Pat's eyes had flown open. "What? What's the matter?"
"I'm lonely," Joey whispered. "I need you."
Pat Murphy was confused. "What for?"
"Don't you understand? I love you. I want you." And he had kissed Pat on the lips.
And the horrible realization had dawned that Joey was a homosexual. Pat was sickened by it. He refused ever to speak to Joey again.
Pat Murphy loathed homosexuals. They were freaks, faggots, fairies, cursed by God, trying to seduce innocent children. He turned his hatred and disgust into a lifelong campaign, voting for anti-homosexual candidates and lecturing about the evils and dangers of homosexuality.
In the past, he had always come to Washington alone, but this time his wife had stubbornly insisted that he bring her and the children.
"We want to see what your life here is like," she said. And Pat had finally given in.
He looked at his wife and children now and thought, It's one of the last times I'll ever see them. How could I have ever made such a stupid mistake? Well, it's almost over now. His family had such grand plans for tomorrow. But there would be no tomorrow. In the morning, before they were awake, he would be on his way to Brazil.
Alan was waiting for him.
In Suite 825, the Imperial Suite, there was total silence. Breathe, he told himself. You must breathe...slower, slower.... He was at the edge of panic. He looked at the slim, naked body of the young girl on the floor and thought, It wasn't my fault. She slipped.
Her head had split open where she had fallen against the sharp edge of the wrought-iron table, and blood was oozing from her forehead. He had felt her wrist. There was no pulse. It was incredible. One moment she had been so alive, and the next moment...
I've got to get out of here. Now! He turned away from the body and hurriedly began to dress. This would not be just another scandal. This would be a scandal that rocked the world. They must never trace me to this suite. When he finished dressing, he went into the bathroom, moistened a towel, and began polishing the surfaces of every place he might have touched.
When he was finally sure he had left no fingerprints to mark his presence, he took one last look around. Her purse! He picked up the girl's purse from the couch, and walked to the far end of the apartment, where the private elevator waited.
He stepped inside, trying hard to control his breathing. He pressed G, and a few seconds later, the elevator door opened and he was in the garage. It was deserted. He started toward his car, then, suddenly remembering, hurried back to the elevator. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his fingerprints from the elevator buttons. He stood in the shadows, looking around again to make sure he was still alone. Finally satisfied, he walked over to his car, opened the door, and sat behind the wheel. After a moment, he turned on the ignition and drove out of the garage.
It was a Filipina maid who found the dead girl's body sprawled on the floor.
"O Dios ko, kawawa naman iyong babae!" She made the sign of the cross and hurried out of the room, screaming for help.
Three minutes later, Jeremy Robinson and Thom Peters, the hotel's head of security, were in the Imperial Suite staring down at the naked body of the girl.
"Jesus," Thom said. "She can't be more than sixteen or seventeen years old." He turned to the manager. "We'd better call the police."
"Wait!" Police. Newspapers. Publicity. For one wild moment, Robinson wondered whether it would be possible to spirit the girl's body out of the hotel. "I suppose so," he finally said reluctantly.
Thom Peters took a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to pick up the telephone.
"What are you doing?" Robinson demanded. "This isn't a crime scene. It was an accident."
"We don't know that yet, do we?" Peters said.
He dialed a number and waited. "Homicide."
Detective Nick Reese looked like the paperback version of a street-smart cop. He was tall and brawny, with a broken nose that was a memento from an early boxing career. He had paid his dues by starting as an officer in Washington's Metropolitan Police Department and had slowly worked his way through the ranks: Master Patrol Officer, Sergeant, Lieutenant. He had been promoted from Detective D2 to Detective D1, and in the past ten years had solved more cases than anyone else in the department.
Detective Reese stood there quietly studying the scene. In the suite with him were half a dozen men. "Has anyone touched her?"
Robinson shuddered. "No."
"Who is she?"
"I don't know."
Reese turned to look at the hotel manager. "A young girl is found dead in your Imperial Suite, and you don't have any idea who she is? Doesn't this hotel have a guest register?"
"Of course, Detective, but in this case - " He hesitated.
"In this case...?"
"The suite is registered to a Eugene Gant."
"Who's Eugene Gant?"
"I have no idea."
Detective Reese was getting impatient. "Look. If someone booked this suite, he had to have paid for it...cash, credit card - sheep - whatever. Whoever checked this Gant in must have gotten a look at him. Who checked him in?"
"Our day clerk, Gorman."
"I want to talk to him."
"I - I'm afraid that's impossible."
"Oh? Why?"
"He left on his vacation today."
"Call him."
Robinson sighed. "He didn't say where he was going."
"When will he be back?"
"In two weeks."
"I'll let you in on a little secret. I'm not planning to wait two weeks. I want some information now. Somebody must have seen someone entering or leaving this suite."
"Not necessarily," Robinson said apologetically. "Besides the regular exit, this suite has a private elevator that goes directly to the basement garage... I don't know what the fuss is all about. It - it was obviously an accident. She was probably on drugs and took an overdose and tripped and fell."
Another detective approached Detective Reese. "I checked the closets. Her dress is from the Gap, shoes from the Wild Pair. No help there."
"There's nothing to identify her at all?"
"No. If she had a purse, it's gone."
Detective Reese studied the body again. He turned to a police officer standing there. "Get me some soap. Wet it."
The police officer was staring at him. "I'm sorry?"
"Wet soap."
"Yes, sir." He hurried off.
Detective Reese knelt down beside the body of the girl and studied the ring on her finger. "It looks like a school ring."
A minute later, the police officer returned and handed Reese a bar of wet soap.
Reese gently rubbed the soap along the girl's finger and carefully removed the ring. He turned it from side to side, examining it. "It's a class ring from Denver High. There are initials on it, P.Y." He turned to his partner. "Check it out. Call the school and find out who she is. Let's get an ID on her as fast as we can."
Detective Ed Nelson, one of the fingerprint men, came up to Detective Reese. "Something damned weird is going on, Nick. We're picking up prints all over the place, and yet someone took the trouble to wipe the fingerprints off all the doorknobs."
"So someone was here with her when she died. Why didn't he call a doctor? Why did he bother wiping out his fingerprints? And what the hell is a young kid doing in an expensive suite like this?"
He turned to Robinson. "How was this suite paid for?"
"Our records show that it was paid for in cash. A messenger delivered the envelope. The reservation was made over the phone."
The coroner spoke up. "Can we move the body now, Nick?"
"Just hold it a minute. Did you find any marks of violence?"
"Only the trauma to the forehead. But of course we'll do an autopsy."
"Any track marks?"
"No. Her arms and legs are clean."
"Does it look like she's been raped?"
"We'll have to check that out."
Detective Reese sighed. "So what we have here is a schoolgirl from Denver who comes to Washington and gets herself killed in one of the most expensive hotels in the city. Someone wipes out his fingerprints and disappears. The whole thing stinks. I want to know who rented this suite."
He turned to the coroner. "You can take her out now." He looked at Detective Nelson. "Did you check the fingerprints in the private elevator?"
"Yes. The elevator goes from this suite directly to the basement. There are only two buttons. Both buttons have been wiped clean."
"You checked the garage?"
"Right. Nothing unusual down there."
"Whoever did this went to a hell of a lot of trouble to cover his tracks. He's either someone with a record, or a VIP who's been playing games out of school." He turned to Robinson. "Who usually rents this suite?"
Robinson said reluctantly, "It's reserved for our most important guests. Kings, prime ministers..." He hesitated. "...Presidents."
"Have any telephone calls been placed from this phone in the last twenty-four hours?"
"I don't know."
Detective Reese was getting irritated. "But you would have a record if there was?"
"Of course."
Detective Reese picked up the telephone. "Operator, this is Detective Nick Reese. I want to know if any calls were made from the Imperial Suite within the last twenty-four hours....I'll wait."
He watched as the white-coated coroner's men covered the naked girl with a sheet and placed her on a gurney. Jesus Christ, Reese thought. She hadn't even begun to live yet.
He heard the operator's voice. "Detective Reese?"
"Yes."
"There was one call placed from the suite yesterday. It was a local call."
Reese took out a notepad and pencil. "What was the number?...Four-five-six-seven-zero-four-one?..." Reese started to write the numbers down, then suddenly stopped. He was staring at the notepad. "Oh, shit!"
"What's the matter?" Detective Nelson asked.
Reese looked up. "That's the number of the White House."