Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests (36 page)

“I’m not. But the CDs he’d left in his office were all hers, except for—here’s the good part—the soundtrack from
Coal Miner’s Daughter
, the movie they made about her life.”

The pride in her voice was beginning to grate. “So then what did you do?”

“The records said the
Loretta Lynn
was a converted trawler. The DMV guy said that meant it ran on diesel. I called around to the fuel docks until I found the
one that knew the boat. The gas jockey ID’d an e-mail photo of my guy, and the Harbor Patrol took me out there. Two days later,
I was waiting when he showed up with empty tanks and a grocery list.”

“I suppose you called the media for the perp walk,” I said into my glass. The tumbler was almost empty again, and I considered
refilling it.

“Of course.” She almost purred the words. “You know I love the look of a man in a monogrammed shirt and handcuffs.”

“Yeah, those initials come in real handy when it’s time to sort prison laundry.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “Always the clever one, Tommy.”

Looking out the window, I could see the interior of my office reflected endlessly across the skyline, illuminated boxes filled
with bland furniture, screen-savered computers, and generic wall art. As I scanned the warren of other buildings, I half-expected
to see someone like me looking back. It made me uncomfortable, and I pulled my gaze back to Lauren.

“So why did you stay?” I fiddled with the thick clasp on my watch—opening it, snapping it shut, opening it again. The diamonds
winked at me. “In Seattle, I mean.”

Her reply was quiet, measured. “I met you, Tommy.”

I stopped playing with my watch.

Lauren got up from her chair.

“Assuming that ridiculous sundial on your wrist is correct, I better get going,” she said. “One of the secretaries let slip
that part of tonight’s program includes a small celebration in my honor.”

The words jumped out before I could stop them. “A celebration?”

Her eyes drilled into mine. Anticipation shimmered off her.

“I’m leaving Seattle too.”

I felt something flutter in my chest, forced my eyebrows up in feigned surprise.

“You’re looking at the new DOJ liaison with the local SEC office.” Lauren leaned forward and placed her hands flat on the
desktop. Her fingers were long and tapered, the nails filed into perfect ovals. “In Boca Raton.”

The change in her demeanor was subtle but unmistakable.
Damn.
Sooner or later, we always came to this point in the conversation.

“You may be clever, Tommy, but you’re not clever enough.” Her voice was as soft as cashmere, but underneath I could feel the
chill of steel. “I’m going to get you. Three years left on the securities fraud SOL. And, of course, there’s Nick. There’s
no statute of limitations on murder.”

Even when I held the winning hand, she still made me feel like I was chasing the pot. Had I refilled my glass twice or three
times? I passed a damp palm over my face.

“This isn’t one of your coal deals.” My tongue felt slightly too big for my mouth. “For starters, the REIT investors’ lawsuit
was tossed.”

Lauren blew out a dismissive breath. “Plaintiff’s lawyer jumped the gun. Doesn’t affect the criminal prosecution.”

“
Lack of evidence
—that’s what the judge said when he granted my lawyer’s motion to dismiss. If the plaintiffs didn’t have enough proof to get
past
more likely than not,
how are you going to make it all the way to
beyond a reasonable doubt?
”

The determination was plain on her face. “I’ll find the evidence.”

By any means necessary.
I tapped my watch. “You know as well as I do, the more time that passes, the more memories fade, the more documents are lost,
the more people decide to put all this behind them and move on. As for what happened to my partner” —I put on the sad expression
I’d used for the reporters— “carjacking gone wrong. Real tragedy.”

“Four thousand investors lost everything in your REIT, Tommy.
Four thousand
. Already there have been two suicides, plus God knows what other damage—divorce, derailed retirements, ruined careers—” Lauren
paused, bit down on her lip.

But it wasn’t my fault,
I wanted to tell her. I’d been in hock up to my eyeballs to those deranged Russian bookies. They “let me” pay off my marker
by washing their gambling profits through the REIT. I didn’t know they were going to rip off the investors, too.

“And we both know Nick wasn’t killed by any carjacker.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and I had to lean forward to hear
her. Our faces were so close, I could see the pulse beating at her temple and smell her perfume.
Definitely grapefruit. Maybe a little cypress?

“He’s dead because he decided to take the immunity offer and testify.” She nearly spat the words. “Against
you
.”

Also not my fault.
Since when did my partner the schmoozer ever bother to look into the mechanics of a deal? Nick’s job was to bring in the
business, not run it. When he stumbled onto the money laundering, I had no choice. Otherwise the Russians would have left
me lying on that cold concrete floor.

Lauren pushed herself off the desk. “Run to Florida, run halfway around the world. It won’t make a bit of difference. You’ll
never be able to put enough distance—or time—between us. More search warrants, new witnesses—I’ll plant the damn evidence
if I need to—I’ll get the proof I need. Then it’ll be like that hideous watch of yours was turned back to yesterday.”

Her look of distaste stung. I dropped my eyes to the digital recorder in the drawer. I imagined I could hear its motor humming.
Everybody’s on the run from something, Lauren. Or should be.

“I’ll see you in Florida, Tommy. Don’t get too comfortable in your new place. Before you know it, you’ll be moving to another
gated community—the kind where Security carries pump shotguns instead of cell phones and the bars on the windows aren’t just
for show.”

With a rustle of blue silk, she was gone.

I’ll see you in Florida, Tommy.

The black October rain beat against the window. I checked my watch, drained the last of the scotch, and pushed back my chair.
I picked up the recorder from the drawer, turned it off, and dropped it into my pocket.

The irony of where I was headed hit me in the hallway and kept me laughing all the way to the elevator. I punched the down
button.

Galletti wouldn’t have offered a talk-and-walk on the Russian thing if he suspected anything about Nick. Lauren must have
been keeping her cards close. Made it sweet for me. Once her overeager—or dumb—boss put blanket immunity on the table, I had
my Get Out Of Jail Free card. If I took his deal, I’d be untouchable for the murder.

As the elevator doors slid open on the parking garage, I thought back to that night. I hadn’t expected Nick to struggle, let
alone rip the watch from my wrist. The Rolex had fallen into a crack in the cement floor beside one of the support beams,
wedged out of reach. I averted my eyes as I walked past the spot. What the hell had possessed me to engrave the damn thing?

My DNA, Nick’s blood . . . The feds had already been over the scene. But Lauren was talking about a new search warrant. If
she found the watch before I disappeared into witness protection, my deal with her boss would evaporate. I’d be facing the
needle instead of twenty years.

The gray Buick was parked next to the exit ramp, its engine running, in one of the spaces with a good view of the main entrance.
The air was thick with the stink of exhaust. I could hear tires swishing through the puddles at street level.

I slid into the backseat and rested my head against the plump leather. Galletti eagerly twisted around in the driver’s seat.
No doubt he’d seen Lauren leave. Jesus, the guy had it in for her so bad, he was going to be late to his own roast.

Our last meeting had not gone well. He’d moaned about my coming up empty-handed again. I’d dropped the bomb about my Florida
move.

“We both know witness protection is gonna stick me in someplace like Oshfart, North Dakota,” I’d told him when he finished
squawking. “I want to see sun and beach and girls in bikinis one last time. Besides, isn’t this all moot, like you lawyers
say? If Lauren’s moving to Florida, she’s not your problem anymore, right?”

He hadn’t been able to hide the ambition and spite in his hooded eyes. Galletti wasn’t gunning for Lauren because she crossed
the line. He wanted to take her down because every month she won more cases, more headlines, more fans. She wouldn’t be the
first prosecutor to parlay those into a glory ride. But it was a trip her boss wanted to take himself.

I let my eyelids close as his voice once again bore into my skull, more excruciating than the hangover I knew I’d have in
the morning.

He asked me the question.

How many had it been this time? Two—no, three counts of prosecutorial misconduct, any one of which was enough to deliver Lauren’s
head—and career—to Galletti on a silver platter.

“Nothing.” I shifted in the seat. The recorder jabbed me in the rib. “Didn’t even get a chance to turn it on.”

I got out of the car and went back to my office. I sat down at my desk, took the whiskey bottle out of the drawer, and poured
slowly until my glass was full again. I thumbed the rewind button on the recorder and turned up the volume so I could hear
her voice over the rain.

I’ll see you in Florida, Tommy.

BY JOHN WALTER PUTRE

T
he light of the late afternoon was failing. Deep caverns of shadow had begun their conquest of the corners of the chamber.
Already, the audience had lasted too long, and now its disposition was becoming increasingly testy. A muscle at the back of
Maculano’s neck had stiffened. The tightness was turning into pain.

“You forget yourself, Reverend Father,” he heard himself being warned for yet another time.

“I apologize, Your Holiness,” the priest repeated, again with a respectful inclination of his head. “I belabor these issues
only out of the weight of my concern.”

“Ahh, Vincenzo. I know you do. I know it.” With fingers the color and texture of parchment, the Pontiff stroked the side of
his short, stubbled beard. “Were you not among the few in these precincts I trust, I’d have ended our discourse long ago.
My son, there are times I wonder if intelligence such as yours is a gift. I fear that, by the final standard of salvation,
the child or the fisherman may well be better off. I say without hesitation both are happier.”

Maculano lifted his head. “I’ve no doubt that Your Holiness is correct in both opinions.”

The Pope reached toward a tasseled strip of burgundy fabric that dropped from the ceiling to hang within reach of his chair.
A slight tug of his hand produced no sound within the room, but the appearance of two servants was all but instantaneous.
He ordered candles for the chamber and, “Since the supper hour approaches, Father, perhaps some wine would be in order?”

“For myself, may I please decline, Holy Father? I have duties that yet require my attention. I must transcribe the mental
notes I’ve kept of our discussion so that I will not misrepresent or fail to recall any of the guidance you’ve given me. If
my responsibilities were otherwise, I would be honored beyond expression by your invitation.”

The Pope offered a sad smile. “For your own peace of mind, Reverend Father, do not make so much of these difficulties you
foresee. Heresy, spoken, is an offense against God. If written and disseminated, its danger—and so the sin—is far worse. When
the construction of it is such as to bring ridicule and disrespect to the very institution of His Holy Church, the offense
becomes inexcusable and impossible for even the most tolerant of His servants to overlook. A successful prosecution will not
be nearly so difficult as you imagine.”

“Yes, Holy Father.” Maculano sighed. “With your invaluable assistance, I will continue my preparations. As always, Your Holiness,
I’m in your debt.”

“Go with God, Vincenzo. Be thorough, but make haste in your work.” Urban made the Sign and gave the priest his benediction.
“This is not an occasion on which the Church can be seen to be dilatory or timorous.”

____

F
RA
V
INCENZO
M
ACULANO
da Firenzuola by vow was a Dominican and, by training and profession, a military engineer. But like many who show talent
and judgment in an initially chosen discipline, he had found himself drawn beyond the borders of his expertise toward challenges
that placed less reliance on the application of prescribed formulae and more on situations in which insight and sensitivity
became the paramount requirements. In Maculano’s career, these attributes had carried him to the highest levels of ecclesiastical
law. It was there that he’d spent his recent years acquiring his new learning and reputation.

He sat at his desk in the solitude of his private quarters, poised over a sheet of paper, transcribing his notes to his best
recollection. Over the back of his neck, he wore a moist towel in the hope of ameliorating the ache that stubbornly refused
to go away. At the age of fifty-nine, after an eager youth, he had acquired the habits of patience and scholarship, along
with a proneness to the sundry infirmities that make themselves the gratuitous companions of seniority.

The remains of his supper of bread and cheese accompanied by a tankard of equal parts wine and water rested on a tray beside
him. Beyond the window, the purple sky of the early spring was turning rapidly to a blanket of dark blue. The first, faint
stars had begun to appear. The evening held the warmth of the coming season. Winter was easing its grasp on the city. At best,
a mixed blessing. The plague was still the dreaded guest that lurked on the steps just beyond every threshold.

Behind the priest’s back, a votary came like a specter into the room. Deliberately, he shuffled his feet, then shuffled them
again a bit more loudly. Finally, he resorted to a muffled cough.