The chief justice waited for what seemed like forever for the applause to die down. “I want to thank the dean and my dear friend Justice Wall for those kind remarks. Peter was too modest to finish the story about our lunch in the Justice Department building. He got the job, not me. As it turns out, though, they had another unexpected opening and we both were hired. I like to blame me losing out initially on the fact that I fell ill after lunch and I performed terribly in the afternoon interview with the solicitor general. I felt great all morning and then wham.” The chief smacked his hand on the podium. “Right after lunch, it hit me, I had no idea whether it was the flu or what.” The chief then gave a broad smile. “But, now that I think about it, during lunch I left Peter at the table to get some napkins, and when I returned my drink tasted funny…”
CHAPTER 30
Milstein and Cartwright had their first real break. Not a tenuous connection between a local crime boss and one of the victims, not a hunch about a Google search from a computer in the Supreme Court, but a real lead. Amanda Hill, the lawyer killed in Dupont Underground, had represented the man accused of abducting the Whitlock kids. Sakura Matsuka was the daughter of the man beaten by an agent investigating the kidnapping. And Chief Justice Douglas was the trial judge who had thrown out evidence that allowed the perpetrator to go free. The targets of the killer were all connected to the Whitlock case. And they were all killed on the fifth of the month, the same day the Whitlock kids were abducted.
“Peggy okay with you staying late?” Milstein asked. They were still at headquarters, eating Chinese takeout in the conference room.
“No.” Cartwright smiled.
Milstein stabbed her chopsticks into the rice container. “So who would have a motive to kill people connected to the Whitlock case?”
“Ordinarily, I’d start with the perp, Ken Tanaka,” Cartwright said, “but he’s dead.”
“Yep. Simmons just texted me more details. Two years after they threw out the evidence against him in the Whitlock case Tanaka moved to Pennsylvania. Worked as an ice cream man, and molested two other kids. He was killed in prison by another inmate.”
“Who said there’s no justice?” Cartwright said.
Milstein considered who else would have the motive to kill Tanaka’s defense lawyer, the judge who allowed him to go free, and the daughter of the man who tried to protect a child molester.
“How about the parents of the Whitlock kids?” Cartwright asked.
“Also dead.”
“Is anyone associated with this clusterfuck of a case alive?”
“The kids didn’t have a father in the picture. And their mother killed herself shortly after the perp went free.”
“Those kids just couldn’t catch a break.”
“Speaking of the kids, how about them?” Milstein asked.
“We know whoever attacked the chief justice was a man,” Cartwright said, writing on a legal pad. “The Whitlock boy would be in his thirties now. We can start there. We’ll also try to track down his sister.”
Milstein tapped on her phone, texting Simmons to make finding the Whitlock brother a priority. “Beyond the family,” she said, “how about the agent who beat the storekeeper? I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Sakura Matsuka was beaten with a bag full of canned food from the store—the same way the agent beat her father.”
Cartwright nodded. “I’ve already e-mailed records to pull Kevin Dugan’s Bureau file.”
“Why kill the convenience store owner’s daughter, though? She was only a kid at the time all this happened. It was her old man who was protecting a child molester, not her.”
Cartwright added, “And if it’s John Whitlock or Kevin Dugan, why the games with the feather pens and the Supreme Court? I don’t get it.”
“What I don’t get,” Milstein said, “is why the chief justice didn’t mention the Whitlock case to us.”
“That’s a good question. We should ask him,” Cartwright said, pouring a full packet of soy sauce on his noodles.
“Aaron won’t let us.”
“You don’t think he’s keeping stuff from us, do you? Covering for the justices?”
“That’s a good question too.” Milstein pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’ve got only two weeks before the fifth of the month, Scott.”
“We’ll find him, Em. We’ve got to.”
CHAPTER 31
It was nine at night, and Gray packed up his things to head for home. He wished Lauren hadn’t left the office before he got back from Georgetown so he could make that visit to her office she’d mentioned, but she was gone. He thought about Agent Milstein’s call, her request that he hunt around for a computer. He wasn’t comfortable providing information from the court to an outsider, but he still hadn’t shaken the photos of the little girl murdered in the filthy catacombs of Dupont Underground. Or the bloody, swollen face of the woman at the convenience store. He didn’t know a thing about the court’s computer system, but he examined his own computer and found a placard with an ID number: OFS102. Milstein wanted him to find OFS087. It stood to reason that the 100 series meant computers on the first floor, and 0 series the ground floor, though he was just guessing. Praveen was still pecking away on his keyboard, so Gray couldn’t check Praveen’s computer to confirm. If he was right, then Milstein’s suspect was someone on the ground floor. That floor had hundreds of employees, including the clerk’s office, the police office, the gift shop, and the cafeteria. It also housed the cube farm for the marshal’s aides where Gray used to work. Since the marshal’s aides distributed the feather pens before oral arguments, it made sense to start there. Gray left his office and headed downstairs. On the way, he ran into Mike in the hallway. He had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder.
“How was the speech?” Mike asked.
“It went over well. Justice Wall made a surprise appearance and introduced the chief.”
“I heard. The Wonder Twins.” Mike rolled his eyes. “You got off easy. I’ve got to prepare questions for the chief’s Shakespeare trial.” The Shakespeare Theatre Company held an annual mock trial based on Shakespeare’s plays, and the chief and other justices often served as judges. “I can barely keep up with our real cases, now I get to read Twelfth Night in my free time. Why can’t the justices just Netflix and chill like the rest of us?”
Gray laughed. “You getting out of here?”
“Meeting up with a girl I met on Tinder.” Mike grinned. “I can see if she has a friend…”
“As inviting as meeting a stranger from the Internet sounds, I’ll pass.”
“You sure? It could be interesting.” Mike pulled his hand out of his jacket pocket, raised his fist in the air, and released a string of condoms, letting them dangle.
Gray smiled in spite of himself. “Really, I can’t.” Looking at the condoms, he added, “And those are too small for me, anyway. I need Magnums.” The guy was rubbing off on him.
“A’ight, then,” he said. “I’ll give you a full report in the morning.” He started to walk away, but stopped. “You’re not coming because of work, right?” He hesitated. “Not because of Lauren?”
Gray tried not to react. “Lauren? Why would—”
Mike held up a hand.
“Just be careful with that, okay?”
Mike telling someone to be careful. That was rich. But what did he mean?
Gray walked to the ground floor. The broad corridor was empty, and his footsteps echoed distantly. He thought about his days as a marshal’s aide, how long ago it seemed. He stopped in front of the keypad at the door to the cube farm. He punched in the code from when he worked in the office: 1234. The four-digit code still worked. When you have an entire police station in the building, a certain casualness to security takes hold. He hesitated, but made his way into the office, which was lit only by the glow from the exit signs.
He scanned the rows of cubicles, and it took him back to those Sunday nightshifts when he was an aide. His sister was right: he hadn’t been
Sunday boxing with his father since he’d started as a clerk. He should try to go this week. He gazed about the open space, his eyes settling on Martin Melnick’s office in the back. As good a place to start as any.
Stepping quietly, he moved to Martin’s glass-walled office. Martin had left the desk lamp on. There were stacks of papers and twisted paperclips. Gray leaned over to inspect the computer tower, looking for the ID placard. Before he found it, he was startled by a voice.
“Slumming?”
Gray leapt up to find Martin standing there holding a McDonald’s bag.
“Hey, Martin. Sorry, I’ve been trying to find my phone charger and thought maybe it was here.”
“Under my desk?” Martin plopped down and pulled out his Quarter Pounder and fries. “I didn’t take it if that’s what you think.”
“No, of course not. I used to plug my phone into a power strip over here, and kept meaning to come by to check if my charger was still there.” He looked down and there was no power strip.
Martin took a mouthful of the burger and ketchup ran down his chin.
“Anyway, I guess it’s not here. Hey, why’re you here so late?” Gray said, changing the subject. “You’re working too hard.”
“Believe it or not, it’s not only the clerks who work hard.”
Gray realized that, to Martin, Gray had crossed over to the dark side.
“Have a good night.” He could feel Martin’s hard glare following him out. He’d be unable to search the remaining computers with Martin there.
When he made his way back to his office, Praveen had left for the night. It was rare for him to leave before ten o’clock. The guy was a machine. Gray eyed Praveen’s workspace. Every clerk station had two separate computer systems, one for court business that was connected only to an intranet, where they stored the pool memos and other court documents. The other computer for Internet searches, e-mail, or anything external. Praveen’s everything-else computer was logged in. Gray rolled his office chair to Praveen’s workstation and leaned down to examine the computer tower tucked under the desk. He found the ID number.
OFS087
Gray jammed his hand in his pocket to pull out the scrap of paper where he’d written the ID number Milstein had given him. He wasn’t seeing things. It was the same number.
CHAPTER 32
Why was Milstein looking for Praveen’s computer? What did it mean? Gray glanced at the computer screen again. He shouldn’t. But a quick peek wouldn’t hurt anyone. Gray pulled down his co-clerk’s Google search history. The guy wasn’t one to mindlessly surf the Web, so all Gray expected to find were searches relating to the court’s work. That was most of it. Hein Online, Google Scholar, Westlaw. But one entry jumped out at him. A Google map of a residential address in Arlington, Virginia. The time stamp showed that Praveen made the search fifteen minutes ago.
Gray heard someone in the hall so he quickly clicked out. The custodian came in and began emptying the trash bins. The clerks’ work papers went in shred boxes, designated for destruction, not the ordinary trash cans. Those mostly contained empty take-out food containers and Red Bull cans. Gray waved at the woman, who wore ear buds, and she gave him a quick smile. He noticed something in Praveen’s trash bin. A crumpled bag with the Capitol Hardware logo on it. That was unusual. The store was at Tenleytown, a long subway ride away. And Praveen didn’t exactly seem like the home-improvement type.
When the custodian’s back was to him, Gray lifted the bag from the can and looked inside. It was empty except for a receipt at the bottom. He’d gone this far, so why not? He fished out the receipt and waited for the woman to finish her work before examining it. He then flattened the small crinkled piece of paper on his desk. The itemized purchases took his breath away. Duct tape. Nylon cord. A pair of pliers. It read like a serial killer’s grocery list. Gray was letting his imagination get the best of him. Then he thought of the Google map. If Praveen was about to do something insidious, shouldn’t he try to stop it?
That question continued to bandy about his head as he sat in the car outside a house in Arlington, Virginia. It didn’t look like a serial killer’s lair. It was a Colonial on a quiet street. The house had a FOR SALE sign in its front yard. Praveen’s Ford Fusion was parked discreetly down the street, which was unusual if only because of the empty spaces in front of the house. So the question now was what to do? If Praveen had bought the tools for butchery—yes, he kept reminding himself how ridiculous that sounded—should Gray just wait for it to happen? He should call Agent Milstein. Or 911. No, he’d look stupid. He was being foolish.
The place was dark, no porch light on. He was about to leave when he saw a flicker of light coming from one of the basement windows. Maybe he’d go have a quick look. A young Mexican American leering in windows in this neighborhood probably wasn’t a great idea. He argued with himself for another minute, but soon was walking up the path. As he got closer to the front steps he could see flashing lights escaping through the slits in the blinds covering the basement window.
He ducked around to the side. Crouching on his heels, he peered into the window. A small vibration rattled in his chest, the bass drum from loud music. Or was that his heartbeat? The light continued to strobe, now changing colors. It was blue and moved to the beat of the music. He thought he could make out two masses. One of the forms was reaching toward the ceiling—dancing? But the arms weren’t moving. Gray felt a jolt when the other figure seemed to be lashing at the person whose arms were raised. It was then that he understood. The figure was tied up, hanging from a support beam in the basement.
CHAPTER 33
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“You need to get to Eighteen Taft Street in Arlington. Someone is being attacked,” Gray said into the phone. He was pacing small circles in the patch of yard at the side of the house.
“Who’s being attacked? Sir, could you please slow down.”
“Eighteen Taft—just get here!” Gray clicked off. He’d tried calling Agent Milstein, but it went to voice mail. He’d left a message, so between that and 911, help would arrive soon.
He paced some more, listening for sirens. Was he really just going to wait outside? His pulse thumped at his temples. The little girl in Dupont Underground sprang to mind. Her delicate neck purple from bruises.
Gray swallowed hard, and ran up the brick portico to the front door. He saw one of those boxes realtors store keys in, not secured on the door handle, but lodged in the space between the screen and front door. The hinges squeaked as he opened the screen a gap. Gray looked around the neighborhood. The nearest house was at the mouth of the cul-de-sac. He turned the door’s handle quietly, and it was unlocked.
The main floor was dark, but he didn’t turn on the lights. The beat of the music was coming up from the basement, vibrating the hardwood and up his legs, which only elevated his anxiety.
He should leave. Why on earth would he take this risk? Was it that he subconsciously liked playing the hero?
Feeling his way to the kitchen, he rummaged the drawers until he found a large chef’s knife. The music, some kind of scream metal, was seeping out from a door just outside the kitchen. The door to the basement.
Gray turned the door handle, his mind flashing to Silence of the Lambs and Clarice Starling stumbling around in the dark, music blaring, as the skin-taking killer stalked her through his night-vision goggles. He should sprint out the door and wait for the police. But he stepped, one foot at a time, down into the seizure-inducing strobe lights of the basement, knife clutched in his hand. His plan was simple: turn on the lights to disorient, then charge Praveen.
The screaming from the singer over the distorted guitars was unsettling, and Gray felt a prickling sensation all over his body now. He could make out the figures. The one whose hands were tied to the support beam overhead was moaning now, and the other figure was in front of the bound mass.
Gray found the light switch, and counted down in his head.
Thre
e. Two. One. And he clicked on the light.
CHAPTER 34
If Gray hadn’t been so goddamned scared, his hands shaking, his clothes damp with sweat, he might have seen the comedy in it. Praveen’s expression was priceless. Eyes wide, naked except for a pair of black chaps with the crotch cut out, hands tied loosely on a beam above him. His partner, a muscular guy in his early twenties, in a similar getup. On his knees with whipped cream all over his face, presumably the same stuff covering Praveen’s junk. A pair of pliers on the concrete floor nearby. There was also a glass pipe.
Any violence going on here was consensual. Praveen’s hardware-shopping list suddenly took on a whole different light. The duct tape, to bind hands, the cord, to playfully lash one another, and the pliers—Gray didn’t want to think about what those were for.
The three men stood there frozen for what seemed like an eternity. Then came the heavy boots thundering above them and stomping down the basement steps. Gray stood shell-shocked as an officer held a gun at him.
“Drop the weapon! Do it or I’ll shoot!”
It was then Gray realized that he still clutched the kitchen knife. He let it fall to the ground and the steel clanked on the cement floor. Gray soon was on the ground, a knee rammed in his back, arms yanked behind him. He saw one of the officers roughly pull Praveen’s arms free from the support beam, and both he and his paramour were on the ground now too.
“This is a mistake,” Gray heard himself say.
After the police had the scene under control, Gray heard the officers snickering as they assessed the various sex toys and gear strewn about the room. Praveen said something, but Gray couldn’t make it out.
“Tell it to the judge, ladies,” one of the officers said.
Gray had long worried about how he’d mess things up for himself at the Supreme Court. He’d recommend a cert grant for a clearly unworthy case, he’d write a bench memo that failed to catch a key issue, he’d draft an opinion the chief found amateurish. But never—not once—had he entertained the thought that his downfall would come from being caught in a basement with another clerk, bondage gear, and drugs. A blaze of glory, it wasn’t.
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