“Send in the clowns,” Frank whispered, keying the TV off. Without replying, Monty nosed his door open and disappeared.
Frank was reconsidering calling Kate when the microwave timer chimed.
He sat up in bed reading until after midnight. It was his second time through Martin Cruz Smith’s Havana Bay. The Russian detective, Arkady Renko, had just regained consciousness after having been beaten by a thug with a baseball bat.
Frank closed the book and turned out the light. “G’night, Arkady,” he said. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your guy.”
He lay staring at the ceiling through the darkness. Smith had told a good story. He’d put Renko behind the curve, kept the pressure on, bombarded the Russian detective with bits and pieces of stuff from every direction, stuff that could be something or nothing at all.
Arkady Renko understood: Connecting dots was easy… a two-dimensional problem. But try a puzzle where the pieces constantly change shape, no one piece remaining the same.
Monty had come in from the night, and he settled into his place on the pillow beside Frank, who drifted off into a turbulent sleep.
And the scrambled pieces swirled in the darkness.
… Renfro Calkins…
Robin Bouchard… Brian Atkins at FBI-you have a road map?
Chief Day, fiddling with un-PC e-mails among bored cops on the night shift while the cold cases rise up out of their file cabinet graves, angry and accusing and demanding… demanding… what?
FIFTEEN
Frank parked on Second Street, SE, then walked down C Street toward South Capitol. He passed the Cannon House Office Building, the first of the three House of Representatives office buildings. Cannon, completed in 1908, was his favorite. The grand old building’s Doric columns and rotunda shouted out its Beaux Arts lineage. The Longworth building was next, its neoclassical style a product of the restraint of the Depression era. Last, the huge Rayburn building, finished in 1965, an H-shaped monstrosity of pink granite and white marble, reflecting the Texan grandiosity of its namesake, Speaker Sam Rayburn.
Leon Janowitz stood at the corner of C and South Capitol, nose deep in The Wall Street Journal.
“Running with the bulls?”
The young detective looked up. “Long as they’re running. Trick’s to know when to jump out. Jose not coming?”
“His turn for paperwork. Where’s Susan?”
“Said she’d meet us at the top of the horseshoe.” Janowitz motioned up the block. He folded his paper and stuck it in a beat-up L. L. Bean canvas briefcase. “By the way,” he said, “thanks for asking for me.”
Frank nodded and waited for the follow-up that was in Janowitz’s voice.
“Question?” Janowitz asked.
“Yeah?”
“Why me? I mean, next month, I’m outta here.”
“Maybe we’ll get it done by then.”
Janowitz grinned. “And pigs’ll fly.”
Frank ignored him. “You’ve got a nose for digging. You can follow a paper trail.”
Janowitz shrugged. “Paper’s paper.”
“You did good on the Keegan case.”
Another shrug. “Tracking credit cards? Utility bills?”
The walking was uphill. The effort warmed Frank’s legs and lungs, and he wanted to keep going.
He looked at Janowitz. “Easy for you, hard for others. You’ve got intuition. Other people see a piece of paper or a computer file, you see connections.”
Janowitz lowered his eyes modestly, then looked back at Frank. “Long’s you know I’m outta here next month.”
“Question?” It was Frank’s turn. “Why’d a nice boy like you want to be a cop?”
“You mean, a nice Jewish boy?”
“Jew, schmoo. Why did Leon Janowitz want to be a cop?”
“Oh… I love cities.”
“Love cities.” Frank echoed.
“Yeah.” Janowitz had the intense look of someone thinking through a cosmic riddle. “I’m a city kid. My family, all the way back to Warsaw… city people. I love cities.”
“You love cities, you became a cop. Something in between?”
“I got fed up with what these schmucks have done to our cities. They fucked up our schools. They fucked up our streets. They fucked up everything.”
“Leon Janowitz, unfucker of America’s cities?”
“I just wanted to get my licks in.”
The two men turned to go up the horseshoe-shaped drive leading to the Rayburn Building.
“So you got your licks in, and now you’re getting out.”
“So I haven’t. And that’s why I’m getting out.”
“After this case,” Frank added.
“Next month,” Janowitz corrected. “No matter what.”
Frank sorted through the knot of people standing under the portico. “Where’s Susan?”
Practically all organizations in Washington with a phone number have go-betweens who know their way around Capitol Hill. Susan Liberman’s business card read “Legislative Counsel, District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Department,” a large title for the diminutive dark-haired woman whom Frank finally spotted.
“Big,” Janowitz said, looking up at the massive building.
“Two million, three hundred square feet of office space,” Liberman recited. “A gym, cafeterias, recording studio, its own subway system to the Capitol.”
“Real big,” Janowitz amended.
“And fireproof,” Liberman added.
“Too bad,” Frank said.
“Next life”-Janowitz motioned to Frank-“he wants to come back as a wrecking ball.”
They pushed through the tall glass-and-steel doors. Inside, the security checkpoint. Liberman shepherded the two detectives through the metal detector and a credentials check, and signed them in at the Capitol police desk.
Once out of the cavernous foyer, Rayburn shrank to human size. There were marble floors, but the hallways were plain, utilitarian, and filled with staff and visitors.
“The D.C. subcommittee?” Janowitz asked.
“Thirteen members of Congress,” Liberman answered. “Five Democrats, eight Republicans.”
“Why’re they in our knickers?”
“Two reasons. The subcommittee writes the checks that make the D.C. government work. There’s no way city hall could run on local taxes alone.”
“You said two.”
Liberman smiled cynically. “Publicity, silly boy. Democrat or Republican, don’t ever get between any of them and a camera or microphone. And Frederick Rhinelander’s no exception. Kevin Gentry was his chief of staff. Gentry’s replacement is Alessandro Salvani. Aka Al. Newark, New Jersey. Professional Italian-American, professional Democrat. Everybody says he’s related to Dean Martin. He never denies it. Looks like him too. One of those yummy Italian men who never age.”
“I thought he was dead,” Janowitz said. “Dean Martin.”
“He is dead, sweetie,” Liberman replied. She nodded toward the door on their right. A bronze plaque read “Subcommittee on District of Columbia Appropriations.”
Yes, Ms. Harman… No, Ms. Harman… Consider the alternatives, Ms. Harman.” The patient voice came in a bourboned baritone. Tanned, toothy, and flat-bellied, Al Salvani stood behind an ornately carved walnut desk, one manicured hand folded around the telephone, the other hooked in a suspender strap. Frank saw that the suspenders were embroidered with clowns. Salvani rocked back and forth slightly as he talked, a man in perpetual motion. A man who owned the ground he stood on.
Salvani’s office had the requisite view of the Capitol across Independence Avenue. Autographed photos covered the walls: Salvani with presidents, sports celebrities, Hollywood stars. Salvani with Pope John Paul II, and next to that, Salvani with Yasser Arafat. These clustered around a larger photo of Salvani standing shoulder to shoulder with Joe DiMaggio in Yankee Stadium.
“… of course, I’ll talk to the chairman about it, Ms. Harman.”
Salvani hung up and
looked curiously at Frank, Janowitz, and Liberman as though they’d materialized out of thin air.
“Susan Liberman,” Liberman said, “Metropolitan Police Dep-”
“Oh, yes.” Salvani shifted gears. He shot a scowl at Frank and Janowitz, and dropped with a pneumatic gust into a leather swivel chair. “Sit, sit.”
Liberman made the introductions. “Detectives Kearney and Janowitz.”
Salvani took them in with a sour look that said he was having a difficult time somewhere in his lower digestive tract.
“How,” he asked, “could such a screw-up like this come about?”
“We-”
Salvani held up an impatient hand, then rooted among the papers and pamphlets littering his desk. He came up with a thick bound document in a tan official-looking paper cover. He thumbed through several paper-clipped sections. Finally he nodded and stuck an index finger on one page.
“ ‘Forensics,’ ” he read, “ ‘in which the sharing of responsibilities among agencies increases the possibility of evidentiary mishaps resulting from lapses in coordination.’ ”
Salvani closed the report and held it up. “A two-hundred-page study on the criminal justice process.” He looked at the book with respect, then at Frank, Janowitz, and Liberman in accusation. “The General Accounting Office did that report. Just last month.” He swung his big head sadly. “Lapses in coordination,” he intoned, dirgelike. “Lapses in coordination…”
He let it trail off, then his eyes flashed. “And we had your chief up here when we published the report,” he snapped. “And your chief, Chief Noah… Alton… Day”-he rolled out the name-“your chief threw out a bunch of stats and as much as told us we were full of shit.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Salvani,” Frank said, “you’ve got a beef. But we”-his gesture took in Liberman and Janowitz-“we’re just trying to find out who killed Kevin Gentry.”
Salvani paused a beat to bank that. “Okay,” he said. Apparently deciding he’d played enough hardass to set the newcomers’ impression of him, he settled back and asked, “How’re you going to do that?”
“We start with establishing Mr. Gentry’s timeline.”
“That was done, I remember-”
“I want it done again,” Frank cut in, playing hardass himself. He indicated Janowitz. “With a new set of eyes.”
Salvani studied Frank and the others.
Frank was about to say something when Salvani sighed. “People here thought that was all over. You gonna be flicking scabs off old wounds.”
“Wounds?”
Salvani laughed. “No shortage of walking wounded around here. This place’s a zoo of prima donnas. Each one, they look in the mirror in the morning, they see the next president of the United States. They eat breakfast, they plan how to get a leg up on the others. They elbow in the aisles, they backstab in the cloakrooms.”
“Nice place to work,” Janowitz said.
Salvani laughed again. “Hey! It’s the distilled essence of the human race, American politics is.” His smile went away.
“You replaced Gentry,” Janowitz said.
“Yes.”
“You weren’t aware of anything that could have made him a target?”
“Sometimes just walking down a sidewalk in this town’s enough to make you a target.”
“I don’t think it was walking down a sidewalk did it,” Janowitz said.
“Oh?”
Janowitz ignored the question. “Any subcommittee business?”
Salvani slapped his fingertips lightly on the edge of his desk. “Like I told your fellas two years ago, we were gearing up for the District’s annual budget hearings.”
“You make it sound like an everyday thing.”
“Annual event. Bills have to be paid, pork has to be handed out. Hearings are part of the process.”
“Mr. Gentry was in charge of the hearing?” Frank asked. “What’d that involve?”
“Kevin and a couple of his assistants would do research… define the issues, sell the members on them. Then they’d line up witnesses, schedule the hearing, work out the press releases”-Salvani spoke dismissively-“that sort of thing. Standard stuff.”
“He kept Congressman Rhinelander informed?”
“Of course.” Salvani said it with care. “I suspect he didn’t come in often. Word was, he was a good staffer. You got to remember, at the time the subcommittee was up to its collective ass in alligators with the Waco investigation.” A sour look again crossed Salvani’s face. “What a godawful mess that was.”
“The hearings took place?” Frank asked. “After Mr. Gentry was killed?”
Salvani nodded. “Pro forma… nothing sexy.”
“Gentry’s files?” Janowitz asked. “The background research and all? You’ve kept them?”
Salvani made a show of checking the wall clock. “Not here.”
“Where?”
“Procedure is they archive the stuff… over at the library.” He pointed in the general direction of the Library of Congress.
“We’ll be wanting to go back over everything… correspondence, calendars, e-mail.”
Salvani frowned.
Anticipating resistance, Frank said, “This’s getting high on the flagpole.”
Salvani’s frown stayed. “I’ll have to clear everything with Mr. Rhinelander.”
“When…?”
“I’ll talk to him this afternoon.”
Salvani stood, followed by the three visitors.
“If it’s not an imposition, I’ll call you,” Janowitz said.
Salvani eyed Janowitz, adding another dimension to his earlier measurement.
“No imposition at all.” Salvani drew his words out, making it clear he thought it was. He didn’t offer to shake hands, but sat down and pulled a sheaf of papers from an overflowing in-box.
He waited until they were in the doorway. “Kearney?”
Frank turned.
“You any relation to Judge Tom Kearney?”
“His son.”
Salvani nodded, a small curtsy. “His son,” he echoed.
SIXTEEN
Just as he started the car, Frank’s phone chirped.
“Frank? Where’re you?”
“Second and C, Hoser. What’s up?”
“Arrowsmith called ’bout Pencil.”
“What about him?”
“Didn’t say. Just said she was having trouble and get my ass down there.”
“Where’re you?” Frank asked.
“Gettin’ in my car.”
“Meet you there,” Frank said, switching on lights and siren.
Sheresa Arrowsmith thrust her hands deep into the side pockets of her white jacket and glared at the empty ICU bed. The sheets had been stripped, and an orderly was stowing away the IV. A nurse stood nearby, a clinical chart under his arm.
“Stupid, stupid man,” Arrowsmith said, shaking her head, still looking at the offending bed.
“What happened?” Jose asked.
“David?” Arrowsmith beckoned the nurse over. “This’s David West,” she said. “He was here. David, you tell the officers what happened.”
West glanced at the clinical chart, ran his index finger down to an entry, then looked up. “It was ten-fifteen. We needed another blood sample. I came in. Mr. Crawfurd was watching TV.”
West pointed to a small wall-mounted TV. The Fox noon news, muted, was just coming on.
“I told him the lab wanted another sample. He said something obscene. Something about being bled to death.”
West hesitated and looked from Jose to Frank as though worried about his performance.
“Go on, David,” Frank said.
“Well, I was thumping his vein… to bring it up to stick… and the local news came on. It was the press conference… the mayor, the chief of police…?”
“We know the one,” Jose said.
“I’m just getting ready to stick him. All of a sudden he hollers… sits up. Jerks so I almost stuck myself. Mr. Cr
awfurd’s really upset. Yells for me to get out.”
“And?”
“Nothing else I could do. I got Dr. Arrowsmith.”
Arrowsmith picked up: “It took a few minutes. I was with another patient. We got back, he was gone. Tore out the IV and split.”
“Clothes?” Jose asked.
“They were in the closet,” West said, pointing to an open door.
“When he hollered… why you think he did that?” Frank asked.
“It was the TV. That part where the reporter was questioning about that murder case… Gantry?”
“Gentry,” Frank absently corrected. “What’d he say?”
“ ‘Shit!’ He said, ‘Shit!’ Then he told me, ‘Get out, motherfucker.’ ”
“You a pretty big guy,” Jose said.
West’s mouth tightened. “Hospital doesn’t pay me to restrain patients,” he said. “I got out.”
“What was Crawfurd’s state of mind?” Frank asked. “He angry, scared… what?”
“Scared.” West made a vague gesture that took in the small room. “He wanted out of here in the world’s worst way.”
“How’s he physically, Sheresa?” Jose asked.
“He’s going to be hurting, but what he’s got isn’t going to kill him,” Arrowsmith said.
Frank punched the play button.
“… changes in… ah… the… um… evidentiary base.” In the replay, Emerson’s voice came across as even more tentative.
“Sounds like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar,” Jose said.
“… weapon that was used to kill Skeeter Hodges was also used to kill Gentry?”
Frank watched as the reporter did a number on Emerson. “Woman’s got a good source.”
Frank clicked the power off. The reporter’s image faded.
For moments, he and Jose sat slouched in their chairs, staring at the blank screen. Finally Jose got up, stretched, and went over to the coffeemaker.
“It’s burnt,” Frank warned.
Jose filled his mug anyway and returned to his desk. “Man on the run,” he said, settling into his chair. He sipped the coffee and made a face. “Shit’s burnt,” he muttered. “Pencil worried more about Skeeter? Or was there something about Gentry got him spun up?”
A Murder of Justice Page 11
