The Last Justice (2 page)

Six months later Midtown Manhattan, New York

efferson McKenna reached for his cell phone, vibrating on the nightstand in his suite at the W Hotel. Head still pressed to the pillow, he squinted at the alarm clock near the bed, its green glow the only light in the room: 2:32 a.m. The phone vibrated again, crawling toward the edge of the nightstand. Snatching it before it got away, he pressed the answer button.

"Hello?"

"This is Detective Assad with the NYPD. With whom am I speaking?" the voice said in too demanding a tone for the hour.

McKenna sat up and switched on the bedside lamp.

"This is Solicitor General Jefferson McKenna," he said, matching the detective's tone and waiting for the name to register. It didn't seem to.

A year ago this would have been no surprise-few outside the Beltway had even known there was a solicitor general's office, much less the name of its holder. But that was before Black Wednesday; before the vigils, the flags at half-staff, and the media frenzy over the bloodbath at the high court. Now, to the mild amusement of his staff, McKenna appeared in People magazine's most-eligible bachelors list for his "brooding, darkly handsome appeal," and weekly his office received letters from female admirers wanting to meet the striking thirty-eightyear-old widower the media had anointed a national hero.

"Where are you right now?" the detective asked. "I need to speak with you."

"The W Hotel, Lex and East Fiftieth. But right now? It's nearly three in the morning. What's this about?"

Detective Assad declined to explain. He was on his way, he said, and in the meantime, McKenna should get dressed, drink some coffee, and wait for him. And before McKenna could protest, the detective hung up with a click.

Twenty minutes later, there were three loud raps on McKenna's hotel room door. He opened it cautiously and stared for a moment. The handsome, Middle Eastern man in the sharp navy suit and white open-collared dress shirt was not what he had expected to find standing in the doorway. Nor was the attractive woman with large caramel eyes that stood next to him.

"Mr. McKenna," the man said, giving his hand a firm shake, "Detective Chase Assad. Sorry to bother you at this hour."

McKenna nodded as he looked intently at Assad. Tall, with a square jaw and a day's worth of stubble over olive skin, the guy looked more like a cocky investment banker than a New York City detective.

"My partner, Detective Emma Milstein," Assad said. Milstein's dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, which drew attention to her elegant angular face. Those caramel eyes peered directly into McKenna's as they shook hands. He judged her to be about five five, though she carried herself taller.

He invited the detectives in, determined to be cordial despite Assad's curt manner on the phone. The two detectives sat on the velvet couch in the sitting room of the master suite. McKenna sat in the armchair facing them. Looking down at his frayed running shorts and bare legs, McKenna suddenly felt self-conscious. Other than his suit and tie, all he had in the hotel were his workout clothes. Eyeing Milstein, he immediately decided that he should have gone with the suit.

"You'll have to forgive me," he said, gesturing feebly at his attire. "My street clothes disappeared from the hotel gym locker room. They think housekeeping may have accidentally picked them up." His voice trailed off. He rarely got flustered, but right now, barely awake and thrown off by the surprise visit from the detectives, he exuded all the timidity of one of his junior staffers.

Milstein gave a fleeting smile, pulled a digital camera from her handbag, and directed his attention to the camera's tiny screen.

"Do you recognize this man?"

McKenna pulled the camera to his face and examined the digital picture.

"Aw, Jesus," he said, quickly looking away. "It's Parker Sinclair." He tried to shake off the picture of Parker, lying dead on a city sidewalk, the front of his white button-down shirt soaked in blood.

"His wallet was missing," Milstein said. "Your phone number was in his pocket. I take it you knew him?"

"Yes. Parker used to work for me a couple of years ago," McKenna said, letting the disturbing picture sink in. "I'm in town on business. We were supposed to meet for dinner earlier this evening." McKenna ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. "He never showed."

"Do you know how we can reach his family?" Milstein asked, scribbling something on a small notepad.

"I'm not sure," McKenna said. "We haven't kept in close touch. I know where he works, though. Parker's a law clerk for the Second Circuit Court of Appeals. I'm sure you can get the information you need from Judge Petrov's chambers."

McKenna was still reeling inwardly from the picture. Parker Sinclair had been his law clerk two and a half years ago, when McKenna was a federal district court judge just before he was nominated for solicitor general. He had recommended Parker for a prestigious federal appellate clerkship with the legendary judge Ivan Petrov.

"So you two had dinner plans?" Milstein asked, watching him closely.

"I gave a speech at Columbia Law School earlier this evening. Parker happened to be there and said hello. Since we hadn't seen each other in some time, I agreed to meet him for a late dinner after my speech. He had to leave early, so we planned to meet at Aquavit, a restaurant on East Fifty-ninth. We were supposed to meet at ten o'clock, but I gave him my cell number in case something came up." "And he just didn't show?" Assad asked.

"That's right."

"Did he call and say he wouldn't make it?"

"No. And I didn't know how to reach him, so I just came back to the hotel and ordered room service."

McKenna noticed Milstein casually scanning the room, no doubt looking for a room service cart or dirty dishes.

"Did you notice anything unusual about him?" she asked. "Anything at all out of the ordinary?"

"Nothing sticks out in my mind, but we spoke for only a couple of minutes."

Milstein looked thoughtful. "Have you and Mr. Sinclair had any problems in the past?"

"No," McKenna said decisively.

"No disputes?"

"No," he repeated, this time with a bit of edge to his voice. "Look, I know you're just doing your job, but I've told you, this was the first I've seen Parker in years. And it was for two or three minutes, max."

"Was there a particular reason you two were having dinner?"

"A reason? No, we were just catching up. Given my current position, it's not unusual for former colleagues to want to get together. Parker had been a good clerk, so I just thought it beat dining alone." McKenna was not one to throw his weight around, but he didn't like the suggestion implied in Milstein's questions, and he thought it was time to remind the detectives of just whom they were dealing with.

"Your position?" Assad asked, taking the bait.

"As I said to you on the phone after you woke me up, I'm the Solicitor General of the United States."

Milstein looked up from her notepad and examined McKenna. Her expression showed a glimmer of recognition.

"Black Wednesday, right?" she asked. "You were shot when the-" she started to say, but he cut her off with a clipped nod.

"The speech at Columbia was just a favor to a friend. The reason I'm in town is for a meeting with the Supreme Court Commission."

The detectives may not have heard of the solicitor general's office, but surely they knew of the commission. It had been six months, but the nation was still coping with the tragedy of Black Wednesday, and the commission's investigation into the slaughter at the high court remained a staple of front-page news.

As it turned out, Chief Justice Kincaid had not murdered his brethren. On the contrary, he was one of the few people in the courtroom who had seen the mysterious man, dressed as a lawyer with business at the court, who calmly shot five justices dead before vanishing from the scene. As long rumored, the chief justice packed more than just his conservative ideology under that robe, and sure enough, he had surprised the assassin by returning fire. McKenna and five others were hit in the crossfire.' he Supreme Court police officers who mistakenly shot Kincaid had killed the only witness to see the shooter's face.

"You're on the commission?" Assad asked.

"Yes, my office has a small role. As I'm sure you can understand, I'm not at liberty to say more."

McKenna didn't mind disclosing his participation in the commission since it was a matter of public record. It had been widely reported that his office had been assigned to help assess whether any cases pending in the Supreme Court had a connection to the murders.'hough there were protests that McKenna, himself nearly killed in the attack, had a conflict of interest and thus should not be part of the investigation, his office's participation was essential. For one thing, the solicitor general's office is involved some way in every one of the cases filed each year in the Supreme Court. Indeed, the office is so influential with the nine-member court that the solicitor general sometimes is referred to as "the tenth justice." In less than six hours, he would appear at a commission meeting to present his office's findings to the multi-agency law enforcement arm of the commission.

Detectives Milstein and Assad questioned him for another thirty minutes. Assad, who had become more deferential after learning that McKenna was a high-level Justice Department official, chose his words carefully. Milstein, however, was unflinching. What had McKenna done after giving the speech? Had anyone seen him at the restaurant? Could anyone else account for his whereabouts after leaving the restaurant? Was he sure that he and Sinclair had no disputes?

After finishing the interview and thanking McKenna, the detectives walked to their car. Lexington Avenue was quiet, and the October mist covered the blacktop.

Assad reached for Milstein's hand.

"We're on duty, Chase," she said, pulling away.

"It's after three in the morning, Em," he muttered. "I don't think we have to worry too much about anyone seeing us."

"That's not the point."

"This is getting old fast," he said, sliding into the front seat.

"It's late, Chase," she said. "Let's not have this fight."

The drive to his apartment was silent except for the rhythm of the windshield wipers and the faint hiss of water off the tires.

Assad looked over at Milstein, who sat staring out the window clenching her jaw. She was just as beautiful angry.

"So, what did you make of him?" he said, breaking the silence.

"I'm not sure. He seemed like he was holding back."

"Didn't feel it. Maybe you were just sensing his embarrassment from that Speedo he was wearing. I haven't seen short-shorts like that since Bill Clinton used to jog by the precinct house."

Milstein smiled.

"That's what I wanted to see," Assad said.

"I'm serious," Milstein said. "There's something he isn't telling us."

"Women's intuition?" said Assad playfully.

"You want to sleep alone tonight, don't you," she replied. "Seriously, there's something he didn't tell us. I just know it."

Poospatuck Indian Reservation, Long Island, New York