Veronica looked surprised, as Zach continued, “I also think Ellen wasn’t just trying to stop it, but to also protect her family in the process. She didn’t want Kingston to be harmed. I think she considers him to be a victim of all of this. Just like her other children, whose heritage led to their demise.”
“If she wanted to protect her family, then why put Maggie in harm’s way?”
“I don’t know, but I get the feeling that before this day is over we’re going to find out.”
“Do you still think Kingston isn’t connected because his political views differ from Hitler’s?”
“I guess I forgot something else that Hitler said—that the great masses of people will more easily fall victim to the big lie than the small one.”
Veronica nodded. And noted for future use, that one of the first signs you’re with the wrong man is when he starts quoting Hitler. “Is there any reason I should believe you this time?”
“You shouldn’t, but I’m all you have right now, so I have desperation on my side.”
They pushed their way toward the gates. Veronica thought maybe if she could see the house, she could feel the presence of her children. She was banking on one of those special innate powers to finally kick in—the ones she thought she’d naturally obtain upon becoming a mother—but no such luck.
Zach suggested that before they start banging on the gates and demanding entrance, they regroup to come up with a more plausible plan, or at least one that would reduce their chances of being shot by security. Veronica didn’t want to leave at first, but eventually agreed.
They re-traced their steps to Zach’s Audi. Veronica’s feet felt like someone was driving knives into them, but that wasn’t even close to the sharpest pain she was feeling at the moment. They drove to the Great Neck Public Library. It was housed in a modern-looking stone building that was located a couple of miles from the Kingston mansion.
On the short ride over, they looked up Joseph Kingston on the Internet. All the information they found was in relation to his more famous son. This past Father’s Day, Kingston gave a speech at the Merchant Marine Academy in King’s Point, about his father and the qualities he believed he’d ingrained in him. For most candidates, the family rhetoric could be taken with a grain of salt, or in some cases a salt mine, but Veronica believed every word in this case, especially the parts about his father instilling loyalty into young Jim. This family had been loyal to each other for generations, never divulging their secret.
On the official Jim Kingston website there was an entire page devoted to his family. One picture stood out to Veronica. It was of a twelve-year-old Jim Kingston with his father. They were sailing on a boat in matching striped rugby shirts. The mother in Veronica was attracted to the father/son dynamic. But the cynic in her saw a politician trying to exploit the heart strings.
With little information on the Internet about the elder Kingston, and since the local newspapers only archived articles on their websites going back fifteen years, Veronica and Zach headed for the microfilm room in the library. They weren’t so much interested in information on his father’s life—they were more interested in his death.
According to a local newspaper, Joseph Kingston, 33, of Kings Point was gunned down at the local marina after getting off his boat on a September afternoon in 1972. There were no witnesses, and no arrest was ever made. Veronica winced at the gory picture of Chosen Joe, sprawled out on the pavement in a pool of his own blood.
“Notice the shirt,” Zach said. “It’s the same one he had on in the photo on the website. I think there was a witness. I think young Jim Kingston witnessed his father being murdered when they returned to shore that evening.”
“Maybe that was his fishing shirt, or his favorite. My kids would wear the same clothes for a week if I’d let them.”
“With all the father/son photos he could have used on the website, he picked one related to the boat his father was murdered by, wearing the same shirt. I think it’s a symbol.”
Veronica thought he was reaching, but nothing would surprise her at this point. Zach scrolled through the next six months’ worth of articles that followed the murder. Microfilm was a slow and tedious method of getting information, but Zach