Do Not Assume

By Elaine Williams Crockett

The crack of a rifle brings the Senator down. Standing nearby, Judge Warren Alexander tries to save him, but it’s too late, the wound too severe. With few leads in the Senator’s murder, life in Washington eventually resumes a normal pace. So does Judge Alexander, until his wife is arrested for the crime.

But it doesn’t make any sense. His wife isn’t a killer. Still, the FBI’s new evidence is overwhelming and he, alone, believes in her innocence.

Digging through the Senator’s life, the Judge finds a mysterious link between the Senator and the rape and murder of a beautiful teenage girl in a Maine resort town more than 40 years earlier. Is the key to the Senator’s death buried with the girl? As the Judge begins narrowing in on suspects, unearthing disturbing secrets along the way, he is unprepared for the consequences. The White House is watching him, waiting for the right moment, determined to do whatever it takes to keep the truth from coming out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781631924309

Book preview

Seventy-Eight

CHAPTER ONE

The assassin, dressed in black, sat in the twelfth seat back on the 76 bus, riding up Massachusetts Avenue, on his way to Davis Rideout’s compound. He knew that Senator Tom Marriner wouldn’t show at the dinner party. Well, actually, Tom Marriner would show. In fact, Marriner would make quite an entrance, even be a hit. The assassin laughed at his own joke, leaned back in the graffiti-covered seat, and shut his eyes tightly, picturing every step he was about to take. This was the night.

His heart pounded in his ears as embassy after embassy slowly clicked by. Not many riders after rush hour. He glanced around casually, taking stock. In the back, a black teenager was reading a paperback, rap music escaping from a set of earphones, his sneakers tapping out the beat. Before him sat an old couple in bright red and yellow polyesters, dissecting every sight, oohing and aahing at red brick walled embassies, and then a great gasp followed by a stunned silence at the Naval Observatory, the Vice-President’s digs in Washington, D.C.

It was growing dark, the shadows along the route black and deep. He caught his reflection in the window, his heart skipping. He wiped dirt and smudge marks from the window with his sleeve. No one would recognize him. His black shoes, black jacket and white shirt were perfect. He shook his head, incredulous at the way the theatrical makeup made him look like a student who was grabbing a quick ride over to Wisconsin Avenue, where he would saunter into Georgetown to meet some friends for a bite.

He was going to dinner all right and he closed his eyes, picturing the estate, the layout and floor plan. Davis Rideout’s estate was enormous, ten acres, an unheard of amount of land for a residence in the District. The main house occupied the top of a hill that bordered the busy residential streets of Massachusetts Heights to the north. The bulk of the estate lay north to south. Through a natural crevice in the land, Mr. Rideout had constructed a private road to Massachusetts Avenue that shaved ten minutes from the drive to his office in Georgetown. That was the assassin’s way in.

The bus wheezed and coughed to a halt as he yanked the cord hard, signaling the driver to stop. He jumped off, spun around, pulled his jacket around his ears, and walked south, gradually easing off the sidewalk and into the brush. A small path was barely visible between thatches of holly bushes. Time to get to work. The hair on his arms tingled as an unimaginable thrill washed over him. His plan was so brilliant that he was almost sorry the public would never hear his name.

Guided by a penlight, he thrashed down the embankment, through grass that became taller and thicker, into the stream and onto the other bank. Soft marshy ground sank beneath him and oozed into his shoes. Smartweeds, spleenworts, and briars whipped and tore his pants. He cursed when a string of thorns ripped his flesh. Finally, he retrieved a path, along a strand of saplings. After fifty yards, he spotted the road of asphalt and gravel. The hike uphill was long and steep and he inhaled deeply, counting the trees, examining their markings, and rubbing a blind hand against the bark.

He felt it first, a fresh cut in the tree. This was the one. The old, gnarled branches groaned in the wind and scraped the ground. Twisting and turning roots dug into the earth, giant plaits that formed several deep, sheltered holes. He stooped down, on his haunches, searching, digging into the dirt with his hands, flinging loose soil and leaves into the air. The rifle was cold as he clutched it to his chest, felt the smooth grain of the wood barrel. He pulled a rag from his pocket and cleaned the surface. The piece was handsome. No, it was a beauty.

He re-checked his watch. Right on schedule. A few more feet and his hand touched the cold hood of the car he had parked halfway up the hill earlier that day. It was expecting him, waiting for him deep in the undergrowth. A black Jaguar, perfect in every way. He slid in, grabbed the black duffel bag on the other seat and carefully removed his shoes and the small plastic bags of sand stuffed around his feet. He bounced a bag up and down in his right hand. Good. No leaks, the sand bags had held.

He deposited the shoes and the bags of sand carefully into the duffel bag, keeping all dirt out of the car, ditched his jacket in the back and pulled onto the road, carefully and without headlights. The car slithered along the steep incline, cautiously, purposefully, feeling its way in the dark, approaching the house from the back. The house beckoned him, urging him to change the course of history. He caught his breath. His heart pumped faster as he approached, slowed the car to a crawl, its belly hugging the ground, the motor barely whispering.

Twinkling white lights sheeted Davis Rideout’s tennis courts. Silence was essential. Above, he could hear the clatter of china and silver and urgent, sharp directions as the caterers set up for dinner. He held his breath as the car snapped a few twigs, his hands tight on the wheel, as he reminded himself not to become careless now. He freed the gas pedal, turned off the engine, and exhaled at the top of the first plateau. Here, by this clump of trees, at this bend in the road, the three-story mansion on the hill appeared in full view.

The perfect position. The tennis courts towered overhead and the garage was about two hundred feet straight ahead on the left side of the road. He rolled down the window, listened. Except for the caterers on the tennis courts, he heard no unusual sounds, just the evening breeze ruffling the trees and faint laughter and music drifting down from the house. His mouth was dry and he fumbled with a piece of gum through thin leather gloves, carefully stashing the used wrapper into his jacket.

He smirked. The Jaguar was just another fancy car in a long line stretching all the way from the house, and sans jacket, he looked like the perfect valet to park it. In the distance, a circle of cigarettes glowed red hot and streaked fire before being ground into the dirt. The college-aged valets, laughing and talking, were oblivious to his arrival. His eyes eagerly swept the panoramic view of the road in both directions and the side of the house, counting the minutes until Senator Marriner would arrive.

He knew which Secret Service van would transport Marriner. There would be no caravan like those that accompany the President or the Vice-President, only the solitary van, and he could spot it a mile away. He knew that the van would approach from the east, following the same city streets as the guests would take. Six Secret Service agents would be flanking the Senator. Unusual, but the death threats warranted extra protection. Tense, he flexed the muscles in his shoulders, looking ahead, anticipating. Soon now.

Flashes of lightning were rolling in. The moon was trapped behind storm clouds. The thunder and rain would conceal his approach. Nature was on his side. Another advantage, carefully considered. Another reason this was the night. Nature, the most difficult of all obstacles, was doing his bidding. Every man-made obstacle had been carefully considered and studiously eliminated.

There would be only seconds to target Senator Marriner. Rightfully confident, he lifted a small black box resting on the leather seat next to him. The top displayed two buttons, the blue the activator, the red the detonator. The Secret Service would drive the oval ellipse of shrubs stretching from the bottom of the driveway approximately one hundred yards to the front of the house. When the van stopped, the bulk of the ammonium nitrate would face Rideout’s front door.

The perfect trap. A set of floodlights along the bottom of the driveway locked the house in brilliant light. These were the lights that would blind the agents when they ran down the lawn toward him with Senator Marriner, who would be illuminated by one hundred thousand watts of electricity, ten thousand watts each, stationed ten feet apart on poles stuck into the ground so that some rich guy could show off his house. He chuckled, rammed a .30 caliber open-tipped boat tail into the chamber, jammed in the bolt, and slammed it down.

CHAPTER TWO

Davis Rideout had yanked the veil off his mansion like a tarp off a statute. At the age of fifty, Davis had made his fortune and now he was showing guests around, making introductions, checking on the stock of champagne, and moving waiters with a quick remark, a nod or a frown, as they bustled about him, obeying every instruction. He slicked back his dark hair with the palm of his hand and headed across the room, breaking his stride only to snatch a merlot from a passing tray.

You’re looking good, he said to a petite girl with luxurious blonde hair and voluptuous curves. Reed Alexander stood in place, but somehow managed to wiggle just a little anyway. In a clinging silk dress, slit up the sides and down the front to display bare legs and deep cleavage, she looked like she had escaped a fire in the middle of the night.

My God! Reed? Davis slid his arm around her, the motion pulling her dress tight across her chest.

She caught her breath. Davis?

Wow. It’s been a long time, he said.

Since I left for college, Reed said, chin down, eyes up, pouting like a child who didn’t get a toy for Christmas.

Really?

Yes. Four years ago. I just graduated, she said.

Quite an accomplishment, Davis said, beaming down at her as though Reed had just walked on Mars. Y’know, Warren, I mean your Dad, mentioned that. Are you living with him and Claire?

No, I have my own apartment. I work for CBS.

And you look different too. Why is that? he asked with a knowing smile.

Maybe it’s my dress, she said, putting the tip of her finger in her mouth.

He stared at her finger. You look gorgeous, he finally said, and held her out to study her. Warren’s little girl. And to think I was going to hit on you.

Reed fingered his tie and pulled him forward until the soft warmth of her breath was on his neck. Why not? she whispered. I’ve always wanted to sleep with you.

Much later, I would find out about my daughter’s overture to Davis but I had arrived too late to witness it first hand. And even if I had noticed them together, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. Reed was only twenty-one. A baby. Davis was her Godfather, for Christ’s sake.

No, when I arrived at Davis’s new house, what intrigued me were the gasps and low-throated murmurs that swirled around me like cream being stirred into black coffee. Washington, D.C. is an extremely conservative town. Sure, vast egos roamed the streets and of course, the halls of Congress. But the scale of Davis’s new mansion was generally limited to the monuments, the Lincoln, the Jefferson, and so forth.

I let out a low whistle upon entering Davis’s house for the first time. In the living room, or drawing room, as the lock-jawed butler was calling it, twelve enormous wood timbers peaked in the center of the ceiling. On both sides of the room, towering windows rested on massive moldings of mahogany, matching the beams overhead. Two fires roared, one at each end of the room; the flames licked hungrily at the edges of the fireplaces. A meglo-mansion. I half expected to see a couple of Great Danes lolling at Davis’s feet.

Guests would remark in retrospect that tension had filled the air, but I thought everything seemed normal. Davis flashed a brilliant smile and headed my way, threading through the crowd, nodding hellos, patting backs, drifting from guest to guest, all the while exuding confidence and sophistication. I never would understand why Davis had been so competitive with me in law school.

Judge. Davis slapped my back.

Billionaire. We both laughed, but it wasn’t a joke and Davis loved the attention. He’d been drawing attention to himself for some time now. Davis bought and sold companies. He’d started small and worked his way up. He now owned two major airlines, a goliath of a pharmaceutical company and one of the most revered vineyards in Sonoma.

Our paths had diverged after law school. Davis had pursued money; I had pursued criminals. My first job out was with the U.S. Attorney’s Office, then the FBI before being appointed to the United States Court of Federal Claims where I was now a federal judge – Judge Warren Alexander.

So, when are you gonna retire? I asked. Use your days to do charity work? As if that would ever happen.

Give me a break, Davis said, laughing. I work a bread line. I just fed a dozen companies to General Motors.

If I didn’t know Davis, I would hate him about now. But I did know him. Davis had been my roommate in law school and Davis had his good points.

Jeez, the numbers just keep adding up. Davis laughed, amazed at his own net worth.

So Forbes reports.

But I guess all the money in the world can’t guarantee anyone’s safety. Davis shook his head.

What do you mean?

Senator Marriner is on his way over here under heavy Secret Service protection. Davis shrugged his shoulders. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know.

My gut tightened, remembering Ruth Jacobson’s call. Ruth was the Senior Profiler at the FBI Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico, Virginia and a long-time friend. I wondered whether her call concerned Senator Tom Marriner. I had worked with her before in dire circumstances and from what Davis was saying, Marriner was in dire circumstances.

A raven-haired beauty tapped Davis on the shoulder and giggled. He shrugged at me, raised his eyebrows, and gave a little grin that said – what can I do, I’m irresistible.

I was used to these types of interruptions. Corporations weren’t the only things that Davis acquired. He also acquired women. Just as his corporate takeovers had become more and more ambitious, a direct correlation had developed between Davis’s wealth and his girlfriends. As Davis had gotten richer and richer, his girlfriends had gotten younger and younger. And more beautiful. But as with his companies, he believed in divesting at the right moment. I couldn’t remember one woman he’d broken up with on an amicable basis. It was always pure love or pure hate and always in that sequence.

I approached the bar, grabbed a Heineken from a row of bottles, and popped the beer. A bartender produced a glass. I ignored the hint and with bottle firmly in hand, journeyed through French doors and onto the balcony where a vortex of wind whipped my clothes and bit my face. A long row of ominous clouds, stretching north to south, raced across the moon. It had been a brutally hot August and all week, monsoon-like rains had been drenching the city, leaving it steaming like a griddle too hot to touch.

To the south, the Washington Monument glowed in white light, the Robert E. Lee mansion just behind, cresting over Arlington National Cemetery where rows of white gravestones haunted the hill above JFK’s flame. On the west side of the veranda, a swimming pool, lit by flaming torches, sparkled two hundred feet below.

Something on the edge of the horizon caught my eye, a glint of metal about a quarter mile away, south of the pool and the tennis courts where caterers scurried to finish setting up dining tables under a huge green and white striped tent. That was odd because the valets were parking all the cars near the garage. Since I was waiting for my wife, Claire, and she was late, I decided to investigate. Claire was always saying that I still acted like an FBI agent. I guess that was my true nature.

I slipped back through a group chattering near a telescope on the balcony, edged past the butler in the living room, and out the front door. I squinted against blinding floodlights at the bottom of the driveway. Davis had thought of everything, including how to showcase his mansion at night.

I headed toward the garage down the hill and past a group of valets who were laughing, talking, and sneaking smokes before climbing back up the hill. A long line of cars, mostly luxury models, stretched into the distance. So, that was the metal I had seen from the balcony, just a long line of cars, much longer than I’d realized.

A few, isolated raindrops stung my face and I began retracing my steps. Behind me, a faint crunch of wheels on gravel grew steadily closer and I stepped out of the way, onto the grass. A beautifully preserved Jaguar climbed up a road behind Davis’s house, and came to a halt, last in the line of cars.

I could barely see the driver’s profile. Young, bushy-hair, white shirt and tie. Nothing remarkable. Like any limo driver. I was more interested in where the car had come from and I started walking the road, which plunged over the hill and disappeared into a tangled forest. I decided to chance the rain, take a closer look.

That’s when a jagged bolt of lightning struck, splitting a nearby tree, turning everything black and white, cracking and resonating in my ears. A long roar of thunder crescendoed, followed by a cold fury of torrential wind and rain. I quickly pulled my jacket over my head, and sprinted back up the hill, running horizontally into the wind. I was going to get soaked.

Straight ahead, the Jaguar was on the prowl, slung low, spitting pebbles and heading toward the house.

The driver was aiming a rifle out the window.

CHAPTER THREE

Secret Service Agents Bill Burack and Luigio Briggio searched the inside of the Ford Explorer. Their high-voltage flashlights drenched the Georgetown street and cast eerie shadows onto the facades of the nineteenth century mansions.

Briggio, how the hell did we end up with so many neonates? Burack shouted. Out of six, only he and Briggio had any experience. The others, he just learned, were on their first assignment. Burack threw his jacket on the ground and shifted his jaw that anchored a lean, war weary face worn down by years of constant tension. He turned his wiry six-two frame on Briggio. Where the hell’s the FBI? Why are we guarding a Senator? And why wasn’t this Goddamn van searched before?

The new agents scurried around. Burack kicked at a clump of dirt and yelled Goddamn it, get out of the way.

Agent Briggio’s frown reached all the way to his neck. President’s orders, Bill. Calm down. Let’s wrap this up.

This should’ve been done at the garage! Burack shouted at Briggio.

Well it wasn’t! Briggio shouted back.

Burack wiped his face. Okay Brig, take the outside, he directed, tearing through the inside of the Ford Explorer in a cold frenzy, testing the brakes, scrutinizing the inside of the doors, searching for any signs that someone had tampered with the van, an eight-seater, black, steel-reinforced tank sporting black-tainted windows that kept out the curious. They affectionately called it The Bunker for its capabilities to resist assault, compliments of modifications made by the Secret Service.

Briggio rolled out from under the small crawl space, Look, Bill, it’s okay, he said, dabbing at an oil stain on his coat.

Burack ran his hands over the felt lining covering the van’s ceiling. Clean. No bumps. Nothing disturbed. He checked the inside of the doors and the brown leather seats. He yanked the cushions out and tossed them on the red brick sidewalk.

Briggio pulled Burack. We’ve done what we can. Now let’s go. Briggio opened the front passenger door.

Burack didn’t like it, not at all. A perfunctory search in the dark. All eyes bore into him. Reluctantly, he started towards the driver’s door. Get the Senator, he directed a wide-eyed agent.

Senator Marriner appeared, the Senator’s steel grey eyes riveting on Burack as he fended off the agent’s arm and grabbed the sidebar, hoisting himself up into the van in one smooth motion, proving himself to be surprisingly fit and lean for his seventy-one years.

Burack revved the engine. Briggio, check in with the house, he said as the van jerked forward.

Briggio reported back, Everything’s okay.

What’s our position?

Briggio eased some words out the side of his mouth. Two agents, both outside.

You drove the route earlier today?

That’s what I said.

There’s some sort of back road that’s being covered?

Yes mass’er, Briggio responded. Burack ignored the sarcasm. They’d been working together too long. He steered up Q Street, whirled around the traffic circle, and zipped along Massachusetts Avenue, heading west. Everything appeared to be covered but Burack was nervous. He had been inserted into this mess two hours ago. He thought he was providing backup, Briggio taking the lead, but L.R. Foote, head of the Presidential Protection Division, said no, he was bumping Burack from the President’s detail, the pinnacle of his career.

At first, Burack was so pissed he couldn’t see straight. Especially at being taken off the Presidential detail and being thrown into this stew at the last minute. And especially with the death threats thrown in for maximum effect. Foote had briefed him in a serious and heavy voice. Some psycho was mailing Senator Marriner death threats. The situation was dangerous. The FBI was being called in, but for now, the President wanted Foote to place his best agent on it. His exact words. Burack remembered because Foote never praised anyone.

The light turned green and he stepped on the gas. A glimpse over the dashboard revealed a few well-dressed couples strolling near Rock Creek Bridge. A gust of wind rustled the trees. Burack checked his watch. Close to nine. The arrival was planned so that all the guests would already be at Davis Rideout’s house. Burack knew from his time with the President how politicians hate being rushed through crowds. And crowds were dangerous. Always. Even those in black tie with engraved invitations.

Something was coming in over the earphone that plugged him into the Service’s cellular service. Take Senator Marriner to the front entrance of the Rideout mansion. Repeat. Scratch side entrance.

What’s going on?

The passengers in the van tensed. Marriner, studying a bill marked S.240, stopped working and picked up his ears.

Some homeless man’s making a scene at the side door.

Burack was concerned. The homeless man could be a diversion.

We’re moving the other agents to the side door to deal with the situation. You’ll be alone when you arrive at the front.

Change of plans, Burack informed the van’s occupants. We’re meeting Mr. Rideout at the front entrance. Brig, give Rideout a call and tell him we’re a couple minutes away.

Burack’s blood pounded through his veins. Horns honked, cars jostled for position, and the embassies zipped by on Massachusetts Avenue. The van’s headlights sliced through the night and illuminated the blacktop as they picked up speed, flying by expensive homes poised on landscaped lawns. Burack recalled the diagram he’d memorized earlier. Rideout’s house was set on a hill atop several acres of land. The front door faced the driveway that was shaped like a giant egg. Simple enough.

The van rounded

Reviews for Do Not Assume

[Barbara · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

You won't be able to put this book down. I love books that allow the reader to know all the clues and work along with the characters to solve the mystery...you'd never guess this ending. Several sub-plots that seem distinct, but all intertwining in some way makes 'Do Not Assume' a gripping story line, and fascinating reading. Ms. Crockett's experience with the federal government and legal system makes this book so realistic, so believable. Be sure that Ms. Crockett is the next John Grisham...I can't wait for her next book!!

[Emily Schirding · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed this first novel by Elaine Crockett! She kept me guessing all through the book and although the twists and turns were not predictable, they were consistent and believable. Her characters were realistic and she held my interest from beginning to end. I'm looking forward to her next book!

[Ben · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Do Not Assume is a well-written novel introducing characters that this reader hopes to see again in a mystery series. The author's knowledge of the federal government and the Washington, DC social scene enables her to craft a clever and engrossing story that allows the reader ample chances to guess the conclusion wrong. This book rates a high recommendation.

Do Not Assume has a gripping plot with realistic characters and enough twists and turns to keep the most sophisticated reader satisfied. Capitalizing on the workings of the branches of government moves the story forward and provides the author a chance to craft a confirmation hearing that rivals Joe Walsh's "Have you no sense of decency, Sir?" senate performance. Overall, an A plus mystery story.

This book is a highly entertaining mystery. It is tightly plotted with no loose ends. Throughout the novel, the story and characters hold the reader's interest. It is a hard book to put down!

[Jan · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Do Not Assume intrigued me from the very beginning. I enjoy a book in which I can't anticipate what is about to happen. The twists and turns were unexpected and kept me engaged. You can tell that the author is familiar with the workings of the legal system and Washington. She brought this knowledge to her writing with vivid detail. This was a riveting read and I would definitely recommend it.

[EtelvinaTyler · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Great thriller with sexual undertones!a love turner.can't wait to see the movie!

[Mengoman · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A friend referred me to this book as highly recommended, and I must admit that I picked it up a bit reluctantly, coming as it does from a writer doing a first novel. Once I picked it up, however, I had a hard time putting it down. The writer weaves a gripping story, which is well told and nicely presented. The author knows Washington well – its geography and its political dimensions. The story itself is spell-binding, with a host of fascinating and forceful characters, realistically weaving through the pages of a politically charged landscape. This book would also make a spell-binding movie.

[Rachel · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Page turner; a must read!

[Nancy · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

From the beginning to the end, I was intrigued with the plot of this book. I couldn't get it out of my head! Just as I thought I had it figured out, the author took another turn that I hadn't expected. Excellent writing from Ththis author, and I hope that there is a sequel in the works!

[Jerri · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Elaine Crockett is absolutely brilliant. I read this book in one weekend because I could not put it down until I had read every word. Do not assume is smart, sexy and full of characters and mysteries with depth and surprising turns around each corner. Thrilling and intelligent read. I am excited to find out if there will be a sequel!

[JonRosenbaum · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is a great first effort by a new author. The thriller has a very surprising conclusion and hopefully will be followed soon by a sequel. This is a terrific read particularly for anyone familiar with Washington, DC..

[pat relihan · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book is written in the style of many of the great mystery writers. I found once I started reading it, I did not want to put it down. I have recommended it to all of my friends. Great reading!!

[Shelley · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I read this book on a plane ride from DC to LA, and couldn't put it down the whole way. I found myself in my hotel room that night wanting to stay in and finish it instead of go out with my friends! It's a page turner for sure, with some twists and turns along the way that really kept me guessing. Really fun read. Highly recommend.

[Julia · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Riveting and Impossible to put down