by Sydney Bauer
At least I am alone, he thought, choosing not to cover himself with the flimsy white, germ-infested excuse for a blanket, and rather focus on the fact that this ridiculous misunderstanding would soon be resolved. Chilton-Smith would see to it. Better still, he chose to anticipate the almighty apology he would demand from all and sundry as soon as his name was cleared.
His name, Professor Stuart Ignatius Montgomery – the very fact it needed to be ‘cleared’ was, well, unthinkable. He had never deviated from his life plan. He had attended the best boarding schools, graduated with distinctions, studied medicine at Oxford and, like his father before him, fulfilled and rather enjoyed all the required obligations that came with being a man of social, financial and intellectual standing.
True, the move to Washington had been slightly left of centre but leaving the motherland (on the Concorde no less!) to take up a much sought-after residency at Washington Memorial Hospital’s specialist cardiac unit was a calculated (and indeed ultimately more fruitful) diversion on his ascension to greatness. He knew his brains and personality would count for much, but his mother and father were also proof that connection was the third key to success. In England being ‘connected’ was all about the ‘gentry’, but in the land of opportunity, the super power that was the US of A, it was all about politics.
Of course, some would say there was one deviation, one risqué decision which in retrospect may have seemed somewhat ‘out of character’. Choosing her!
The funny thing was, he did not even remember meeting her. He knew she had been his student, but at the time she was just another over-enthusiastic resident with a too-white coat and a standard issue clipboard. Looking back now he did recall her wearing glasses, which turned out to be fake – her attempt to look studious and ‘de-sex’ herself in a highly competitive environment where fellow med students ate each other for breakfast.
He remembered a tangled bunch of long dark hair which she crammed into a makeshift ponytail at the back of her neck, and she had that deep olive skin and those curious dark eyes which made direct contact every time she asked a question, which was often. But if he was asked to sum up his meagre recollections of the woman who would one day become his wife, he would have to admit she was somewhat annoying in an inquisitive, challenging sort of way. Not his type at all. And he most definitely had a ‘type’. In fact he had two – one that he dated and one that he fucked. Those in the first group were more often than not attractive and poised and educated and connected; those in the second were attractive and – how should he put it – skilled in the art of pleasure.
Like father, like son. Chip off the old block.
And so Karin Vasquez came as quite a shock. Certainly she was not the most obvious choice for the British whiz-kid who was doing transplants by twenty-six, made Professor less than a decade later and was being hailed by every VIP in town as the ‘it’ man with the miracle hands and political nous to match. He may not have seen it at first, in fact it took him being introduced to her separately at a Department of Health and Human Services fundraising dinner (not realising she had been his student for the past twelve months) that truly opened his eyes to the possibility.
She had come with a young neurosurgeon who was coveting her like a prized cocker spaniel, realising that every man in the room was staring at ‘his’ exotic dark beauty in the fitted red gown. But as soon as the boring buffoon left to get her a drink, the Professor asked about her specialty to which she had answered in mock British accent, ‘Daft English Professors with inexcusably poor memories.’ And that was pretty much it.
Two hours later, after a rather heated conversation which covered everything from aortic aneurysms to hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, the Professor had to admit this girl was quite remarkable. She may not have been the expected, but that, as it turned out, was an advantage. For proud Latin-American Karin Vasquez ex-Cavanaugh, soon to be Montgomery, gave the Professor something he could not have attained without her. She gave him a connection to ‘real’ America, the multi-cultural beast that formed the basis of the voting populace. She softened his pomposity, while still having the class of a perfect political partner. She was beautiful, smart, presentable and polite – and to top it all off, she was bloody good in bed. What man could ask for more?
‘Nothing,’ he said aloud as if answering his own question – shocking himself once again back into a reality he had no intention of gratifying with acknowledgement. ‘Enough,’ he said then, as he forced Brahms’ Double Concerto into his brain, allowing the violins to fill his ears, and the cellos to soothe his soul.
This would all be over soon, he told himself again. For he was who he was, and had done what he had done, and in the end, he hoped, the truth would set him free.
‘It fits,’ said Joe Mannix, his tone defeated, his voice tired. ‘All the evidence points to Montgomery. King was right, David, they have a very strong case.’
It was late and Mannix had finally managed to catch David on his cell after an evening of leaving messages at his office.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ said David. ‘Part of me thinks I should console you. I know you hate being wrong, Joe, but if the guy killed Bradshaw he deserves everything he gets.’
‘Why do I get the feeling you’re not disappointed?’
‘Because I’m not.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Mannix.
‘I probably should never have asked you in the first place,’ Joe went on. ‘This is too close to home. You must have been inundated with calls this afternoon.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve been at County all day with my client.’
‘The Bridge Club guy?’
‘Yeah. The Bridge Club guy.’
Sara and David had been working around the clock on their latest case, a voluntary manslaughter trial involving a mild-mannered seventy-two-year-old man named Hector Gabbit. Gabbit was wrongly accused of killing Alfred Mulch, the sixty-five-year-old president of his local bridge club. Gabbit’s wife had been having an affair with the younger, more charismatic Mulch and DA Scaturro had nabbed Gabbit simply because he was the only one they could find with any semblance of a motive.
‘Another poor soul waiting to be saved by Crusader Cavanaugh,’ said Joe.
‘At least this one’s innocent.’
‘Yeah well,’ said Joe. ‘Thanks anyway.’
‘Don’t mention it. In fact, I’d be more than happy if I never heard the name Montgomery again.’
‘Well, that ain’t gonna happen. But at least I can promise you won’t be hearing it from me.’
19
LAPD Homicide Detective Sam Croker would never have known about Rita Walker if he hadn’t decided on a late breakfast in the precinct canteen. He had worked another all-nighter, said goodbye to his partner Sanchez who was going home to her husband and two kids, finished writing up some reports and then swung by narcotics to say adios to an old friend who was retiring at the end of the week. Good for him.
He liked the all-nighters. They kept his mind off the fact that he slept alone and that his son Lucas had moved across the country after being accepted into Princeton’s School of Architecture.
Croker was proud. But he was lonely. His wife had died of breast cancer two years ago and Croker, who was a shoo-in for promotion to Lieutenant, had decided against taking the exam, preferring the stimulation (distraction) of the homicide beat to the more sedentary confines of an office.
Nights were the hardest, and that’s why he preferred to spend them at work. He found it easier to sleep during the day with the sun squeezing through the cracks of his old but clean venetians and the white noise of the freeway reminding him he was not alone in a city filled with busy people with places to go and people to see and little time to think about it.
‘Anyways,’ said Detective Victor Martinez to his colleague Ray Grillo. Martinez and Grillo were sitting at the table next to Croker, Martinez’s voice carrying across the cheap but cheerful in-house canteen. ‘The woman is completely nuts. Tot
ally loco. She’s drivin’ up there in the Hills, whacked out of her brain at seven o’clock in the morning and considerin’ where her car ended up, she must have been takin’ corners like Schumacher.’
‘Mac said they found the car up a tree,’ said Grillo, chowing down on the $2.50 omelette on toast with a free side of fries smothered in ketchup.
‘I kid you not, it was hangin’ there, almost vertical, nose down. The kid was killed instantly but the mom survived. Must have been the drugs, softened her up for the blow. Anyways, the paramedics get her out and she keeps calling her son Gavin, even though his ID says his name is Chase.’
‘Chase?’
‘Yeah, like from some B-grade soap opera. She keeps screaming, “They’ve killed Gavin. They’ve killed Gavin.” Until Weber tries to calm her down and she turns around and whacks her in the face. Knocks her out cold.’
‘Jesus,’ said Grillo. ‘Weber is a big unit.’
‘You’re telling me. So then she starts quoting from the Bible. Cursing like a sailor. She’s talking all this crap about the Gospels and the Vice President.’
‘The dead one, Bradshaw?’
‘Yeah, claiming he was killed by the prophets or some shit. So I said, “I suppose you gonna tell us Jesus was driving your car,” and then she goes ballistic. Jumps me like a cougar, it took three uniforms to pull her off.’
‘Martinez,’ Croker had left his seat and slid over to Martinez’s table, bunking down next to Grillo and stealing a few soggy French fries from off his plate. ‘This nut case got a name?’
‘Yeah, her name was Walker, Rita Walker. Mad as a hatter.’
‘Sounds like it. Where is she now?’
‘LA Community. She was pretty banged up. They wanted to do a tox screen while she was still high. She was definitely loaded with some serious shit.’
‘The kid,’ asked Croker. ‘Did he have brown hair, braces on his teeth, kinda porky?’
‘Yeah. You know this mob, Croker?’
‘Yeah, Martinez. I think I do.’
‘You want my advice, Sammy old boy? I’d steer clear of that whacko, she’s trouble on a stick.’
‘You’re probably right, Victor,’ said Croker, knowing he wasn’t going to get any sleep today. ‘You’re probably right.’
And then there were three.
It was late. There was no clock on the familiar concrete walls. In fact there was nothing in the room bar the rectangular metal table and four complementary chairs, three of which refused to warm despite the efforts of the living, breathing bodies that occupied them.
Tick, tock, tick, tock . . . no clock. But Mark could have sworn he heard a ticking noise in the small, cold, sterile box. The noise, he now realised, was not a rhythmic click but an internal pulsation . . . the regular beat of his heart now echoing loudly in his ears.
Matthew would not sleep tonight. He had left Boston at midnight and would be back by 5am, ready for the morning’s arraignment and the media frenzy that would follow. He sat across from Mark, with John taking the chairman’s usual place at the head of the table, now opposite the empty grey chair that had once belonged to Luke.
‘So,’ Matthew began, and Mark knew what was coming. ‘We have a problem.’
Silence.
‘Tell me, Mark, how is it that you can manipulate the import of tonnes of “A” grade narcotics but you cannot take care of one very simple instruction. Perhaps it is true what they say, after all, and the CBP’s Office of Intelligence is a misnomer, for there is no one of any great intelligence in the whole God-damned Bureau.’
There would be no platitudes today. That, in the very least, was obvious.
Matthew was referring to Mark’s position as Assistant Director of the Bureau of Customs and Border Protection’s (CBP’s) Office of Intelligence. His job, amongst other things, was to gather intelligence regarding the smuggling of narcotics across American borders. It was the perfect front for a man whose ‘duty’, according to the Gospel, was to do the exact opposite.
‘The boy is dead,’ said Mark.
‘Which means the job is incomplete,’ responded Matthew.
‘Then I am not the one to blame. You were the one who recommended the . . . ah . . .’ Mark had no idea what to call the hired assassin. The word ‘hitman’ sounded too melodramatic and the thought of calling him what he truly was – a renegade FBI Agent under Matthew’s control – was even more terrifying. In the end he settled for the best euphemism he could think of. ‘He was your operative. I simply gave him the instructions.’
‘He is one of my best. Perhaps your orders were not made clear.’
‘I told him to kill them, for God’s sake.’ Mark took a deep breath, willing the internal banging to the recesses of his brain. ‘How much clearer could I be?’
Matthew said nothing, just sat there, watching, as Mark pushed his glasses back up the slippery slope that was the bridge of his boyish freckled nose. Mark was being tested, and this was a test he could not afford to fail.
‘Mark,’ said Matthew. ‘I gave you the responsibility of instructing my operative as a favour. A gift even. This was your opportunity to prove your loyalty to our cause.
‘Luke betrayed us,’ Matthew went on, now rising from his seat and circling the table as Mark knew he liked to do in moments that required an assertion of his power. ‘He broke his silence and paid for his indiscretion. Now his wife is bleeding potentially dangerous information and she must be silenced immediately.’
Mark felt the large man’s breath on the back of his neck. He smelt sterile, like antiseptic or ammonia or the disinfected lifelessness you inhaled at the city morgue.
‘If this task is beyond you, Mark, I can deal with the matter myself. But I would like to give you another chance to prove you are . . .’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ said Mark, sick of Matthew’s arrogance and tired of his poorly disguised threats. Mark was a small, bright man who had learned from an early age that intelligence and foresight could win out over brute strength and muscle if you had the balls to back up your brain . . . or in the very least, gave the impression of having them.
He turned in his chair, the metal legs screeching in protest against the hard polished concrete floor, got to his feet, and squared up against his olive-skinned adversary. The top of his head may have only met Matthew’s chin but if he stretched a little and arched his feet . . .
‘You have no need to doubt me, Matthew. And in all honesty, I find your tone both hostile and insulting. Luke was expendable, I understand that. But I am an essential part of this business. The flow of product, so pure and reliable, only continues because of me. I bring it in and more importantly, protect us from detection.
‘Our clients are not used to disappointment,’ Mark went on, hitting his stride. ‘They pay a high price for our service and demand the utmost in quality and discretion. We lose them and we lose our hold on their connections. You and John may be able to protect our political interests, but I am the one who makes it all happen – all within the auspices of the most vigilant customs operation on the face of the whole fucking planet. I bring in the stuff, and with the stuff comes the collateral, the collateral buys us the power and the power is what this whole fucking deal is all about, and without me you’re screwed.’
Mark knew the smile on Matthew’s face was meant to display his amusement at what he would no doubt class as a ‘pathetic display of muscle flexing’, but that slight tick in his left eye betrayed his true concerns.
‘Enough,’ said John – the first word from their leader since the meeting began. ‘Sit down, both of you.’
Matthew and Mark looked at each other and returned to their seats. John had spoken and their chairman was not to be ignored.
‘This does not need to be a problem,’ John went on. ‘Mark, you must contact Matthew’s operative and complete your mission. The woman is a liability. I trust you can deal with it quickly.’ John turned to Matthew. ‘Matthew, you need to concentrate on Montgomery. Your latest re
port suggested all was going to plan.’
‘Our case is bullet proof. His lawyer is an idiot. There will not be a problem.’
‘Good. We must be well on the way to a conviction to consolidate phase two.’
John removed a pair of frameless glasses from cool blue eyes and reached across the table to grab the forearms of the two men with a grip that was both consolatory and intimidating.
‘Time is short. The election is less than six months away. The President will choose his new running mate soon. We are a team on the verge of greatness. The monies we have accumulated continue to grow, as does our sphere of influence. Our power now reaches into the crevasse of every major political region in this country and provides us an opportunity to lead with a unity never before afforded an administration in the political history of the United States. We are so close, gentlemen, I will not allow petty arguments to divert our efforts.’
Matthew, sensing it was time to join his superior in reiterating their ‘noble’ company line, reached across the table to link his free arm with Mark’s in a symbolic gesture of camaraderie. Despite their conflict, Mark was obviously rallied by John’s words and encouraged by his leader’s vision.
‘Every war comes at a price,’ John went on. ‘But such sacrifices are insignificant to the opportunity we have to consolidate America’s position as both a national icon and a world leader.’ John stole a glance at Matthew, and Matthew gave the slightest of nods in acknowledgement. ‘We will undo the damage created by fragmented, indecisive former governments and ultimately provide every American – man, woman and child – with the comfort of knowing they are citizens of the greatest nation on earth. Anything less is unacceptable.’
20
US Chief of Staff Maxine Bryant could not believe it. She had agreed to her press secretary’s suggestion that she be met at the front doors of Boston’s John Joseph Moakley Courthouse by a courthouse official, but she certainly had not agreed to this impromptu guided tour. She was here for the arraignment for her son-in-law’s ‘killer’ for God’s sake. Not to play show pony for the gawking masses.
