CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

JACK THREW HIS CARRY-ON INTO THE CORNER, TOSSED HIS overcoat on the sofa and fought the impulse to pass out right there on the carpet. Ukraine and back in five days had been a killer. The seven-hour time difference had been bad enough, but for someone closing in on octogenarian status, Walter Sullivan had been indefatigable.

They had been whisked through the security checkpoints with the alacrity and respect Sullivan’s wealth and reputation commanded. From that point forward a series of endless meetings had commenced. They toured manufacturing facilities, mining operations, office buildings, hospitals and then had been taken to dinner and gotten drunk with the Mayor of Kiev. The President of Ukraine had received them on the second day, and Sullivan had him eating out of his hand within the hour. Capitalism and entrepreneurship were respected above all else in the liberated republic and Sullivan was a capitalist with a capital C. Everyone wanted to talk to him, shake his hand, as if some of his moneymaking magic would rub off on them, producing untold wealth in a very short time.

The result had been more than they could have hoped for as the Ukrainians fell in line on the business deal with glowing praise for its vision. The pitch for dollars for nukes would come later at the appropriate time. Such an asset. An unnecessary asset that could be turned into liquidity.

Sullivan’s retrofitted 747 had flown nonstop from Kiev to BWI and his limo had just dropped Jack off. He made his way into the kitchen. The only thing in the fridge was soured milk. The Ukrainian food had been good but was heavy, and after the first couple of days he only picked at his meals. And there had been way too much booze. Apparently business could not be conducted without it.

He rubbed his head, tussling with sleep deprivation of massive proportion. In fact he was too tired to sleep. But he was hungry. He checked his watch. His internal clock said it was almost eight A.M. His watch proclaimed that it was well after midnight. While D.C. was not the Big Apple in its ability to cater to any appetite or interest no matter the time of day or night, there were a few places where Jack could get some decent food on a weeknight despite the lateness of the hour. As he struggled into his overcoat, the phone rang. The machine was on. Jack started to go out, then hesitated. He listened to the perfunctory message followed by the beep.

“Jack?”

A voice swarmed up on him, from out of the past, like a ball held underwater until it’s free and explodes to the surface. He snatched up the phone.

“Luther?”

*   *   *

THE RESTAURANT WAS HARDLY MORE THAN A HOLE IN THE wall, which made it one of Jack’s favorites. Any reasonable concoction of food could be gotten there at any time, day or night. It was a place that Jennifer Baldwin would never set foot inside and one that he and Kate had frequented. A short time ago, the results of that comparison would have disturbed him, but he had made up his mind, and he didn’t intend on revisiting the question. Life was not perfect, and you could spend your entire life waiting for that perfection. He was not going to do that.

Jack wolfed down scrambled eggs, bacon and four pieces of toast. The fresh coffee burned his throat going down. After five days of instant java and bottled water, it tasted wonderful.

Jack looked across at Luther, who sipped on his coffee and alternated between looking out the dirty plate-glass window onto the dark street and passing his eye around the small, grimy interior.

Jack put his coffee down. “You look tired.”

“So do you, Jack.”

“I’ve been out of the country.”

“Me too.”

That explained the condition of the yard and the mail. A needless worry. Jack pushed the plate away and waved for a refill on his coffee.

“I went by your place the other day.”

“Why was that?”

Jack had expected the question. Luther Whitney had never taken anything other than the direct approach. But anticipation was one thing, having a ready answer another. Jack shrugged.

“I don’t know. Just wanted to see you, I guess. It’s been a while.”

Luther nodded agreement.

“You seeing Kate again?”

Jack swallowed a mouthful of coffee before answering. His temples started to throb.

“No. Why?”

“I thought I saw you two together a while back.”

“We sort of ran into each other. That’s all.”

Jack couldn’t tell exactly, but Luther looked upset with that answer. He noticed Jack watching him closely, then smiled.

“Used to be, you were the only way I could find out if my little girl was doing okay. You were my pipeline of information, Jack.”

“You ever consider just talking to her directly, Luther? You know that might be worth a shot. The years are going by.”

Luther waved the suggestion off and stared out the window again.

Jack looked him over. The face was leaner than usual, the eyes puffy. There were more wrinkles on the forehead and around the eyes than Jack remembered. But it had been four years. Luther was at the age now where the onslaught of age hit you quickly, deterioration was more and more evident every day.

He caught himself staring into Luther’s eyes. Those eyes had always fascinated Jack. Deep green, and large, like a woman’s, they were supremely confident eyes. Like you see on pilots, an infinite calmness about life in general. Nothing rattled them. Jack had seen happiness in those eyes, when he and Kate announced their engagement, but more often he had seen sadness. And yet right beneath the surface Jack saw two things he had never seen in Luther Whitney’s eyes before. He saw fear. And he saw hatred. And he wasn’t sure which one bothered him the most.

“Luther, are you in trouble?”

Luther took out his wallet and, despite Jack’s protests, paid for the food.

“Let’s take a walk.”

A taxi cab ride took them to the Mall and they walked in silence to a bench across from the Smithsonian castle. The chilly night air settled in on them and Jack pulled up the collar of his coat. Jack sat while Luther stood and lit a cigarette.

“That’s new.” Jack looked at the smoke curving up slowly in the clear night air.

“At my age who gives a shit?” Luther flung the match down and buried it in the dirt with his foot. He sat down.

“Jack, I want you to do me a favor.”

“Okay.”

“You haven’t heard the favor yet.” Luther suddenly stood up. “You mind walking? My joints are getting stiff.”

They had passed the Washington Monument and were headed toward the Capitol when Luther broke the silence.

“I’m in kind of a jam, Jack. It’s not so bad now, but I got a feeling it’s going to get worse and that might happen sooner rather than later.” Luther didn’t look at him, he seemed to be staring ahead at the massive dome of the Capitol.

“I’m not sure how things are going to play out right now, but if it goes the way I think it’s gonna go, then I’m going to need a lawyer, and I want you, Jack. I don’t want no bullshitter and I don’t want no baby lawyer. You’re the best defense lawyer I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen a lot of them, up close and personal.”

“I don’t do that anymore, Luther. I push paper, do deals.” It struck Jack at that moment that he was more a businessman than a lawyer. That thought was not an especially pleasing one.

Luther did not seem to hear him. “It won’t be a freebie. I’ll pay you. But I want someone I can trust, and you’re the only one I trust, Jack.” Luther stopped walking and turned to the younger man, waiting for an answer.

“Luther, you want to tell me what’s going on?”

Luther shook his head vigorously. “Not unless I have to. That wouldn’t do you or anybody else any good.” He stared at Jack intently until it made him uncomfortable.

“I gotta tell you, Jack, if you’re my lawyer on this, it’s gonna get kinda hairy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean people could get hurt on this one, Jack. Really hurt, like not-coming-back hurt.”

Jack stopped walking. “If you’ve got some guys like that on your butt it might be better to cut a deal now, get immunity and disappear in a Witness Protection Program. Lots of people do. It’s not an original idea.”

Luther laughed out loud. Laughed until he choked and ended up doubled over, coughing up the little that was in his stomach. Jack helped him back up. He could feel the older man’s limbs trembling. He did not realize they were trembling with rage. This outburst was so out of character for the man that Jack felt his flesh crawl. He realized he was perspiring despite watching his breath produce small clouds in the late-night chill.

Luther composed himself. He took a deep breath and looked almost embarrassed.

“Thanks for the advice, send me a bill. I gotta go.”

“Go? Where the hell are you going? I want to know what’s going on, Luther.”

“If something should happen to me—”

“Godammit, Luther, I’m growing real tired of this cloak-and-dagger shit.”

Luther’s eyes became slits. The confidence suddenly returned with a touch of ferocity. “Everything I do is for a reason, Jack. If I’m not telling you the whole scoop now you better believe it’s for a goddamned good reason. You may not understand it now, but the way I’m doing it is to keep you as safe as I can. I wouldn’t be involving you at all except I needed to know if you’d go to bat for me when and if I needed you. Because if you won’t, forget this conversation ever happened, and forget you ever knew me.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Serious as shit, Jack.”

The men stood looking at each other. The trees behind Luther’s head had shed most of their leaves. Their bare branches reached to the skies, like bursts of dark lightning frozen in place.

“I’ll be there, Luther.” Luther’s hand swiftly settled into Jack’s and the next minute Luther Whitney disappeared into the shadows.

*   *   *

THE CAB DROPPED JACK OFF IN FRONT OF THE APARTMENT building. The pay phone was right across the street. He paused for a moment, gathering energy and the nerve he would need for what he was about to do.

“Hello?” The voice was full of sleep.

“Kate?”

Jack counted the seconds until her mind cleared and identified the voice.

“Jesus Christ, Jack, do you know what time it is?”

“Can I come over?”

“No, you cannot come over. I thought we had settled all of this.”

He paused, steeled himself. “It’s not about that.” He paused again. “It’s about your father.”

The extended silence was difficult to interpret.

“What about him?” The tone was not as cold as he would have thought.

“He’s in trouble.”

Now the familiar tone returned. “So? Why the hell does that still surprise you?”

“I mean he’s in serious trouble. He just proceeded to scare the living shit out of me without really telling me anything.”

“Jack, it’s late and whatever my father is involved in—”

“Kate, he was scared, I mean really scared. So scared he threw up.”

Again there was a long pause. Jack tracked her mental processes as she thought about the man they both knew so well. Luther Whitney scared? That didn’t make sense. His line of work necessarily demanded someone with steel nerves. Not a violent person, his entire adult life had been spent right on the edge of danger.

She was terse. “Where are you?”

“Right across the street.”

Jack looked up as he saw a slender figure move to a window of the building and look out. He waved.

The door opened to Jack’s knock and he saw her retreating into the kitchen where he heard a pot clattering, water being poured and the gas on the stove being lit. He looked around the room, and then stood just inside the front door feeling a little foolish.

A minute later she walked back in. She had on a thick bathrobe that ended at her ankles. She was barefoot. Jack found himself staring at her feet. She followed his gaze and then looked at him. He jolted back.

“How’s the ankle? Looks fine.” He smiled.

She frowned and said tersely, “It’s late, Jack. What about him?”

He moved into the tiny living room and sat down. She sat across from him.

“He called me up a couple hours ago. We grabbed some food at that little dive next to Eastern Market and then started walking. He told me he needed a favor. That he was in trouble. Serious trouble with some people who could do some permanent damage to him. Real permanent.”

The tea kettle started whistling. She jumped up. He watched her go, the sight of her perfectly shaped derriere outlined against the bathrobe bringing back a flood of memories he wished would just leave him the hell alone. She came back with two cups of tea.

“What was the favor?” She sipped her tea. Jack left his where it was.

“He said he needed a lawyer. He might need a lawyer. Although things might turn out so he wouldn’t. He wanted me to be that lawyer.”

She put her tea down. “Is that it?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Maybe for an honest, respectable person, but not for him.”

“My God, Kate, the man was scared. I’ve never seen him scared before, have you?”

“I’ve seen all I need to see of him. He chose his lifestyle and now apparently it’s catching up to him.”

“He’s your father for chrissakes.”

“Jack, I don’t want to have this conversation.” She started to get up.

“What if something happens to him? Then what?”

She looked at him coldly. “Then it happens. That’s not my problem.”

Jack got up and started to leave. Then he turned back, his face red with anger. “I’ll tell you how the funeral service goes. On second thought, what the hell would you care? I’ll just make sure you get a copy of the death certificate for your scrapbook.”

He didn’t know she could move that quickly, but he would feel the slap for about a week, like someone had poured acid across his cheek, a truer description than he realized at the moment.

“How dare you?” Her eyes blazed at him as he slowly rubbed his face.

Then the tears erupted from her with so much force that they spilled onto the front of the robe.

He said quietly, as calmly as he could, “Don’t shoot the messenger, Kate. I told Luther and I’m telling you, life is way too short for this crap. I lost both my parents a long time ago. Okay, you have reasons for not liking the guy, fine. That’s up to you. But the old man loves you and cares about you and regardless of how you think he’s screwed up your life you have to respect that love. That’s my advice to you, take it or leave it.”

He moved toward the door but she again got there before him.

“You don’t know anything about it.”

“Fine, I don’t know anything about it. Go back to bed, I’m sure you’ll fall right asleep, nothing important on your mind.”

She grabbed his coat with such force that she jerked him around, even though he outweighed her by eighty pounds.

“I was two years old when he went to prison for the last time. I was nine when he got out. Do you understand the incredible shame of a little girl whose dad is in prison? Whose dad steals other’s people’s property for a living? When you had show-and-tell at school and the one kid’s dad is a doctor and another’s is a truck driver and it comes to your turn and the teacher looks down and tells the class that Katie’s dad had to go away because he did something bad and then she’d skip to the next kid?

“He was never there for us. Never! Mom worried sick about him all the time. But she always kept the faith, right up until the end. She made it easy for him.”

“She finally divorced him, Kate,” Jack gently reminded her.

“Only because that was the only choice she had left. And right when she was just getting her life turned around, she finds a lump in her breast and in six months she’s gone.”

Kate leaned back against the wall. She looked so tired, it was painful to witness. “And you know what the really crazy thing is? She never once stopped loving him. After all the incredible shit he put her through.” Kate shook her head, having a hard time believing the words she had just spoken. She looked up at Jack, her chin trembling slightly.

“But that’s okay, I have enough hate for both of us.” She stared at him, a mixture of pride and righteousness on her features.

Jack didn’t know if it was the complete exhaustion he was feeling or the fact that for so many years what he was about to say had been pent up inside him. Years of watching this charade. And brushing it aside in favor of the beauty and vivaciousness of the woman across from him. His vision of perfection.

“Is that your idea of justice, Kate? Enough hate balanced against enough love, and everything equals out?”

She stepped back. “What are you talking about?”

He moved forward as she continued to retreat into the small room. “I’ve listened to this goddamned martyrdom of yours until I’m sick of it. You think you’re some perfect defender of the hurt and victimized. Nothing comes above that. Not you, not me, not your father. The only reason you’re out there prosecuting every sonofabitch that comes into your sights is because your father hurt you. Every time you convict somebody that’s another nail in your old man’s heart.”

Her hand flew to his face. He caught it, gripped it. “Your whole adult life has been spent getting back at him. For all the wrongs. For all the hurt. For never being there for you.” He squeezed her hand until he heard her gasp. “Did you ever once stop to think that maybe you were never there for him?”

He let go of her hand as she stood there, staring at him, a look on her face he had never seen before.

“Do you understand that Luther loves you so much that he’s never tried to contact you, never tried to be a part of your life, because he knows that’s how you want it? His only child living a few miles away from him and he’s completely cut out of her life. Did you ever think about how he feels? Did your hate ever let you do that?”

She didn’t answer.

“Don’t you ever wonder why your mother loved him? Is your picture of Luther Whitney so goddamned distorted that you can’t see why she loved him?”

He grabbed her shoulders, shook her. “Does your goddamned hatred ever let you be compassionate? Does it ever let you love anything, Kate!”

He pushed her away. She stumbled backward, her eyes locked on his face.

He hesitated for a moment. “The fact is, lady, you don’t deserve him.” He paused and then decided to finish. “You don’t deserve to be loved.”

In one furious instant her teeth gnashed, her face contorted into rage. She screamed and flew at him, hammering her fists into his chest, slapping his face. He felt none of her blows as the tears slid down her cheeks.

Her assault stopped as quickly as it started. Her arms like lead, they clutched at his coat, holding on. That’s when the heaves started and she sank to the floor, the tears bursting from her, the sobs echoing through the tiny space.

He lifted her up and placed her gently on the couch.

He knelt beside her, letting her cry, and she did so for a long time, her body repeatedly tensing and then going limp until he felt himself growing weak, his hands clammy. He finally wrapped his arms around her, laid his chest against her side. Her thin fingers clutched tightly to his coat as both their bodies shook together for a long time.

When it was over she sat up slowly, her face red, splotchy.

Jack stepped back.

She refused to look at him. “Get out, Jack.”

“Kate—”

“Get out!” Despite her scream the voice was fragile, battered. She covered her face in her hands.

He turned and walked out the door. As he headed down the street he turned to look at her building. Her silhouette was framed in the window, looking out, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking for something, he wasn’t sure what. Probably she didn’t even know. As he continued to watch, she turned from the window. A few moments later the light in her apartment went out.

Jack wiped at his eyes, turned and walked slowly down the street, heading home after one of the longest days he could ever remember.

*   *   *

“GODDAMMIT! HOW LONG?” SETH FRANK STOOD NEXT TO THE car. It was not quite eight in the morning.

The young Fairfax County patrolman didn’t know the significance of the event and was startled by the detective’s outburst.

“We found her about an hour ago; an early-morning jogger saw the car, called it in.”

Frank walked around the car and peered in from the passenger side. The face was peaceful, much different from the last corpse he had viewed. The long hair was undone, streamed down the sides of the car seat and flowed across the floorboard. Wanda Broome looked like she was asleep.

Three hours later the crime scene investigation was completed. Four pills had been found on the car seat. The autopsy would confirm that Wanda Broome had died from a massive overdose of digitalis, from a prescription she had filled for her mother but obviously had never delivered. She had been dead for about two hours when her body was discovered on the secluded dirt path that ran around a five-acre pond about eight miles from the Sullivan place just over the county line. The only other piece of tangible evidence was in a plastic bag that Frank was carrying back to headquarters after getting the okay from his sister jurisdiction. The note was on a piece of paper torn from a spiral ring notepad. The handwriting was a woman’s, flowing and embellished. Wanda’s last words had been a desperate plea for redemption. A shriek of guilt in four words.

Frank drove on past the rapidly fading foliage and misty swamp that paralleled the winding back road. He had fucked that one up royally. He never would have figured the woman for a suicide candidate. Wanda Broome’s history pegged her as a survivor. Frank couldn’t help but feel sorry for the woman, but also raged at her stupidity. He could’ve gotten her a deal, a sweetheart deal! Then he reflected on the fact that his instincts had been right on one count. Wanda Broome had been a very loyal person. She had been loyal to Christine Sullivan and could not live with the guilt that she had contributed, however unintentionally, to her death. An understandable, if regrettable, reaction. But with her gone, Frank’s best, and perhaps only, opportunity to land the big fish had just died too.

The memory of Wanda Broome faded into the background as he focused on how to bring to justice a man who had now caused the death of two women.

*   *   *

“DAMN, TARR, WAS IT TODAY?” JACK LOOKED AT HIS CLIENT in the reception area of Patton, Shaw. The man looked as out of place as a junkyard mutt at a dog show.

“Ten-thirty. It’s eleven-fifteen now, does that mean I get forty-five minutes free? By the way, you look like hell.”

Jack looked down at his rumpled suit and put a hand through his unkempt hair. His internal clock was still on Ukraine time, and a sleepless night had not helped his appearance.

“Believe me, I look much better than I feel.”

The two men shook hands. Tarr had dressed up for the meeting, which meant his jeans didn’t have holes in them, and he wore socks with his tennis shoes. The corduroy jacket was a relic from the early 1970s, and the hair was its usual tangle of curls and mats.

“Hey, we can do it another day, Jack. Me, I understand hangovers.”

“Not when you got all dressed up. Come on back. All I need is some grub. I’ll take you to lunch and won’t even bill you for the tab.”

As the men walked down the hallway, Lucinda, prim and proper in keeping with the firm’s image, breathed a sigh of relief. More than one Patton, Shaw partner had walked through her turf with absolute horror on their face at the sight of Tarr Crimson. Memos would fly this week.

“I’m sorry, Tarr, I’m running on about twelve cylinders lately.” Jack tossed his overcoat over a chair and settled down miserably behind a stack of pink message slips about six inches high on his desk.

“Out of the country, so I heard. Hope it was someplace fun.”

“It wasn’t. How’s business?”

“Booming. Pretty soon, you might be able to call me a legitimate client. Make your partners’ stomachs feel a lot better when they see me sitting in the lobby.”

“Screw ’em, Tarr, you pay your bills.”

“Better to be a big client and pay some of your bills than a teeny client who pays all of his.”

Jack smiled. “You got us all figured out, don’t you?”

“Hey, man, you seen one algorithm, you’ve seen ’em all.”

Jack opened Tarr’s file and perused it quickly.

“We’ll have your new S corp set up by tomorrow. Delaware incorporation with a qualification in the District. Right?”

Tarr nodded.

“How’re you planning on capitalizing it?”

Tarr pulled out a legal pad. “I’ve got the list of potentials. Same as the last deal. Do I get a reduced rate?” Tarr smiled. He liked Jack, but business was business.

“Yeah, this time you won’t pay for the learning curve of an overpriced and underinformed associate.”

Both men smiled.

“I’ll cut the bill to the bone, Tarr, just like always. What’s the new company for, by the way?”

“Got the inside track on some new technology for surveillance work.”

Jack looked up from his notes. “Surveillance? That’s a little off the mark for you, isn’t it?”

“Hey, you gotta go with the flow. Corporate business is down. But when one market dries up, being the good entrepreneur that I am, I look around for other opportunities. Surveillance for the private sector has always been hot. Now the new twist is big brother in the law enforcement arena.”

“That’s ironic for somebody who got thrown in jail in every major city in the country during the 1960s.”

“Hey, those causes were good ones. But we all grow up.”

“How does it work?”

“Two ways. First, low-level orbit satellites are downlinked to metropolitan police tracking stations. The birds have preprogrammed sweep sectors. They spot trouble and they send an almost instantaneous signal to the tracking station, giving precise incident information. It’s real time for the cops. The second method involves placing military-style surveillance equipment, sensors and tracking devices on top of telephone poles, or underground with surface sensors on the outside of buildings. Their exact locations will be classified, of course, but they’ll be deployed in the worst crime areas. If something starts to go down, they’ll call in the cavalry.”

Jack shook his head. “I can think of a few civil rights that might be trampled.”

“Tell me about it. But it’s effective.”

“Until the bad guys move.”

“Kinda hard to outrun a satellite, Jack.”

Jack shook his head and turned back to his file.

“Hey, how’re the wedding plans coming?”

Jack looked up. “I don’t know, I try to keep out of the way.”

Tarr laughed. “Shit, Julie and I had a total of twenty bucks to get married on, including the honeymoon. We got a justice of the peace for ten dollars, bought a case of Michelob with the rest, and rode the Harley down to Miami and slept on the beach. Had a helluva good time.”

Jack smiled, shook his head. “I think the Baldwins have something a little more formal in mind. Although your way sounds like a lot more fun to me.”

Tarr looked at him quizzically, remembering something. “Hey, whatever happened to that gal you were dating when you were defending the criminal elements of this fair city? Kate, right?”

Jack looked down at his desk. “We decided to go our separate ways,” he said quietly.

“Huh, I always thought you two made a nice-looking couple.”

Jack looked across at him, licked his lips and then closed his eyes for a moment before answering. “Well, sometimes looks can be deceiving.”

Tarr studied his face. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

*   *   *

AFTER LUNCH AND FINISHING UP SOME OVERDUE WORK, JACK returned half of his phone messages and decided to leave the rest until the following day. Looking out the window, he turned his thoughts fully to Luther Whitney. What he could be involved in Jack could only guess. The most puzzling aspect was that Luther was a loner in private life and with his work. Back when he was with the PD, Jack had checked on some of Luther’s priors. He worked alone. Even on the cases where he hadn’t been arrested but had been questioned, there was never an issue of more than one person involved. Then who could these other people be? A fence Luther had somehow ripped off? But Luther had been in the business much too long to do something like that. It wasn’t worth it. His victim perhaps? Maybe they couldn’t prove Luther had committed the crime but nevertheless held a vendetta against him. But who held that sort of grudge for getting burglarized? Jack could understand if someone had been hurt or killed, but Luther was not capable of that.

He sat down at his small conference table and thought back for a moment to the night before with Kate. It had been the most painful experience of his life, even more so than when Kate had left him. But he had said what needed to be said.

He rubbed his eyes. At this moment in his life the Whitneys weren’t especially welcome. But he had promised Luther. Why had he done that? He loosened his tie. At some point he would have to draw the line, or cut the cord, if only for his own mental well-being. Now he was hoping that his promised favor would never come due.

He went down and got a soda from the kitchen, sat back down at his desk and finished up the bills for last month. The firm was invoicing Baldwin Enterprises roughly three hundred thou a month and the work was accelerating. While Jack had been gone, Jennifer had sent over two new matters that would occupy a regiment of associates for about six months. Jack quickly calculated his profit sharing for the quarter and whistled under his breath when he got an approximate. It was almost too easy.

Things were really improving between Jennifer and him. His brain told him not to screw that up. The organ in the center of his chest wasn’t so sure, but he was thinking that his brain should start taking command of his life. It wasn’t that their relationship had changed. It was only that his expectation of that relationship had. Was that a compromise on his part? Probably. But who said you could manage to get through life without compromise. Kate Whitney had tried and look what it had gotten her.

He phoned Jennifer’s office, but she wasn’t there. Gone for the day. He checked his watch. Five-thirty. When she wasn’t traveling, Jennifer Baldwin rarely left the office before eight. Jack looked at his calendar. She was in town the whole week. When he had tried her from the airport last night there had been no answer either. He hoped nothing was wrong.

As he was contemplating leaving and heading over to her house, Dan Kirksen popped his head in.

“Could I trouble you for a minute, Jack?”

Jack hesitated. The little man and his bow ties irritated Jack, and he knew exactly why. Deferential as hell, Kirksen would have treated Jack like a piece of manure had he not controlled millions in business. On top of that, Jack knew that Kirksen desperately wanted to treat him like a piece of shit anyway, and he hoped to accomplish that goal one day.

“I was thinking about heading out. I’ve been hitting it pretty heavy lately.”

“I know.” Kirksen smiled. “The whole firm’s been talking about it. Sandy better watch out—by all accounts Walter Sullivan is very enamored with you.”

Jack smiled to himself. Lord was the only person whom Kirksen wanted to kick in the ass more than Jack. Lord without Sullivan would be vulnerable. Jack could read all those thoughts as they passed behind the spectacles of the firm’s managing partner.

“I don’t think Sandy has anything to worry about.”

“Of course not. It’ll just take a few minutes. Conference room number one.” Kirksen disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.

What the hell was all this about? Jack wondered. He grabbed his coat and walked down the hallway. As he passed a couple of fellow associates in the hallway, they gave him sidelong glances that only increased his puzzlement.

The sliding doors to the conference room were closed, which was unusual unless something was going on inside. Jack slid back one of the thick doors. The dark room confronting him exploded into bright light, and Jack looked on in amazement as the party came into focus. The banner on the far wall said it all: CONGRATULATIONS PARTNER!

Lord presided over the lavish affair of drinks and an expensive, catered spread. Jennifer was there, along with her father and mother.

“I am so proud of you, sweetie.” She had already consumed several drinks and her soft eyes and gentle caresses told Jack things would only get better later that night.

“Well, we can thank your dad for this partnership.”

“Uh-uh, lover. If you weren’t doing a good job, Daddy would cut you loose in a New York minute. Give yourself some credit. You think Sandy Lord and Walter Sullivan are easy to please? Honey, you pleased Walter Sullivan, stunned him even, and there’s only a handful of attorneys who have ever done that.”

Jack swallowed the rest of his drink and contemplated that statement. It sounded plausible. He had scored big with Sullivan, and who was to say Ransome Baldwin wouldn’t have taken his business elsewhere if Jack hadn’t been up to the task?

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right, Jack. If this firm were a football team, you’d be MVP or rookie of the year, maybe both.” Jennifer took another drink and slid her arm around Jack’s waist.

“And on top of that, you can now afford to support me in the lifestyle I’ve grown accustomed to.” She pinched his arm.

“Grown accustomed to. Right! Try, from birth.” They stole a quick kiss.

“You’d better mingle, superstar.” She pushed him away and went in search of her parents.

Jack looked around. Every person in this room was a millionaire. He was easily the poorest of them all, but his prospects probably surpassed all of theirs. His base income had just quadrupled. His profit sharing for the year would easily be double that. It occurred to him that he too was now, technically, a millionaire. Who would’ve thought it, when four years ago a million dollars seemed to be more money than existed on the planet?

He had not entered law to become rich. He had spent years working as hard as he ever had for what amounted to pennies. But he was entitled now, wasn’t he? This was the typical American Dream, wasn’t it? But what was it about that dream that made you feel guilty when you finally attained it?

He felt a big arm around his shoulder. He turned to look at Sandy Lord, red eyes and all staring at him.

“Surprised the hell out of you, didn’t we?”

Jack had to agree with that. Sandy’s breath was a mixture of hard liquor and roast beef. It reminded Jack of their very first encounter at Fillmore’s, not a pleasant memory. He subtlely distanced himself from his intoxicated partner.

“Look around this room, Jack. There’s not a person here, with the possible exception of yours truly, who wouldn’t love to be in your shoes.”

“It seems a little overwhelming. It happened so fast.” Jack was more talking to himself than to Lord.

“Hell, these things always do. For the fortunate few, wham, zero to the top in seconds. Improbable success is just that: improbable. But that’s what makes it so damn satisfying. By the way, let me shake your hand for taking such good care of Walter.”

“Pleasure, Sandy. I like the man.”

“By the way, I’m having a little get-together at my place on Saturday. Some people are going to be there you should meet. See if you can persuade your extremely attractive Significant Other to attend. She might find some marketing opportunities. Girl’s a natural hustler just like her daddy.”

*   *   *

JACK SHOOK THE HAND OF EVERY PARTNER IN THE PLACE, SOME more than once. By nine o’clock he and Jennifer were headed home in her company limo. By one o’clock they had already made love twice. By one-thirty Jennifer was sound asleep.

Jack wasn’t.

He stood by the window looking out at the few stray snowflakes that had started to fall. An early winter storm system had settled in over the area although accumulations were not supposed to be significant. Jack’s thoughts were not on the weather, however. He looked over at Jennifer. She was dressed in a silk nightgown, nestled between satin sheets, in a bed the size of his apartment’s bedroom. He looked up at his old friends the murals. Their new place was supposed to be ready by Christmas, although the very proper Baldwin family would never allow patent cohabitation until the vows were exchanged. The interiors were being redone under the sharp eye of his fiancée to suit their individual tastes and to boldly cast their own personal statement— whatever the hell that meant. As he studied the medieval faces on the ceiling it occurred to Jack that they were probably laughing at him.

He had just made partner in the most prestigious firm in town, was the toast of some of the most influential people you could imagine, every one of them eager to advance his already meteoric career even further. He had it all. From the beautiful princess, to the rich, old father-in-law, to the hallowed if utterly ruthless mentor, to serious bucks in the bank. With an army of the powerful right behind him and a truly limitless future, Jack never felt more alone than he did that night. And despite all his willpower, his thoughts continually turned to an old, frightened and angry man, and his emotionally spent daughter. With those twin beauties swirling in his head he silently watched the gentle fall of snowflakes until the softened edges of daybreak greeted him.

*   *   *

THE OLD WOMAN WATCHED THROUGH THE DUSTY VENETIAN blinds that covered the living room window as the dark sedan pulled into her driveway. The arthritis in both grossly swollen knees made getting up difficult, much less trying to move herself around. Her back was permanently bent and the lungs were dense and unforgiving after fifty years of tar and nicotine bombardment. She was counting down to the end; her body had carried her about as far as it could. Longer than her daughter’s had.

She fingered the letter that she kept in the pocket of her old, pink dressing gown that failed to completely cover the red, blistered ankles. She figured they would show up sooner or later. After Wanda had come back from the police station, she knew it was a matter of time before something like this happened. The tears welled up in her eyes as she thought back to the last few weeks.

“It was my fault, Momma.” Her daughter had sat in the tiny kitchen where, as a little girl, she had helped her mother bake cookies and can tomatoes and stringbeans harvested from the strip of garden out back. She had repeated those words over and over as she slumped forward on the table, her body convulsing with every word. Edwina had tried to reason with her daughter but she was not eloquent enough to dent the shroud of guilt that surrounded the slender woman who had started life as a roly-poly baby with thick dark hair and horseshoe legs. She had shown Wanda the letter but it had done no good. It was beyond the old woman to make her child understand.

Now she was gone and the police had come. And now Edwina had to do the right thing. And at eighty-one and Godfearing, Edwina was going to lie to the police, which was to her the only thing she could do.

“I’m sorry about your daughter, Mrs. Broome.” Frank’s words rang sincere to the old woman’s ears. A trickle of a tear slipped down the deep crevices of her aged face.

The note Wanda had left behind was given to Edwina Broome and she looked at it through a thick magnifying glass that lay on the table within easy reach. She looked at the earnest face of the detective. “I can’t imagine what she was thinking when she wrote this.”

“You understand that a robbery took place at the Sullivan home? That Christine Sullivan was murdered by whoever it was that broke in?”

“I heard that on the television right after it happened. That was terrible. Terrible.”

“Did your daughter ever talk to you about the incident?”

“Well of course she did. She was so upset by it all. She and Mrs. Sullivan got along real well, real well. It broke her up.”

“Why do you think she took her own life?”

“If I could tell you, I would.”

She let that ambiguous statement hang in front of Frank’s face until he folded the paper back up.

“Did your daughter tell you anything about her work that might shed some light on the murder?”

“No. She liked her job pretty much. They treated her real well from what she said. Living in that big house, that’s real nice.”

“Mrs. Broome, I understand that Wanda was in trouble with the law a while back.”

“A long while back, Detective. A long while back. And she lived a good life since then.” Edwina Broome’s eyes had narrowed, her lips set in a firm line, as she stared down Seth Frank.

“I’m sure she did,” Frank added quickly. “Did Wanda bring anyone by to see you in the last few months. Someone you didn’t know perhaps?”

Edwina shook her head. That much was the truth.

Frank eyed her for a long moment. The cataract-filled eyes stared straight back at him.

“I understand your daughter was out of the country when the incident happened?”

“Went down to that island with the Sullivans. They go every year I’m told.”

“But Mrs. Sullivan didn’t go.”

“I suppose not, since she was murdered up here while they were down there, Detective.”

Frank almost smiled. This old lady wasn’t nearly as dumb as she was making out to be. “You wouldn’t have any idea why Mrs. Sullivan didn’t go. Something Wanda might have told you?”

Edwina shook her head, stroked a silver and white cat that jumped up on her lap.

“Well, thank you for talking to me. Again I’m sorry about your daughter.”

“Thank you, I am too. Very sorry.”

As she wrenched herself up to see him to the door, the letter fell out of her pocket. Her weary heart skipped a beat as Frank bent down, picked it up without glancing at it and handed it to her.

She watched him pull out of the driveway. She slowly eased herself back down in the chair by the fireplace and unfolded the letter.

It was in a man’s hand she knew well: I didn’t do it. But you wouldn’t believe me if I told you who did.

For Edwina Broome that was all she needed to know. Luther Whitney had been a friend for a long time, and had only broken into that house because of Wanda. If the police caught up to him, it would not be with her assistance.

And what her friend had asked her to do she would. God help her, it was the only decent thing she could do.

*   *   *

SETH FRANK AND BILL BURTON SHOOK HANDS AND SAT DOWN. They were in Frank’s office and the sun was barely up.

“I appreciate your seeing me, Seth.”

“It is a little unusual.”

“Damn unusual if you ask me.” Burton grinned. “Mind if I light one up?”

“How about I join you?” Both men pulled out their packs.

Burton bent his match forward as he settled back in his chair.

“I’ve been with the Service a long time and this is a first for me. But I can understand it. Old man Sullivan is one of the President’s best friends. Helped get him started in politics. A real mentor. They both go way back. Just between you and me, I don’t think the President actually wants us to do much more than give an impression of involvement. We are in no way looking to step on your toes.”

“Not that you have jurisdiction to do that anyway.”

“Exactly, Seth. Exactly. Hell, I was a state trooper for eight years. I know how police investigations go. The last thing you need is somebody else looking over your goddamned shoulder.”

The wariness started to fade from Frank’s eyes. An ex–state trooper turned Secret Service agent. This guy was really a career law enforcement person. In Frank’s book you didn’t get much better than that.

“So what’s your proposal?”

“I see my role as an information pipeline to the President. Something breaks you give me a call and I’ll fill in the President. Then when he sees Walter Sullivan he can speak intelligently about the case. Believe me, it’s not all smoke and mirrors. The President is genuinely concerned about the case.” Burton smiled inwardly.

“And no interference from the feds. No second-guessing?”

“Hell, I’m not the FBI. It’s not a federal case. Look at me as the civilian emissary of a VIP. Not much more than a professional courtesy really.”

Frank looked around his office as he slowly absorbed the situation. Burton followed that gaze and tried to size up Frank as precisely as possible. Burton had known many detectives. Most had average capabilities, which, coupled with an exponentially increasing caseload, resulted in a very low arrest and much lower conviction rate. But he had checked out Seth Frank. The guy was former NYPD with a string of citations a mile long. Since his coming to Middleton County, there had not been one unsolved homicide. Not one. It was a rural county to be sure, but a one hundred percent solve rate was still pretty impressive. All those facts made Burton very comfortable. For although the President had requested that Burton keep in contact with the police in order to fulfill his pledge to Sullivan, Burton had his own reason for wanting access to the investigation.

“If something breaks really fast, I might not be able to apprise you right away.”

“I’m not asking for miracles, Seth, just a little info when you get a chance. That’s all.” Burton stood up, crushing out his cigarette. “We got a deal?”

“I’ll do my best, Bill.”

“A man can’t ask for more than that. So, you got any leads?”

Seth Frank shrugged. “Maybe. Might peter out, you never know. You know how that goes.”

“Tell me about it.” Burton started to leave and then looked back. “Hey, as some quid pro quo if you need any red tape cut during your investigation, access to databases, stuff like that, you let me know and your request gets a top priority. Here’s my number.”

Frank took the offered card. “I appreciate that, Bill.”

*   *   *

TWO HOURS LATER SETH FRANK LIFTED UP HIS PHONE AND nothing happened. No dial tone, no outside line. The phone company was called.

An hour later, Seth Frank again picked up his phone and the dial tone was there. The system was fixed. The phone closet was kept locked at all times, but even if someone had been able to look inside, the mass of lines and other equipment would have been indecipherable to the layperson. Not that the police force ordinarily worried about someone tapping their lines.

Bill Burton’s lines of communication were open now, a lot wider than Seth Frank had ever dreamed they would be.