending a long night alone was nearly unbearable. She shifted into DRIVE and headed down the Rockville Turnpike, south on Wisconsin to Connecticut Avenue and down Connecticut to Lafayette Park, where she sat at a red light and stared at the White House. Most of its windows were alive with pale yellow light, and the porte-cochere designed for Thomas Jefferson that covered the north entrance, and that was favored by visiting heads of state, was illuminated by spotlights. The traffic light turned green; she continued to stare. A motorist behind her blew his horn. She came erect, glanced in her rearview mirror and proceeded through the intersection.

She felt the onset of panic. She drove by rote, passing corner after corner, wanting to turn at each of them. Eventually she crossed the Kutz Memorial Bridge and parked
along the Tidal Basin under Japanese cherry trees that were waiting for spring.

“My God, what’s happening to me,” she said as she gripped the wheel and tried to squeeze control into her body. She hated herself when she allowed this to happen. It was weak, pathetic, dangerous. It always frightened her to become confused. She was usually the one who could see things clearly in the midst of chaos, focus on the real issues, make crucial decisions to restore order and resolve conflicts.

But now she sat alone and afraid, and desperately wished there was someone to comfort her, to grab hold of, to touch and be touched by. The sense of weakness was overwhelming. She started the car and drove to M Street, Northwest, in Georgetown, where after considerable searching she found a parking spot. As she walked up the street the sound of loud community singing and a piano came through the partially open front door of Club Julie. She almost turned and retraced her steps to her car but the pull of the music, the human voices, laughter, drew her inside.

The club was unusually crowded for a weeknight. The smoke was thick, which was why the front door had been propped open.

She’d decided that if she couldn’t find a secluded place at the bar she wouldn’t stay. She wasn’t one for joining in community sing-alongs, although she rather enjoyed listening and watching others indulge. She’d felt uncomfortable the last time she’d been here, which was the only other time. Her escort had insisted on sitting close to the piano. She thought about that night and winced.

She glanced nervously about. A stool at the corner of the bar nearest the front door appeared to be vacant, so she went to it. A reasonably well-dressed man on the next stool smiled and said, “Hello there.”

“Is this seat taken?” she asked. She noticed an empty beer glass in front of it.

“I think he left,” the man said. “It’s all yours.”

She sat and waited to be served.

“Let me buy the lady a drink,” the man told the bartender.

“Thank you, no,” Vera said. To the bartender: “A vodka and tonic, please.”

When the bartender returned with her drink he said, “Haven’t seen you in a long time.”

She was startled by the comment. “I’ve been very busy,” she said, wishing he hadn’t spoken to her.

“Yeah, right,” said the bartender. “Anyway, good to see you again. Enjoy.”

Julie played a song familiar to the man next to her, who began to sing, turned to her and said between the lines, “Know this one?”

She shook her head.

He stopped singing. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I was only here once, a long time ago.”

“Nice place. I don’t get here much myself but I was coming home from a meeting and thought I’d stop in for a pop and a little music.”

She sipped her drink.

“You live around here?”

“No.”

“Work in the neighborhood?”

“No.”

“I’m vice-president of a computer company. We’re not very big but…” He pulled out a business card and shoved it at her. She tried to read it in the dim light.

“Name’s George Jansson,” he said, extending his hand.

She took it. “My name is Vera.”

“Vera? Nice name, very old-fashioned.” He scratched his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a Vera before.” He laughed. “Lots of Georges around, though. Can I buy you a refill?” He held up both hands to offset a negative reply. “No strings, no ulterior motives. I just enjoy talking to you.”
He looked down the length of the bar and called out, “Robbie, another round here.”

He shouldn’t have had any additional drinks, Vera decided twenty minutes later. He’d become tipsy, not less of a gentleman, just sillier. She didn’t dislike him. His hair was close cropped and gray at the temples, he had kind eyes.

“Another?” he asked.

“No, thank you, I really must go.”

“It’s too early. Come on, hang in, or at least keep me company.”

“I’m sorry but it’s been a rather difficult day and tomorrow will be the same…”

Julie announced that he was about to play a request and that a favorite regular patron would sing it. A portly man wearing a shirt collar too tight for him, and carrying a drink, stepped to the microphone and waited for Julie to play the introduction to “Chicago.” He sang with gusto, pronouncing the title, “Chick-cargo, Chick-cargo.”

Vera’s bar companion called for another round of drinks.

“No, please, I can’t stay—”

“How about a nightcap someplace else?”

“I’m sorry…”

He put his hand on her arm and looked at her. “Look, you don’t have to worry. I’m a pretty nice guy, if I do say so. I just… well, I like being able to talk to a woman. I’m not hustling you, please believe me. We could just go and have coffee, just sit a little longer, that’s all.”

It was, of course, just what she wanted, in fact badly needed… “Well, all right, but just for a bit…”

“Do you have a car?”

“Yes.”

“Tell you what. There’s an all-night place six blocks straight up M Street. I’ll meet you there. They have great cheesecake. You like cheesecake?”

“Yes, matter of fact I do.” She found herself able to smile. He
was
nice.

“Good.” He paid the checks, helped her on with her coat, said good night to the bartender and held the door open for her. The cold night air felt very good on her face.

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

She pointed. “Two blocks up.”

“I’ll walk you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“My pleasure. Never mind what they say, chivalry isn’t dead, and it doesn’t cost a dime.” He took her arm and they started up the street.

Their progress did not go unnoticed. Detective Martin Teller had pulled up at the curb across from Club Julie as they were leaving. He recognized Vera immediately. “What the hell is she doing here?” he asked himself. He considered following them but saw that they’d stopped at a car. The man opened the door and Vera got in.

“And who is that?” Teller asked himself as he got out of his car and went into his favorite club. The seats previously occupied by Vera and the computer executive were still vacant, and he took one. “Robbie,” he called to the bartender.

“Hiya, Marty,” Robbie said, “good to see you.”

“Same here. Robbie, that woman who just left with the guy in the suit. Do you know her?”

Robbie shrugged, shook his head.

“Did she come in with the guy?”

“No. He bought her a couple of drinks and they took off. He comes in regularly, though.”

“You never saw her before?”

Robbie leaned on the bar. “Yeah, I’ve seen her before, once, I think.”

“In here?”

“Yeah, months ago.”

“Tell me about it.”

Robbie made another customer’s drink, filled a waitress’s order at the service end of the bar, then returned to Teller. “What can I tell you, Marty? I can’t remember every woman who comes in here.”

“Try.”

“Important?”

“Maybe. Give me a gin while you go down memory lane.”

He came back with the drink. “Okay, I do remember more about her than I might some others. She’s a type, you know, very uptight, sort of prissy, pinched face like she kind of disapproves of everything. For some reason she didn’t strike me as the sort who’d enjoy our place. Most everybody’s pretty loose here, right?… Let me see. Oh yeah, there’s another reason for remembering her. The real reason, I guess… She had a tiff with a guy at the bar and left.”

“The same guy as tonight?”

“No, no, a lot younger.”

“She pick him up here?”

“Nope. They came in together, and that was another reason I remember them. He didn’t look like he belonged here either. He was young, a sort of snotty character if I remember right. Good-looking guy, though, dressed nice. They didn’t fit in here, and they didn’t seem to fit together either. Still, who knows who fits with who anymore? Anyway, they sat down there.” He pointed to the end of the bar nearest the piano. “I served them and everything was okay for a while, but then they started arguing. I think I tried to finesse them out of it, offered a drink on the house, something like that.”

“How’d it end up?”

“
That
I remember. She left and he stayed. I think he ended up leaving with another girl.”

Teller drank half his drink. Robbie started to walk away but Teller said, “Wait, Robbie. Tell me what the guy looked like.”

“I don’t really remember. Like I said, he was young, blond, snotty, looked down his nose all night.”

“Remember the picture of the Supreme Court clerk who was murdered?”

The bartender rubbed his chin. “Sure, what was his name?”

“Sutherland.”

“Right… Jesus…”

“What?”

“That’s right, that could have been the guy she was with that night. It looked like him…”

Teller sat back and threw up his hands. “Here I am investigating the most important murder case in Washington history, aside from Lincoln, and you, a trained observer of mankind, miss something like this. Was it the same guy or not, damn it.”