ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
CHAPTER 29
THE WAKE FOR MRS. WILLSON

Senator Willson stepped out of his limousine, his campaign smile fading into a look of sorrow. He had carefully spit on his finger and dabbed his eyes before the car stopped, so he would look teary.

The whole country’s watching, and I’m going to handle this like Humphrey Bogart. Then, when I’m on the ticket with Blake, I’ll be a shoo-in. I don’t care if the networks show footage of the bitch’s toes scattered everywhere. It’s all great publicity for me. Still, what a way to go.

“Senator Willson, is it true? Was it a mafia hit?”

“Hey Willson, was she having an affair?”

Willson shot the bastard with a fierce glare, and the photographers captured the scene in a wide shot for the five o’clock news. Harley headed straight for the makeshift podium sporting a spray of microphones just outside the City Morgue.

Senator Willson appeared desolate in a navy suit and red tie, carefully chosen to highlight his pale face. Everyone noticed he had been crying. Some even looked at their shoes as a gesture of condolence. He walked silently past the media, his feigned grief too deep to express.

Harley Quinn stepped up to the many microphones, and the crowd quieted down. No one in the know could believe a valet might be the spokesperson for an esteemed Senator, but there you have it. Harley spoke.

“Senator Willson is in shock, as you can well imagine. He has no comment currently regarding the possibility that it is his wife, Margreth, who lies lifeless within these walls. Thank you for your compassion during this difficult time. The Senator appreciates your thoughts and prayers. And now, if you will excuse us.”

Cameramen perched like crows on a fence line. As the entourage passed, murmured condolences were punctuated by an occasional rude comment or probing question. Willson led the way. Harley walked behind him, daring anyone to invade the Senator’s grief.

The morgue was stark and cold. The vaulted entrance echoed and amplified the chill, even on a warm summer day. The Senator’s pace was swift.

“Let’s get this over with,” Willson grumbled. Harley looked back at Daniel Urban, and Urban looked back at Arthur Holmstead. It was a death march led by a grieving politician and his valet. The second-in-command of the FBI and CIA soldiered on in their wake.

“Hey, Urban,” Holmstead said. “Did you bring the dental records?

“No, I heard her toes weren’t the only thing missing,” he whispered back.

“No kidding? That’s gruesome as hell. The guy must have quite an imagination.”

“You’re sick, Art. Did you ever think of having one of those personality profiles? You’d probably be off the chart,” Dan said. He couldn’t stand Holmstead, and it showed.

The morgue was crowded with cold, steel autopsy tables. The pungent formaldehyde sting shocked the sensibilities. Glass jars displayed vital organs: kidneys, hearts, and lungs suspended like dill spears in brine.

The diener was a balding man who looked like a weather balloon in a white coat. He bent down to open the bottom drawer, and Harley could swear the man’s pants had ripped open. Urban would say it was not a very discreet fart.

“Senator,” he said in a faintly foreign accent, “you might want to hold your breath.”

He folded the sheet back, revealing the open wound where a nose used to be on Margreth Willson’s face. Her lips were deep purple. Senator Willson covered his mouth with his hand. The coroner handed him a bucket just in time, but the puke fest didn’t happen.

Harley clutched William’s arm as they stumbled into the hallway. The exaggerated sobs the Senator had planned were replaced by a genuine wail that was more fear than grief.

Nevertheless, the whole event was highly effective because it was audible to the media. They rushed to their minivans and spoke to their stations with their breaking news teams. In the background, the world heard Senator Willson in a heartfelt moment of grief.

It was clear that a positive ID had been made. The mysterious woman tortured to death was Margreth Willson, the Senator’s wife. As the news spread, William Willson’s approval ratings began a predictable upward climb.

“Why was her mouth all bruised? What happened to her nose? I paid a lot for that nose job.”

“Senator, I’m afraid she was tortured,” the morgue diener said, sensing that there was no risk of a broken heart involved. “We had to remove pieces of sponge from deep in her throat.”

The Senator’s eyes widened, but his face appeared pale and exhausted.

“I think the police will talk to you about it. Are you sure that it’s your wife?”

“I’d know that face anywhere,” Willson said, then he realized how ridiculous that was since half her face was missing.

None of them knew what to say in response, but Dan Urban shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. He was stunned. Holmstead smiled. Harley Quinn looked ready to swoon, and the Senator appeared distracted, as if experiencing an out-of-body moment.

Senator William Willson, finished with the task of identifying his wife, walked briskly from the warehouse of death. His thoughts weren’t focused on burial plans but on Omega, Barbara Hagopian, and the looming crisis. In his view, Omega’s meltdown was Underhill’s fault; the stupid jackass couldn’t do anything right.

As they retraced their steps to the limo, William Willson took a moment to rub his eyes—puffing them up slightly for the camera. But he didn’t want to overdo it. As they stepped into the crowd of media reps and cameramen, he shyly shielded his face and assumed a distressed expression.

“Senator, was that your wife in there?”

“Senator Willson, when will you return to work?”

The entourage hurried their steps, sidestepping the makeshift podium. The upset valet held the car door open, letting Willson, Holmstead, and Urban get into the back seat. Harley rode in front with Remington.

“Well, that’s over. Sorry about your wife, Senator.”

“Thank you, Dan. It’s hard to imagine. Oh well. At least the media is pleased. They have their grisly lead story.” He looked at Holmstead. “Is this the work of terrorists?”

“Good question, Senator. One never knows when terrorists might strike. I understand Al Qaeda is pretty much finished, as are the other Islamic fanatic groups.”

“What about the Al Amorta Ujung? Can you guarantee that they aren’t involved in this?”

“You never know, do you?” Holmstead rubbed the pink circular scar on his forehead and glared at the Senator. “I think we all know where this is going, don’t we, sir?”

“What are you referring to?” the Senator stammered.

“I wouldn’t be here unless there was an international connection, Willson.” Holmstead could be nastier than a rattlesnake and just as deadly. “You can bet that the boys in the bunker know the score.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,” Willson gasped.

“I can assure you that we know everything, even what time of day you shit,” then Arthur Holmstead winked. It was an act of sociopathy. Harley, who was eavesdropping, looked away.

“You bastard! I just lost my wife. Show a little compassion.”

“You’re upset, all right — but only because you don’t want to be the next organ donor for toeless ballerinas,” Holmstead shot back. “I suggest that maybe your wife knew too much. Maybe you left your homework lying around the house, and she became a dangerous woman.”

“I honestly don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Here,” Holmstead shoved an envelope into Willson’s hand. “Better lock this up.”

Remington drove the limo away quickly on a divergent route to avoid the media. He then pulled into the circular drive at the Wilson residence. As the Senator and his valet stood at the edge of the drive, Holmstead and Urban entered their government sedan. Holmstead leaned out the window.

“Watch yourself, Senator,” he purred. “There are some mighty bad people out there. And stay out of the sunshine, boys.” Art pressed a button, and the window shut.

The Senator turned pale and shot Harley a piercing look.

“I didn’t tell him, Sir. Did he say what I thought he said?” Harley Quinn was not one to tremble, but he felt sheer terror.

Harley paused for a moment and said, “He said, stay out of the sunshine, boys.”

“Sunshine Boys! This is bad,” Willson said, wiping a handkerchief over his sweaty brow.

Harley muttered, “You know, Hagopian alluded to the same thing when I was at Sanctuary.”

“You muscle head,” Willson hollered right into Harley Quinn’s ear. “You didn’t tell me that bit of info. The spooks are after all of us.”

Harley Quinn was stunned by Willson’s reaction.

“I just forgot. Too much has happened. Everything at Sanctuary was so strange. What did that guy hand you? What are those papers?”

“Those papers, numbskull, are the Top Secret papers I kept in my desk drawer. Now I ask you, how did that son of a bitch get them?” William Willson spun around and glared at Harley as if he were on the enemy’s side.

“I’m not sure I want to keep working for you. This is well beyond what’s expected of a valet, Senator.”

On the other side of town, Dan Urban drove quickly, eager to get rid of Arthur Holmstead as soon as he could.

“Where should I drop you off?”

“CIA headquarters is fine,” Holmstead seethed. “I swear I’d like to pound the shit right out of that overrated politician.” Holmstead slammed the armrest with his fist.

“Do you know who murdered his wife?” Dan asked, and from the look Holmstead gave back, he already had his answer.

“Willson’s a stupid prick. He’s been blabbing,” Holmstead growled. “What do we know about that valet anyway? He doesn’t look dumb enough for that job.”

“A scandal like this won’t do Blake any good,” Urban remarked. “The President was going to announce Willson as his running mate for a second term in a few weeks.”

“How long have you had your head up your ass? Willson sold Blake a baby, little Jefferson. The price—Vice President of the United States.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Arthur sneered. He snapped open his briefcase. “This killing is a hot potato and I’m not doing a goddamned thing to quash it. I’m going to let it take the fool down.”

“We’re going to face a lot of pressure from Justice to solve this murder, Holmstead,” Dan said. “Plus, many Senators will be pressured by their wives to find the culprit. I’ll do my best to get it done.”

“I don’t care who offed Willson’s wife,” Holmstead smiled. “It sounds like a personal problem to me. It sure isn’t my agency’s concern.”

“You had those fellows as nervous as rats on a sinking ship,” Urban said. “What are you holding over him, Art?”

“Enough to make Willson jump through any hoop. A place called Sunshine Boys Resort. Lots of questionable stuff happens there, with people into every vice imaginable. Gambling, sex parties, drugs—you know. This place is one of our CIA secret assets.”

“So that’s why he took a header when you told them to stay out of the ‘sunshine boys.’ That’s rich. It seems like you spend more time destroying our government than protecting it, Art. One wonders which side you’re on.”

“Watch your ass, Urban,” Art shot back. “There comes a time when every man must choose. Your time may be closer than you realize.”

“Who was it that hurt his wife?” Dan asked. He knew this was dangerous turf. “Was it you?”

Holmstead looked at him as if he could read Dan’s mind; he didn’t like what he saw.

“I’m afraid that’s on a need-to-know basis,” Holmstead said. “And frankly, Danny boy, you don’t need to know. You don’t have the stones for it. Stop here.”

His door was already partly open when the vehicle pulled up in front of a plain government building. When Dan Urban looked up, he saw no sign of Arthur Holmstead.

Like smoke, he just vanished.

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