"Capital Crimes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Woods Stuart)

6

ROBERT KINNEY, the FBI’s deputy director for Criminal Investigations, looked out the window at the piney woods below him and searched for the airport. The airplane was an elderly Lear, and since Kinney was six feet five inches tall and weighed two hundred and sixty-five pounds, it was a tight fit for him.

The airplane suddenly banked left, and Kinney, to his relief, saw the Chester airport. It had three runways, in a triangular pattern, and one of them had Xs at either end, indicating that it was closed. The place looked like a World War II-era training airport, a great many of which dotted the American countryside. Before the airplane made its final turn, Kinney could see a single car parked on the parking ramp, and it had a big star on the door.

THE AIRPLANE taxied up to the ramp, and the copilot opened the door for Kinney, then carried his luggage down the air-stairs. A man in a business suit walked up and stuck out his hand. “Agent Kinney? I’m Ralph Emerson, AIC Columbia.”

“Afternoon, Ralph,” Kinney replied. “Call me Bob, please.” Kinney had served with a lot of agents in his twenty-seven years with the FBI and knew a lot more, but he had not met Emerson before. The man’s personnel file, however, had spoken well of him.

Emerson took Kinney’s luggage and stowed it in the open truck of the sheriff’s patrol car. “Bob, I’d like you to meet Sheriff Tom Stribling, of Chester County.”

Stribling, a wiry man in his fifties, pushed off the car where he had been leaning and stuck out his hand. “How you doin'?“ he said.

Kinney shook the hand and looked into the tanned face and bright blue eyes. “Good to meet you, Tom. We appreciate your help on this one.”

“And I appreciate yours,” Stribling said, glancing at Emerson. He didn’t sound as if he appreciated it. “You want to go out to the cabin or would you rather go to your hotel?”

“Let’s go out to the cabin,” Kinney said, getting into the front passenger seat of the car.

“How was your flight?” Emerson asked as they drove away.

“Awful,” Kinney replied. “That airplane is the size of a coffin.”

Stribling said nothing, just drove. After twenty minutes he turned left on a smaller paved road, then ten minutes later turned right on a dirt road. They came to a steel gate, which was open but guarded by a deputy. Stribling didn’t even slow down, just waved. The road led into the woods, and a couple of minutes later they were driving down the shore of a lake of about a hundred acres.

“The senator owned about four hundred acres here,” Stribling said, “including the whole lake and the cabin. It’s the only house on the lake.”

“He liked his privacy, I guess,” Kinney said. Kinney wondered what land cost in Chester County and how Senator Wallace could afford so much of it.

“I guess he did,” Stribling replied.

They drove around to the opposite side of the lake and through another steel gate, this one without a guard. Shortly, they pulled up in front of the cabin, which had yellow crime-scene tape strung from tree to tree, encircling the structure.

Kinney got out and looked the place over. “Nice,” he said. There were window boxes planted with geraniums on the front side of the house. Kinney walked around to the back and saw the shattered windowpane.

“I reckon the shooter stood over yonder, just in the woods,” Stribling said.

“You find any shell casings or footprints or other traces of him?” Kinney asked.

“No, sir,” Stribling said. “I got a couple of old bloodhounds we keep for when somebody busts out of the county camp, and we took 'em out there a couple of hours ago. According to the dogs, our man zigzagged through the woods and came out in a little rest area on the main highway, about three-quarters of a mile away.“

“Any car tracks?”

“Nope, the rest area is paved. I talked to the State Patrol and got hold of the man who patrolled that stretch of road this morning. He had a look in the rest area about six-forty-five this morning, and there were no cars in it.”

Kinney nodded. “Can we take a look inside the cabin?”

“Sure,” the sheriff said, leading the way to the back door of the cabin.

Kinney looked at the spot where the body had been found and lined it up with the broken window, then he walked into the single bedroom. The place was attractively decorated, with photographs and watercolors on the walls. He went to the bed and turned back the bedspread. The sheets were clean and ironed. He looked in the closet and found some clothes that looked like they were the senator’s.

Kinney walked back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Inside were some fresh vegetables that appeared home-grown, not being in supermarket bags, and a plate of fried chicken and some cooked vegetables, all sealed with clear plastic wrap.

“Ralph,” Kinney said to the agent, “will you give the sheriff and me a minute?”

“Sure,” Emerson replied and walked out the front door. “Tom, did Mrs. Wallace spend a lot of time here?”

“Nope,” the sheriff replied. “She never came down here at all that I know of. The senator liked to be alone out here.

“We both know that’s not true,” Kinney said.

“Do we?” Stribling asked.

“It’s pretty obvious that a woman spent a lot of time here,” Kinney said. “All the decorating looks feminine. And who fried that chicken and cooked those collards in the fridge? Come to that, who put freshly ironed sheets on the bed that the senator got out of this morning? And one more thing, who called this in, a passing stranger?”

The sheriff gazed out the window toward the lake. “Okay, Bob, I guess I’m going to have to tell you about this and trust your judgment on whether to pass it on to your people and the press.” He told Kinney about Elizabeth Johnson and the senator’s relationship with her.

“I see,” Kinney said. “Let’s go talk to Ms. Johnson.”