The Way You Look Tonight Read online

‘Do you believe in, ah, serendipity, Miss Arnold?’

  ‘You mean happy coincidence, Mr President?’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  ‘I’ve never really thought about it, sir.’

  Stella heard herself speaking from what seemed like a great distance. She felt as if she was watching a scene in a play or film, except that, absurdly, she was simultaneously appearing in it, too.

  A few minutes earlier she had watched, mystified, as Ethel tugged her husband away from the throng surrounding the barbecue and began speaking to him in low, urgent tones. He had glanced across at Stella just once and given her a small, reassuring smile and simultaneous half-wave, before turning back to his wife. When she’d finished telling him whatever on earth she was telling him, he’d nodded and kissed her nose before turning to retrieve his brother who, bored with cookhouse responsibilities, was wandering back down the beach with his wife.

  Stella was sitting in the cosy den of their hosts’ beach house. Bobby and Jack Kennedy lounged amicably opposite her. No one else was in the room. It struck her as somehow faintly incongruous that all three of them were sitting on enormous beanbags, arranged around a low pine table covered in pieces of twisted sun-bleached driftwood and giant white and pink sea-shells.

  Through the storm-proofed, sound-proofed, double-glazed floor-to-ceiling picture window that looked out over the beach, Stella watched the silent scene of Ethel and Jackie rounding up their children. It must be nearly time for the Kennedys to sail back across Nantucket Sound to Hyannis Port. She could see the prow of their 26-foot yacht nosing around the bluff toward the bay. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least if Ethel later took the helm and barked out commands to the crew. She was obviously an extraordinarily –

  ‘Um . . . Miss Arnold?’

  Stella jumped. ‘Oh . . . I’m so sorry, Mr President; I was drifting a little. You have to understand that this is a very . . . unusual situation for me to find myself in. I’ve lost my bearings a bit, I’m afraid. A couple of hours ago I thought I might just possibly be shaking hands with you or your brother. Now I’m in this lovely room with you both. It’s all rather overwhelming and . . . well, confusing.’

  Bobby grinned at her. ‘My brother and I call it the five-minute rule. Most, ah, first-timers like you, if I can put it like that, Miss Arnold, feel just fine in the time it takes to smoke a cigarette. I see you’ve almost finished yours.’

  She looked down at her hand in surprise. ‘I didn’t even realise I’d lit this,’ she said, with a short laugh. ‘But do you know, I believe you may be right. The ringing in my ears is fading.’

  The brothers laughed. ‘She’s making jokes now, Bobby,’ Jack said. ‘I think we can, ah, safely start.’

  They really do speak with a Boston drawl, Stella thought to herself. ‘Please call me Stella,’ she said. ‘And – excuse me – why did you ask about serendipity just now, Mr President?’

  ‘Jack, I’ll take point on this.’

  Bobby slid down from his beanbag and settled more comfortably on the floor, his tanned feet splayed out on pale floorboards, hands clasped around his knees. He looks about nineteen, Stella thought, especially with his floppy fringe.

  ‘Ethel told us what you are studying, or intending to study, at Smith,’ he began. ‘It seems you’re an expert on psychopaths, Miss Arnold, ah, Stella . . . especially dangerous ones.’

  She looked at him appreciatively. ‘My goodness. You know there’s a difference, then? Mention the word psychopath to most people, however educated and intelligent they are, and all they can see is garrottes and flashing knives. But we’re beginning to understand that psychopaths come in all shapes and sizes, and many aren’t dangerous at all. In fact there’s one body of thought that suggests leaders in industry and particularly politics might quite often display psychopathic tendencies. I actually think—’

  She clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Forgive me! I didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t trying to imply . . .’

  But the two men opposite her were laughing. ‘There you go, Jack!’ grinned Bobby, reaching across and punching his brother’s thigh. ‘I always said you were the psycho of the family. Turns out science agrees with me! Stella, if and when the opportunity arises I’d like to buy you a beer.’

  Stella smiled at him ruefully. ‘All I was trying to say was—’

  ‘It’s OK, it’s OK, we get it. Anyway. Let’s focus. Dangerous psychopaths. Repeat murderers, for example. Tell us about them.’

  She had recovered herself.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to affect some kind of false modesty about this,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m more or less at the top of my field – my academic field, I should say, in terms of the latest thinking on criminal psychopathy. Obviously, not in terms of the psychiatric treatments, and so on – but even there I have a fair amount of theoretical knowledge.’

  ‘That’s fine, just fine.’ Bobby told her. ‘Now, tell Jack and me what you were telling my wife out there on the beach a few minutes ago.’

  Stella obediently repeated most of what she’d said to Ethel, adding: ‘In fact I was at a conference on the subject a few weeks before I left England and to be honest I came to realise that I knew as much, if not more, than some of the main speakers. I think a lot of European faculties are still a bit snobbish about American academia, to be honest, and they don’t read enough of the new research and studies being done over here.’

  Bobby nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Right. So . . . and this is purely a “for instance”, Stella . . . if someone were to present you with details of a contemporary repeat homicide case – who’d been murdered, how, the way their bodies were left, and so on – you might be able to tell us something about the killer?’

  ‘In theory, yes,’ Stella answered carefully. ‘But it would totally depend on how much information there was to hand. With a reasonable amount of data, though, I could probably give you a general idea of the kind of person he might be; things such as his likely age, the kind of job he might have, and some reasonably intelligent guesses about his background.’ She smiled at them. ‘Well, with a bit of luck and a following wind, anyway.’

  Jack Kennedy returned her smile, and spoke for the first time in several minutes. ‘And you wouldn’t object if our people checked you out, Stella? Got in touch with your alma mater in Cambridge, for example? Talked to the people you’ll be studying under at Smith?’

  Stella’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Not at all . . . but why would you want to do that, Mr President? You still haven’t explained why we’re having this conversation.’

  Jack Kennedy steepled his fingers and rested his chin on top of them.

  ‘Now that, Stella, is where serendipity finally enters the picture.’

  14

  Todd Johnson wasn’t at all sure it had been such a great idea to transfer from Detroit Police to the President’s personal Secret Service detail. He’d thought it would be a whole lot more glamorous than this. Todd had envisaged loping alongside the presidential limousine as it drove slowly through vast, cheering crowds, perhaps winning the occasional admiring glance from the First Lady as he pressed a finger against his earpiece and barked crisp, efficient updates into the tiny radio microphone pinned to his suit lapel.

  But not this. Not sitting alone in a nondescript mid-range unmarked radio car with busted air-con and nothing to do unless the receiver suddenly crackled to life with a message. Which it hadn’t. Not since they’d got here.

  All the other guys were down on the beach, eyeing up the women and working on their suntans. When he’d stepped out of the car to get some air and maybe tilt his own face up to the sun for a few minutes, his boss had materialised from the sand-dunes like some kind of frigging magician and yelled at him to ‘get back in the goddamn car, Johnson, or get back to Detroit!’

  He wondered if he could smoke a cigarette, and then decided against it. Old hard-as-nails would probably pop up from the dunes again like a jack-in-the-box, and he’d be on report. He sighed. Things had better start
improving soon or he’d be seriously thinking about going back to work in his brother’s car showroom in Dearborn.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ He jumped near clear through the car’s roof at the sudden hammering on the driver’s window. ‘What the f—’

  It was one of the local Vineyard cops, a three-striper. Todd got a grip and rolled down the window.

  ‘Yeah?’

  The sergeant grinned at him. ‘Sorry, son. Didn’t mean to startle you there.’ He held up his ID. ‘Trade?’

  Todd fished out his Secret Service pass from an inside pocket and flashed it back at the cop. ‘What’s up, officer?’

  The sergeant nodded to the short-wave radio unit bolted to the sedan’s dashboard. ‘You having trouble with that thing? We been trying to raise you from the station this past twenty minutes. I tried you from the car on the way over here. Nix.’

  Todd flicked a few switches, and then thumped the top of the receiver-transponder.

  ‘Stone cold. I was wondering why it had all gone quiet . . . it was fine when we got here,’ he added, lamely.

  ‘Yeah, well, praise the Lord for the US Telegram Service, huh?’

  Todd looked at him blankly. ‘Begging your pardon?’

  The sergeant pulled a crumpled telegram envelope from his back pocket. ‘Looks like we’ve not been the only ones trying to reach you, son. This came through a few minutes ago from FBI Miami. Urgent, for the Attorney General. I do believe he’s still here.’ The sergeant nodded out towards a low headland. ‘I noticed the Victura’s still at anchor around the point. You take this straight to him, son. It’s in plain speech so your boys won’t need the codes.’

  Todd got out of the car. ‘You’ve read it then.’

  ‘Couldn’t avoid doing so, friend. Don’t have a single idea what it’s about, mind. Maybe it is a kinda code after all. All seems to be about the number four.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll be getting back. You get that radio fixed, mind, on the double. Hell, what if the Ruskies are comin’?’

  Todd could hear the sergeant laughing as he strolled back to his patrol car.

  He looked down at the envelope. This was it. A personal message for the President’s brother. And he was the one lucky stiff who got to deliver it.

  ‘An FBI telegram? What the hell’s wrong with the radio, Johnson?’

  The most senior of the three Secret Service men guarding the veranda of the beach house glowered at him, chin thrust forward aggressively.

  ‘It’s out of service, sir. I only just—’

  ‘Then get straight down on that beach there and tell the old man RIGHT NOW. We need to get the Victura’s back-up unit ashore and powered up right away. Jesus, Johnson, what if the Ruskies are coming?’

  The older man snatched the telegram from Todd’s unresisting fingers and turned to go inside the wooden building.

  ‘But sir, I was going to—’

  The screen door slammed shut and Todd was talking to himself.

  ‘I’d sprint, not walk to the beach, Johnson, if I were you,’ one of the remaining guards said dispassionately, eyes hidden behind blank shades. ‘Even then I wouldn’t bet against this being your last day with the organisation, sport. Enjoy what may be left of it.’

  Before the President could begin, there was a double knock on the den’s sliding door.

  ‘Dammit. Yes, come in . . .’

  The door rolled back and the agent stepped into the room. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr President, but a telegram’s just come through from the FBI in Miami, urgent for the Attorney General here.’

  Bobby laughed. ‘A telegram?’ He reached out for it. ‘Maybe Hoover’s boys will start using the Pony Express again soon.’

  The agent looked embarrassed. ‘Problem with our radio car, sir. We’re on it.’

  ‘Sure.’ The Attorney General took the envelope and opened it as the agent slid back out of the room as quickly as was decently possible.

  He stared, expressionless, at the sparsely worded paragraph in front of him. After a moment, he closed his eyes and wearily pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘Hey, Bobby . . .’ His brother inclined his head towards Stella, still perched on her beanbag.

  ‘What? Oh . . . I apologise for my language there, Miss Arnold . . . Stella, I mean . . . would you, ah, excuse us a moment?’

  ‘Of course,’ Stella said, beginning to get up. ‘Do you want me to go outside?’

  ‘No, no, you stay comfortable in here. Jack, would you come into the hall, please?’

  Stella was left alone in the den. She looked out at America’s most powerful at play while their President and his brother whispered outside on the stairs.

  She’d always had a vivid imagination, but she couldn’t have got close to predicting such a wildly improbable scenario.

  Despite everything, she started to laugh.

  ‘Four! Are they sure?’

  ‘Pretty much. The FBI say everything about the new one found this morning screams the same modus operandi as the first three, Jack, even before the post mortem. We’ve got a real problem here. And there’s something I haven’t told you yet.’

  The President was sitting on the stairs, his hands cradling his head. Now he raised it to stare at his younger brother. ‘Oh man, this thing just gets better and better. What, and why, if you please?’

  ‘C. Farris Bryant is flying up to Washington from Miami tomorrow and he wants to see you in the White House first thing Tuesday when we get back. The why is that I only took his call as we were leaving Hyannis Port earlier and I didn’t see any good reason to burden you with it until the morning.’

  The President pushed his hair back with both hands. ‘Great. So we have four murdered and mutilated women down there inside precisely three weeks, and the state governor on the warpath to Washington. Thank the saints Bryant’s a Democrat, at least.’

  ‘Small mercies, yeah . . .’ Bobby considered a moment. ‘I’ll give you the background during the flight down to Washington tomorrow, but the bottom line is that Bryant is attracting serious investment to turn Florida into America’s new winter playground. He’s building freeways and bridges and green-lighting all kinds of tourist development. There are huge deals on the brink of being signed.

  ‘But the mother of them all – and don’t you start in on me, Jack, this was news to me too, I swear – Bryant says he’s begun secret talks with Walt Disney to get the new Disney Park located down there and things are at a very delicate stage. Right now, Bryant needs a multiple murderer rampaging round southern Florida like he needs a fucking hole in the head. He wants to know what we’re going to do about it.’

  ‘And this conversation with him this morning was before he knew about this fourth one?’

  ‘Oh yeah. I’m expecting sweet, loving messages from him waiting for me when we get back to Hyannis Port. I’d probably be hearing them right now if the radio car wasn’t out of action.’

  The President looked back towards the den where Stella waited patiently for them.

  ‘And Bryant’ll be opposite me in the Oval Office Tuesday? Wanting answers?’

  ‘You can bet on it.’

  His older brother nodded slowly. ‘Right. Then we’re going to feed this guy some seriously good news. We’ll tell him that we’ve drafted one of the world’s foremost young minds concerning homicidal psychopaths, and she’s on the case as a special advisor to the FBI as of yesterday.’

  His brother stared at him, and gave a short laugh. ‘Isn’t that what you might call something of an over-promotion, Jack? Sure, she’s as bright as a new penny but Jeez . . . she’s only twenty-one, twenty-two at most.’

  ‘We know that, Bobby, but Bryant doesn’t. We’ll sell her to him as a prodigy. Come on, help me fix this. It doesn’t have to be for long – maybe a week at most. Meantime you get some kind of endorsement from her senior don at Cambridge, something that looks impressive; something that I can wave in Bryant’s face. We just need to keep the guy
happy for a few days until the FBI boys get a lead, which they surely will. The Keys aren’t the Wild West, for God’s sake – we’re talking about a handful of small islands here. Anyway, you never know, maybe we’ll cut a break. Maybe this girl really can help us out. She seems confident enough, that’s for sure.’

  Jack Kennedy stood up. ‘Come on. Let’s go pin a deputy’s badge on the kid.’

  15

  Stella heard the den’s sliding door opening behind her and she turned from the beach window to see Jack Kennedy entering the room alone.

  ‘Oh . . . where’s your brother, Mr President?’

  ‘He’s gone to get us some cold beers. I, ah, think you may appreciate a drink when we’re done here. We all might.’

  He smiled reassuringly at her before beginning to lower himself awkwardly onto one of the beanbags. Suddenly he winced and grunted in pain.

  ‘Um . . . I think I may remain standing, if that’s OK with you, Miss Arnold.’

  ‘Of course . . . are you all right?’

  ‘Never better, thank you. I just have a touch of stiffness in my back today, that’s all.’

  She watched him fishing for something in a jacket pocket before he produced a small brown glass bottle and quickly unscrewed the lid. He glanced at her. ‘Aspirin,’ he said. ‘It takes the edge off. Would you, ah, pass me that water, please?’

  There was a pewter tray bearing a blue glass carafe with matching tumblers set on a small table beside the window. Stella poured a glass out and handed it to him. I’m giving a glass of water to the 35th President of the United States and it doesn’t feel peculiar at all, she thought, as she watched him take a sip from it and throw his head back to swallow the pill. She caught the briefest glimpse of it on his tongue. The tablet was bright red and tiny. It didn’t look like any kind of aspirin she’d seen before.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, handing back the glass.

  He smiled at her. ‘Stella, I have to tell you that I think your presence here today is a remarkable coincidence and, ah, a fateful one at that.’