The Last Justice (7 page)

"Did you discuss Chief Justice Kincaid's widow?" a reporter shouted. "Is she a suspect?"

The question unsettled McKenna since it meant there was a leak. Someone on the commission was talking to the press. The Kincaids had a troubled marriage, and Liddy Kincaid had made unusual cash withdrawals shortly before Black Wednesday, but the information had not been made public.

"As I said," the spokesman replied, "I'm not commenting on any specifics of the investigation-or unfounded rumors, for that matter."

"Any progress on the tattoo on the assassin's neck?" another reporter asked.

"Again, I won't comment on what was discussed today, but I can say that we continue to urge the public to contact our hotline if you have any information."

The best lead had been a guarded secret until a few days ago, when the commission, desperate for something to go on, had disclosed that the assassin was caught on a security camera outside the Supreme Court Building. It was the best image they had of the man, who had skillfully avoided having his face captured on any of the court's outdated security cameras. This image, the result of weeks of FBI computer enhancements, also provided no clear view of his face. It did, however, reveal one distinguishing feature: a mark on his lower neck. It looked like a tattoo or a burned brand of the letters "CB." The mark was visible in only one frame, taken right after the assassin had shot and killed a young officer who was trying to lockdown the building. The officer had fallen onto the shooter, pulling down his shirt collar, exposing his neck for a crucial half-second. The image had since appeared on the front page of every newspaper in the country.

As the commission's spokesman continued fencing with the press, the screen switched to the anchor, a woman in her early thirties with blonde hair and plastic-framed glasses, who segued to another story.

"In related news, the administration and congressional leaders appear close to an agreement on a deal to fill the vacancies on the high court, but not everyone is happy about it." The screen flipped to a well-known pundit: "I think this so-called three-three deal, in which both sides get a free pass on three nominees of their choosing, is nothing less than a gamble with the future of American law. It is dumbfounding why the administration couldn't have just chosen to nominate six moderates. History has shown that moderates get confirmed with little problem. But what this three-three deal will mean is that the court will be packed with three liberal extremists and three conservative extremists. The president apparently thinks this is acceptable since two of the three surviving justices, who are sometimes considered swing votes, are still solid conservatives, giving his side the majority. The administration's tactics to rally public support for the deal, going so far as to use Twitter and Facebook, are shameless and the American people should know better."

Another talking head flashed on the screen. "I don't see anything wrong with reaching a compromise on the nominations. It's not like there's a manual on the right way to deal with this unprecedented situation. And let's not forget that all the Constitution says is that the president shall seek the `advice and consent' of the Senate, which is effectively what's occurred. If there's a bipartisan agreement, that's got to be better than having gridlock in the process. 'hat's why the public is behind this."

McKenna looked over to his gate to see if they were boarding the flight, when a boy about four years old ran by with his arms outstretched, pretending to be an airplane. A few travelers looked on disapprovingly as the kid circled a terminal bench, making a loud vroom sound. Then, on his third lap around the bench, he tripped and fell, smacking the floor hard. McKenna was already on his feet when the father scooped the boy up, hugging him tight as if trying to absorb the pain into himself.

It was these unexpected reminders that hurt the most. McKenna thought of a game he used to play with his four-year-old, Colin. He would grab his son and squeeze him and say, "I'm stealing all the good in you. I've got all the good in your heart now." Colin would giggle back, "You can't steal my good. I grew ten jillion gazillion back." McKenna smiled for just a moment before the familiar pain wedged itself in his chest.

I'm stealing your good.

Ten minutes later, he was buckled into his seat on the plane. He checked his BlackBerry e-mail, an every-ten-minutes fix he couldn't do without. Isabel used to call it his "crackberry."

After Colin died, the "crackberry" comment lost its playful lilt as McKenna spent more and more time at the office. Being at home-or with Isabel, for that matter-simply reminded him of his staggering loss. Work was a legal drug that allowed him, for brief moments, to escape the pain.

Then, when Isabel, too, was snatched away from him, he needed a new fix. He found it in bourbon, the same third-shelf stuff his foster parents used to drink. It had been thirty-two days since his last drink. Not because he had found God or AA or his senses, but because the alcohol reacted adversely to his medication for the brain-splitting migraines that had come back in recent weeks.

He closed his eyes for just a moment, then woke to the bump of the wheels hitting down at Reagan National in D.C. He rolled his neck and reached for his BlackBerry. Scrolling down, he noticed an e-mail, marked urgent, from Kate Porter, his right hand at the office. It read, "Friend at Washington Post called me. Wild story. We need to talk A-S-A-P."

McKenna immediately dialed Kate's direct line at the office. She answered on the first ring.

"Hey, it's me," he said. "What's the emergency?"

"I can't talk now," she said in a low whisper. "Meet me at my place."

"Your place? Now? What's going-"

"Go," she said, and hung up on him.

McKenna paid the cabbie and walked up to Kate Porter's condo building in D.C.'s Adams Morgan neighborhood. The area, known for its nightlife, eclectic restaurants, and sporadic violence, was more urban than most of the lawyers at the Office of the Solicitor General would tolerate. But then, that was Kate: brave and unpredictable. A tall red head with disarming freckles and a girl-next-door smile, she also was an amazing legal talent. A Chicago Law graduate and former Supreme Court law clerk, at thirty-eight she already was a star in the D.C. legal community, and as McKenna's principal deputy, she was the number two person at the OSG.

McKenna pushed the buzzer next to the building's front door. Kate had more than once offered him a key of his own, but he had declined. She never asked why-she didn't need to.

"Jefferson?" a voice bellowed out of the speaker next to the door.

"Kate, what the hell is-" The buzz of the lobby's electric door latch cut him off.

McKenna was barely inside her condo door when Kate blurted, "My friend Margo works at the Post. She called and said I needed to be prepared for something big and unpleasant. Then Sarah got a call from a reporter. He wanted a comment on a story that's coming out tomorrow, and FBI agents came and wanted to speak with you. They were at the office when I left."

Kate seemed to be having trouble catching her breath. "The Post is running a piece that says you took a bribe when you were a judge. They say your former law clerk was the source for the story, and that you're under investigation for the clerk's murder. They think the bribery is somehow connected to Black Wednesday. They say Griffin Nash arranged the bribe. They know we identified Nash and Nevel Industries in our report to the commission."

McKenna stood shell-shocked for a moment. Trying to rein in his racing thoughts, he said nothing.

Kate stared at him. "Well?" she said.

"I need to go," he finally said.

"Go? That's all you have to say? `I need to go'?"

He looked away. She put her hand on his chin and turned his head to her. "Look at me," she said. The light crinkles at the corners of her eyes were more pronounced than usual.

"To protect yourself," McKenna said, "you should tell no one I was here. It's best this way."

"I'm a big girl, Jefferson," she said. "I can judge what's best for

"Can you?" he said, holding her gaze.

This time it was Kate who looked away. Lately she had begun to push back against McKenna's efforts to keep her at a comfortable emotional distance.

"Where are you going?" she asked as he went to the door.

"To see an old friend."

The WHotel, Manhattan

etectives Milstein and Assad watched as crime scene unit detectives sprayed luminol around the hotel room where they had met McKenna only fourteen hours ago. Now that the room was vacant, they could enter without a warrant. Milstein peered into the bathroom, watching the CSU spray the marble floor and pedestal sink. The detective turned off the lights; the sink had a bluish-green glow.

"Blood?" Milstein asked.

"Looks like it," the CSU replied." Sinks are tricky, though, because you can get false positives from bleach-based cleaning products-but usually that's more of a green flash, not the blue we're getting here, so I think this is blood."

That was confirmed when the CSU sprayed the carpet. A droplet trail led into the hall.

Another CSU detective entered the room. He was carrying a large brown paper bag that contained blood-stained clothes a detective had found behind a Dumpster at the back of the hotel.

"How much you wanna bet those clothes fit McKenna?" Milstein said to Assad.

Assad started to reply, but his cell phone rang. Scanning the caller ID, he walked to the back of the suite. He looked out the window with the phone pressed to his ear and watched the raindrops splatter against the glass.

When Milstein caught up with him, he held up a finger. "I understand," he said into the phone, his tone cold and professional. "Thanks, Lieutenant. I appreciate that. No, I'll tell her." He clicked the phone off.

"Tell her what?"

"The feds are taking over the investigation. They want it because of McKenna."

Her eyes flashed. "This is a murder case! They have no jurisdiction. They can't just-"

"Watch'em," Assad said. "Murdering a Supreme Court justice is a federal capital offense."

"Supreme Court justice?" Milstein said. "What's that have to do with this?"

"I don't know. That's just what filtered down to the boss. He said the feds are in damage control mode. McKenna's one of the top officials at the Department of Justice, and Griffin Nash, the guy they say bribed him, is the former White House chief of staff. I suppose they don't want some lowly city cops besting them."

Milstein pulled out her cell phone.

"Don't,"Assad said. "Nothing you can say is going to change this." He grinned, just barely. "Look on the bright side-they've agreed to let us work with the agents on the commission. The boss said they're doing that as a gesture of good faith."

"Pacifying the department, more like," Milstein said.

"Maybe, but it's a lot better than nothing. And it could be interesting. When's the last time you got to work on a high-profile task force?"

Milstein hesitated, then returned the cell phone to her handbag. "We've got an appointment with Sinclair's parents. They're expecting