cup.
“You’re right. Forty-five.”
“That’s the highest in—”
“Eleven months. We haven’t been above fifty since Flight 402 in November of last year. This is a wonderful crisis, Chief. The people are shocked, yet many of them are happy Rosenberg is gone. And you’re the man in the middle. Just wonderful.” Coal punched a blinking button and picked up the receiver. He slammed it down without a word. He straightened his tie and buttoned his jacket.
“It’s five-thirty, Chief. Voyles and Gminski are waiting.”
He putted and watched the ball. It was an inch to the right, and he grimaced. “Let them wait. Let’s do apress conference at nine in the morning. I’ll take Voyles with me, but I’ll keep his mouth shut. Make him stand behind me. I’ll give some more details and answer a few questions. Networks’ll carry it live, don’t you think?”
“Of course. Good idea. I’ll get it started.”
He picked off his gloves and threw them in a corner. “Show them in.” He carefully leaned his putter against the wall and slid into his Bally loafers. As usual, he had changed clothes six times since breakfast, and now wore a glen plaid double-breasted suit with a red and navy polka-dot tie. Office attire. The jacket hung on a rack by the door. He sat at his desk and scowled at some papers. He nodded at Voyles and Gminski, but neither stood nor offered to shake hands. They sat across the desk, and Coal took his usual standing position like a sentry who couldn’t wait to fire. The President pinched the bridge of his nose as if the stress of the day had delivered a migraine.
“It’s been a long day, Mr. President,” Bob Gminski said to break the ice. Voyles looked at the windows.
Coal nodded, and the President said, “Yes, Bob. A very long day. And I have a bunch of Ethiopians invited for dinner tonight, so let’s be brief. Let’s start with you, Bob. Who killed them?”
“I do not know, Mr. President. But I assure you we had nothing to do with it.”
“Do you promise me, Bob?” He was almost prayerful.
Gminski raised his right hand with the palm facing the desk. “I swear. On my mother’s grave, I swear.”
Coal nodded smugly as if he believed him, and as if his approval meant everything.
The President glared at Voyles, whose stocky figure filled the chair and was still draped with a bulky trench coat. The Director chewed his gum slowly and sneered at the President.
“Ballistics? Autopsies?”
“Got ’em,” Voyles said as he opened his briefcase.
“Just tell me. I’ll read it later.”
“The gun was small-caliber, probably a .22. Point-blank range for Rosenberg and his nurse, powder burns indicate. Hard to tell for Ferguson, but the shots were fired from no farther than twelve inches away. We didn’t see the shooting, you understand? Three bullets into each head. They picked two out of Rosenberg; found another in his pillow. Looks like he and the nurse were asleep. Same type slugs, same gun, same gunman, evidently. Complete autopsy summaries are being prepared, but there were no surprises. Causes of deaths are quite obvious.”
“Fingerprints?”
“None. We’re still looking, but it was a very clean job. Appears as if he left nothing but the slugs and the bodies.”
“How’d he get into the house?”
“No apparent signs of entry. Ferguson searched the place when Rosenberg arrived around four. Routine procedure. He filed his written report two hours later, and it says he inspected two bedrooms, a bath, and three closets upstairs, and each room downstairs, and of course found nothing. Says he checked all windows and doors. Pursuant to Rosenberg’s instructions, our agents were outside, and they estimate Ferguson’s four o’clock inspection took from three to four minutes. Isuspect the killer was waiting and hiding when the Justice returned and Ferguson walked through.”
“Why?” Coal insisted.
Voyles’ red eyes watched the President and ignored his hatchet man.
“You’re right. Forty-five.”
“That’s the highest in—”
“Eleven months. We haven’t been above fifty since Flight 402 in November of last year. This is a wonderful crisis, Chief. The people are shocked, yet many of them are happy Rosenberg is gone. And you’re the man in the middle. Just wonderful.” Coal punched a blinking button and picked up the receiver. He slammed it down without a word. He straightened his tie and buttoned his jacket.
“It’s five-thirty, Chief. Voyles and Gminski are waiting.”
He putted and watched the ball. It was an inch to the right, and he grimaced. “Let them wait. Let’s do apress conference at nine in the morning. I’ll take Voyles with me, but I’ll keep his mouth shut. Make him stand behind me. I’ll give some more details and answer a few questions. Networks’ll carry it live, don’t you think?”
“Of course. Good idea. I’ll get it started.”
He picked off his gloves and threw them in a corner. “Show them in.” He carefully leaned his putter against the wall and slid into his Bally loafers. As usual, he had changed clothes six times since breakfast, and now wore a glen plaid double-breasted suit with a red and navy polka-dot tie. Office attire. The jacket hung on a rack by the door. He sat at his desk and scowled at some papers. He nodded at Voyles and Gminski, but neither stood nor offered to shake hands. They sat across the desk, and Coal took his usual standing position like a sentry who couldn’t wait to fire. The President pinched the bridge of his nose as if the stress of the day had delivered a migraine.
“It’s been a long day, Mr. President,” Bob Gminski said to break the ice. Voyles looked at the windows.
Coal nodded, and the President said, “Yes, Bob. A very long day. And I have a bunch of Ethiopians invited for dinner tonight, so let’s be brief. Let’s start with you, Bob. Who killed them?”
“I do not know, Mr. President. But I assure you we had nothing to do with it.”
“Do you promise me, Bob?” He was almost prayerful.
Gminski raised his right hand with the palm facing the desk. “I swear. On my mother’s grave, I swear.”
Coal nodded smugly as if he believed him, and as if his approval meant everything.
The President glared at Voyles, whose stocky figure filled the chair and was still draped with a bulky trench coat. The Director chewed his gum slowly and sneered at the President.
“Ballistics? Autopsies?”
“Got ’em,” Voyles said as he opened his briefcase.
“Just tell me. I’ll read it later.”
“The gun was small-caliber, probably a .22. Point-blank range for Rosenberg and his nurse, powder burns indicate. Hard to tell for Ferguson, but the shots were fired from no farther than twelve inches away. We didn’t see the shooting, you understand? Three bullets into each head. They picked two out of Rosenberg; found another in his pillow. Looks like he and the nurse were asleep. Same type slugs, same gun, same gunman, evidently. Complete autopsy summaries are being prepared, but there were no surprises. Causes of deaths are quite obvious.”
“Fingerprints?”
“None. We’re still looking, but it was a very clean job. Appears as if he left nothing but the slugs and the bodies.”
“How’d he get into the house?”
“No apparent signs of entry. Ferguson searched the place when Rosenberg arrived around four. Routine procedure. He filed his written report two hours later, and it says he inspected two bedrooms, a bath, and three closets upstairs, and each room downstairs, and of course found nothing. Says he checked all windows and doors. Pursuant to Rosenberg’s instructions, our agents were outside, and they estimate Ferguson’s four o’clock inspection took from three to four minutes. Isuspect the killer was waiting and hiding when the Justice returned and Ferguson walked through.”
“Why?” Coal insisted.
Voyles’ red eyes watched the President and ignored his hatchet man.
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