Murder at the National Cathedral Read Online Free PDF

prayed at the First Baptist Church, only a few minutes’ walk from the White House.
    Teddy Roosevelt had worshiped at Grace Reform Church, but his wife and her family went to St. John’s Episcopal. Grace Reform rewarded TR’s allegiance by creating a collection of memorabilia from the Roosevelt White House. St. John’s did not create such a memorial for the rest of his family.
    The Eisenhowers preferred worshiping at the National Covenant Presbyterian Church, which lost its location to a modern office building and was moved to new ground near American University, where tourists could browse its Chapel of Presidents.
    Of course, there had been the snide references to
Christian
Dior, cattily referred to as First Lady Nancy Reagan’s religion. St. James had thought that a cheap shot, but had laughed when first hearing it.
    Churches everywhere, he mused, but only throwaway mentions of them in the guidebooks. A pagan city, if one used the travel literature as one’s criterion.
    He scanned the
Post
’s front page, was more thorough as he went through the Style section, finished his second cup of coffee, and kissed his wife good-bye on the other cheek. “I’ll be home this afternoon,” he said. “I need some quiet time to work on the presentation.” He was to address the National Association of Asphalt Contractors that night—he gave many such speeches in the continuing process of raising money for the cathedral’s building fund. What had begun for him as a quest for God too often translated into a quest for checks. It seemed never to end, this need for money. The cathedral, sixth largest in the world, was an insatiable devourer of cash, its completion so near yet so far away; just another ten thousand for an additional gargoyle, forty thousand to reinforce a corbel in the north entrance, a hundred thousand to repair water damage in the Children’s Chapel. Adam Vickery would be missed, St. James reflected. Despite his unpleasant demeanor, Vickery knew how to shake money loose.
    The bishop strode with purpose across the fifty-seven-acre close and looked up at the Gloria in Excelsis Tower soaring more than three hundred feet into the cerulean October sky. Given its supporting hill, the tower was the highest structure in Washington, so inspiring, so majestic, and so expensive. St. James felt good, but he always felt good in the early morning. Morning was the time his internal clock ticked at optimum speed. By the time he addressed the asphalt contractors, his clock would have slowed, and he’d have to wind it up a little to make it through. How much hedisliked having to ask for money! Praying for it was one thing; asking was another.
    A group of men milled about the south entrance. One of them, Idris Porter, chief of the Washington Cathedral Police, was leaning against his white Ford Bronco talking to a man whom the bishop didn’t recognize. The man was bulkier than Porter, and wore a gray suit.
    “Good morning, Idris,” St. James said. “Ready bright and early I see.”
    “Yes, Bishop,” Porter said with a smile. He was a very dark black man with sparse, unruly gray hair. “Bishop, this is Agent Lazzara, Secret Service.”
    “Good morning,” St. James said, extending his hand. Security at the cathedral for events such as Vickery’s funeral necessitated the involvement of other agencies besides the cathedral’s small security force. Which agencies, and the number of personnel assigned, depended upon many factors—anticipated crowd size, the deceased’s position and level of controversy, rumors, threats. There hadn’t been any threats regarding the funeral as far as St. James knew. When attorney general, Adam Vickery had been controversial, as most attorneys general are, considering that they’re appointed more for past political favors and fund-raising than for legal insight, but controversy hadn’t followed him into private life.
    “Nice day,” Lazzara said.
    For a funeral, St. James suspected Lazzara