The Last Justice (11 page)

"The news says this man, the solicitor general, may be involved with Thomas's murder," Liddy hissed into Petrov's ear. "I want the bastard dead!" She had gone from sobbing just moments ago to pure rage.

"Liddy, you shouldn't be talking that way," Petrov said in an oily, patronizing tone. Given the off-the-record reports he had gotten from friends on the Supreme Court Commission, Liddy of all people should not be talking about murdering anyone. "How are your grandchildren?" he said in a clumsy attempt to change the subject. But Liddy would have none of it.

"Let me ask you something, Ivan. You're a lawyer. Why do they keep pestering me, an old lady, about Thomas's death if they think the solicitor general had something to do with it?"

Petrov traced the rim of his glass with his finger. "Have you talked to Blake about this?" He was referring to Blake Hellstrom, the highprofile white-collar defense lawyer Liddy had hired the moment the FBI's questions started to feel uncomfortable.

She started sobbing again. "I can't talk to him about everything that happens. He charged me a thousand dollars for the last call, and that was for just a little over an hour. He always says the same thing anyways: `Don't talk to anyone; you're innocent so you have nothing to worry about; get some rest."'

"That sounds like good advice, Liddy," Petrov said, ignoring her veiled reference to money problems. Rumors that the Kincaids were having financial difficulties had surfaced even before Black Wednesday Thomas Kincaid had not been a shrewd investor, and Liddy was a notorious spender.

"Liddy," Petrov said in the closest thing to a sincere tone that he could manage, "I want to say something to you, and I hope you know I'm saying this because you're my friend."

No response.

"Perhaps you should see someone who can help you get through the grief. I think you know you're not acting like yourself. I know of some excellent therapists. Maybe talking with someone would help."

"When are you coming to D.C. again?" Liddy said, her voice suddenly upbeat.

Petrov marveled a moment at the abrupt change but saw the opportunity to retreat. "I may be there sooner than you think, though I may be tied up at the White House," he said, hinting about his imminent nomination to the high court.

"Oh, Ivan," she said, "I'm so happy for you. Thomas would be so proud. He was just sick the last time your nomination fell through. He told me he would call in every favor he was owed to get you nominated." Her voice trailed off.

Sniffles crept through the line. Petrov took another drink, contemplating his exit strategy from the call.

Amtrak train 2126

man with dead eyes and a pockmarked face sat in the dimly lit Acela train headed from D.C. to New York. Hunched over a table, he devoured the microwaved hotdog and tepid beer he had bought in the snack car. He was in the "quiet car," the one that forbade cell phones and chatter, so he wouldn't have to listen to the pompous blather of self-important businessmen. He liked the quiet. It gave him time to think, to reflect on the past few days. He didn't care that the couple from the Indian reservation may have families who were searching for them at that very moment, nor was he troubled that the man he stabbed today may have young children who would grow up without a father.

As a boy, he had occasionally fretted about his lack of empathy, and occasionally even flirted with change, trying for short stints to deny himself the pleasure of hurting animals or tormenting kids in the school yard. Counselors, and the few foster parents who weren't simply collecting a check, had tried to help, but they got nowhere.

Though not remorseful, he was worried. Until a few days ago, with the exception of the chief justice getting shot dead by the idiot courtroom police, everything had gone as planned. But then the reports in the media about the mark on his neck surfaced, and he began to obsess about who could make the connection. Maybe one of his old girlfriends, maybe one of the soldiers in his unit-maybe, maybe, maybe ... He came up with only one person who would remember it. She had been there the day he got the mark-his seventeenth birthday ...

Ire you ready?" his foster brother said. The boys huddled on the matted carpet in the bedroom of their foster home, an open bottle of whiskey between them.

"Do he replied, taking a swig from the bottle. Clicking off the lighter under the bent wire that he held with a pair of pliers, his foster brother pulled down the younger boy's shirt collar and pressed the hot metal into his flesh. There was a brief hiss and the stink of burned skin, and it was done.

"We're now chaos the older boy announced.

It was the closest he had ever felt to warmth and kinship, to a bond with another human being.

The older boy looked at him sternly. "Time for your

"Where is the Injun girl?"

Britney Goodhart, their new foster sister, was in her room. A little overweight, with lank, straight hair that hung over her eyes, Britney had learned that the way to survive in a new foster home was to be invisible.

Feeling as if he had embers stuck to his neck, he took the knife and walked into the girl's room.

Britney would spend her remaining years trying to forget that night and the months of abuse that followed. Ind yet, it served as the template that defined every relationship she would ever have with a man, and confirmed every self-loathing thought that ever entered her mind. As an adult, she would have irrational fears that the boy with the branded neck would come back, would find her.

And then, one day, he did.

Gotham Bar and Grill, Manhattan

inner rush at the Gotham Grill on East Twelfth Street was in full swing. FBI Deputy Director Frank Pacini sat at the bar, nursing a beer. At fifty-nine, he was fit, though the bags under his dark eyes made him look his age. His thinning hair, which he kept short, was still mostly black, and his gray suit, though inexpensive, was well cut and downplayed his thickening waistline.

As head of the Supreme Court Commission's law enforcement component, he was annoyed that his bosses expected him to drop everything to meet a couple of NYPD cops. But the FBI director and the director of national intelligence had insisted.' were politics at play, and Pacini had gotten this far by knowing which battles to pick. So he agreed to slip away from the table of his daughter's eighteenth birthday dinner while his family ate dessert, so he could meet the detectives for a quick drink at the bar.

He checked his watch and scanned the room. The Gotham Grill crowd was young and well-heeled. Pacini's daughter had chosen the restaurant to celebrate her entrance into adulthood. At dinner, seeing her all dressed up gave him a little rush of emotion, thinking back to the days when she was a little girl playing dress-up and mothering the family's pet Beagle. During dinner, his wife had caught his eye and given him a sentimental nod.

An attractive couple entered the restaurant. They didn't look like cops, but they appeared to be looking for someone. The man's jacket also had the slight bulge of a holstered firearm, so Pacini held up his hand. The man noticed and waved back.

"Deputy Director Pacini?" Chase Assad asked, approaching the bar.

"Detectives," he said, nodding. His tone was friendly, but with a hint of annoyance-Pacini wanted them to know that although he was including them in the investigation, it wasn't by choice.

After some small talk and fighting to hear one another over the loud chatter of the bar crowd, Pacini led the detectives outside, and the three took a leisurely stroll down East Twelfth Street.

"We were surprised the commission claimed jurisdiction," Milstein said pointedly. "You all think Parker Sinclair's murder is connected to Black Wednesday?"

"No," Pacini replied bluntly.

"So, my partner and I are involved because..."

"Good question."

There was an awkward silence.

"Well, we're available to help with whatever you need," Assad said.

"Thanks. We've been working hard on the `C-B' neck lead, which I'm sure you've heard about. It's the only identifying mark we have, assuming it wasn't a deliberate red herring. If the assassin was that smart-and we think that's possible-we're screwed. But if not, someone from the guy's past has to have seen that mark-that's why we decided to release the information to the public." He held up his hand over his head. "We've got a stack this high of leads to chase down. I was hoping you two could help."

"Absolutely," Assad said.

Milstein creased her brow. "Other than the administrative work, what's the plan for the Parker Sinclair investigation?"

Pacini sized up the detective. She reminded him of his daughter: self-confident, independent-not one to suffer fools gladly. Holding her gaze, he said, "Look, I didn't ask for you guys, and I know you're sure as hell not thrilled to be on my team-I don't blame you. But it is what it is. If you've got some bright ideas on connecting Sinclair to Black Wednesday, I'm more than happy to listen. But despite what you may think, we don't have thousands of agents at our beck and call, so we could use the help on the neck leads. You both know by now, sometimes it's the bullshit leads that break it wide open. Remember Son of Sam?" Pacini was referring to a case where a serial killer, David Berkowitz, had been caught because he got a parking ticket near the scene of one of the murders.

"We're here to help," Assad intervened, giving Milstein a hard stare.

"Okay, then," Pacini said, turning around at the end of the block. They walked back to the front of the restaurant in silence and stood under the awning.

"I've got to get back to my family, so why don't we meet at the New York field office in the morning and we'll get you started? Twenty-six Federal Plaza, twenty-third floor."

Before they could discuss the details, Pacini's cell phone rang. He would have ignored it, but it was the distinctive ring that meant important business. Stopping, he turned his back on them as he answered.

A few seconds later, pocketing the phone, he said, "Change of plans. I need you both ready to go at four a.m."

When the two detectives looked at him skeptically, Pacini checked his watch and sighed. "I'll explain on the ride to D.C. Trust me; this'll be something you don't get to do every day. Four a.m., at the field office. Can you do that?"