The irony of his harsh judgment brought a sudden smile to his lips. The morality of a stone-cold killer—how droll! How insane. How very cool.
He watched the two of them move onto the large terrace off the lobby. He followed several paces behind. The Potomac stretched out before them and was black as night. A dinner-cruise boat from Alexandria—the Dandy—was floating by.
The sheer curtains between the lobby and terrace flapped dramatically in the crisp river wind. Kevin Hawkins carefully moved toward the Supreme Court justice and his beautiful date. He took more mind photos of the two of them.
He noted that Justice Franklin’s white shirt was a size too small, grabbing at his neck. The yellow silk tie was too loud for his subdued gray suit. Charlotte Kinsey had a quick, sweet smile that was irresistible. She had lovely rounded breasts. Her long black hair swirled in the river breeze.
He physically brushed against the two of them. He got that close to Charlotte and Thomas. He actually touched the law student’s long shiny hair. He could smell her perfume. Opium or Shalimar. Snapshot.
He was right there. So close. He was practically on top of them, in every sense of the phrase.
His mind’s eye continued to snap off photo after photo of the two of them. He would never forget any of this, not a single frame of the intimate murder scene.
He could see, hear, touch, smell; and yet he couldn’t feel a thing.
Kevin Hawkins resisted all human impulses now. No pity. No guilt. No shame. And no mercy.
The law student carried a leather bag on her left shoulder. It was slightly open, just a sliver, just enough. Ah, carefree, casual, careless youth.
The photojournalist was good with his hands. Still good. Still steady. Still very quick. Still one of the best.
He slid something into her bag. C’est ça. That was it! Success. The first of the night.
Neither she nor Justice Franklin noticed the fleeting movement, or him, as he passed by in the crowd. He was the river breeze, the night, the light of the moon.
He felt incredible exhilaration at that special moment. There was nothing in the world like this. The power in taking, stealing, another human life was like nothing else in the full palette of human experiences.
The hard part was over, he knew. The close work. Now the simple act of murder.
To murder in public view.
And not get caught.
His heart suddenly jumped, bucked horribly. Something was going wrong. Very wrong. As wrong as could be. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
Jesus, Charlotte Kinsey was reaching into her bag.
Snapshot.
She’d found the note he’d left there—the note from Jack and Jill! Wrong, wrong, wrong!
Snapshot.
She was looking at it curiously, wondering what it was, wondering how it had gotten in her handbag.
She began to unfold the note, and he could feel his temples pounding horribly. She had gotten the justice’s attention. He glanced down at the note as well.
Nooooo! Jesus, nooo, he wanted to scream.
Kevin Hawkins operated on pure instinct. The purest. No time to second-guess himself now.
He moved forward very quickly and surely.
His Luger was out, dangling below his waist. The gun was concealed because of the closeness of the crowd, the forest of legs and arms, pleated trousers, fluffed dresses.
He raised and fired the Luger just once. Tricky angle, too. Far from ideal. He saw the sudden blossom of crimson red. The body jolted, then crumbled and fell to the marble floor.
A heartshot! Certainly a miracle, or close to it. God was on his side, no?