Insatiable Appetites (27 page)

“Oh, yes,” Bruce said.

“Will you join me in the car for a moment, please? I have some more questions.”

Bruce took a deep breath as he walked around the car and got in. He was going to have to be calm and helpful while telling the man nothing. He got into the car.

“I asked you the name of the elderly gentleman you were with, and you told me ‘Elton.’ Was that a first or a last name?”

“A first name. I’m sorry, that’s just the way I think of him. His last name is Hills.”

“Who is he?”

“An interesting question: he’s the father of a friend of mine, now deceased. He’s led a very reclusive life for at least thirty years, and I think our dinner was the first meal he’s eaten outside his home for thirty or forty years. Beyond that, I don’t know how to explain who he is. He apparently lives on inherited wealth. I met him because I attended his son’s funeral.”

“How did his son die?”

“In a traffic accident in New York.”

A tiny light went on in Morris’s head. “Hit-and-run?”

“Yes.”

“Was his son a congressman named Hills?”

That was out of the bag, now; time to be forthcoming. “Yes, Evan Hills.”

“What was your relationship with him?”

“We were friends and lovers.”

“Was Elton Hills upset about his son’s death?”

“Yes, of course. Mostly, I think, he regretted not having been in touch with his son for many years.”

“Sounds like you’ve gotten to know him very well,” Morris observed.

“Well, we share a mutual interest in American antiques. I’m a dealer, and I spent several days in his home after the funeral, cataloging his possessions.”

“Were there any guns among his possessions?” Morris asked.

“No, none that I saw. Wait, there were a couple of old muskets and a pair of dueling pistols, all eighteenth-century, nothing modern.”

“Did Mr. Hills somehow connect Creed Harker with his son’s death?”

“I don’t think he knows who Creed Harker is, or was, and I can’t see how he might make such a connection.”

“Did you know Creed Harker?”

“I had seen him around the Four Seasons, where I often dine, but we didn’t know each other.”

“How about the minority leader of the House of Representatives?”

“The one who just died? What about him?”

“Did you or Mr. Hills know him or know of him? Perhaps through his son?”

Bruce shook his head. “I never met the gentleman. Elton wouldn’t have met him, either: he and his son had not spoken for many years, and Mr. Hills doesn’t own a TV or read newspapers.”

“Do you know if Mr. Hills carries a handkerchief?”

“Doesn’t everybody? I have no specific information that he does.”

“Do you carry a handkerchief?”

“Yes.”

“May I see the one you’re carrying now?”

Bruce reached into a hip pocket and handed him the folded handkerchief. It was of white cotton, with blue edging.

Morris inspected it. “Where did you buy this?”

“At Brooks Brothers.”

“Do you wash and iron your own handkerchiefs?”

“No, they go to the laundry, along with my shirts. I must say, Sergeant, that all this is mystifying. What is it you are pursuing?”

“A murderer.”

“Well, Elton Hills is not a murderer, and neither am I.”

Morris handed him back the handkerchief.

“Where does Elton Hills live?”

“In Pennsylvania, near Philadelphia.”

“Do you have his phone number?”

“Yes.” Bruce produced his address book and read it out. “I should tell you that Elton doesn’t answer his phone. You’ll hear a beep, and you can leave a message, but I wouldn’t expect a call back.”

“Do you expect to hear from him soon?”

“I have no reason to.”

“Then why were you and Mr. Hills dining together?”

“He called me and said he wanted to see his son’s house in Georgetown. I showed him the house and took him to dinner.”

“Was he staying at the Four Seasons?”

“No, he stayed at his son’s house and went home the following morning.”

“Do you know when he left town?”

“I had a call from him, thanking me for dinner, at around one PM yesterday. He said he was back at home.”

“How long a drive would that be?”

“Two or three hours, depending on traffic.”

“Does Mr. Hills drive?”

“No, I doubt if he has a current license. He has a servant who drove him to D.C.”

“Well, I’m going to have to speak to Mr. Hills.”

“Good luck with that,” Bruce said. “Are we done, Sergeant?”

“Yes, Mr. Willard. I may call you again.”

“I’m right across the street, about six doors down.” Bruce gave him a card. “Are you interested in antiques?”

“Only in old weapons,” Morris said.

The two men shook hands, Bruce got out, and Morris drove away. Bruce continued down the street, not looking back.

Avery Morris went back to his office and called Elton Hills’s number. When he heard the beep, he said, “Mr. Hills, my name is Avery Morris. I’m a Washington, D.C., police officer. Will you please call me? It concerns the death of your son.” He hung up.

Late in the afternoon, Morris’s phone rang, and he picked it up. “Sergeant Morris.”

“Sergeant, my name is Horace Pettigrew. I’m an attorney in Philadelphia, and I represent Mr. Elton Hills. Mr. Hills doesn’t take phone calls from strangers, and he asked me to speak to you. You called about his son’s death? How can we help you?”

Morris had half expected something like this. “Mr. Pettigrew, is Mr. Hills acquainted with a man named Creed Harker?”

“Sergeant, Mr. Hills isn’t acquainted with anybody. He has been a recluse for close to forty years.”

“How about the minority leader of the House of Representatives?”

“Sergeant, Mr. Hills’s circle of acquaintances is limited to his domestic employees and two or three members of my law firm. Everybody he once knew is now either dead or doddering.”

“He is acquainted with a man named Bruce Willard.”

“Ah, yes, a friend of Mr. Hills’s late son who is a dealer in antiques. He recently cataloged Mr. Hills’s home furnishings for estate purposes. I think it’s safe to say that, outside his household, Mr. Willard is the first person he has met in several decades.”

“Do you know Mr. Willard?”

“I do not. The only reason I know his name is that Mr. Hills has appointed him as the agent for the sale of his belongings after his death. He has no heirs. Is there anything else?”

“I would like to come and visit with Mr. Hills,” Morris said.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Pettigrew replied. “Mr. Hills does not receive visitors, and as you may surmise from my call, he does not speak to strangers.”

“This is in connection to a homicide investigation.”

“Sergeant, I can assure you that Mr. Hills has no knowledge of any homicide. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go back to work.”

“I might leave Mr. Hills another message.”

“As you wish, but do not expect a response from either him or me.” Pettigrew hung up.

Well, Morris thought, I tried.

Carla came back to Stone’s house in time for dinner. She showered and changed, then they went to Patroon, where they were meeting Dino and Viv Bacchetti.

When they were settled at a table and had a drink in hand, Carla spoke up. “I’ve been at a meeting all day, listening to the tape of the Georgetown meeting of Henry Carson and his cohorts and hearing the report from Strategic Services on their voice analysis of the attendees.”

“And what was the verdict?”

“They positively identified the voices of everyone who said anything audible at the meeting, by comparing them with recordings from congressional hearings and press conferences.
They are nailed!
There’ll be three pages in tomorrow’s paper, including a transcript of the meeting, and it will be on the
Times
wire tonight, to all the major newspapers in the country.”

“That’s great news, Carla,” Stone said, “and great reporting.”

Carla took a gulp of her martini. “Thank God for Evan Hills,” she said. “All we had to do was confirm everything he said, and the tape was the final nail in the coffin.”

“What do you expect the result of all this will be?” Viv asked.

“Great embarrassment for the Republicans in Congress, but I’m not sure how long that will last. The next election is two years away, so they’ll have time to paper over the story. You watch: pretty soon they’ll be calling it old news and playing the blame game every time they get a question about it.”

“The minority leader apparently took it harder than just being embarrassed,” Dino said.

“I can’t figure that out,” Carla replied. “He wasn’t the type to blow his brains out over a thing like this—he was very good at brazening his way through any embarrassment.”

“So you think it was a homicide?”

“That’s what’s so crazy about it,” Carla said. “How could anybody get into the Capitol with a gun, then walk into the House cloakroom, shoot a congressman, walk away? It seems impossible.”

“Somebody with the right credentials,” Viv said. “Somebody who wouldn’t get noticed. A staffer? Another congressman? A Democrat, perhaps.”

She laughed. “Your guess is as good as mine. The Capitol Police and the FBI are all over it, and they haven’t come up with a thing.” Carla looked around. “Where is the ladies’ room?”

Stone pointed the way, and she left the table.

“You all set for your meeting on Monday?” Dino asked.

“I believe so,” Stone replied. “What about your end?”

“Well, it’s a lot more complicated than what you have to do,” Dino replied. “More dangerous, too.”

“More dangerous than Dolce?”

“Well, maybe not, now that you mention it.”

“I think you’re both crazy,” Viv said. “You, especially, Dino. If this goes wrong, you’re going to be out of a job. They’ll drum you out of the department.”

“You could say that about half the decisions I make,” Dino said. “It goes with the territory, and I’m okay with that. Besides, Mike Freeman would be glad to have another Bacchetti over at Strategic Services.”

Carla came back, and they ordered dinner.

•   •   •

Will and Kate Lee had a late supper in the White House family quarters after a reception in the East Room earlier in the evening.

Will brought the Sunday
New York Times
upstairs with him, and they went over the big story of the day while they waited for their dinner to be served.

“I wish this had happened before the election,” Kate said. “We might have won a few more House seats on the back of this story.”

“If this had come out before the election,” Will said, “they would have found a way to blame
me
for it.”

Kate laughed. “They’re very good at that, aren’t they?”

“I think they teach a course in blaming the president at that CPAC shindig. You’ll see, it’ll be your turn soon.”

“Oh, I think I’ll get a pretty good honeymoon—until after the baby is born, anyway.”

“That may be true,” Will said, “and it may not be.”

“And then we’ll get a week of baby pictures in the papers and magazines.”

“The country does love a baby, doesn’t it?”

“All the world loves a baby.”

“It’s a pity we can’t auction the pictures,” Will said. “We’d be set for life on the proceeds.”

“Maybe we should sell the pictures to somebody who’ll give a lot of money to a good cause.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know, the National Organization for Women? Planned Parenthood?”

Will laughed. “I like it,” he chuckled.

Early on Monday morning Dino sat at a table in a police vehicle made to look like an ordinary camper and went over a well-marked large-scale map of the area that included the Bianchi estate.