"You would like to go for a cafe now and talk?" she asked.

"I would love to but I have to meet someone. However, when I get back."

"We will see," Adelphia replied in a disappointed tone. "I too have things to do. I no can wait for you all the time. I have job."

"No, of course not," Stone said, but the woman had turned and stormed off.

Stone slipped inside his tent, changed and put the rest of his newly acquired clothes in his knapsack. He wandered through the park until he found what he was looking for in a trash can: the morning newspaper. There was nothing in the paper about a body being discovered on Roosevelt Island; it had obviously occurred too late to make the morning edition. He found a payphone and called Caleb in his office at the Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress.

"Have you heard anything, Caleb? There's nothing as yet in the papers."

"I've had the news on all morning. All they're saying is that Roosevelt Island is closed due to an investigation of an undisclosed nature. Can you come down here around one o'clock so we can talk about it?"

Stone agreed and added, "You've taken precautions?"

"Yes, and so have the others. Reuben's at work but he called on a break. I spoke with Milton. He's staying inside his house. He's really terrified."

"Fear is a natural reaction to what we all saw." And then Stone remembered. "Uh, Caleb, you might not recognize me immediately. I've changed my appearance somewhat. I felt it necessary because I was the most likely to have been spotted by the killers."

"I understand, Oliver."

Stone hesitated and then added, "Since I'm fairly well presentable, would it be possible for me to meet you in the reading room instead of outside the building? I've always wanted to see the place, but didn't want to, well, embarra.s.s you at work."

"Oliver, I had no idea. Of course, you can."

As Stone walked to the Library of Congress, he thought about Patrick Johnson's killers. They would know soon that the eyewitnesses had not gone to the police. And they might see an opportunity there that could lead to the extinction of the Camel Club.

CHAPTER 17.

ALEX PULLED HIS CAR OFF THE George Washington Parkway before it ascended sharply along the Potomac River, and parked in the lot for Roosevelt Island. The only access to the island from the parking lot was a long footbridge. George Washington Parkway before it ascended sharply along the Potomac River, and parked in the lot for Roosevelt Island. The only access to the island from the parking lot was a long footbridge.

The parking lot was filled with police cruisers and unmarked federal vehicles. A team from the D.C. Medical Examiner's Office was here as well as an FBI forensics squad. Alex knew he'd be running a gauntlet of suits and uniforms by the time their visit was over.

"Busy place," Simpson commented.

"Yeah, it'll be fun to see the Bureau and the Park Police fight out jurisdiction on this one. The D.C. cops will run a distant third."

They stepped onto the bridge and flashed their credentials at a guard posted there.

"Secret Service?" the uniformed cop said, looking a little confused.

"President sent us. Top secret stuff," Alex answered, and kept on walking.

They quickly made their way to the crime scene along the marked paths. As they drew closer, Alex caught s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation and the sounds of cell phones playing a cacophony of downloaded tunes. Alex was proud of the fact that his phone simply rang rang when someone called him. when someone called him.

The two agents stepped into the paved area in front of the T.R. statue, where Alex looked around, mentally a.s.sembling the players working the homicide.

The D.C. and Park Police stood out because of their uniforms and somewhat deferential manner. The forensics techs were also easy to spot. The suits standing around looking like they owned the place were the Bureau boys undoubtedly. Yet there were some other suits Alex couldn't identify.

He stepped toward what he'd picked out as the ranking park policeman. Getting the uniforms on your side was a very good rule to live by.

"Alex Ford, Secret Service. This is Agent Simpson."

The policeman shook their hands.

Alex inclined his head at the body. "What do we have so far?"

The cop shrugged. "Probable suicide. Looks like the guy shot himself in the mouth. We won't know for sure until the M.E. does the post. The guy's in full rigor. We can't get his mouth open without s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g things up for the autopsy."

"That the FBI over there?" Alex inclined his head at two suits standing near the body.

"How'd you guess?" the cop said with an amused expression.

"Superman capes sticking out of their jackets," Alex replied. That comment drew a chuckle. "How about those guys?" he asked, pointing at the other men he'd noted earlier and who were talking quietly together.

"Carter Gray's boys from NIC," the man said. "They're probably a.n.a.lyzing what Al Qaeda has against Teddy Roosevelt."

Alex grinned and said, "You mind copying us on whatever you find? My boss is one of those real a.n.a.l-retentive types."

"Sure thing, though we don't have much interest in the case so far. His wallet's still on him, and there's a suicide note and a handgun with one round fired. And it looks like the guy sucked down nearly a quart of Scotch. You can still smell it. There're prints on the gun and bottle, and the revolver's registered to him. We'll run the prints to confirm they match the deceased."

"Gunpowder residue on the hand?" Simpson asked.

"None that we could see. But the weapon looks very new and well maintained. And even with a revolver you may not get residue."

"Any sign of a struggle?" Alex asked. The cop shook his head.

"One thing," Simpson said. "Did he drive here to do the deed?"

"No car in the parking lot," the cop said.

"Well, somebody could have shot him and driven off," said Simpson. "But if it was was a suicide, how else could he have gotten here?" a suicide, how else could he have gotten here?"

"There's an elevated pedestrian bridge on the north end of the parking lot that crosses the GW Parkway and connects to the Heritage Trail and Chain Bridge," the cop said. "And a bike path crosses the bridge and ends in the parking lot for the island. But we don't think that's how he came. Somebody would've seen him if he'd used those routes." He hesitated. "We have another theory. His clothes are soaked, too much for it to be just dew."

Alex finally got it. "What? You're saying he swam swam here?" here?"

"Looks that way."

"Why? If he was in the water already and wanted to commit suicide, why not just go out by sucking in a bunch of the Potomac?"

"Well, if he just swam across Little Channel from the Virginia side, it's not very far," the cop pointed out.

"Yeah," Alex retorted. "But if you're going to come from that direction, why not just take the footbridge that goes over over Little Channel, instead of sloughing through it? And if he was stone drunk, he would've drowned." Little Channel, instead of sloughing through it? And if he was stone drunk, he would've drowned."

"Not if he drank the Scotch when he got here," the cop answered. "And there's something else."

He called out some instructions to a member of the forensics team canva.s.sing the area. The man brought over something and handed it to the cop, who held it up. "We found this." It was a plastic evidence baggie with another plastic baggie inside it.

Alex and Simpson studied it. Alex got the answer first. "He used this to put his gun in so his ammo wouldn't get wet while he was swimming here."

"You win the prize. It was a .22 revolver with jacketed rounds."

"I understand there was a suicide note," Alex said.

The cop pulled out his memo book. "I wrote it down verbatim." He read it to the two Secret Service agents, and Simpson copied it down in her notebook.

"Do you have the original note?" Alex asked.

"And you are?" a strident voice asked.

Alex turned and was confronted by a short, compact man in a two-piece Brooks Brothers, muted tie and shiny banker wing tips.

Alex flashed his creds and introduced himself and his partner.

The man barely glanced at the creds before announcing, "I'm FBI Special Agent Lloyd. We already have agents from NIC here to represent the Service's interests."

Alex a.s.sumed his beleaguered federal lawman pose. "Just following orders, Agent Lloyd. And quite honestly, the Service likes to rep its own interests. I'm sure the Bureau can understand that losing someone from N-TAC is a sensitive area, what with us being part of Homeland Security instead of Treasury now." Alex knew that Homeland Security carried a lot more beef than Treasury ever had in law enforcement circles. And if nothing else, the eight-hundred-pound gorilla Bureau tended to respect the nine-hundred-pound gorilla that Homeland Security had become.

Lloyd looked like he was going to shoot back some ripping comment but then seemed to think better of it. He shrugged. "Fine. Go play Sherlock Holmes. The body's right over there. Just don't contaminate the crime scene."

"I really appreciate it, Agent Lloyd. I was asking about the note that was found."

Lloyd motioned to one of the other FBI suits, and the note was brought over.

Lloyd said, "They're going to fume the clothes and other stuff for latent prints, but I'm not confident they'll find much. It's a suicide."

Simpson spoke up. "Cloth isn't great for capturing latents, but that jacket he's wearing isn't a bad surface, particularly since it was damp and the weather last night was good for holding prints. Your tech guys have a Superfume stick in the truck? You can't beat cyano for popping latents on surfaces like that."

"I don't know if they do or not," Lloyd said.

"It might actually be better if you take the clothes to the lab. You can fume them in a heat-accelerated chamber or a megafume. I know the FBI lab has those." She pointed to the suicide note. "Pop that in a heat chamber with ninhydrin or DFOSPRAY, and it'll pull whatever's there right out."

"Thanks for the pointer," Lloyd said tersely, although it was obvious he was impressed with her knowledge of fingerprint lift techniques.

Alex looked at Simpson with new respect, and then his gaze returned to Lloyd, who was staring darkly at her.

"You'll need to confirm it's his handwriting on the note," Alex added.

"I'm aware of that," Lloyd said.

"I can get the Service's lab to run it. And whatever fingerprints that might be there."

"The FBI lab has no peer," Lloyd shot back.

"But our lab has less of a backlog. We are are on the same team here, Agent Lloyd." on the same team here, Agent Lloyd."

This comment seemed to strike some cooperative nerve buried deeply within the stubborn FBI man. After a few moments his manner totally changed. "I appreciate that, Agent Ford."

"Make it Alex, she's Jackie," Alex said, inclining his head at Simpson.

"Good enough, I'm Don. We'll actually take you up on that offer. The FBI lab is is pretty full with terrorist-related matters. You'll have to sign for it for chain of custody. The M.E.'s a stickler for that." pretty full with terrorist-related matters. You'll have to sign for it for chain of custody. The M.E.'s a stickler for that."

Alex did so and then examined the paper closely through the plastic before giving it to Simpson to hold. "So we have any motive for the suicide? I heard he was getting married."

"That'll sure drive some men to kill themselves," the cop said.

That comment drew a laugh from everyone except Simpson, who looked for a moment like she might pull her gun and produce some dead men of her own.

Lloyd said, "Too early to tell. We'll investigate, but it certainly looks like Patrick Johnson killed himself."

"No signs of anyone else having been here?" Simpson asked.

The cop answered, "There might have been, but then fifty schoolkids came marching through. It was still foggy here this morning. They almost tripped over the body. Scared the c.r.a.p out of them. The stone pavers here won't be of much help for footprints or other trace."

"What path did he use to get here?" Alex asked.

"Probably that one." The cop pointed to his left. "If he swam across Little Channel, that path would've been the one he'd use after he walked through the trees and c.r.a.p."

Lloyd added, "We're making a search along the sh.o.r.e for his car. He lived in Bethesda, Maryland. He had to drive down here reasonably close and then swim for the island. If we find his car, we can better pinpoint where he entered the water."

Alex glanced toward the Virginia side. "Guys, if he swam across Little Channel, the only place to leave his car would be in the parking lot."

The cop shrugged. "But he didn't. Unless someone drove him to his suicide spot and then left. That doesn't make much sense."

"The police boat usually runs through here," Simpson noted.

Lloyd nodded. "They did in fact come by here last night. But the fog was so thick they didn't see anything, certainly no swimmer in the water."

"How long has he been dead?" Alex asked.

"M.E. thinks about twelve hours give or take."

"Any thoughts on why he picked Roosevelt Island?"

"It's private, quiet, but still close to everything. And maybe he was a Roosevelt groupie," Lloyd added. The FBI agent glanced over at the men from NIC, frowned and then turned back to Alex. "We'll be heading over to NIC to ask some questions, see if we can find out why Johnson would want to kill himself. What we learn might get those guys"-he motioned to the NIC folks-"a little more paranoid than they already are."

"Meaning Johnson might have been doing something at NIC he shouldn't have?" Alex said.

"Hard for me to say, since I'm not really sure what it is they do over at NIC," Lloyd commented before walking off.

"Join the club," Alex muttered. He motioned Simpson to follow him over to the body. "Your stomach gonna be okay with this?" he asked her.