Sloane put his glass of water on the table, crossed his legs, and folded his hands in his lap. “Troubling?”
Peak stood, walked to his desk to retrieve a manila file, and handed it to Sloane, sitting as Sloane opened it. “It was found in Joe’s briefcase.”
Sloane pulled out a handwritten letter sheathed in plastic. Evidence. The letter detailed how Joe Branick loved his wife and family and never meant to cause them any pain. It rambled, sometimes angry, sometimes confusing—the words of a man on the edge. There was a woman involved. Sloane read the letter carefully, then reread it, committing things to memory in case he needed to talk about them with Aileen Blair. Then he put it back in the plastic sleeve. This was one of those moments he was expected to say something, to express shock. He went with his instincts.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said after a pause.
Peak pushed away from the back of the rocking chair. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to break that to you, Jon, but it’s one of the reasons I wanted this meeting. I didn’t want the family to hear this from anyone else. I ordered Joe’s office sealed and I had most of Joe’s personal papers removed.”
“That was your decision?”
“I suspected something like that,” he said, pointing to the letter.
Sloane looked up at him. “You suspected this?”
“I was aware Joe was having an affair, Jon.” Peak sat back down and leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands folded. “It went on for some time. Joe was discreet, but I won’t lie and say I didn’t know about it. Katherine, as you know, was not fond of Washington and all of the public events. Joe usually attended alone. We talked about it once, but he said it wasn’t my place, and I respected that. He was my friend, not my son. It wasn’t for me to judge him.”
Sloane continued to study Robert Peak’s eyes, but he remained unable to get past them, to feel anything about what Peak was thinking. Despite the gravity of the moment, and though Peak’s tears appeared to have flowed freely, Sloane could feel no angst or inner turmoil emanating from the man. He saw Peak like Dan Rather at the CBS news desk: flat and devoid of emotion.
“I’ll be honest. When it started I was more concerned with how it might reflect on my administration. I was concerned about a scandal.” Peak shook his head. “It was shortsighted.”
This was an unexpected turn of events, a surprise witness at trial. It was impossible to be fully prepared to respond. The key was to obtain as much information as possible without looking alarmed. “Who is the woman?” Sloane asked.
“She lives in McLean,” Peak said. “None of us is innocent of wanting things we can’t have. I can only imagine the pain and confusion Joe must have been experiencing when he realized his mistake, not to mention the guilt.”
“Has anyone spoken to her?”
Peak shook his head, a grave expression on his face. “Not yet.” He ran a hand across the back of his neck. “This is delicate, Jon. If the Justice Department starts hammering on her, she’s liable to get an attorney and we’ll have one hell of a circus. I’m not worried about covering my own ass anymore. I’m too damn angry for that. But I don’t want this for your family, for Joe’s family. I don’t want the press kicking him around like a football, not after everything Katherine and the children have been through. I want them to remember the husband and father they loved and respected.” He sat back, contemplative. “The last couple of days I’ve thought a lot about John F. Kennedy Jr. and that moment captured by thousands of cameras when he put his hand underneath the flag to touch his father’s coffin. I thought of what he had to live through over the next thirty years. Wasn’t it enough that he lost his father?” Peak used the handkerchief to wipe errant tears from the corners of his eyes.
Sloane’s mind swirled with questions, but he knew he was already pushing the envelope, that it was time to wrap this up and make a graceful exit before making a mistake. He knew it instinctively. He knew it from experience. And yet he found himself pressing, because the voice of Aileen Branick Blair kept telling him not to believe it.
Let’s get one thing straight before you get started and waste both of our time. My brother did not kill himself.
Sloane believed her. “May I ask how you know all of this? If no one has spoken to this woman, where did this information come from?”
Peak blew his nose into the handkerchief and wiped his upper lip, then took another drink of water. “Joe was here the night before he died. We spoke for about a half hour in my private quarters in the White House. It was all the time I could give him; I had a state dinner to attend.” Peak refilled his glass and took a drink. “I tried to get him to stay but . . . Joe was agitated and upset, Jon. He wasn’t himself. Still, I never suspected . . . Joe was not the type of man . . .” Peak’s voice trailed. After a moment, when he had regained his composure, he said, “I tried to calm him. I tried to get him to drink some coffee and clear his head and spend the night at the White House. He wouldn’t have it.”
“Did he say where he’d been?”
Peak looked up, as if the question were somehow inappropriate. “Where he’d been?”
“The family’s curious. We understand he left his office around three-thirty that afternoon, but nobody heard from him.”
Peak nodded to the file. Sloane opened it. Inside was a log of what appeared to be telephone numbers.
“Joe called me from a bar in Georgetown on his cell phone. I had his telephone records pulled for that day.” Sloane opened the file and considered the records. He noticed a number that kept repeating, presumably the woman’s. Peak cleared his throat, changing gears again. “He apparently went to her house as well.” He pointed to the pages. “Those records have been requested by the Justice Department, Jon. If they get them, they will follow up, and the documents will become fair game to the press.”
Sloane put the log of phone calls back in the file. He knew the follow-up was to ask about handling the telephone records, but that wasn’t what he was interested in. “Where did he go? When Joe left you that night, did he say where he was going?”
Peak put up his hands. “He said he was going home. That’s the hardest part about this. He said he was going home to set things right. I don’t know where he went. I assume he went to McLean. If I’d known he had a gun . . . Joe never carried a gun; never in all the years I knew him did he carry a gun.” Peak rubbed the back of his neck and stretched the muscles as he spoke. “I’m very sorry to break this kind of news to you, Jon, very sorry.”
“I’m sure this has been very difficult for you. I appreciate your honesty. The family appreciates your honesty. It answers a lot of questions.” Only it didn’t.
The voice in Sloane’s head was now screaming at him to leave, but still he pressed.
“So how will this be handled?”
“The Department of Justice will hold a press conference late this afternoon. I wanted to get the family’s approval,” Peak said.
“Approval?”
Peak retrieved another document from his desk and handed it to Sloane. It was a prepared statement, innocuous. They would sanitize the autopsy just as they’d sanitized Joe’s office. The Department of Justice would conclude that Joe Branick took his own life.
The medical examiner has concluded that the powder marks on the decedent’s hand and temple are consistent with a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
“It’s conclusive,” Peak said. “The rest is . . . well, unnecessary.” He leaned forward. “The Justice Department will report that it found no evidence of foul play. It will make no reference to alcohol or other things irrelevant to the cause of death. The autopsy will be limited to the facts, the consistency between the powder marks and the weapon proving a self-inflicted wound. After the announcement, the Justice Department will close its investigation and this file.”
Sloane put the statement in the file with the other documents. And there you had it, neat and clean, just like Joe Branick’s office. It was just the type of information a famil
y would not want to be made public, the type of information to make them go away quietly, and the Justice Department would help usher them on their way.
Tom Molia was about to get another bad lunch left on his desk.
And even if everything Robert Peak had just told Sloane was an elaborate lie intended to do just that—to get the family to end its inquiry into Joe Branick’s death—Sloane could think of no way to disprove it. The autopsy report would be limited to the cause of death, the office had been sanitized, and Peak intimated that the telephone records and suicide note would be expunged. The only witness was a call girl who had little credibility but apparently a nuclear arsenal capable of blowing a lot of prominent men out of their comfortable homes—if Sloane could even find her. At the moment he did not even know her name. Peak had not mentioned it, and he couldn’t ask without it appearing suspicious. He—
The telephone records!
He looked down at the file. He had her telephone number.
The door to the office opened. Peak turned to acknowledge the woman in the blue suit with the brooch.
“I’m sorry, Mr. President. You have your cabinet meeting.”
Peak looked at his watch, stood, and walked the woman back to the door. “Please tell them I’m on my way.”
Sloane opened the file and quickly removed the sheet of telephone numbers. Could he memorize it? Ordinarily he could, but with everything happening, he didn’t trust that to be the case, and he couldn’t take that chance. With one eye focused on Peak, he folded the sheet and casually slipped it in the inside pocket of his jacket. It felt like a lead anvil.
Peak turned. “I’m sorry, Jon.”
Sloane casually removed his hand from his jacket pocket and stood. “I understand. You’ve been more than generous with your time, thank you.” He handed Peak the file.
A corner of a sheet of paper had slid out.
Peak opened the file.
Sloane’s heart skipped a beat. He put out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. President, for everything.”
Peak straightened the pages, seemed to briefly consider them, then closed the file and put it on his desk. He walked Sloane toward the exit, shaking his hand. “I intend to make Joe’s funeral.”
“The family will appreciate it,” he said.
His internal alarm was now shouting at him. Shut up and walk out. Do not ask any more questions.
But this was his chance, maybe his last chance. He couldn’t just let it pass.
No. Get out. It’s time to leave.
“That reminds me. We’re trying to reach some people, friends and coworkers of Joe’s. We were going through his things and, well, we’d like to get in touch with as many people as possible.”
“How can I help?”
“We’re looking for his work colleagues. For instance, Katherine recalled that Joe had an acquaintance, a black man he worked with.”
Peak’s eyes flickered, an almost imperceptible crack in the persona he had maintained throughout their meeting. He seemed to stall. “A black man, I’m sorry . . .”
“Apparently difficult to miss: very big, tall, well muscled. Katherine remembered him well, but not his name. She believed he and Joe worked together some time ago, but said they had been in recent contact.”
Peak ran a hand across his mouth, but Sloane could not tell if it was acknowledgment or concern. “Do you know what about?”
“No.” He had a hunch and decided to play it. “Just that Katherine indicated they worked for you. I know we’re not supposed to know certain things, but—”
Peak nodded. “That’s all right . . . I believe I know to whom Katherine might be referring, though that goes back many years . . . thirty years.”
“You knew this man?”
“If it’s the man I think she’s referring to. His name was Charles Jenkins.”
Bingo. Sloane had a name. “Charles Jenkins,” he repeated.
“Yes, but I’m afraid Katherine must have been mistaken, Jon.”
“Mistaken?”
“About the two of them being in recent contact.”
“Really? Why is that?” Sloane asked, feeling suddenly deflated.
“Because Charles Jenkins did work for me. It was in the early seventies in Mexico City. Shortly after he started, however, we noticed some peculiar behavior, some problems.”
“Problems?”
“Charles Jenkins was a Vietnam veteran, Jon . . . and, well, there are a lot of things that happened over there that we are not very proud of. Apparently he’d experienced some things that had a deep emotional impact on him. He became delusional and began to have a problem distinguishing present reality from what he had been through during the war. It began to weigh on him.”
“I see. Do you know what happened to him?”
“Ultimately he was allowed to leave the agency.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know exactly, but I heard some years back that he had died. I’m surprised Joe wouldn’t have known that and advised Katherine.”
“Well, thank you, anyway,” Sloane said.
He turned to leave when the door pushed open suddenly, nearly hitting him. Behind it, White House Chief of Staff Parker Madsen stepped in.
57
TOM MOLIA CONFIRMED dinner at six o’clock sharp, promised Maggie he wouldn’t be late, and scribbled a note on the palm of his hand to remind himself to pick up another gallon of milk.
“Milk, okay—”
“And a loaf of bread.”
“Loaf of bread,” he said, writing “bread” on his palm. “Got it. Okay, bye—”
“And you might want to get a few more potatoes.”
“Tomatoes.”
“Potatoes.”
He changed the “T” to a “P.” “Potatoes, right.”
“And a new car.”
“New—”
“Good-bye,” Maggie said, hanging up first, as she always did when she knew he was rushing her off the phone.
Molia disconnected the call and immediately redialed Marty Banto’s direct line.
“It’s about fucking time.”
“Nice mouth, Banto; you kiss your kids with that mouth?”
“What, you been watching The Sopranos while I’ve been waiting here half an hour?”
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch; you’ll be out of there in two minutes.”
“No rush.”
Molia laughed. “Let me guess: Matthew is spending the night at a friend’s house, and Emily and Jeannie went shopping.”
“Fuck you,” Banto said. “You’ve been talking to Maggie. Matthew’s spending the night at your house, and Jeannie called Maggie to go with them.”
“I’m a genius, Banto. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Jeannie not wearing a bra.”
“I wish. They’re shopping for Emily.”
“Emily? She’s just a kid.”
“She’s thirteen, Mole.”
“Damn. Where does the time go, Banto?”
“I don’t know, Mole. I’m too busy wiping your ass to find out.”
“How’s Franklin?”
“Raising the dead. Lazarus just walked by my desk.”
“How’d he look?”
“Better than you’re going to look if you don’t call in and pacify him.”
“He’ll get over it. Deep down, he loves me.”
“At least someone does.”
“Maggie’s cooking a pot roast. Come for dinner. I think the Orioles are probably on the tube. You can spend some quality time with your family.”
Banto laughed. “You’re such an asshole.”
“We’re eating at six, sharp. Don’t be late. You know Maggie. Hell hath no fury like my wife with an overcooked pot roast. So what do you got for me?”
“Military service records have a match for a John Blair.”
“No kidding. So I’m not a genius.”
“Except that John Blair spelled his name with an ‘h’ and died in World War One.”
“Not unless Franklin raised him from the dead, too, but I don’t think so.”
“You got more?”
“Don’t I always? The Massachusetts State Bar has a listing for a Blair, but it’s Aileen Branick Blair with a spouse named Jonathan, no ‘h.’”
“Bingo.”
“But he ain’t licensed to practice law.”
“No?”
“No. So I pulled up a photo from the Massachusetts DMV. It’s close, scary close, from the brief glimpse I got around Baldy’s fat head of the guy sitting in the lobby this morning, but I’d say it’s likely not him. We’re not playing horseshoes, are we?”
“No, we are not.”
“So there’s that, and the fact that the rental agreement in the glove compartment of the car in the parking lot says the car was rented to a guy named David Sloane.”
“You broke into the car?”
“Hey, I’m in a hurry here. Besides, it’s a rental. What’s the worst that can happen? He loses his deposit. Since he paid cash, I’d guess he can afford it.”
“Who pays cash for a rental car?”
“Somebody who doesn’t want to use his credit cards. It gets a whole lot more interesting from there, Mole. The guy’s packing a Colt forty-five and more ammo than a bank robber. I ran a check. There is no gun registered to a David Sloane.”
“Any criminal history?”
“Nothing in D.C. or California. National will take a while, but my buddy over at the FBI promised a—”
“California? Why’d you run him in California?”
“Because I did a DMV search, and this David Sloane is from a place called Pacifica. Apparently it’s on the coast near San Francisco. He’s one of you cherry-ass California assholes, Mole.”
“Banto, I take back all the bad things I’ve said about you.”
“Can’t be half as bad as what I think about you.”
“See you at six. And put a lock on that new bra. There are kids out there just like you and I used to be.”
The Jury Master Page 26
