“Morning, Nana,” I said as I poured a cup of steaming coffee from her pot. The best to you each morning and all that. I sipped the coffee and it tasted even more wonderful than it smelled. The woman can cook. She can also talk, think, illuminate, irritate.
“Morning, Alex,” she said, as if nothing bad had happened the night before. Tough as nails. She didn’t want to upset the kids, to alarm them in any way. Neither did I.
“Somebody will be by to look at our phone.” I told her what Sampson and I had discussed the night before. “Somebody will be around for a few days, too. A detective. Probably it will be Rakeem Powell. You know Rakeem.”
Nana didn’t like that news one bit. “Of course I know Rakeem. I taught Rakeem in school for heaven’s sake. Rakeem has no business here, though. This is our home, Alex. This is so terrible. I just don’t think I can stand it… that it’s happening here.”
“What’s wrong with our telephone?” Jannie wanted to know.
“It works,” I told my little girl.
CHAPTER
72
THE TWO MURDER CASES were beginning to feel like a single, relentless nightmare. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath anymore. My stomach was in knots and apparently would stay that way for the duration of the investigation. The situation was Kafkaesque, and it was wearing down the entire Metro police force. No one could remember anything like it.
I had decided to keep Damon home with Nana and Detective Rakeem Powell for a few days. Just to be on the safe side. Hopefully, we’d find thirteen-year-old Sumner Moore soon, and half the horror story would be ended.
I continued to suspect either that Sumner Moore wanted to be caught or that he would be soon. The carelessness in both murders indicated it. I hoped that he wouldn’t kill another child before we found him.
I considered moving Nana and the kids to one of my aunts’, but held back. Rakeem Powell would stay with them at the house. That seemed enough chaos and disruption to force into their lives. For the moment anyway.
Besides, I was almost certain Nana wouldn’t have moved to one of her sisters’ without a huge battle and casualties. Fifth Street was her home. She would rather fight than switch. Occasionally, she had.
I drove to the White House very early in the morning. I sat in a basement office with a mug of coffee and a two-foot-thick stack of classified papers to read and ponder. There were literally hundreds of CIA reports and internal memos on Kevin Hawkins and the other CIA “ghosts.”
I met with Don Hamerman; the attorney general, James Dowd; and Jay Grayer at a little past nine. We used an ornate conference room near the Oval Office in the West Wing. I recalled that the White House had originally been built to intimidate visitors, especially foreign dignitaries. It still had that effect, especially under the current circumstances. The “American mansion” was huge, and every room seemed formal and imposing.
Hamerman was surprisingly subdued at the meeting. “You made quite an impression on the President,” he said. “You made your point w
ith him, too.”
“What happens now?” I asked. “What actions do we take? Obviously, I’d like to help.”
“We’ve initiated some extremely sensitive investigations,” Hamerman said. “The FBI will be handling them.” Hamerman looked around the room. It seemed to me that he was reaffirming his power, his clout.
“Is that it, what you wanted to tell me?” I asked him after a few seconds of silence.
“That’s it for now. You got it started. That’s something. It’s a really big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” I said. “It’s a fucking murder investigation in the White House!” I got up and went back to my office. I had work to do. I kept reminding myself that I was part of the “team.”
Hamerman peeked his head into the office about eleven-thirty. His eyes were wider and wilder than usual. I thought that maybe he’d changed his mind about the latest investigation—or had his mind changed for him.
He didn’t look himself.
“The President wants to see us immediately.”
CHAPTER
73
PRESIDENT BYRNES personally greeted each of us on the crisis team as we entered the Oval Office, which was indeed oval. “Thank you for coming. Hello, Jay, Ann, Jeanne, Alex. I know how busy you are, and the tremendous pressure you’re all working under,” he said as we walked in and began to take seats.
The crisis team had been assembled, but President Byrnes clearly dominated the room and the unscheduled meeting. He was dressed in a dark blue chief executive’s business suit. His sandy-brown hair was freshly barbered, and I couldn’t help wondering if it had just been cut that morning, and if it had, where did he get the time?
What had happened now? Had Jack and Jill contacted the White House again?