The Last Justice (24 page)

"It won't surprise me," Assad said, "I've seen people killed for a hell of a lot less than the millions involved in the Hassan case. If he really is working for them, he's a liability now."

Assad gazed out at the Capitol dome. When Pacini had said they were going to the Mall, Assad had envisioned a shopping mall, not the spacious field in the middle of the city that stretched from the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial.

They were following up on the few leads from their law clerk interviews and were headed to the Museum of Natural History to speak with Douglas Pratt's girlfriend, who worked in the IMAX Theater there. Pratt's name was on a watch list at the airlines and agents were covering the train station and Pratt's apartment. Though Pacini could have sent a junior agent, he told Assad that this was the best lead they had obtained in months, so he decided to spend more time in the field.

"Your partner gonna be okay?" Pacini asked.

"Yeah. She's close to her dad, but she's been through this with him before-she'll be all right."

"He been sick long?"

"Went for a routine checkup a year ago, came out of the appointment, and told her that he didn't have long to live. He's a tough old guy, though."

"Apple doesn't fall far from the tree," Pacini said.

Assad nodded. "You have no idea. Her dad was a cop, too. Probably the only clean one in his squad. Ended up having to testify against his friends in a corruption scandal. It was twenty years ago, and she still gets shit for it around the station."

"She have any family with her at the hospital?"

"An aunt, but that's about it."

"You should go."

"I tried. She'd have none of it."

They walked up the few steps to the entrance of the Museum of Natural History and passed a young couple and their wriggling children who were waiting in line to go through the entrance security checkpoint. Pacini identified himself to one of the guards. His office had already called ahead, so they were expecting him; Pratt's girlfriend was in one of the security stations, waiting for them.

A museum officer led Pacini and Assad through the main atrium into the dinosaur section of the museum, which was crowded with baby strollers and parents trying to herd their children beneath a giant T-Rex skeleton that grinned down at one and all. The guard stopped at a flight of stairs blocked off with a velvet rope, which he opened for them.

Walking up the stairs, Assad noticed a man in a baseball hat watching him. They made eye contact, and the man looked away and walked out of sight. Something about the way he headed straight for the exit gave Assad pause.

"Frank, can you give me a minute?" He pointed to the exit.

Pacini nodded, and Assad went down the stairs and walked to the main atrium of the museum, but the man had disappeared.

By the time Assad caught up with Pacini in the security office, Pratt's girlfriend was crying. She didn't know where Pratt was, but he had called her at six this morning. He didn't say what kind of trouble he was in, but he was scared. He asked for money and she said she offered him her credit card. Pratt had just been at the museum to pick it up.

Within minutes, Pacini had museum guards on alert, and a trace put on the credit card. Now they just had to wait.

Detective Milstein's flight had landed on time, and she sat in the back of the government town car that Pacini had arranged to take her to the hospital in Long Island. The last time her father had a scare, Milstein spent days at the hospital, forced to read teen magazines to kill the time, since the gift shop had a limited reading selection. By the time her dad was out, she knew more about Justin Bieber than the average twelve-year-old.

This time, though, she had brought some work. At Milstein's insistence, Pacini reluctantly had the agent who picked her up from the airport bring her the "CB lead chart," a summary that included baseline information on all hotline tips received concerning the mark on the assassin's neck. She had tried to read during the long ride, but she couldn't focus. It's going to be like last time, she told herself. He'll scare the hell out of me, feel better, and be back at home in a day or two. She would not let herself get worked up.

She called the hospital again, and then her aunt. Her father still was in critical condition. No need to call her mom, who lived in Pennsylvania and had started her life over with a new family.

As she arrived at the hospital and headed inside, her cell phone rang. It was McKenna again, asking for her e-mail address. He had something to send her.

5:30p.m. Martin Luther KingJr. Memorial Library, Washington,

cKenna hung up from his call to Milstein and asked Javier to drop them at the corner of Tenth Street, near Ford's Theatre. McKenna and Kate would walk the next few blocks to the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library. They didn't want Javier's car to be caught on surveillance cameras at any businesses near the library.

"Right here is great," McKenna said. He got out of the car and leaned his head into the passenger window. "Javier, I can't thank you enough."

Kate, sitting next to Javier, kissed him on the cheek, squeezed his leg, and got out.

"You sure you don't want me to wait?" Javier said.

"You've done enough," she said.

"Be careful, sis,"Aiden said from the backseat. "You've got my cell phone, but just leave me a voice mail if you need anything, and I'll call you back. I'm gonna go see if I can find my bike where you left it."

McKenna waved as the Jaguar drove away, and he and Kate set off on Tenth Street, heads down, both wearing baseball caps. They decided to enter the library separately so they would be less noticeable.

The Martin Luther King Library was a drab structure that looked as though it was built in the 1970s, and stuck out only because it shared the neighborhood with impressive marble government buildings and office space designed more in keeping with the historic area. The library's main floor was dominated by a large mural depicting images from King's life. Kate studied the mural while McKenna took the stairs to the public computers on the second floor.

Finding the computer banks, he waited for a station to come available. The users were an eclectic mix: a cute teenage girl typing away and smiling, an unkempt man who stared at the screen, and a well-pressed gentleman in his late fifties surfing the job classifieds.

After a few minutes, the teenager put her notebooks in her backpack and smiled at McKenna as he took her seat. Reviewing the instructions Scoob had written out for him, he loaded the CD containing the pictures of Kincaid and Carmichael. The e-mail message to Milstein that accompanied the pictures said only one word: "Innocent."

A mile away, Assad heard his cell phone's incessant ring as he dashed through the museum yelling, "Police! Get out of the way!"

Tourists obligingly scooped up their kids and hurried out of his path. Within minutes of being alerted, museum security personnel thought they had identified Pratt on one of the security cameras in the museum's cafeteria on the ground floor. Recalling the man in the baseball cap who had disappeared into the crowd, Assad sprinted to the escalators with Pacini huffing behind him.

Reaching the cafeteria, Assad saw the man in the ball cap walking from the cafeteria toward the exit doors.

"Stop that man!" Assad shouted to the confused officers assigned to the door.

The man darted for the door and managed to get outside, with Assad tearing after him, down the museum steps, and past the crosswalk onto the National Mall.

Two Capitol police officers assigned to patrol the area surrounding the Smithsonian metro entrance noticed. Assad, with Pacini still lagging behind, held up his badge, and one of the officers, a bald man in his early thirties, shot ahead of them like an Olympic sprinter.

The man in the ball cap was tiring, and the officer quickly gained on him, crossing Jefferson Drive and onto a lawn toward Independence Avenue. Just before Independence, the officer dived for the man's legs and tackled him hard. Assad and Pacini arrived a few seconds later to see the man face down in the grass with the officer pressing down on his back, cuffing him.

Pacini nodded approvingly to the young officer. "Son, this is going to earn you a much better gig than walking the Mall."

The officer grinned as he hoisted his captive to his feet.

"Douglas Pratt?" Pacini asked.

Getting no answer, Pacini put his cell phone to his ear and called for a car. At the same time, Assad's phone rang again. It was Milstein. Then he looked at Pacini as he hung up the phone and said, "When it rains, it pours."

FBI Field Office, Fourth Street Northwest, Washington,

oug Pratt sat handcuffed in an interview room, refusing to answer Pacini's questions. Pacini had brought him to the field office because, tucked away on Fourth Street, it was out of the way. Unlike at the Hoover Building, where reporters were always sniffing around their contacts for tidbits about the commission investigation, here word of Pratt's arrest would be less prone to leakage. The office also was better equipped for an interrogation. While Pacini continued to question Pratt, Assad watched on a television monitor in another room.