Gospel (10 page)

And that was it. Tom Bradshaw never touched another drug again – never. Ryan spent a fortnight in that claustrophobic cabin, making his coffee, cooking his meals and mopping up the continuous flow of venom
that seethed from his pores during endless nights of cold sweats and nightmares.

Soon after Tom Bradshaw rediscovered ‘life', and never again felt the high or the low, the buzz or the burn out of the toxins that almost killed him – until ten days ago when his veins were forced to accept that deadly potion one more time.

Oh, it was intentional all right
, thought Ryan.
No two ways about it, but not on Tom's part
.

They would shut him out – already had, but in the end it didn't matter because when it came down to it, he would find a way to stop them.

He had the Bible after all, and as they say in Alabama, ‘The Bible speaks to everybody – all you have to do is listen.'

‘I
can't believe you are asking me this,' said Sara, her eyes wide, the hint of a smile now taking shape on her pretty, narrow face. ‘I'm surprised, honoured of course, humbled . . . I . . .'

‘So what do you say?' asked Arthur Wright, craning back on his well-worn leather chair behind his antique mahogany desk.

It was early June, a month after Sara's return, and on this crisp, bright Monday morning the sun was just making its first entrance into Arthur Wright's office on the third floor of their low rise heritage on Boston's historic Congress Street. The weather had finally taken a turn for the better, the chills of an exceptionally cool spring defrosting and bringing the promise of a warm summer to come.

‘That's just it, I don't know what to say,' said Sara, now looking at David. ‘It is an amazing offer. I . . .' she began again, her smile now growing to a wide, excited glow. ‘Are you sure? I mean, I don't have a lot of litigation experience.'

‘You won the Martin trial for us, Sara, no two ways about it,' said David.

‘Now
that
is an overstatement,' she said. ‘In fact, forgive me for asking, but this offer has not been influenced by . . .'

‘. . . by your relationship with this young troublemaker?' finished Arthur, nodding at David. ‘Certainly not.'

Sara smiled again.

‘I'll have to talk to Rayna, and to Mr Dodds.' Sara was referring to Rayna Martin and Macarthur Dodds who were the Deputy Director and Director of the African-American Community Service Agency of Massachusetts, for which Sara had worked for the past four years. AACSAM was a great place to cut your legal teeth, and had given Sara a solid grounding in basic civil and criminal law but a job at Wallace, Wright and Gertz would expose her to a myriad of more complex criminal cases – cases in which she knew she could really make a difference – and the increased salary offered by a private firm would definitely be a welcome bonus.

‘And I would want to bring some of my cases with me, which means working pro bono at least until my clients found alternative representation.'

‘Of course,' said Arthur. ‘We want to expand the pro bono arm of the firm in any case. I'd say you would be instrumental in that.'

‘Well, I guess there is nothing
to
say but . . .
yes
. Oh, and thanks. I accept, I mean I'll take the job.'

Arthur rose from his desk to shake Sara's hand which was followed by a big hug from David and bottle of champagne from Nora.

‘Congratulations, lass,' said Nora, kissing Sara on the cheek. ‘At last the topics of conversation around here might rise from the doldrums of rugby and cigars.'

‘You've been outnumbered for too long, Nora,' said Sara, hugging her back.

‘Well, the score is even now, my dear, and that alone deserves a toast. To Sara,' said Nora, raising her glass in congratulations.

‘To Sara.'

‘Come on in, Detective,' said FBI Washington Field Office Assistant Director Antonio Ramirez, leading Joe Mannix to the couch in his makeshift FBI Boston HQ office. A somewhat uncomfortable looking King was already seated in the chair opposite, and Ramirez seemed intent on standing.

‘Tell us how we can help,' Ramirez went on. ‘Because that's what we're here for – to dispel your fears, ease your concerns, keep you informed.'

Mannix had made a mistake. There was no disguising the sarcasm in Ramirez's voice and Joe was beginning to regret coming here without calling first.

He had wanted to front King on the absence of the Bible from evidence bag three knowing King, in the very least, would give him some form of straight answer. But he had not figured on Simba's DC-based boss having set up shop in the local FBI digs. And now he was faced with a dilemma.

‘Thanks, Ramirez,' said Mannix, forgoing the man's title. It was an old trick to challenge an opponent's sense of superiority, and the slight tick in Ramirez's left eye showed him it had worked.

‘It's about the evidence forwarded to our office,' Joe made the split-second decision to push on. He wanted to see how Ramirez reacted to what he was about to say. ‘. . . evidence bag three to be exact. It appears to be . . .'

‘Really, there's no need to thank us, Detective,' interrupted Ramirez, moving behind the blue and red striped couch so that Joe would have to crane his neck at an odd angle to maintain eye contact.

Ramirez was playing a power game of his own, thought Joe, and he was not about to let him get the upper hand.

‘We are all for involving the local authorities,' Ramirez went on. ‘In fact, every now and again, they actually help us crack a case.'

‘As I was saying,' said Joe, still facing forward, his back to Ramirez, now looking directly at King. ‘Something is missing from evidence bag three, the seventh item on Bradshaw's bedside table, or more specifically the Presidential Suite copy of the Good News Bible.'

Joe still didn't turn around but sensed Ramirez's displeasure as he heard his footfalls, which had been making a steady beat on the navy office-issue carpet, come to an immediate stop.

‘How observant of you,' said Ramirez. ‘Naïve, but observant.' And then the footfalls started up again as Ramirez made his way back around to the front of the couch.

‘You see, Detective, the bag was mislabelled. It only ever contained six items. The Bible in question was never bagged because it was never considered part of evidence. The Fairmont's Good News Bibles are
always
placed on bedside tables as part of the hotel's nightly turndown service. So in short, the so-called item number seven wasn't an item at all. The numbering on the evidence bag was simple human error. No mystery, problem solved.'

Joe looked at Simba who, to his frustration, remained stony faced, and then glanced up at Ramirez before going on.

‘I'm afraid not,' said Joe. ‘You see, Ramirez, the Bible wasn't the only inconsistency in your evidence. What about the linear placement of the other items on the bedside table, and the lack of bed cover movement around the victim? I may be just the local “help” but there is no way the Vice President could have overdosed unassisted. I know it, Agent King here knows it, and you know it too.'

Ramirez said nothing, just stood there, staring at him, his image now framed against the backdrop of the draped American flag that stood next to his desk and the sixth floor view of Boston's busy Government Center beyond.

‘Joe,' said King at last, the first time he had opened his mouth since this impromptu meeting began. ‘There are things you don't . . .'

‘It's all right, Special Agent King,' interrupted Ramirez. ‘You can tell him. He
is
part of the team after all.'

‘I . . . ,' a confused King began.

‘What Agent King was trying to tell you, Detective, was that we agree. We know there was someone else in the room when Bradshaw was killed.'

‘What?' Joe could not believe what he was hearing.

‘In fact,' Ramirez went on, ‘all going to plan, I will be flying back to DC first thing tomorrow morning to arrest the man in question.'

‘And who might that be?' asked Joe, relatively sure he already knew the answer.

‘His physician – Professor Stuart Montgomery. But don't worry, Detective, I'm sure Agent King will fill you in.' Ramirez paused then as if to stress he knew about the pair's friendship. ‘Just so long as you remember who is running this investigation. Who is in charge, so to speak. Who is directing the God-damned fucking show.' Ramirez was right in front of him now, as if challenging him to respond.

‘A word of warning, Detective,' Ramirez went on. ‘Overstepping your mark is a dangerous move to make. Any clandestine queries you make could well come back to bite you, especially when it is a case of your word against ours.'

Joe said nothing, just shook his head and then, suddenly, got to his feet so that he was face to face with the dark-eyed agent.

‘You know, Ramirez, we have a saying up here in Boston that you might as well get used to, especially if you're gonna be taking advantage of our hospitality for some time.'

‘And what is that, Detective?' asked Ramirez, his breath unusually cool. ‘Some witty revolutionary anecdote no doubt. “No taxation without representation” or the like.'

‘Close,' said Joe. ‘But this one is a little less poetic. It goes something like this: “Think before you speak, look before you shoot and . . . ”'

‘Oh, I can guess this one,' interrupted Ramirez, his words dripping with derision. ‘“Wait before you criticise”. Am I right, Detective?'

‘Wrong, Ramirez,' said Joe, maintaining eye contact as he took a slight step closer to the arrogant FBI Agent. ‘It's “Be careful who you fuck with”.'

Minutes later, Special Agent Leo King left his office and made for the fire stairs of the FBI's Boston Field Office at the semi-circular One Center Plaza building. He wanted to catch his detective friend before he managed to hail a cab and head back to Roxbury.

He saw him, at the top of the incline, turning right off Somerset into Beacon. King picked up the pace.

‘Joe. Wait up,' he called, and Mannix turned, the look on his face saying it all.

‘Forget it, Leo. I've heard all I wanted to hear this afternoon – and none of it came from you.'

‘Come on, Joe,' he was next to him now, shading his face from the early evening sun that crept in between the high rise of a shady Downtown jungle. ‘You're the one who set the cat amongst the pigeons. Ramirez is an asshole but he's also very good at his job.'

‘What?' said Joe. ‘You cannot be serious, Simba. The guy is a prize dickhead with a serious God complex. Believe me, I know the type. Give them a badge and they think they're invincible.'

‘I think so too, but he was the one who . . . well . . . I have a lot to tell you,' said King.

‘Oh really? Could have fooled me.'

‘Okay, so I decided to lay low in that meeting, but it's only because I know Ramirez is on top of this one. He nailed it, Joe. Montgomery is guilty. And we have the evidence to prove it.'

‘Ramirez tell you that?'

‘Ramirez found the proof.'

‘Which is . . . ?'

‘Look,' said Leo, instinctively looking around for fear of being overheard. ‘Now is not the time or the place. We have to arrest Montgomery first. I'll call you tomorrow, after it's done. And then, I promise, you're in 100 per cent.'

‘Lucky me,' said Joe, hailing a taxi.

‘Can't hurt your career,' said King.

‘Like I said, lucky me.'

‘There's one other thing,' said King, just as Mannix hailed a metro cab, which slowed in the one-way traffic on Beacon to pull up alongside the pair.

‘You better warn your friend. The media are gonna go ape over this one, and like it or not, he's involved.'

‘What? Who?'

‘Cavanaugh, he used to be married to Montgomery's wife.'

‘That was years ago. He's in Boston, she's in DC.'

‘Since when do little details like time and distance get in the way of a good story? Cavanaugh's a local identity. He's easy fodder.'

That night David took Sara out to celebrate her joining the firm. They chose a cosy Italian restaurant in the North End's famous Hanover Street, not far from the brownstone Sara shared with her best friend, Cindy Alverez.

Ristorante Fiore was known for its authentic Mediterranean cuisine and for a colourful violinist named Roberto who made you believe you were sipping your Barolo on a hillside in Tuscany.

‘You know,' said Sara, ‘on nights like this you feel like anything is possible. Like right now I'm thinking why don't you and I drive to Logan and hop a plane for Venice. Have dessert on a gondola and kiss under the Bridge of Sighs.'

‘What's this? My cynical girlfriend allowing herself to dream? It wasn't that long ago you'd pull
me
up for being unrealistic. What was it you once called me, the President of the United States of Idealism.'

‘Amongst other things,' she smiled. ‘Besides, that was before I got to know you better, and before all that optimism rubbed off on me.'

Sara had been born in Atlanta, Georgia, to a single African-American teenage mother who gave her up for adoption immediately after her birth. Her adoptive parents, Alec and Dorothy Davis, were white, as was her brother Jake, six years her junior and now an economics major at MIT.

She grew up in Cambridge, and while David knew her dentist dad and dental technician mom provided their kids with equal amounts of love and discipline, he also knew that much of Sara's youth had been played out against a backdrop of uncertainty, a confusion as to where she fit in.

Of course, now that she had found her birth mother – a forty-seven-year-old postal worker named Annie Hobbs who had two boys of her own – David sensed she was also finding her own ‘place' in the world, a place in which he hoped he would be a permanent fixture.