by Stuart Woods
“Okay, I’ll give it a whirl. Have the bailiff bring him in here, and don’t rush us.”
“Fine, take your time.” Mark opened a door and summoned the bailiff. “Good luck,” he said to Goode, and left the room.
* * *
—
Jeff Goode stood and shook his client’s hand. “How’s it going in there, Donald?”
“Pretty much as you said it would.”
“You know the press is going to tear you apart, don’t you?”
“What has to be has to be.”
“There’s always a way out, Donald, if you’re willing to pay the price.”
“What way? What price?”
“They’re going to offer you immunity for two murders—your wife’s and Deana Carlyle’s,” Goode said.
“To testify against Deborah?”
“To tell the truth. Which of the following two headlines would you rather see tomorrow morning? ‘CLARK LAWYERS UP, TAKES THE FIFTH ON MURDER CHARGE AND IS IMPRISONED FOR CONTEMPT,’ or ‘CLARK TESTIFIES AGAINST MURDERER AND WALKS FREE’? Those are the options.”
“What will they do with me, if I just refuse to testify?”
“The judge will jail you, until you relent.”
“For how long?”
“How long have you got to live?”
Clark blanched. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“There’s another possible headline you should consider,” Goode said.
“What’s that?”
“‘CHIEF MYERS ACCEPTS IMMUNITY AND TESTIFIES AGAINST CLARK.’”
“She’d never do that to me.”
“You never know,” Goode said. “A year in federal lockup can soften the stiffest spines.”
“I could appeal, couldn’t I?”
“You’d lose.”
“It’s that definite?”
“It’s cut and dried. One of you is going to get a deal, and the other is going to prison. You’ve been given the first shot at deciding that it’s not going to be you.”
Clark stared at the wall and said nothing.
“What’s it going to be, Donald?”
“I need some time to think,” Clark replied.
“I can ask them to break for lunch. That’ll give you an hour, maybe an hour and a half.”
“Can I call Debby?”
“No. You’ll just have to sit in this room and think. I’ll bring you a sandwich.”
“Ham and cheese on rye, mustard, Diet Coke.”
“I’ll phone it in,” Goode said, rising. He left the room, and Mark Bernstein was leaning on the wall outside.
“What’s it going to be?” Mark asked.
“I gave it my best shot. Apparently, he doesn’t like making decisions on an empty stomach.”
“I’ll call lunch.”
“And I’ll get him a ham on rye with mustard,” Goode said. They went their separate ways.
* * *
—
Clark had been sitting alone for half an hour. He knew he was going to cave, and that annoyed him. He heard the door open behind him and turned to look that way.
An elderly black woman, pushing a cart of cleaning tools and supplies entered. “Cleaning lady . . . You mind?” she asked.
“Go ahead,” Clark replied and turned away from her.
A moment later, he heard a ratcheting noise, one that he remembered from the firing ranges of his youth. He was about to speak, when something hammered into his head and he collapsed into a pool of his own blood and brains.
Another shot was fired into his head, then the door opened and closed again.
38
Stone was walking back from the Grill, after lunch with a client, when his phone rang. “Yes?” he said and continued walking.
“It’s Dino. You want the latest news, or you want to see it on TV?”
“Dino, you know I hang on your every breath. What’s going on?”
“Donald Clark got offed while in a grand jury hearing.”
Stone was stunned. “While testifying? Who shot him, the prosecutor?”
“No, they were on a lunch break and Clark went to an adjoining room to meet with his attorney, who gave him the good news that the U.S. attorney was offering him immunity in the Carlyle case. He wanted to think it over, so the attorney left him alone while he ordered lunch.”
“So, he got more than he ordered, and in the federal courthouse?”
“He got a .22 slug in the back of the head, and an extra one for insurance.”
“Have we heard what Little Debby’s alibi is?”
“Not yet, but I’ll give ten-to-one odds that it will be a peach.”
“I’m not taking that bet,” Stone said.
“Anyway, an elderly black woman was seen in a nearby hallway, carrying a pail and a mop. You ever heard of Ma Barker?”
“A 1930s gang leader, wasn’t she?”
“Right. Also, the sobriquet of a certain middle-aged black woman who works as a hit man—excuse me, hit lady.”
“Is Ma Barker’s alibi a peach?”
“You bet your ass it is. She was at choir practice at her church.”
“Oh, that’s good in so many ways!”
“You are right! She can put twelve ladies and a reverend on the stand to testify to her presence.”
“Come on, nobody at a church choir practice would so blatantly lie for her.”
“Right, but the cops have spoken to the twelve ladies and the reverend that she named—who were not, of course, necessarily at the church. You can bet they were well paid, though, and Ma Barker, too.”
“That’s breathtaking.”
“Did I mention that the feds found a gray wig on fire in a trash can in the courthouse?”
“How about a weapon?”
“Nowhere in sight, and not in Ma Barker’s house, either. They got a warrant.”
“So everybody involved takes a walk?”
“Everybody but Donald Clark. He took a gurney to a slab downstairs.”
“What’s the old expression?”
“It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy?”
“That’s the one. My sentiments exactly.”
“Are you going to tell Art Jacoby?” Dino asked.
“No, I thought you’d like to do that.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell him,” Stone said. “Let’s let him hear about it on the evening news. Talk to you later.” He hung up. The phone rang again before he could get it back into his pocket. “Yes?”
“Stone, it’s Art Jacoby; have you heard?”
“Yep.”
“Donald Clark got himself shot in a federal courthouse.”
“Art, I just gave you an affirmative response to your question.”
“They suspect a black hit lady called Ma Barker.”
“Art, you’re not listening. I just heard it all from Dino.”
“Why didn’t you say so? Ma Barker is one slick lady,” Art said.
“You know what her alibi is? Twelve members of her church choir and her Reverend.”
“How do you know all this stuff? It just happened.”
“Art, are you at home?”
“If you can call this hotel a home, yeah.”
“Then sit down and compose yourself. Take a few deep breaths.”
“I’m next on Little Debby’s hit list. I’m not going to have any breath to spare.”
“Art, I have to run now. Try and calm down. You’ll live longer.”
“Fat chance,” Art said, then hung up.
* * *
—
Maren Gustav got a call from Mark Bernstein. She listened carefully, asked some questions, then hung up.
Her secretary came in. “H
ave you heard?”
Maren held up a hand. “I have heard, so you don’t get to tell me the story.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to think about it before I do anything. If anybody else calls, tell them I’ve already heard the news and, if it’s a reporter, that I have no comment at this time.”
“That’s pretty ballsy,” the woman said.
“It’s the truth,” Maren said, “all of it.” She made shooing motions, and the woman went back to her desk. A moment later she buzzed Maren.
Maren picked up. “Was I not clear?”
“It’s Stone Barrington, and he didn’t ask if you’ve heard.”
“Ah.” She picked up the phone. “Yes, I’ve heard.”
“I figured you had,” Stone said. “I was calling for a different reason.”
“Pray tell, what is that?”
“I hear that Little Debby’s alibi was that she was in New York at the time of the killing. I thought that might necessitate a trip to our city by the nation’s chief investigative officer.”
“I like the way you think,” she said.
“I like that you like the way I think. It will make your expense account look better if you just stay with me, rather than at the Carlyle.”
“More good thinking.” She looked at her watch. “I have a helicopter at my disposal, now, you know.”
“I rather thought you did.”
“I can be scratching on your door by six o’clock.”
“I love that sound,” Stone said. “What would you like to dine on?”
“You,” she said.
“I hope your phone isn’t tapped.”
“Trust me, it’s not.”
“We’ll dine in then.”
“Oh, yes.”
39
Maren Gustav’s helicopter ran a little late, and Fred was announcing dinner as Stone greeted her. “Sorry, I got held up at the office,” she said.
“You’re just in time. Dinner’s ready. Can you dine without a drink first?”
“I’m as hungry as a tigress,” she said, as Stone seated her.
“I hope you like foie gras,” he said.
“You can still get it in New York?”
“I expect them to ban it every time I think about it, so I try not to think about it.”
Fred set two plates of perfectly seared foie gras before them, and they made all the right noises as they ate.
When they had finished the sauternes served with the first course, Fred came in with a platter and presented a thick porterhouse steak, then set it on the sideboard and carved it perfectly.
They made the correct sounds again, then finished their cabernet slowly.
“You were right about Little Debby’s alibi,” Maren said. “She’s in New York.”
“I’m sorry to hear that I was right,” Stone replied.
“But do you know what she did before she left the federal building in D.C.?”
“I don’t know. Used the ladies’ room?”
“Do you know what else she did?”
“Pass.”
“She took the elevator down to the basement.”
“Shocking!” Stone said.
“Don’t be a smart-ass. Do you know what’s in the basement?”
“Cells?”
“A few holding cells, but what else?”
“The coffee machine?”
“The evidence locker.”
Stone sipped his wine. “Locker?”
“Like, a big room, really, manned by one officer, who goes to lunch at the same time every day. Do you know what’s in an evidence locker?”
“I’ll take a stab. Evidence?”
“You’re being a smart-ass again.”
“Why don’t you just tell me what she did?”
“She let herself into the locker, apparently with her own key, then went shopping.”
“And what did she buy?”
“I should have said ‘shoplifting.’”
“Then what did she lift?”
“At this point, it’s all deduction,” Maren said. “The evidence locker has lots of guns that are presumed to have been used in committing crimes.”
“Ah, it all becomes clear,” Stone said. “She wants an untraceable weapon.”
“Or one that can’t be traced further than the evidence locker.”
“Where did you get all this information?”
“Secondhand from an informant who was in a holding cell, awaiting a court appearance, through a special agent who knows me. The evidence locker is not a room, exactly; it’s a chain-link cage with long, open shelves.”
“And your informant had a good view of all this?”
“He could see her through the chain link, facing him, and going through the firearms stash there.”
“And she found something to her liking?”
Maren nodded. “What appeared to be a .22-caliber automatic with a silencer screwed on: an assassin’s weapon, in short.”
“I hope he took photographs,” Stone said, “but I guess the inmates aren’t allowed cameras.”
“He managed to get his iPhone smuggled in by his girlfriend. He says he took half a dozen pics, and he wants to trade them for a kind word with the prosecutor about his suitability for a suspended sentence.”
“What’s he up for?”
“Burglary of a federal property. He’d normally get, maybe, five to seven years. He’s not a first offender.”
“So he wants to walk? Is it worth it?”
“To fry Little Debby’s ass? Are you kidding?”
“So, when do we get to see the pictures?”
“After his sentencing.”
“Not before?”
“That would be preferred, but he knows if he screws us we’ll get him on something else.”
“When’s he being sentenced?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Is the prosecutor on board?”
“He’d better be. The attorney general and I are tight.”
“Does he know that?”
“It’s being explained to him as we speak.”
Dessert arrived, a crème brûlée, served with a small glass of Grand Marnier. Afterward, Fred poured them a cognac and retreated.
“Would you like another tour of the master suite?” Stone asked.
“I’d like a tour of the bed,” she said.
They took their cognacs with them, and Stone conducted the tour personally.
40
Stone and Maren had sex, breakfast, sex, and a shower, in that order. As Stone walked out of his dressing room he heard Maren’s phone ring in her dressing room. The conversation was short and loud.
She walked into the bedroom.
“They’ve moved our guy to a holding cell in the courthouse,” she said. “He still won’t give us the photographs of Little Debby in the evidence locker, until the judge hands him a suspended sentence.”
“Can’t you just confiscate his cell phone?”
“He passed it back to someone who will be in the courtroom. I can’t search everybody. They’ll all have cell phones.”
“What was your decision?”
“I told the prosecutor to ask for a suspended sentence, and to sound good doing it.”
“That’s smart,” Stone said.
“That’s desperate.”
“When do we hear?”
“I asked for his case to be called first, so not too long.”
They had just walked into Stone’s office when her phone rang. “Got ’em,” she said and began scrolling through the shots. “No . . . no . . . no . . . NO! . . . YES!” She held the phone for Stone to see. “Only one good one, but look at it.”
Stone
took the phone and gazed at the photo. Little Debby, in person, holding a black semiautomatic pistol with about six inches of silencer screwed into the barrel. “Um . . .” he said.
“What?”
“Well . . .”
“Well, what?”
Stone turned the phone around and pointed. “Great shot of the gun, but you’re missing most of Debby’s face.”
Maren snatched back the phone. “Holy shit! We only got her chin!”
“Great shot of the gun, though.”
Maren moved back up the line of photos. “Here’s a good one of her face,” she said.
“Is it in the same frame as the gun?”
“No,” Maren replied glumly. “You’re a lawyer, will these photos stand up in court?”
“I’ll give you a definitive answer: maybe. More important is how your witness’s testimony stands up in court. If he can convincingly say, ‘I took these photos, and they are all of Deborah Myers, including the one with the gun,’ then maybe better than maybe. Of course, her attorney will be waving his arms and shouting ‘Objection!’”
Maren’s phone rang. “Yes? Hello, Mark. Yes, I got the pictures. Unfortunately not one of them includes both the gun and a recognizable shot of Debby’s face. What’s your witness’s name? Eddie Craft? Good name for a burglar. Let me speak to him. I know he walked, Mark, but he must still be in the courtroom. He has to be processed. You mean he actually, physically walked out of the courtroom? Who processed him? Find him quick, Mark, and put him on the phone with me!” She hung up.
“Your side of that conversation did not sound satisfactory,” Stone said.
“The judge handed down a suspended sentence, and a woman stepped forward and gave Mark the phone, then he gave it to the prosecutor. Then the judge said, ‘You are free to go, Mr. Craft.’ And he went.”
“He would have to have been processed out, wouldn’t he? I mean, courts don’t function without paperwork.”
“The judge told him he was free to go, and he didn’t hesitate, he went. Nobody tried to stop him.”
“Then I think what you need is a good, old-fashioned APB, an all-points bulletin, for Eddie Craft. You need to have a heart-to-heart with him, and sooner rather than later.”
“I’m aware of that,” she said, pressing a button on her phone. “Mark, issue an APB for Eddie Craft. Charge? I don’t know, loitering. I need him back long enough to depose him and get his signature on his testimony. Right, and hurry!” She hung up. “Your suggestion has been taken.”
