Political Suicide by Michael Palmer Read Free Book Online Page B

stiff.”
    “As soon as we have a time, we’re there. It’ll be good to reconnect with Tiny. He actually was a decent fighter at one time himself. Listen, I’ve got some pointers to give to Tommy, the kid with the red trunks shadowboxing to Emily’s right. He has some serious potential if he can just stay in school and out of trouble.”
    “He’s lucky to have you on his case.”
    Lou watched as his sponsor strode easily over to Emily, whispered something that made her grin, and sent her back to the ring. Then Cap turned to the boy and motioned for him to get his hands up. It was impossible to watch the man at work and not feel good. Lou knew that he had been orphaned at a young age, and made this way through some seriously hard times.
    You never know, Lou found himself thinking as he watched his kid dancing across the gym toward him on her fawn’s legs.
    “Hey, Pop, I’ve got the best idea ever,” Emily said, still holding her mouthguard.
    “Let me guess,” Lou said. “You want to be Cap’s partner in the Stick and Move.”
    “Close,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I’ve decided to move in with you.”

CHAPTER 7
    Detective Christopher Bryzinski, of the Maryland State Police, hated funerals. With the exception of his wife, he had buried everybody who mattered to him, and this overwrought ceremony for a murdered congressman served only to bring those bitter memories to the surface. His father, Bart, a cop’s cop, was run down ten years ago on a Maryland highway, killed by a drunk driver on a gray and rainy day like this one. His mother, who, much like himself, was a revolving member of Weight Watchers, died soon after, not surprisingly from a heart attack.
    Bryzinski knew he needed to drop weight. He always needed to drop weight. His wife, Agnes, rode him about it mercilessly—that was when she wasn’t riding him about his cigars. But then, what would be the point of it all? If he gave up food, booze, and an occasional smoke, Agnes might as well stuff him inside a wooden box as well.
    Bryzinski shivered against the raw cold. He gazed absently at the guests who were shuffling across the depressing landscape of milk white gravestones, which reminded Bryzinski of soldiers on a perpetual death march. He had argued with the captain that sending him out here to take pictures with a lapel camera and record notes about the attendees was going to be as fruitless as trying to milk a bull, but the man must have been pissed off at him for something.
    Dr. Gary McHugh was their killer, and that was that.
    Only a fraction of the mob at the service in Bethesda had made the trip down to Arlington, but many of those who did were easily recognizable high-profilers. Jeannine Colston was trudging up the gentle slope, accompanied by her children and two or three others. She was a fine-looking woman, no doubt about that. Bryzinski tried to imagine how she was handling the damning stories about her affair with her husband’s killer. With nothing much else to do, he moved closer and snapped off a few shots.
    For a time, he wondered where Colston’s son was buried. Mike? Mark? Something like that. He was killed in Afghanistan and had won an important medal for his troubles. Father and son. Both marines, both dead.
    The final groups of mourners were headed from their cars toward the burial site. Bryzinski estimated two hundred or so would form the final gathering. Maybe a couple of unidentified or unexpected faces would show up. That’s what the captain was thinking. Still, no matter what, nothing would change the conclusion that Bryzinski and his crew of seasoned homicide detectives had reached. Gary McHugh, the society doc, one of the beautiful people in D.C., was the man.
    The wind kicked up in a sudden gust, spattering rain on beleaguered faces, and actually inverting some umbrellas. The priest, his white robes flapping like sodden sails, was settled beneath a canvas canopy, preparing to read from the Scriptures. Some