Robert Randisi - Bullets & Lies

“Can’t be too sure, sir.”

“Good point,” White said. He looked at Roper.

“Well, thanks for an exciting evening,” Roper said.

“You know,” White said, “I’m not forcing you to leave tomorrow.”

“No, you’re right,” Roper said. “If I’m going to do this, I better get to it. You watch your back.”

“And you yours.”

Roper climbed down. “I never asked. How long have you been…in your current job?”

“Going on five years.”

“Do you like it?”

White thought a moment, then said, “I think that comes under the heading of ‘Be Careful What You Wish—and Work—For.’ ”

“Well, good night, then. I’ll be in touch when I have something to be in touch about.”

“Watch yourself, Tal,” White said. “We’re not a hundred percent sure that shot was meant for me.”

“I’m always careful, Donny.”

He went inside to the hotel lobby, approached the desk, and asked the desk clerk to prepare his bill.

“Are you leaving now, sir?”

“First thing in the morning,” Roper said. “I’d just like you to have it ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

Roper went to his room, undressed, sat on the bed, and thought about the evening’s events. Considering Donald White’s job, someone taking a shot at him was not so unusual by any stretch of the imagination. But someone taking a shot at Roper, in Washington…well, that would be too much of a coincidence. Roper would have to assume that it had something to do with his job for the Westovers. But why? Why would someone want to kill him for that? And did it have anything to do with Westover’s records being gone?

Roper got his gun from his holster and set it on the night table next to the bed. He thought about reading some more Twain before turning in, then decided against it. He wanted morning to come quickly so he could catch a train and get the hell out of Dodge before somebody else got trigger-happy.

17

Donald White looked up as the door to his office opened. Captain John Morressy walked in.

“How’s the colonel?” White asked.

“He’s okay. He’s back at his residence. And he’s being watched.”

“You’re sure he didn’t tell Roper anything?”

“He doesn’t know anything,” Morressy said, sitting across from the Secret Service head. He took off his hat and rubbed his hand over his short-cropped black hair. “Did he believe your story about the files?”

“Apparently,” White said. “Roper is difficult to read, but he seemed to.”

“I hope so,” Morressy said. “I don’t know how smart it is to let him go out on his own.”

“He wasn’t recruitable,” White said. “It has to be done this way. He has to be working for us without knowing he’s working for us.”

Morressy looked dubious.

“And what happens when he finds out?” he asked.

“I’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

“You don’t think he’ll walk away?”

“Not at all,” White said. “I know the man. He may not be happy, but once he’s involved, he’ll see it through.”

“You knew him years ago,” Morressy said. “How can you be sure he’s the same man?”

“Roper doesn’t change,” White said. “He just becomes more…Roper.”

“You trust him?”

“With my life.”

“But not with the truth?”

“Not yet,” White said.

“Why not?”

“Because he’s Roper.”

Morressy waited, but when there was no more information forthcoming, he stood up, put his hat back on, and turned to the door.

“You took a big chance,” White said.

“What?” Morressy turned. “What are you talking about?”

“That shot last night,” White said. “You took a big chance.”

“What shot?”

“The shot outside the restaurant.” White studied Morressy’s puzzled expression. “That wasn’t you? Or somebody you sent?”

“No,” Morressy said, “I didn’t have anyone shoot at you.”

White frowned.

“Anybody hurt?”

“No,” White said pensively. “There was one shot, and it missed.”

“Did they shoot at you or him?” Morressy asked.

“I don’t know,” White said. “I just assumed you had taken the initiative, thinking it would lock him in.”

“I’d never think that.”

“Neither would I,” White said. “That’s why I wasn’t happy, but—”

“If it was meant for him,” Morressy said, “who knew he was in Washington?”

“I don’t know,” White said. “The Westover lawyer certainly. What’s his name?”

“Harwick.”

“Yes, him,” White said. “And the Westovers themselves.”

“You think they would try to kill him?”

“Why hire him, then try to kill him?” White asked. “No, something else is going on.”

“And you feel Roper can unravel this?”

“I know he can.”

“How will he react to the shooting?”

“I think he’ll be careful,” White said, “and assume he was the target. It’s the way he’d play it.”

“Well,” Morressy said, “I just hope you’re right about him.”

“You and I will stay in touch, Captain,” White said.

“Yes, sir,” Morressy said, and left.

As the captain left, White sat back in his chair. Of course he was right. After all, it was Talbot Roper. Once he got his teeth into a case, he never let go. That was a trait Donald White thought he could count on, no matter how long it had been since they’d seen each other.

The shot last night, though, that still annoyed him. It seemed clear to him that it had either been meant to kill Roper, or at the very least influence him.

White was used to sending men out to handle danger on their own. They signed up for it when they joined the Secret Service. He was sure Roper could handle any situation that came along, but if the detective ended up dead, White would feel much more guilt than he would if one of his men were killed.

But he’d have to live with it. This was probably the last chance he—and the government—would have to solve a mystery that had existed since the end of the Civil War. And Talbot Roper was going to have to be the man to do it.

18

When Roper returned to Hurricane late the next afternoon, he reclaimed his room. He also asked the clerk to send someone who could deliver a message for him.

“Right away, sir,” the clerk said, “and may I say, welcome back.”

“Thanks.”

He went to his room and freshened up. He was drying his hands when there was a knock at the door. He opened it and let the young bellboy in.

“Take this to Mr. Edward Harwick, either at his home or office. I’ve written both addresses down.” He handed him an envelope with two addresses written on the face. The back was sealed.

He handed the young man a dollar.

“Yes, sir!”

“Let me know as soon as you return and it’s done. And tell the dining room I’ll be down in ten minutes and would like a table.”

“Yes, sir.”

The boy left. Roper dressed in fresh, clean clothes, buttoned his jacket over his shoulder holster, and left the room. At that moment all he wanted was a meal.

His table was waiting for him in the dining room.

“Just one, Mr. Roper?”

“Two, I hope,” Roper said, “but one for now.”

He was shown to a table, where he ordered a steak dinner and a pot of coffee. When his meal came, he ate slowly and went over the plan he’d formed while riding on the train. He had also given the shooting some more thought. White had said he was shot at on occasion. But what if he wasn’t the man they were shooting at? What if it was, indeed, Roper? That brought up the question of who and why? Who knew he’d been in Washington, and why would they want to kill him? He knew of only two people who were aware of the trip to Washington—Edward Harwick and Victoria Westover. Unless the two women who worked in the Westover house—Miriam and Polly—listened at keyholes.