The Greater Washington Fertility Center, located on M Street NW, was a little over a mile from the White House, but D.C. traffic turned it into a twenty-minute trip. Woody Lapham did the driving, while Karen rode shotgun. Lee sat in the back with the first lady. Three other agents followed in a separate vehicle. Lee’s arm, still in a sling, throbbed steadily. The tension of the moment seemed to have elevated his pain.
Ellen phoned the president while en route, informing him that the meeting with Dr. Kaufmann, on his schedule for tomorrow—the meeting he knew about—was being postponed. Further testing had to be done, she said. The president did not seem to press for details, maybe because he expected the process could be a long one. Ellen ended the call with four words: “I love you, too.”
The cars pulled up to the front entrance of a six-story beige brick building with panes of tinted rectangular glass to give the structure a modern aesthetic. Dozens of medical-related businesses were housed in the complex, but the office they wanted was situated on the fourth floor, in suite 410. Ellen instructed Karen and Lapham to have the other agents wait for them in the car.
She was first to enter the wide, marbled foyer. Since she was without a disguise, several people stopped to stare. At the elevators, Karen asked a group to wait for the next one so they could ride alone, and refused to let anybody get on with them when the elevator stopped on the second floor.
The fertility center had a spacious reception area with a waiting room straight out of a Pottery Barn catalog. The anxious process of attempting to conceive a family through IVF was made a little less so through the homey décor. The company slogan, etched into the glass behind the curved reception station, read: Delivering Miracles Every Day.
Karen flashed her badge at the receptionist seated behind the desk. “Dr. Hal Hewitt,” Karen said coolly. “Where is he?”
The receptionist, noticing Ellen Hilliard, blanched. “He’s—he’s in his office. I’ll—I’ll tell him you’re here,” she said, stuttering.
“No, you’ll buzz us in right now,” Ellen responded sharply, “and you won’t say a word.”
Karen pointed to Woody Lapham, who understood his order was to enforce the first lady’s wishes.
“Nobody is to come in,” Karen said to him.
The door to the clinic area buzzed and Ellen ripped it open, quaking with fury. She stormed down the hall in long, purposeful strides, passing offices, exam rooms, and open lab areas, seeming to know exactly where she was headed. Employees and patients gawked, but said nothing as they passed.
Lee and Karen followed closely behind, exchanging nervous glances. Less than an hour ago, Lee had no idea this was where Cam was conceived. Ellen came to a shuttered mahogany door with Hewitt’s name written on a brass plate. She threw open the door without knocking.
Hal Hewitt, seated behind a glass-topped desk, jumped out of his chair when Ellen barged in. One of his sunspotted hands went to his chest. His heart had to be beating fast, though Lee was not sure he’d perform CPR if called upon.
“My goodness, Ellen, you nearly scared me to death.”
Hewitt stood. Everything about him was rumpled and out of sorts—from his wispy hair to his wrinkled yellow shirt and mismatched green tie. He seemed hapless and haphazard, but Lee knew better. He was cunning and perhaps responsible for everything, including Paul’s murder.
“What have you done?” Ellen said, striding over to his desk. His office was spacious. Nice furniture. Good views outside. Again, the sort of place anxious would-be parents might feel a little more relaxed.
Reflexively, Hewitt backed up a step, bumping into the wall behind him. “Ellen—I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I had a geneticist test my family. Geoffrey is not Cam’s father! Now, I demand an answer.”
Hewitt’s mouth moved, but for a time no words came out. “That’s … wrong. It’s got to be wrong—the test—it’s flawed. That’s impossible.”
Ellen was not buying it. “What did you do?” she asked, moving behind Hewitt’s desk, closing in on him.
“I did nothing. I swear.”
“No, that’s a lie,” said Lee. “Dr. Kaufmann is an expert in her field. She wouldn’t make this claim unless she was absolutely certain. The report is irrefutable. You owe us an explanation.”
“It’s a mistake, I’m telling you,” Hewitt insisted.
“There is no mistake. Now you tell me, dammit. Who is my son’s father?” Ellen said through clenched teeth. Her face turned crimson. “Who?”
Hewitt held her gaze.
“I am,” he said.
Ellen got a faraway look in her eyes like she could not quite process what she had heard. A second later, she snapped back into herself.
“That’s not true,” she said. “You take it back.” Her face was now flushed with ripe anger. She took several steps toward Hewitt. Karen stepped forward, pushing back her blazer to reveal her service weapon, while simultaneously placing her hand on Ellen’s shoulder. She must not have liked her proximity to Hewitt.
The next moment happened so fast Lee barely saw it happen at all. Ellen pushed Karen back with force at the same instant Hewitt lunged at Karen’s waist. One second Ellen was confronting Hewitt with an accusatory finger, and the next Hewitt was pointing Karen’s gun at the first lady’s head.
Ellen staggered backwards with a fearful look.
“I can’t let any of you tell,” Hewitt said in a voice as shaky as the hand holding the gun. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry. My work is too important. Too important. I’m still experimenting, still working. I’ll change the world for the better.”
“You can’t explain three murders,” Lee said. “This is the first lady of the United States!”
“I’ll—I’ll figure something out.”
But Lee could see it in Hewitt’s face, in his eyes: he had no plan. Still, he took an off-balance firing stance.
Karen became a blur of motion. She launched herself into the air at the same instant Hewitt fired. The bullet struck Karen in the chest and she curled in a ball as she fell to the floor. Lee rushed at Karen, seeing Hewitt aim the gun at her. But before he could do anything, Karen, with stunning quickness, pulled a second gun from her ankle holster and fired four times at Hewitt.
Each bullet found a home. Two sank into Hewitt’s fleshy stomach. Another vanished into his arm. But the last bullet shot struck him in the head, and put a stop to his cold, beating heart.