Free Capital Crimes by Stuart Woods

telling him, Tim,” Ted shouted, banging his hand on the bar. “Nuke the bastards!”
    “Well, that’s all we have time for tonight, folks,” Brennan was saying. “Evan and I will see you tomorrow evening, same time.”
    The theme music came up, and the two men began freeing themselves from their microphones.
    Ted paid his bill, pocketed his change, and, swinging his umbrella, went outside, keeping an eye on the CNN entrance. He watched as Brennan and his cohost signed out of the building and left. They paused out front, shook hands, and departed in opposite directions, which seemed appropriate to Ted.
    Ted crossed the street and fell in a dozen paces behind Brennan. He kept pace with the man until he was sure there were no guards watching him, then followed him into Penn Station, where Brennan headed for the New Jersey trains.
    Ted caught up with him on an escalator, and as he walked past the man, he aimed the umbrella at his calf muscle and jabbed quickly.
    “Ow!” Brennan yelled.
    “Gosh, I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Brennan,” Ted said. “The thing just got away from me.”
    “That hurt like hell,” Brennan said, massaging his leg.
    “I’m really sorry. The tip of the umbrella got caught in the escalator tread, and when I yanked it out, it hit you.”
    “It’s okay,” Brennan said. “Forget it.”
    “Great show tonight!” Ted said.
    Brennan beamed. “Thanks.”
    “You take care now.”
    Brennan peeled off toward the trains, and Ted turned and found an up escalator. Half an hour later, he was on a bus back to New Jersey.
     
    TIM BRENNAN let himself into his house and dumped his briefcase on the hall table. “Anybody home?” he yelled.
    “Back here,” his wife called.
    He went into the kitchen and sat down at the little dining table in the corner. “Man, I’m beat,” he said.
    “That’s unusual for you,” his wife replied. “You usually get home full of piss and vinegar, ready to jump me.”
    “I think I’m coming down with some sort of bug, or something. I really feel rotten.”
    She set a plate of hot food before him. “Eat your dinner and go straight to bed,” she said. “If you’re not feeling better in the morning, I’ll take you to the doctor.”
    Brennan nodded and began to eat. He had taken only a few bites when he suddenly vomited into his plate.
     
    The doctor came through a swinging door and walked up to her. “Mrs. Brennan?”
    “Yes.” She stood up.
    “Your husband seems to be suffering from some sort of bacterial infection. We haven’t been able to identify it yet, so we’re treating him with broad-spectrum antibiotics.”
    “Is he going to be all right?”
    “I think so. We’ve given him something to help with the vomiting, and he’s resting more comfortably now.”
    “May I see him?”
    “I don’t think you should, until we’ve found out exactly what’s wrong with him, and I’d like to take a blood sample from you before you go home.”
    “You think he might be contagious?”
    “I really don’t know yet, but we’re working on it.”
    “I’ll be glad to give you a blood sample,” she said. “Will you please tell Tim that I’ll be back in the morning to see him?”
    “Of course I will,” the doctor said.
     
    TED POINTED THE RV south on I-95 and headed for Virginia. He’d find an RV park along the way and get some sleep.
     
     
    17
    BOB KINNEY STOPPED at a pancake house for breakfast and opened his Washington Post. He was presented with a large photograph of the Arlington arson inspector accompanied by an interview about the facts surrounding the death of Van Vandervelt, including an extensive description of the bomb, some of which had to have come from the FBI people on the crime scene.
    Kinney was an advocate of the Bureau being as open as possible with local law enforcement, but it seemed that every time they opened up, some local guy would jump in and either take credit for the investigation or reveal a great deal more than he should about