Robert Andrews - A Murder of Justice

Jose got through Rhinelander’s bureaucratese before Frank did. “Nobody’s presuming anything, Congressman. We want to know what Mr. Gentry was doing and why he was doing it. If we know that, we might find out who killed him. We’d appreciate your help to establish what Kevin Gentry was doing before he was killed.”

Rhinelander smiled condescendingly. “Very well put, Detective Phelps. And that means precisely… what?”

“It means we want to find out who he was dealing with and what the dealing was about.”

Rhinelander’s smile disappeared. “And that means…?”

Irritated over Rhinelander’s none-too-subtle baiting, Frank cut in: “That means we need access to people and records so we can build a timeline for Gentry’s activities.”

“You don’t believe that it was a case of Kevin being unlucky?” Rhinelander persisted. “Someone with a gun looking for any available target?”

“That’s only one possibility,” Jose said.

Rhinelander, his face a flat, expressionless mask, stared steadily at Jose. “I am the first to appreciate the value of good police work,” he said, with a righteous air. “Some of my colleagues complain to me that they’ve seen too little of it here in Washington. But I support your efforts fully. I’m inclined to have the subcommittee assist you. I hope you appreciate that.”

Rhinelander looked expectantly at Frank, Jose, and Janowitz.

“Well?” he asked. “Do you?”

“I’m sorry,” Frank said. “Do I… what?”

“I didn’t hear you say that you appreciated it… that I’d have the subcommittee assist you.”

It took Frank a moment to realize what Rhinelander wanted. “Yes. Of course, Congressman, we appreciate it.”

Rhinelander almost purred. “Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

“If you have a moment?” Jose asked.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Gentry… could you describe your relationship with him? He was your staff director for, what, four years?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh?”

“It was less than four years,” Rhinelander said emphatically. “Three months less. And a couple of days.”

“Okay. How was the relationship?”

Rhinelander cleared his throat. “If it had been anything but excellent, Detective Phelps, Kevin wouldn’t have stayed on as staff director. He was very industrious… and very loyal.”

“What was the social relationship?” Frank asked.

“Socially?” Rhinelander asked. “We weren’t social… friends.” He leaned forward. “We had a splendid working relationship. I’m certain Kevin had friends. But I never met them.”

“In an interview after his death,” Frank continued, “you said that you saw him a little less than an hour before he was shot.”

“Yes.”

“Did he seem worried? Distracted?”

“Worried-no. Preoccupied-yes. We were getting ready for the annual District budget hearings. He had a lot on his plate.”

“The preoccupation… do you think it was about getting the work done? Or something to do with what he’d found out?”

Rhinelander held up a hand in a “Stop” motion. “That is so speculative that it’s ridiculous. I’m not going to answer.”

“I know the difference between fact and speculation, sir,” Frank said, feeling his face warming. “What someone like you thinks can be of help. That’s what I’m asking.”

Rhinelander stiffened slightly, then put on a small, patient smile. “Very well, Detective Kearney, my best speculation is that Kevin was harried by the amount of work. That’s not unusual. If a staffer isn’t overworked, he isn’t doing his job.”

A hidden loudspeaker buzzed angrily. Rhinelander’s eyes jumped to the clock on his wall.

“Ten minutes to get to the floor, gentlemen,” he said, standing, and shooting out his shirtsleeves so that his heavy gold cuff links shone in the late-afternoon light. “If you’ll excuse me…”

Jose’s mouth tightened. “Mr. Congressman Rhinelander’s used to talking down.”

“Don’t you appreciate that?” Frank bantered.

“Appreciate my ass,” Jose said sourly. “Like he was holding up a doggy bone and wanting us to roll over. Did you get the impression he was trying to put some air between Gentry and himself?”

“The bit about ‘three months less’?”

“Yeah. And when you asked him about a personal relationship with Gentry… he acted like you’d asked him if he sat in the back of the bus.”

“Or drank California wine.”

“A place for everybody, and everybody in their place.”

“You guys finished up here?” Janowitz asked. “I’ll get to my cubicle and start.”

Frank shook his head. “Are for now. Wish we were for good. Hoser and I have a dinner date.”

“Sexy chicks?”

“Not our luck, Leon,” Jose said. “Two hairy-legged guys from the Bureau.”

Robin Bouchard met Frank and Jose at the corner of Ninth and D, across from Bureau headquarters.

“When he heard about Pencil skipping, Atkins asked me if there was anything we could do to help,” Bouchard explained. “I suggested he have you guys over, he could ask you himself.”

“And so dinner,” Frank said.

“And so dinner.” Bouchard motioned to a nearby doorway.

Jose did a double-take. “The Caucus Room? I can’t float a second mortgage.”

Bouchard shrugged. “Atkins has a slush fund, and the Bureau cafeteria has rats.”

“Nice of him to worry about us,” Jose said.

Bouchard did his wise-guy grin. “Atkins isn’t doing a Dudley Do-Right.”

“He getting heat?” Frank asked.

“Probably.”

“You don’t know?”

Bouchard shook his head. “I’m not on his share-my-soul list.” He paused at the door. “Matter of fact, this is the first time I’ve been here.” He pulled the door open.

Inside, a hostess in something very Italian and very expensive smiled as though greeting an afternoon lover. Bouchard mentioned Atkins’s name. The hostess’s smile grew wider.

“The Roosevelt Room, gentlemen,” she purred.

She led the three down a lushly carpeted corridor past larger dining rooms, to a mahogany door with heavy brass fittings.

Jose whistled softly.

“I’m impressed,” Frank said.

The private room resembled a Victorian library: leather-bound volumes in walnut bookcases, green shaded reading lamps beside morocco-leather club chairs, a massive globe in a bronze cradle near a coal fireplace. Oil portraits of the Roosevelts, Theodore and Franklin, bracketed the fireplace.

Near a set of double doors that apparently led into the kitchen, a slender white man in a severe dark suit whispered to a young black waiter. Frank couldn’t hear what was going on, but from the body language, he guessed the two were getting their signals straight for the coming dinner crowd. The waiter’s eyes shifted to Robin, Frank, and Jose, and the suit turned around.

“Gentlemen?”

“Here for dinner with Mr. Atkins,” Robin said.

The man came closer, and Frank could read his silver name tag: “Thurmond.”

Thurmond then led them to a table closest to the window.

“Mr. Atkins,” Thurmond said, “likes to sit facing the door.” With that, he walked to the waiters’ station and returned with three menus. “Dobbs will take your orders when you’re ready.”

Bouchard took a seat that covered the door, with Frank and Jose opposite. “A menu for Mr. Atkins?”

Thurmond tilted his chin upward and smiled. “I know what he wants.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Baked scrod, new potatoes and spinach, iced tea.”

“Scrod a house specialty?” Bouchard asked.

“Ah… no.” Thurmond said it as though concerned he was revealing a secret. His voice dropped to the confiding whisper of a Frenchman offering dirty postcards. “Beef… and coconut cake.”