He nodded.
She figured she didn’t have much time. Whoever was inside the house was depending on this guy to submit periodic all-clear messages. When Mr. Outside failed to report on time or to answer a call, Mr. Inside would know something was wrong.
So Jessie slipped around to the back porch and crept up the steps to the door, holding her Mustang down alongside her leg. The outside screen door was shut, but the inside door was open. She could hear the grumble of male voices coming from somewhere inside. She couldn’t understand what they were saying. One of the voices, she was quite sure, was Mac’s.
She took a breath and tried the screen-door latch. It opened with a click that sounded like a gunshot.
Jessie remained motionless for a moment, holding the door ajar.
The murmur of voices continued.
She pulled the door open and slipped quickly into the little foyer where Mac and Katie hung their coats and hats and kept their boots. She eased the screen door shut behind her and latched it silently.
She listened. The voices sounded like they were coming from the other end of the house, past the kitchen and the dining room and down the hallway. They were in Mac’s office, she figured.
She slid along the wall of the foyer and paused at the archway into the kitchen.
She darted her head around the corner and quickly pulled it back, then studied the image of the kitchen that had registered behind her eyes like a snapshot. In that mental photograph, the kitchen was empty.
She listened. She heard nothing. No scrape of a shoe on floor tile. No soft inhale or exhale of breath.
Nobody took a shot at her.
She waited for about a minute, holding her weapon in both hands beside her face, ready to shoot. But there was nobody to shoot at.
She slipped into the kitchen, paused again, listened, then started for Mac’s office, where the grumble of voices seemed to be coming from.
She eased herself around the corner from the kitchen into the dining room . . . and that’s when a hand clamped over her mouth and yanked her head back, and at the same time, something sharp pricked her neck just under her right ear.
Oh, shit.
“Drop the weapon, Miz Church,” a deep male voice growled into her ear.
Jessie let her little Colt automatic fall from her fingers. There was a thick carpet on the dining-room floor, and the gun made a muffled thump when it landed.
“The bag,” he said. “Drop it.”
She shrugged off her shoulder bag and let it slide onto the floor.
He shoved it aside with his foot.
The man had his hand over her mouth. It felt as if her face was in a vise. He pulled her backward so that she was pressing against him. His mouth was right beside her ear, and now the knife was on her throat. He moved the blade and it sliced the tightly-stretched skin under her chin.
The pain was sudden and sharp.
He smelled of stale cigar smoke and Old Spice.
Jessie felt a trickle of warm blood dribble down to the hollow place at the base of her throat. One more ounce of pressure on that knifeblade and it would cut through her tendons and ligaments and cartilage and arteries.
He moved the blade away from her throat, and then she felt the point of the knife prick the skin at the base of her spine. He let go of her face. “Put your hands on top of your head,” he growled, “and lace your fingers together.”
Big mistake. Jessie whirled, ducked, and kicked all in one blurry motion, a hard kick with all of her strength and all of the momentum of her pivot behind it, and her instep got the guy square between the legs.
He let out a quick, sharp breath, a combination of a sigh and a groan. He dropped his knife, grabbed his crotch with both hands, fell forward onto the carpet, and curled into a fetal position.
Jessie was on him in an instant. She picked up his knife and jabbed its point in the soft place under his chin. She bent close to his face, so close her nose almost touched his. “One word and I’ll kill you,” she hissed. “Stand up.”
The guy rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“Now,” she whispered. “Stand up or I’ll cut your throat.”
The guy managed to get onto his knees, then push himself to his feet. He was bent over and kept one hand cradling his balls.
Jessie stepped behind him, locked her forearm around his throat, and pressed the knife blade against the side of his neck. “Let’s go,” she said.
She walked the guy through the dining room and through the archway that separated it from Mac’s living room.
It wasn’t at all what she’d expected to see.
Mac and Katie were sitting on the sofa. Mac had his arm draped around Katie’s shoulders. Katie had her legs drawn up under her. They both looked almost relaxed.
A man she’d never seen before was in the leather chair across from them. He had blondish-brown hair. He wore a blue shirt and khaki pants and white sneakers and a black earpiece. One ankle was crossed over the other leg, and his right arm was dangling over the side of the chair. He was holding an automatic handgun in his right hand. It was pointing at the floor.
They all looked up when Jessie pushed the guy into the room.
Katie, she noticed, had been crying. Her eyes were red, but now they were dry.
Mac nodded and smiled at Jessie.
The man in the leather chair bowed his head. “Ah, Ms. Church,” he said. “You are quite good, aren’t you? Please. Join us. Mr. White, you look like you’d like to use the bathroom. Let him go, Ms. Church. He won’t harm you.”
Jessie moved the knife and took her forearm away from the man’s neck. He mumbled something and staggered out of the room.
Jessie went over and sat on the sofa beside Mac. “What’s going on?” she said.
“We’re negotiating,” Mac said. He touched her throat, then showed her his fingertip. It was red with shiny blood. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her.
She pressed the handkerchief against her throat. “These guys with knives and guns,” she said, “they’re here to negotiate?”
He smiled. “I don’t think that was their original intent.”
“Allow me to explain,” said the man in the chair.
“Yes, please,” said Jessie.
“My name is Mr. Black,” said the man. “That man you escorted in here is Mr. White. I assume you met Mr. Green outside.”
Jessie shrugged. “What are you negotiating?”
“Mr. Cassidy has kindly agreed not to publish his very interesting story, or to release any of his documentation, or, in fact, to make public any details about it whatsoever for eighteen months.” He looked at Mac. “Eighteen months, we said, right?”
“A year from next December,” said Mac.
“We, for our part,” said Mr. Black, “have agreed not to kill Mr. Cassidy, or young Katie, here, or you, either, Ms. Church.”
“Sounds like a good deal all around,” said Jessie.
Mr. Black smiled. “You are a cynic, Ms. Church. But a realist, I’m sure. So you must see how well this will work out for everybody.”
“And why didn’t you kill us?”
Mr. Black gestured with his gun toward Mac. “Tell her, Mr. Cassidy.”
“Simone’s tapes,” he said. “If anything happens to any of us, I have left instructions that they should immediately be released to key representatives of the media, along with the photographs and documents plus my summary of the facts contained in the tapes.”
“And if nothing happens to us?”
“The tapes will stay where they are—in a safe in a lawyer’s office in New York City.”
“For eighteen months,” said Jessie. “That’s a year from December. A month after the next presidential election.”
Mr. Black smiled. “Smart girl.”
“It would be unreasonable,” said Mac, “to expect us never to publish Simone’s story. On the other hand,” he added, “if we were to leak any information before a year from Decemb
er, if we didn’t keep up our end of the bargain . . .”
Mr. Black raised his gun, pointed it at Katie, and said, “Bang, bang.”
Katie, Jessie observed, had squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
“So it’s a stalemate,” said Jessie.
“It’s a fair deal all around,” said Mr. Black.
Jessie arched her eyebrows. “Is it?”
“Excuse me?” he said.
“What do I get out of it?”
“You get to live, Ms. Church.”
“I mean,” she said, “Cassidy, here, he ends up publishing his story, making a bunch of money, buying his daughter a car, putting her through college. You, you get the time you need to do whatever it is you have to do. So what about me?”
Mr. Black smiled. “Is there something we can do for you, Ms. Church?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Jessie, “there are a couple of things.”
CHAPTER 24
Judge Thomas Larrigan slouched in his leather desk chair. He had his feet propped up on his desk and his necktie pulled loose, and he was gazing out of his big office window at the Boston Inner Harbor. It was one of those sultry early-summer afternoons. Sailboats and motorboats skittered over the water, and fishermen armed with surf rods were silhouettes perched on the rocks out at the end of the jetty. Larrigan thought they looked like black insects with long feelers.
He was feeling pretty relaxed, for a change.
The slanting rays of the sun glinted off the water, and a breeze had sprung up, riffling its surface with little whitecaps. Thick thunderheads were building on the horizon.
There were no trials scheduled for the next day, which was the Friday before the long Independence Day weekend. Judge Larrigan intended to drive down to his summer place in Orleans on the Cape to join his wife and kids that evening. He already had his overnighter packed and stowed in the trunk of his car along with his golf clubs. He planned to have a leisurely dinner at the club and leave for the Cape around eight, after the rush-hour traffic had thinned out.
It would be good to get away from the courthouse, where even the other judges had begun looking at him and speaking to him differently. It wasn’t “Tom” anymore. Now they called him “Judge.” He wasn’t one of them anymore. He was the next Supreme Court Justice.
Not that he minded. In fact, he loved it.
It was really going to happen. All the impediments had been removed.
Larrigan smiled. “Justice Larrigan,” he said aloud, savoring the sound of it.
He smiled, took a sip of water, and checked his cell phone again.
He still had that one damn message.
It was from Eddie Moran.
He’d rather ignore it. Moran had served his purpose, and he’d been paid. Things were square between them, and Thomas Larrigan didn’t want anything to do with Eddie Moran anymore.
But, of course, it wasn’t that simple.
He replayed the message. “We need to talk,” Eddie said. “It’s important. The usual place, six-thirty.”
The usual place was the parking garage off Summer Street.
Larrigan glanced at his wristwatch. It was almost quarter of six. He better get going. He had forty-five minutes to pick up his car in the courthouse garage and drive to Summer Street where neither he nor his car would be recognized. He’d give Eddie Moran five minutes. Justice Thomas Larrigan had more important things to think about.
LARRIGAN PULLED INTO the parking garage at six-twenty-five. He found an empty slot next to a concrete pillar on the third level. A big SUV was parked beside him, and on the other side of the pillar was some kind of van.
With his side window rolled down, he could hear the rhythmic blip-blip of water dripping into a puddle on the concrete floor. Now and then distant footsteps echoed hollowly, followed by the muffled sound of a car door slamming and then an engine starting up. The place was dim and dank and shadowy. The weak yellow light from the bulbs in the ceiling just seemed to exaggerate the darkness and sense of isolation in the garage.
Suddenly the passenger door clicked open and Eddie Moran slid in beside him.
“Jesus,” said Larrigan. “I didn’t see you coming. You don’t have to be so damn sneaky.” He glanced at his watch. Six-thirty on the dot. “And do you always have to be so damn punctual?”
“Can’t help it,” said Moran. “I’m just a sneaky, on-time kind of guy, you know? Blame the United States Marines. So how you doin’?”
“Good,” said Larrigan. “Excellent.”
“Well, that’s terrific,” said Moran. “Me, I’m good, too.”
Larrigan shrugged. “I’m glad.” He was looking out the side window at the big concrete pillar right beside the car. Somebody had spray-painted “Yankees Suck” on it with red paint.
“I wasn’t sure you cared.”
“Of course I care,” said Larrigan.
“You and me,” said Moran, “we go way back. Our fortunes are linked, you might say.”
“You’ve been a loyal friend,” said Larrigan. “I appreciate everything you’ve done.” He noticed how the paint had dribbled down off the bottoms of the red letters. It looked like they were bleeding. “So what’s up, Eddie? What’s on your mind?”
“Like you say,” said Moran, “I’ve been loyal friend. I’m glad you realize it. But you know, when it comes down to it, loyalty only goes so far. For example, you’d betray me in a minute.”
“Jesus, Eddie, I wouldn’t—”
“It’s okay,” said Moran. “That’s how it is. I understand. I guess about now you’re thinking it’s time to separate yourself from your old war buddy, who’s a pretty crude character, hardly a suitable friend for a Justice of the Supreme Court.”
Larrigan turned to look at him. “I wasn’t—”
“No,” said Moran. “It’s good. I wouldn’t hang around with me, either, if I was you. You gotta take care of number one. Nobody blames anybody for doing what needs to be done. It’s all about survival.”
“I’d never betray you,” said Larrigan. He turned away to gaze out the side window, looking at the big pillar, reluctant to look at Moran’s face. “I’m truly grateful for everything. But in a way, you’re right. There comes a time when . . .”
He shrugged, sighed, and turned again to face Eddie Moran. And that’s when he saw the big square handgun that Moran was holding on his lap.
“What the hell is that?” said Larrigan.
“It’s a Marine .45. You still got yours, don’t you?”
“No.” Larrigan shook his head. “So what’s with the gun?”
“For one thing,” Moran said, “I never felt right, lying about your fucking eye so you could get a medal.” He shrugged and raised the gun.
A .45 was serious overkill, Moran was thinking. It made a dimesized hole just in front of Larrigan’s right ear where Moran had pressed the muzzle. But compared to the other side of the man’s head, the entry wound was a pinprick. The whole left side of the judge’s head was pretty much blown away. Splashes of blood and clots of brain and pieces of hair and bone were splattered all over the inside of the car. Droplets of blood were even spattered on the concrete pillar outside the open window.
Eddie Moran had taken the Marine-issue sidearm from the body of a buddy of his. It happened over there about thirty-five years ago. Their squad was walking single file along a jungle path. It was nighttime, moonless, dark as death.
Carlos was his name. Carlos ... something Hispanic. He was a private. What the hell was his last name? Anyway, Carlos was the man directly in front of Sgt. Moran, and so he was the one who happened to step on the mine and get both legs blown off.
Sanchez. That was it. PFC Carlos Sanchez. Had an Anglo girlfriend. A pretty blonde, wore a cheerleader’s uniform in the picture Sanchez carried inside his helmet. Sanchez was barely eighteen. He died fast. Just bled out right there beside the path.
The .45 could never be traced. It was an unregistered standardissue Marine sidearm from that old war. It could�
�ve been Thomas Larrigan’s gun.
Moran’s ears were still ringing. A .45 made a head-splitting explosion anyway, but inside an automobile in a concrete parking garage it sounded like a bomb went off.
What was left of Larrigan’s head was thrown back and sideways. The whole front of his jacket and shirt and necktie was soaked with blood.
It would’ve been best if he somehow could have convinced the judge to write down how depressed he’d been, left something that would pass as a suicide note, but Moran figured there were people—his wife, his secretary, some of his colleagues, probably—who’d say how the judge had been tense and stressed lately, understandable with the big nomination and everything, and they would mention it to whoever did the investigation.
Yes, they’d say, ever since the president announced the nomination, Thomas hasn’t been himself. Certainly not his usual upbeat, outgoing self.
Still, I can’t believe he’d go and do something like this. You never know, huh?
Moran picked up the spent cartridge, stuck it in his pocket, and replaced it with a fresh bullet in the gun’s clip. Then he picked up Larrigan’s right hand and wrapped it around the handle of the big automatic. He wedged the dead man’s forefinger inside the trigger guard, and then, holding the judge’s hand with both of his own, Moran pointed the gun out the window and aimed it up toward the top of the wall at the distant end of the garage. Then he turned his face away, mentally braced himself for another ear-splitting explosion, and pulled the trigger.
Pretty much the way he did it with the blonde when he shot Li An. As far as he knew, it worked that time.
If they did it right, forensics would find the empty cartridge case from the second shot on the floor of the car where the gun had ejected it, and they’d test Larrigan’s hand and the sleeve of his jacket for gunpowder residue. Moran knew that they didn’t always do it right. But the suicide of somebody like Judge Larrigan—especially a suicide without a note—would most likely get investigated pretty thoroughly.
He let Larrigan’s arm fall to his side. The .45 slipped out and dropped onto the seat of the car, and Moran left it right there.
The Nomination Page 27
