LITMIR.BIZ

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Katherine Johnson, 10 Barrow Street, Greenwich Village.’

      ‘Hey, what is this?’ Parker demanded.

      ‘Didn’t you know?’ Romano looked surprised. ‘The guy who found her, Richardson? He was hanging around and discovered her purse. She must have dropped it when she went over the pier. Plenty of ID.’

      ‘Okay. Fine. Let’s get on with it. Why did you say this stinks?’

      ‘She’s a nice lady, well nourished, good condition, about forty years of age.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘So she died of a massive heroin overdose. Enough to kill her twice over. It doesn’t fit. Someone like her, in her condition? Plus, someone on that stuff at a high level would have needle sores all over. She only had two – the recent ones. One in the left thigh, the other in the right buttock. And what was she doing in the water?’

      ‘Accidentally overdosed and fell in?’

      ‘Maybe. But I doubt it. Like I said, she wasn’t an addict. And another thing. Her medical insurance card was in her purse and I checked it out. She was a lefty.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘Harry, with the greatest will in the world, I can’t see a left-handed person injecting herself in the side of the right buttock. It’s possible but unlikely.’

      He reached for a De Soutter vibratory saw.

      ‘So you’re saying she was stiffed by someone?’

      ‘Harry, like you, I’ve spent years in the death business. You get a smell for it. Yes, I’d say someone wasted her.’

      ‘Which means I’ve got a murder case on my hands.’

      ‘I’d say so. Now I’m about to take off the skullcap, so if you’re not too happy about that, I’d leave.’

      ‘Excellent advice. I’ll take it,’ said Harry Parker, and he turned and left.

      He found his way to Abruzzi’s office. She was seated at her desk, working away.

      ‘I hear you turned up ID on the Jane Doe,’ he said. ‘Let me see.’

      ‘It’s an interesting one. She’s a reporter for Truth magazine, named Katherine Johnson. I did a computer printout. Divorced, no children. Her husband was a guy called Blake Johnson, FBI.’

      Parker’s mouth went dry. ‘Blake Johnson?’

      ‘That’s right. You know him?’

      ‘We’ve worked together. Except he isn’t FBI anymore. He works for the President.’

      ‘Jesus, is this a hot one, Captain?’

      ‘I’d say as hot as they come. You zip your mouth tight, Sergeant.’

      ‘If you say so.’

      ‘Jesus,’ he said again. He looked at her. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of anything here, would you, Sergeant?’

      She hesitated, then took a half-bottle of Irish whiskey from a drawer in her desk. ‘For medicinal purposes,’ she said.

      ‘And sometimes we need it. Sergeant, you’re working for me now. I’ll take care of things with your lieutenant. The first thing I want you to do is call the White House and ask for a woman named Alice Quarmby. Got that? That’s Johnson’s assistant. I need to talk to her.’

      He turned to the window, stared out, and took another swig from the bottle. Abruzzi called to him, he turned and took the phone.

      ‘Alice? Harry Parker. Is Blake there?’

      ‘He’s with the President, Harry.’

      ‘Damn.’

      There was a pause. ‘Is it important?’

      So he told her.

      In the Oval Office, President Jake Cazalet sat at his desk, Blake Johnson on the other side, as they reviewed the latest intelligence reports on the Irish peace process. The President’s favourite Secret Service man, Clancy Smith, a tall, black Gulf veteran, stood by the door. The phone rang and Cazalet picked it up.

      ‘Alice Quarmby, Mr President.’

      ‘Hello, Alice, you want Blake?’

      ‘No, Mr President, I need you.’

      He straightened, aware from the tone of her voice that something was very badly wrong.

      ‘Tell me, Alice.’

      She did, and a minute later he replaced the phone and turned to Blake, genuine pain on his face, for this was a man he liked more than most, a man who had helped save his beloved daughter’s life, who had saved the President himself from assassination.

      Blake, sitting there in shirtsleeves, papers in front of him, said, ‘What’s the problem, Mr President? What did Alice say?’

      Cazalet stood up and walked to the window, watching the rain drifting across Capitol Hill. He summoned up all his strength and turned.

      ‘Blake, you’re a true friend and one of the finest men I’ve known, and I’m going to hurt you now in the most terrible way. At least, thank God, it’s me.’

      Blake looked puzzled. ‘Mr President?’

      And Cazalet gave him the dreadful news.

      When he was done, he ordered, ‘Whisky, Clancy, a large one.’

      Clancy was at the sideboard at once and back within seconds with a crystal glass half-filled with bourbon. He handed it to Blake, who stared at it, frowning, then swallowed it whole. He put the glass down on the desk.

      ‘I’m sorry, Mr President. This is quite a shock. Although my wife and I were divorced, we’ve always stayed close, and now I…May I phone Alice back?’

      ‘Of course. Use the anteroom for privacy, then we’ll talk.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Clancy opened the door and Blake went out.

      ‘Clancy,’ Cazalet said, ‘I need a cigarette.’

      Clancy found a pack, shook one out, and gave it to him. ‘Mr President.’

      Cazalet inhaled deeply. ‘These got me through Vietnam, Clancy. Blake, too, I suspect. What about you? In the Gulf?’

      ‘Long days of boredom, broken by moments of sheer terror? Yes sir, a cigarette came in handy now and then.’

      Cazalet nodded. ‘Old soldiers, the three of us.’ He sighed. ‘He doesn’t deserve this, Clancy. If there’s anything we can do for him, I’d appreciate it.’

      ‘My privilege, Mr President.’

      Twenty minutes later Blake returned, his face grey, eyes burning.

      ‘Is there anything I can do to help, Blake?’

      ‘No, Mr President, except with your permission I need to get to New York now.’

      Cazalet turned to Clancy Smith. ‘Make the call and get the Gulfstream ready to take Blake to New York immediately.’

      ‘You got it, Mr President,’ and Clancy went out fast.

      Cazalet turned to Blake. ‘My friend, do you have any kind of idea what happened?’

      ‘No, Mr President.’ Blake pulled on his jacket. ‘But I intend to find out. And with Harry Parker helping me, that’s just what I’ll do.’ He held out his hand. ‘Many thanks, Mr President, for your understanding.’

      He turned and went out.

       3

      In Parker’s

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