July 12
The memorial service for Allan Trumbo was conducted under a large, open tent on the Georgetown University commons, his alma matter, followed by a light lunch at the Tombs restaurant, just a few steps from campus and one of Trumbo’s favorite hangouts as a student.
An overnight rain had spawned swampy air, causing clothes to stick to the skin like sap. Women pawed at dresses to unseal their garments from damp arms and legs, while men tugged at the seats of their pants. Attendees grumbled that the event should have been moved indoors to the climate-controlled auditorium. Still, a large crowd turned out to pay its last respects and hear Matthew Pound, the vice president of the United States, deliver the eulogy.
“Allan Trumbo,” the vice president, a former right-wing radio talk show host, said in his best broadcast voice, “was destined for greater things, but it was not to be. His Maker had other plans for ‘Never Stumble Trumbo,’ and the country has been denied a valuable public servant who always, and I mean always, put other people’s needs above his own.” Pound paused, a practiced catch in his throat, before continuing.
“Indeed, we all knew Allan had a higher calling, but it never occurred to his many admirers that it would not be of this world.”
Nik arrived late for the service. Gyp had cut the pad on his right front paw when they were out for a walk that morning, and he had been reluctant to leave the dog by himself. Luckily, Reese, his new neighbor, was at home, and she had agreed to pop up to Nik’s place on and off throughout the day to check in on Gyp.
Nik found an open spot in the last row of white plastic chairs inside the tent and took a seat. The ground was soggy from the rain, and when he sat down, the legs of the chair made a sucking sound as they sank into the turf.
Surveying the crowd, Nik recognized several attendees—junior congressmen and -women, the president’s press secretary, one minor cabinet official, and two cable TV reporters, one from CNN, the other from MSNBC. In other words, a typical Washington, DC, gathering.
He saw several women quietly weeping, tissues pressed to their eyes, and young children pulling at their parents’ arms, trying to break free and run off. Several rows in front of Nik, he noticed DC detectives Yvette Jenks, a veteran cop and ex-marine, and her young partner, Jason Goetz. He doubted they were social acquaintances of Trumbo’s and were more than likely there on official business. No suspects had been publicly identified in either Trumbo’s or Rupert Olen’s murders.
He spotted Dwayne Mack about halfway up the middle aisle, on the right-hand side, head drooping. He appeared to be nodding off as Pound concluded his remarks.
“We may never know who the depraved individual was that took Allan Trumbo from us or why,” Pound intoned, looking down, shaking his head, his hair the color of tinsel, “but in my heart, I know the Good Lord will smite that person and deliver justice. God bless Allan Trumbo, God bless America, and amen.”
The gathering rumbled an “amen” in unison, and Dwayne Mack’s chin snapped up off his chest as if he had been jabbed with a needle. The vice president made his way down the center aisle, Secret Service agents floating ahead of him, squinty-eyed, grim, serious expressions on their mugs. Pound stopped to offer a private word of sympathy to Trumbo’s parents and partner and exchanged handshakes with other mourners, a sorrowful look flash frozen on an otherwise bland, pasty face.
When he reached Dwayne Mack, the vice president briefly paused, grasped Mack’s elbow, and pulled him close, whispering in his ear, and just as quickly, he stepped back, patted the ashen-faced Mack on the shoulder, nodded solemnly, and continued on his way toward the exit.
___________
“Well, well. Look who’s here. Always turning up like a bad penny,” Detective Jenks said when she saw Nik approach her and her partner at the Tombs restaurant following the service.
“Detectives Jenks, Goetz,” Nik acknowledged. “I didn’t know you were familiar with the deceased.”
“Nik, good to see you again,” said Goetz, a former middle school teacher turned cop, beaming and thrusting out his hand. If Jenks was a pit bull, Goetz was a golden retriever, always friendly, trusting. He wore a freshly pressed tan two-piece suit and heavy-soled black cop shoes. “Looks like you fully recovered from your injuries.”
Goetz and Jenks had interviewed Nik in his hospital room shortly after he was attacked in Rock Creek Park while he was reporting on the OmniSoft story. His attacker had been killed by an expert archer who Nik swore he never saw. The shooter carved up Nik’s assailant with the precision of a surgeon before delivering the fatal shot through the back of the neck and out the throat.
Jenks didn’t believe Nik’s story, while Goetz gave him the benefit of the doubt. Later, after Nik had recovered from his injuries, Sam invited Goetz and his partner, Daniel, to a get-well party.
“Shoulda known you’d show up sooner or later, Byron, gruesome killing like this,” Jenks said bitterly.
“I don’t know what I can do to convince you that I never saw the killer,” Nik said.
“Not a damn thing. I don’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth, Byron,” Jenks spat and turned her back on Nik to survey the crowd. Jenks had a large Afro, turning gray, and wore a black pantsuit with padded shoulders and gold piping around the cuffs. Nik noticed the bulge from her service revolver on her hip. He had a hard time seeing around her and stepped to the side to keep an eye on Dwayne Mack, who was in an intense conversation with a dark-haired, slightly built man.
“Try the crab rolls before they’re all gone,” Goetz said and offered his plate to Nik. “They’re very tasty.”
“No, thanks.” Nik waved him off. “You folks got any leads?”
“Well, we don’t think it was a random act, if that’s what you’re asking,” Goetz said and stuffed another crab roll into his mouth. “Secret Service is poking around to see if someone was trying to send a message to the vice president. Seems like a stretch.”
“Goetz, stop your jawboning,” Jenks barked over her shoulder. “Our guy’s on the move.”
“Nice seeing you again, Nik,” Goetz said and wiped his mouth with a napkin. Jenks was already halfway across the room, and Goetz hurried to catch up with her. The pair fell several paces behind the man who had been talking to Mack and followed him out of the restaurant.
Nik spotted the reporters from CNN and MSNBC he had seen at the service huddled in a corner and drifted toward them. The murders of Rupert Olen and Allan Trumbo were receiving intensive, around-the-clock coverage from every media outlet in town, including Newshound, since it boosted ratings, and with Congress in summer recess, it was really the only game in town.
“Nik,” the pair acknowledged him when he walked up. “We were just talking, and we think it’s either some twisted, sex-infused motive or a drug deal gone bad. Where do you come down on the killings?” the CNN staffer, a pinched-faced, prematurely silver-haired man with large-framed glasses balanced on his forehead, asked.
“Yeah, love triangle,” the MSNBC woman added.
“Sounds about right,” Nik said impassively. “Who’s the third side of the triangle?”
“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? I’m not saying I have it nailed down, but I have it on pretty good authority that it’s some very important French diplomat’s wife,” the woman said. The CNN reporter nodded his head aggressively.
“Well, you guys are miles ahead of me. Don’t even know why I bother to compete.” Both reporters gave Nik sad smiles as if to say they understood his plight and that he had correctly assessed his situation.
Nik’s stomach stirred, and he excused himself and made his way to the buffet table.
“I hear the crab rolls are excellent,” he suggested to the person ahead of him in the line.
“Thanks. I’ll have to try them,” the man said, stabbing a forkful.
“Terrible about Allan.”
“Unspeakable. Can’t imagine why anyone would want to harm him, let alone do what they did.”
“I saw the man you were talking to a moment ago. He looked like an old college friend,” Nik said conversationally.
“Faud Asma?” the man snorted. “I seriously doubt it. Don’t believe he’s ever set foot in a college classroom.”
“Must have been mistaken,” Nik said, continuing down the food line. “I couldn’t help but notice that you looked very upset after the vice president stopped to chat briefly with you when he was leaving the memorial service. Was it something he said?”
The man in front of Nik stopped piling his plate with food, stepped back, and turned to face the reporter. “Excuse me, but do I know you?”
“Nik Byron,” he said and shot out his hand. “I’m a reporter with Newshound. You’re a hard man to get ahold of, Mr. Mack.”