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assholes. Theater people, Jesus. It was mostly an older crowd -- season
subscribers. Tables were set up sellingjunky T-shirts and high-priced
programs. A woman with a gaudy red umbrella was guiding a tour of high school
kids through the intermission crowd.
There was a very nasty and difficult trick to this killing, Kevin Hawkins
knew.
He had to get unbelievably close to the victim, physically close, before he
actually committed the murder.
That bothered him a lot, but there was no way around it. He had to get right
on top of the target, and he could not fail at this part of the job.
The photojournalist was thinking about it as he successfully blended into the
noisily buzzing theater crowd.
He eventually spotted Supreme Court Justice Thomas Henry, Franklin. Franklin
was the youngest member of the current Court. He was an African-American. He
looked haughty, which fitted his reputation around Washington. He was not a
likable man. Not that it mattered.
Snapshot Kevin Hawkins took a mind photo of Thomas Henry Franklin.
On the justice's left arm was a twenty-three-year-old woman.
Snapshot. Snapshot.
Hawkins had done his homework on Charlotte Kinsey, too. He knew her name, of
course. He knew that she was a second-year law student at Georgetown. He knew
other dark secrets about Charlotte Kinsey and Justice Franklin as well. He had
watched the two of them together in bed.
He took another moment to observe Thomas Franklin and the college girl as they
talked in the Grand Foyer. They were as animated and bubbly as any of the
other couples there. Even more so. What great fun the theater could be!
He took several more mind photos. He would never forget the image of the two
of them talking together like that. 5napshot. And that. Snapshot.
They laughed very naturally and spontaneously, and appeared to like each
other's company Hawkins found himself frowning.
He had two nieces in Silver Spring. The thought of the young law student with
this middle-aged phony irked the hell out of him!
The irony of his harsh judgment brought a sudden smile to his lips. The
morality of a stone-cold killer -- how droll! How insane.
How very cool.
He watched the two of them move onto the large terrace off the lobby He
followed several paces behind. The Potomac stretched out before them and was
black as night. A dinner-cruise boat from Alexandria -- the Dandy -- was
floating by The sheer curtains between the lobby and terrace flapped
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dramatically in the crisp river wind. Kevin Hawkins carefully moved toward the
Supreme Court justice and his beautiful date. He took more mind photos of the
two of them.
He noted that Justice Franklin's white shirt was a size too small, grabbing at
his neck. The yellow silk tie was too loud for his subdued gray suit.
Charlotte Kinsey had a quick, sweet smile that was irresistible. She had
lovely rounded breasts. Her long black hair swirled in the river breeze.
He physically brushed against the two of them. Begot that close to Charlotte
and Thomas. He actually touched the law student's long shiny hair. He could
smell her perfume. Opium or Shalimar.
Snapshot.
He was right there. So close. He was practically on top of them, in every
sense of the phrase.
His mind's eye continued to snap off photo after photo of the two of them. He
would never forget any of this, not a single frame of the intimate murder
scene.
He could see, hear, touch, smell; and yet he couldn't feel a thing.
Kevin Hawkins resisted all human impulses now. No pity No guilt. No shame. And
no mercy The law student carried a leather bag on her left shoulder. It was
slightly open, just a sliver, just enough. Ah, carefree, casual, careless
youth.
The photojournalist was good with his hands. Still good. Still steady. Still
very quick. Still one of the best.
He slid something into her bag. C'est ca. That was it! Success.
The first of the night.
Neither she nor Justice Franklin noticed the fleeting movement, or him, as he
passed by in the crowd. He was the river breeze, the night, the light of the
moon.
He felt incredible exhilaration at that special moment. There was nothing in
the world like this. The power in taking, stealing, another human life was
like nothing else in the full palette of human experiences.
The hard part was over, he knew. The close work. Now the simple act of murder.
To murder in public view.
And not get caught.
His heart suddenly jumped, bucked horribly Something was going wrong. Very
wrong. As wrong as could be. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
Jesus, Charlotte Kinsey was reaching into her bag.
Snapshot.
She'd found the note he'd left there -- the note from Jack and Jill!
Wrong, wrong, wrong!
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Snapshot.
She was looking at it curiously, wondering what it was, wondering how it had
gotten in her handbag.
She began to unfold the note, and he could feel his temples pounding horribly
She had gotten the justice's attention. He glanced down at the note as well.
Nooooo! Jesus, nooo, he wanted to scream.
Kevin Hawkins operated on pure instinct. The purest. No time to second-guess
himself now.
He moved forward very quickly and surely His Luger was out, dangling below his
waist. The gun was concealed because of the closeness of the crowd, the forest
of legs and arms, pleated trousers, fluffed dresses.
He raised and fired the Luger just once. Tricky angle, too. Far from ideal. He
saw the sudden blossom of crimson red. The body jolted, then crumbled and fell
to the marble floor.
A heartshot! Certainly a miracle, or close to it. God was on his side, no?
Snapshot!
Snapshot!
His heart almost couldn't take it. He wasn't used to this sudden improvising.
He thought about getting caught, after all of these years, and on such an
unbelievably important job. He had a vision of total failure. He felt... he
felt something.
He dropped the Luger into the jumble of legs, trousers, satin and taffeta
gowns, high-heeled slippers, highly polished dark cordovans.
"Was that a gunshot?" a woman shrieked. "Oh, God, Phillip.
Someone been shot."
He backed away from the spectacle as just about everyone else did. The Grand
Foyer looked as if it were ablaze.
He was part of them, part of the fearful, bolting crowd. He had nothing to do
with the terrifying disturbance, the murder, the loud gunshot.
His face was a convincing mask of shock and disbelief. God, he knew this look
so well. He had seen it so many times before in his lifetime.
In another tense few moments, he was outside the Kennedy Center. He was [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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