The Patriots Club (30 page)

52

In the spacious parlor of his Georgetown townhome, Senator Hugh Fitzgerald kicked his stockinged feet onto an ottoman and succumbed to the pleasures of his worn and comfortable leather chair.

“Ahh,” he sighed loud enough to rattle the windows. “Marta, a glass of Tennessee’s finest,
por favor
. And
generoso
.
Muy generoso.
”

From the start, it had been a taxing day. A prayer breakfast with his conservative counterparts across the aisle at seven—yes, even Democrats like Fitzgerald believed in God—was followed by the usual office business, the meeting and greeting of visiting dignitaries from his home state. Today, that meant pumping hands with the head of the Vermont Dairy Promotion Council and saying hello to this year’s National Spelling Bee champion, an impressive young man who hailed from Rutland. Then came the “specially scheduled” appropriations hearings that had drawn on and on.

Six point two billion dollars to refill the military’s pre-positioning depots, or pre-pos, as they were called so affectionately. It boggled the mind that the armed forces could require so much money. Six point two billion . . . and that just to return the country to fighting fettle. It was a minimum. Not in any way earmarked to expand manpower, or to gear up for imminent conflict. Six point two billion dollars to bring the water back to the level mark and ensure that the United States of America could respond with adequate force to two regional conflicts. Six point two billion dollars to buy boots and bullets and uniforms and MREs. Not a dollar of it to commission a new tank, buy a new airplane, or build a new boat.

The terrible irony was that while America had the finest equipment and the best-trained troops, she did not have enough money to finance their use in battle. Waging modern war was prohibitively expensive, even for the wealthiest nation on the face of the globe. One year prosecuting a half-assed war against a pitiable opponent had cost the country over two hundred billion dollars. And for what?

As chair of the appropriations committee, Hugh Fitzgerald was party to the nasty details the public could never see. Like the fact that a crack division of the army had run out of food for two days—not a biscuit or tin of peaches to eat. Another had gone short of water, preventing it from joining in an attack. His favorite tidbit belonged to the marines. An entire battalion had actually run out of bullets during a prolonged engagement in the Sunni Triangle.
Bullets.
The little devils cost fifty cents apiece, and the fightingest men on God’s green earth had run out of them. Even those dirty little Arab bastards had bullets. They had ’em by the truckload.

“Here you are, Senator.” Marta padded into the room and handed him the evening’s cocktail.

“Gracias,”
he said. “Yes, yes,
muy generoso
. You’re too good to me.” He took a generous sip and set down the glass. “Come, Marta, sit next to me. An old man requires some attention after a long day.”

Marta squeezed onto the arm of the leather chair. She was a svelte woman, barely a hundred pounds. Her black hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she smiled at him with dark, mournful eyes. Slipping a hand behind his neck, she began massaging his shoulder.

“That’s better,” he said. “Very good, indeed.”

Fitzgerald closed his eyes and let Marta’s hands do their work. It was hard to believe such a slight woman could be so strong. Her fingers were like steel. He sighed as her kneading broke his tension into little pieces and banished it to another place. He decided he needed more of this and fewer battles on the Hill.

Six point two billion dollars. He couldn’t get the figure out of his mind.

He might be able to push off the bill this session, but it would be back the next, and then with another billion or two tacked on for inflation. Part of him thought this the best course. Delay. The fox couldn’t raid the henhouse if he didn’t have any teeth. On the other hand, there was the security of the country’s men and women to think of.

Fitzgerald considered Jacklin’s offer of a post at Jefferson Partners. There were worse places to end a career, he conceded, even if he did despise the vain, cocksure man. Politics, however, had forever ruined his ability to hold a grudge. There was no such thing as friendship on the Hill, or its opposite. There was only pragmatism. He imagined himself strutting the halls of the investment bank, welcoming clients to his large, well-appointed office. A view of the Potomac would be mandatory. There would be prestige and power and money by the boatload. He didn’t have to look far to see what a partner at Jefferson earned. Jacklin and his ilk were billionaires to a man.
Billionaires.
He’d seen a few of the homes and the cars purchased by men who’d made their name on the Hill, then gone and sold it to Jefferson.

Fitzgerald had grown up on a dairy farm in the thirties and forties. Having money meant buying a new set of clothes for Christmas and putting three meals on the table each day. If they were lucky enough to make a trip to the coast each summer, they were considered rich. His father never made more than two thousand dollars a year his entire life.

A billionaire.
If Jacklin cared so deeply about the troops’ well-being, he should throw a few hundred million of his own into the kitty. Not that he’d notice it gone.

The strong, supple fingers continued their work, kneading away the tensions of the day, clearing his mind. Fitzgerald weighed his alternatives. Another run for office. Six more years working the corridors of power. Six more years of horse-trading . . . and with it, the promise of expiring under the Chesapeake sun. It was too much for a Green Mountain boy to take.

Of course, he could return home to his wife, take up a teaching post at the university, and earn even less than he did now. He snorted loud enough to make Marta jump. “Excuse me, dear,” he said, opening his eyes and gazing at the kind, loving woman next to him. And Marta?

Reaching out a hand, he patted her leg. She grasped it, and slid it toward her thigh.

“Lord, no,” exclaimed Fitzgerald, guiding his hand back to a safer area. “The very thought exhausts me. I’ve got a party to go to this evening. Any hanky-panky, and I’ll be out till the morning.”

Marta smiled. She was hot-blooded, was what she was. He brought her close and kissed her on the cheek. He could not leave his Marta.

Six point two billion dollars.

These days, it wasn’t that much money, was it?

Later,
he told himself. He would decide later.

53

Franciscus hurried down the hall into the booking room. A beige, waist-high machine that resembled a copier stood in the corner. It was a LiveScan machine—officially labeled the TouchPrint 3500. It had been three years since he’d rolled a suspect’s fingers over a messy inkpad and struggled to get ten decent prints onto a booking sheet. To make matters worse, not to mention waste infinitely more time, the suspect’s prints had to be taken twice more as he advanced into the bowels of the criminal-justice system. Once for the state police in Albany, and again for the Department of Justice in D.C. These days, all you did was press the suspect’s fingers one at a time onto a card-size scanner, check on the pop-up monitor that the print was properly recorded, and—bingo!—it was transferred automatically to Central Booking downtown, Albany, and D.C. All at the touch of a button.

Franciscus flipped open the peripheral scanner and laid the transparency onto the bed. A piece of paper set on top was necessary to ensure a good read. The LiveScan machine hummed as it digitized the prints and copied them into its memory. Franciscus keyed in instructions to send them to the NCIC, the National Crime Information Center in Clarksburg, West Virginia, as well as the FBI’s Criminal Justice Information Services Division. The collected databases would check the prints against any on file. The list ran to federal employees, current and past military personnel, aliens who had registered to live in the United States, and the department of motor vehicles in forty-eight states.

Franciscus left the room, closing the door behind him. It would take an hour or so for the system to come up with any matches. If, and when, LiveScan found one, it would notify his PC. As he advanced down the hall, he spotted Mike Melendez’s head popping out of the squad room.

“Hey, John!”

“Short Mike. What’s doin’?” Franciscus could see that Melendez was worked up about something.

“I should be asking you. Chief’s on the phone.”

“Whose chief is that? You mean ‘the Loot’?”

“The friggin’ chief. Esposito. On line one.”

“Impossible. It’s after five.” But Franciscus made sure he hustled to his desk.

“The Chief” was Chief of Police Charlie Esposito, “Chargin’ Charlie” to his friends, “Charlie Suck” to others, but to all the highest-ranking uniformed cop in the city. Only the commissioner and his deputy stood above him, and they were appointees. Franciscus and Esposito had processed through the same class at the academy back when their peckers still stood straight up. But where Franciscus had gone to work for love of the job, Esposito had always had his eye on the brass ring. He’d never made a single decision without asking himself first how it was going to advance his career. Officially, they were still friends.

“Detective John Franciscus,” he said, unable to keep himself from standing a little straighter.

“John, this is Chief Esposito. I understand you’ve been looking into some old police business?”

“Like what?”

“The Shepherd and O’Neill murders up in Albany.”

Franciscus didn’t answer. He was dumbstruck. Part of him had somehow come to the conclusion that Esposito was calling to give him grief about his failure to hand in his medical papers. But as that illusion rapidly dissolved, he was all the more confused. How in God’s name had Esposito gotten wind of Franciscus’s informal investigation? And even then, what was his motive for calling?

“And so?”

“That case is closed.”

“Really? From what I see, there’s a suspect that’s been on the run for the better part of twenty-five years.”

“That matter’s been adjudicated,” said Esposito.

“Excuse me, sir, but I beg to differ.”

There was a pause. An unhealthy sigh that said it all. “I want you to drop it, John.”

Franciscus took a breath. He should have seen that coming as soon as Esposito had announced himself as “Chief.” “Charlie,” he said, turning his back to the squad room and speaking in a quieter voice, man-to-man, no bullshit. “Look, Charlie, it’s a long story, but it’s got something to do with the crazy business that went down in Union Square today. I had a guy in here last night name of Tom Bolden. . . .”

“Bolden? That’s the Weiss murderer. We have an APB out on him. Feds are getting into the game, too. It’s not your beef. Leave it to Manhattan South.”

“No, no, listen to me, Charlie. You know the girl who was shot? Her name’s Jennifer Dance. Bolden was right next to her when it happened. She’s his girlfriend. You getting this, Charlie? Someone wanted to take out Bolden and they missed.”

“I’m not following where the Albany murder ties into this, and frankly, I don’t care to know. You’ve done enough snooping around. Bolden belongs to Manhattan South. Don’t concern yourself with him.”

“Charlie, this is me you’re talking to.”

“You heard me, John. Do yourself a favor.”

“Do me a favor or you a favor? Come on, Charlie, who’s leaning on you?”

“John, I’ve been made to understand that you’re not a well man. Officially, you’re operating in violation of duty regulations. I know that no one values those rules more than you. I’m officially taking you off active duty. As of now, consider yourself on paid leave.”

“This is my turf, Charlie. I’ve been keeping the peace here for over thirty years. Something happens on my turf, it’s my business to clear it up.”

“Bill McBride’s on his way up now. He wants to have a little talk with you.”

“About what?” asked Franciscus, copping an attitude.

“About me taking your badge and your gun for good. Then you can pay for your bypass yourself! Or you can drop dead!”

“Who’s leaning on you, Charlie?” Franciscus’s heart was rattling like a southbound train, and somewhere along the line, he’d lost his breath.
Sonofabitch,
he kept whispering to himself. He had to sit down.

“John.” Esposito’s voice had lost its bluster. It was the man speaking, not the uniform. “Listen to me. This is one beef you want no part of.”

Franciscus hadn’t heard that voice since Esposito’s son had been nabbed in a heroin bust uptown and Chargin’ Charlie had called Franciscus to ask that his boy walk on the charge.

“Why are you sending McBride? Is he gonna knock my teeth out if I don’t cooperate?”

“When Bill gets there, I want you to give him what you got from the Kovacs woman.”

“The who?”

“You know who. We know what you’ve been up to, John.”

Franciscus hung up the phone. His chest felt like it was in a nutcracker. He extended his left arm and curled his fingers into a fist, expecting a sharp, debilitating spasm to seize the left side of his body. He exhaled sharply and his breath came back to him. The pressure lifted from his chest. He glanced at the ceiling and chuckled. He was turning into a real drama queen.

He felt Melendez tap him on the shoulder. “Johnny, you okay? What’s going on?”

“Get me a glass of water, would you?” asked Franciscus.

“Sure thing. Right away.”

“Thanks.” Franciscus leaned over his desk and put his face in his hands. It didn’t pay to get himself worked up like that. Melendez arrived and handed him the glass. Franciscus took a sip, feeling better.

He checked his incoming e-mails for a notification about Theo Kovacs’s prints. There was nothing yet. He picked up the phone and dialed a number at 1 PP. “Yeah?” an unfamiliar voice answered.

“I’m lookin’ for Matty Lopes.”

“Not here. Who’s callin’?”

“John Franciscus.”

The voice dropped a register. “Don’t you learn?”

“Excuse me?”

“Word to the wise, Johnny. Be careful. You know what we do to nosy people? We cut off their noses.”

“Who is this? You one of Guilfoyle’s buddies? What game are you playing, anyway?”

“One that’s bigger than you.”

“Bigger than me? I’m a cop. One guy. I’m nothing. This is the law we’re talking about. No one’s bigger than that.”

“The law? I’ll let you in on a secret, Detective. We are the law.”

Franciscus slammed the phone in its cradle. “Says you,” he cursed to himself.

Outside in the hall, Franciscus could hear Bill McBride’s booming voice, yukking it up with Short Mike and Lars Thorwald. He ducked into the booking room. Plugging his pass code into the LiveScan, he brought up the last search and checked for any results. He heard McBride asking after him, “Where’s Gentleman Johnny?” as if his visit were purely a social one. “Anyone seen the old dog?” Thankfully, he didn’t hear Melendez offer up any answers. Everyone knew McBride as the bag man from downtown. He was well hated across the five boroughs.

The LiveScan’s status screen was blank. As of yet, no matches were forthcoming from any of the databases. Franciscus was out of luck. Esposito could have his badge, but he’d be damned if he handed over Katie Kovacs’s papers.

He put his hand on the door, figuring out where to stash Theo Kovacs’s moving box. Opening the door a crack, he peered into the hall. McBride’s broad back was to him and he appeared in no hurry to leave.

Just then, the LiveScan bleeped. Franciscus hurried to the screen. The system had found a match in the Federal Identification Database. That meant the print belonged to a government employee, or someone with past military service. He highlighted the database and clicked the mouse. A moment later, the name of the man whose fingerprints had been found on David Bernstein’s Fanning .11 millimeter pistol appeared on the screen, along with a social security number, a home address, and the notice that the individual had no outstanding warrants. Suddenly, he didn’t give a crap about the moving box.

“Oh, Christ,” muttered Franciscus. Charlie Esposito was getting leaned on all right. Leaned on from the top.