Pretenses (3 page)

Kelly McPherson was tall, blonde, and very good-looking. She often downplayed her looks because men were constantly making unwanted advances. She wore loose-fitting clothing and no makeup, yet men still made attempts. In addition, there were those who thought that since she was so good-looking, she was getting by on her looks and couldn't be depended on in a fire fight, which wasn't true. Over time, Kelly had proven herself an excellent FBI agent.

She had earned the respect of her peers by backing them in fistfights and shoot-outs, and eventually she was promoted to Special Agent in Charge. Kelly helped pave the way for women like me to join the bureau. When Kelly first became an FBI agent, the bureau hierarchy introduced her as “one of our female agents.” In response, she would frown and look down at her breasts. Kelly loved being an FBI agent, but she had seen too many good agents disciplined or fired for what she thought were minor
infractions. When a liaison position with D.C. Metro was offered to her, she seized it. I hated to see her go, but when she took that position, Director St. Clair offered me the position she had vacated.

“It's about time you showed up,” I said.

“Oh, hush. You probably just got here yourself.” She laughed and jogged up the driveway. “Must be some real big ass to kiss on this case, huh, Michelson?”

Michelson frowned and then barked, “We don't have time for your bullshit, McPherson! Yours either, Perry. I want this solved and solved quickly.”

“Assistant Director Michelson,” I said, trying to bring some levity to the situation, “you will address me as Special Agent in Charge Perry.”

Michelson stared at me for a few moments, trying not to laugh. Kelly said, “Somebody's in need of a serious blowjob.”

Michelson laughed at Kelly's glib retort. Even though she occasionally got under his skin, he often welcomed her comic relief. “Okay, playtime is over. Get to work and make us all look good. Or somebody's head is coming off at the shoulders.”

T
HE BODIES
were still being photographed when I entered the Taylor house. Flynn and Ford had already briefed me on the crime scene, so I knew that powerful hands had broken Judge Taylor's neck, which meant the assailant was probably a man. What bothered me was that Webster Taylor was shot in the forehead. As I looked down at Webster, I wondered why the killer hadn't shot them both.

Was Webster's murder personal? Was that why he was shot in the head? Or was Judge Taylor's death personal? This is strange. Did the killer or killers take some pleasure in killing Judge Taylor? If so, maybe we should start by looking into some of her cases. Find out who might hold a grudge.

I had spoken with the neighbor who had found them. According to her, she had seen Webster watching an NBA playoff game around 9:30 the previous evening through the Taylors' large picture window. She went on to tell me that the Taylors were perfectly suited for each other, sharing a love of books, theater, art, romantic movies, the symphony, and the law. The couple had celebrated their silver anniversary recently, and they were still very much in love. Judge Taylor had told her that she and her husband had planned to make some popcorn and watch the basketball game that evening. Later, they planned to get into the Jacuzzi, which overlooked Dogue Creek, and watch the stars.

They had so much to look forward to, I thought. In just four days, Jennifer Taylor's confirmation hearing would have begun. If confirmed,
she would have been only the third woman to sit on the Supreme Court. According to Michelson, retiring Justice Patterson had handpicked her as his replacement. President Harrison Palmer Davidson, Patterson's college roommate and best friend, was a year-and-a-half shy of finishing his second term and wanted to appoint one more justice to the bench before he left office.

A media firestorm ensued the day President Davidson made Patterson's replacement known. Judge Taylor was a very vocal conservative who didn't support abortion on demand. The court was currently split on the abortion issue, with Justice Street, a moderate who often voted conservatively, carrying the deciding vote. Women's rights organizations were furious. Angry women picketed in front of the White House daily, carrying signs that read, “Abort Taylor!”

The most demonstrative group was led by a militant feminist named Patricia English. Patricia had remained silent about Taylor's stance on abortion, but when President Davidson nominated Taylor to replace Justice Patterson, Patricia organized an all-out attack on her qualifications.

“Anyone ever tell you, you look just like Jada Pinkett?” a Secret Service agent asked me.

“Tell me, what do you think of all of this?” I asked him, avoiding the question I'd heard much too often. It really annoyed me to be asked that question constantly.

“I think I'd like to ask you out on a date,” he replied, trying to charm me.

I looked at him. He was a tall black man, with a thick, neatly trimmed mustache. He smiled. I could tell he was too impressed with himself and probably used his Secret Service credentials to get dates. “You ever work a murder scene before?”

He shook his head.

“Then what the hell are you doing here?” I snarled.

“The president wanted one of our guys here. I'm Agent Andrew Jordan. My friends call me A.J.”

“Agent Jordan, if you don't know what's going on, get the hell outta the way. This is a crime scene, not a pickup bar.”

He looked around to see who might have heard my rancorous comment, then rolled his eyes, said something into the microphone tucked into his right sleeve, and left the area.

Kelly was examining Judge Taylor's body. “You getting any vibes, Kelly?” I called out.

“Yeah, I'm thinking this is strange, Phoenix,” she called back. “Come and look at this.”

I went over to Judge Taylor's body to see what she was talking about. By the time I got there, everyone had come over to see. Kelly lifted the judge's right leg. There was a huge bruise in the back of her knee.

“What do you think, Phoenix?” Kelly asked.

“She was hit pretty damn hard. I wonder if that's the only bruise on her body. I wonder if the husband also has bruises. They could have been tortured for information. Only way to find out is to treat this like either one of them could have been the target.”

“I agree,” Kelly said.

I checked the caller ID, which showed 112 calls. The calls went back as far as December. Using her cell, Kelly called the bureau to get one of the techs to pull up the Taylors' home and office telephone records.

“Kelly, we better check their cell phone logs, too,” I said.

I
MADE IT HOME
just in time to walk Savannah, my six-year-old daughter, to Matthew Henson Academy. The school was the main reason we had moved into the Arlington area. Henson was one of a few private schools that required students not only to attend year-round but to commit to being there on Saturdays also. Consequently, most of the students were two or three grades above the norm. Savannah never missed a day of school.

I was supposed to meet Director St. Clair at the White House by eleven o'clock. Director St. Clair had wanted me to be there when he briefed President Davidson at his regular 8:00 meeting, but I insisted on coming home first. There wasn't anything significant to report on the Taylor homicides yet. On a case like this, there was no telling how many hours I would have to work. I was already spending a lot of hours on the Rapist case. While it was an honor to meet with the President under any circumstances, I wanted to walk my daughter to school as often as possible.

Savannah leaped into my arms the moment I opened the door.

“Hi, Mommy!”

“Hi, precious.” I kissed her on the cheek.

“Look, Mommy. See how Daddy dressed me?” She was wearing one of three uniforms that the Matthew Henson Academy required. The school's colors were green and gold. Savannah looked so adorable in her uniform. Keyth had even put a green-and-gold ribbon in her hair.

“Did you eat breakfast, honey?”

“Yeah.” She smiled. “Me and Daddy made it together.”

“Did you eat it all?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, honey. I need to talk to your daddy for a second. Then I'll walk you to school, okay?”

Keyth, who looked like Midwest model Marcus Cordland, had just gotten out of the shower when I walked into the bedroom. He was drying himself off, unaware that I was staring lustfully at his muscular back. My eyes dropped to his delicious ass. It was the shape of a round doughnut. I wanted to take a bite. Even after eight years of marriage, he still turned me on.

“You in a hurry to get to the office?” I asked him.

He turned around, and I got a full frontal view of his sculptured physique.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Long enough to know I need taking care of before you go to work.”

He smiled. I kissed him, grabbing as much of his ass as I could get into my small hands. At 6 feet 3 inches, Keyth was seven inches taller than me. We started kissing, and his lips tasted good. I could smell fresh cinnamon on his breath.

He pulled away. “You better get on outta here and take Savannah to school, girl.”

“Okay. Kiss me again before I go.”

“Mommy, come on,” Savannah called out from the hallway. “You gon' make me late for school.”

I
PRACTICALLY DRAGGED
Savannah to school and hurried home. There was a river between my legs. Keyth pulled me in and closed the door. First he pulled off my uniform jacket, then the tee shirt I wore underneath. He flicked his tongue over my nipples and I lost control. I took him, right there, on the floor, in the foyer. Then we climbed in the shower and he washed my back.

Totally relaxed, I found myself thinking about the case, still wondering who the intended victim was. Keyth was talking to me, but I had no idea what he was saying. I didn't mean to ignore him, but I couldn't shake the thought of that mark on Judge Taylor's leg. Somehow, I knew it was the key to understanding what had really happened that night. But what kind of weapon had been used and why?

“Are you listening to me?” Keyth asked.

“I'm sorry, baby. No. I was thinking about the Taylor case.”

“That's what I was asking you about. What do you think happened?”

“Deep down?”

“Yeah. Deep down.”

“For some reason, I think the killer wanted or needed to kill Judge Taylor with his bare hands. What I can't figure out is who wanted her dead. Was it someone from one of the radical feminist groups angry over the abortion issue? Or was it someone who had appeared before her?”

“Have you given much consideration to the husband being the target?”

“Yes, but the man was a lawyer. Who would have wanted him dead?”

“Probably a lot of people.” Keyth laughed.

“Guess what?” I asked.

“What?”

“I'm going to meet the President.”

W
HITE HOUSE
Chief of Staff Armando Glover asked me if I was ready to meet the President of the United States. We were standing outside the Commander in Chief's office. It was an awesome question. How many Americans actually meet the President in the Oval Office?

I was wearing an olive suit, a white blouse, and olive shoes. I looked myself over in the small makeup mirror I carried in my purse.

“You look like a million bucks,” Chief Glover told me.

I didn't feel like a million bucks, but the compliment felt good. I took a deep breath and nodded to the Chief of Staff. He opened the door for me, and I stepped onto the thick navy blue carpet. Suddenly, I was nervous. The president was talking to Director St. Clair.

“Special Agent Perry, the President of the United States,” Chief Glover said.

The president shook my hand firmly and led me to a chair in front of his desk.

“No need to be nervous, Agent Perry.” He smiled. “Director St. Clair tells me that Sydney Drew is your father.”

Presidents always have their researchers find out small, almost insignificant details about the people meeting them for the first time. It makes the visitor feel important.

“Yes.”

“They tell me he used to work for the National Security Agency,” the President went on. “So what's he doing now?”

“He runs the Drew Perry Investigative Firm with my husband, Keyth, sir.”

“Nothing wrong with putting the training we gave him to good use.” He chuckled. “Tell me, what do you think about this case?”

“Well, sir, we don't have much to go on, but I'm sure Director St. Clair told you that this morning.”

“He did. But what I'm interested in now is what you've extrapolated from the crime scene. What's your best guess, Phoenix?”

“I think the judge was the target. I haven't gotten any results from the crime lab yet, but Webster Taylor doesn't have any bruises on him. And since he doesn't, then he was probably killed just because he was there.”

President Davidson folded his arms and leaned against his desk. “Do you think any hate groups are involved?”

“Unlikely, sir.”

“Why not?” He seemed disappointed.

“Hate groups want you to know they did it and why. And none of them are taking credit for the murders—not yet anyway. But I'll check them out anyway, sir.”

He looked at his watch. “In about five minutes I'm going to have a press conference on the White House lawn. I'm going to introduce you as the person running the show. The press is going to have many questions, and there will be lots of pressure on you, Phoenix. Can you handle it?”

“Certainly, sir, but it's always been the bureau's policy to let someone from the public relations office handle the press.”