by Dean, Jason
Bishop stood up to leave.
‘Where you going?’ Barney asked.
‘I’m surplus to requirements here, Barney. This is your show now and I’ll just get in the way. Besides, I’ll still be in the building. Just make sure you stay with Raines and his people at all times and I’ll catch up with you later.’ He looked down at the boy. ‘Okay?’
Barney looked up at Bishop for a moment, then nodded. ‘Okay.’
Bishop turned to Raines and said, ‘Nail the bastard to the wall.’
‘We’ll do our best,’ Raines said.
Bishop patted Barney’s shoulder and left them both.
EIGHTY-FOUR
Bishop passed through the conference room and opened the outer door. Yeaton and Golinski were standing on the other side of the hallway with the light at their backs.
‘Going somewhere?’ Yeaton asked.
‘Thought we might take a trip to the second floor,’ Bishop said, pulling the door shut behind him. ‘Shall we take the elevator or stairs?’
Yeaton’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know about this …’
‘I do. Look, your deputy director said I’ve got the freedom of the building as long as you’re with me, and I want to see Hartnell in person. So let’s go.’
Yeaton called Whitaker on his cell, who confirmed it was okay, then the three of them took the fire stairs down to the second floor. Yeaton led them to the main central corridor, which was already bustling with people, all walking with purpose towards their individual destinations. Bishop noted the various courtrooms were on the left-hand side, while more conference rooms took up the right-hand side, along with meeting rooms and some jury assembly rooms. A constant stream of people entered and exited the rooms on this side. Finally, they reached a large open mezzanine section on the right, with glass railings for spectators to see below. In the centre of this section was a long staircase made of glass and concrete. Thanks to the natural light, it actually seemed to float up from the ground floor.
Bishop leaned against the railing and gazed down at the foyer while the two marshals stood a couple of feet away. And he waited.
Felix Hartnell entered the building at 08.42.
He was hard to miss. He was accompanied by half a dozen very smartly dressed lawyer types, all of whom carried large briefcases and laptop bags, as well as two dozen reporters who were throwing questions at him as he walked. Even from a distance, he appeared calm and unruffled, as though this first-degree murder charge was nothing more than a minor misunderstanding. He passed through the security checkpoint with his team of lawyers, leaving the reporters and the TV cameras on the other side. He and his team then began climbing the stairs to the second floor.
Bishop noticed Whitaker had joined them at some point. He was standing alongside Golinski and Yeaton, watching Hartnell and his people without expression. A few other people on this floor had also stopped what they were doing and had come to the railings to see the source of the commotion below.
Hartnell finally reached the second-floor landing, still talking to one of his lawyers. As he turned, his pale grey eyes found Bishop and he stopped speaking and began walking towards Bishop with a ghost of a smile on his lips. Bishop knew Hartnell was supposed to be in his mid-fifties, but he looked at least a decade younger, even close up. His stern face was almost without a wrinkle and there wasn’t a hair out of place on his head. It seemed there was no limit to what plastic surgery could do nowadays. His dark suit looked as though it had been moulded to his six-foot frame. He looked like the king of the world.
As he came closer he gazed briefly at Yeaton, then Golinski, before his eyes locked onto Bishop’s again. Whitaker he ignored entirely. Purposely, it seemed. It was as though the man didn’t exist. Still smiling, Hartnell passed within a couple of feet of Bishop and kept on walking down the corridor, his lapdogs still surrounding him.
Bishop, still leaning against the railing, watched him go.
Twenty feet further on, one of the lawyers opened a door to one of the meeting rooms on the left, then stepped inside. Hartnell came to a stop and turned back to Bishop. The other lawyers also entered the room until Hartnell was left on his own. One guy came out again and said something to him. Without turning his head, Hartnell snapped something back at him and the lawyer quickly ducked back inside. Hartnell just stood there, watching Bishop.
It seemed like an invitation, so Bishop pushed off from the railing and walked over to him.
Once he’d closed the distance, Hartnell said, ‘So you’re this Bishop I’ve been hearing about these last couple of days.’
‘Been causing you problems, have I?’
‘More a minor annoyance than anything. Kind of like an angry mosquito buzzing around my head. Nothing more than that.’
‘Mosquitos kill over a million people a year. Other than man, they’re the most lethal species on the planet.’
‘Maybe so, but they also have a very short shelf life. Once second they’re there, the next second they’re gone – poof – like they never existed. Life’s very fleeting for some creatures.’ Hartnell gave Bishop a lazy smile, and said, ‘It seems our paths crossed in an indirect way a few years back, in regards to an accountant who left my employ.’
‘Depends on your definition of “indirect”, but you’re essentially correct.’
‘Small world.’
Bishop nodded. ‘Small world.’
‘And I also hear that you took a big loss this morning. That’s a real shame.’
‘Seems we both took a loss this morning.’
‘You mean Dominic?’ Hartnell shrugged. ‘Well, it’s an inconvenience, I admit, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the greater good.’
‘That’s one thing we agree on then.’
Hartnell’s smile dimmed. ‘And what does that mean?’
Bishop fought the temptation to tell him he’d actually had the real witness in his hands for the last two days and had let him go. And that even if his lawyers somehow pulled a miracle in the courtroom today and got him off, he still had Rafael Guzman to look forward to. But the very last thing Bishop wanted to do was ruin the surprise, so he just said, ‘You’re a smart guy, Hartnell. You’ll figure it out soon enough. Incidentally, I don’t suppose the name Andrew Truman means anything to you at all?’
Hartnell gave another shrug. ‘Can’t say it does. Why? Who is he?’
‘Maybe it’ll come to you over the coming weeks, maybe not. Either way, I know you’ve got a big day ahead of you so I won’t waste any more of your precious time.’
Hartnell’s smile returned. ‘Very understanding of you. Well, until we meet again, Bishop. Because I’ve got a feeling we will.’
Bishop smiled too. ‘Don’t count on it,’ he said, then walked away.
EPILOGUE
It was 23.34 on a cold, drizzly Tuesday evening in mid-December, and Bishop was sitting in a rented Infiniti parked directly across from a three-storey townhouse on Chapin Street NW, in the Columbia Heights section of Washington, DC. The affluent, well-lit street was lined with similar houses, but 1209 had been converted into three separate apartments, one per floor, some time back. Bishop also knew that the tenant on the second floor was named Miss Veronica Knapp, that she was an adjustment clerk for a small IT consultancy in town, and that she’d signed a long lease agreement two years earlier.
But since Miss Knapp’s salary didn’t come close to covering the rent, the rental agency had required a guarantor at the signing stage to ensure she met her future obligations. In this case, the guarantor had been the company director of Hyacinth Inc., which, as it turned out, was an umbrella company registered in the Cayman Islands ten years previously.
Bishop was currently waiting for the company director to emerge from 1209’s front door. The man generally spent two or three evenings a week in Miss Knapp’s company, and this was one of those evenings. Bishop had seen him arrive at 20.34, and once he’d parked his Audi on the street he used his own key to let himself into
the house. He’d been up with Miss Knapp for three hours already, so Bishop felt sure it wouldn’t be long now. The small street was still empty of pedestrians, just like it had been for the last hour or so. It seemed nobody was willing to endure this grim weather unless absolutely necessary.
As Bishop waited, he once again cast his mind back to the events of the last four weeks. A lot had happened since that first day of the trial.
Barney had wowed them in the courtroom, of course, as Bishop had known he would. After he’d finished giving his testimony Hartnell’s chief attorney had tried his damnedest to break him down, but the boy remained steadfast and refused to budge a single inch. It seemed he’d developed nerves of steel over a very short space of time. And Raines had been spot on. The jury loved him. The following Tuesday they proved it with a unanimous guilty verdict. Hartnell was handed a straight thirty-to-life, no parole.
Or so he thought.
Ten days later, the so-called King of Coke was found dead in his Ohio State Penitentiary cell with barely a square inch of skin left on his body. And Bishop knew he’d probably been alive while it happened. Nobody saw anybody go in the cell, and nobody saw anybody come out. Nobody heard a thing. Nobody knew anything. But as soon as Bishop read about it in the paper, he knew Guzman had been behind it. Skinning his enemies alive was exactly his style. It must have taken a small fortune to arrange, but he’d finally gotten his revenge on the man who’d killed his sister.
Bishop was also released without charge, as he’d suspected he would be. It helped that his version of events also matched up with those of Clea Buchanan, Charlie Hooper, Roger and Emily Souza, Karen Lomax, and Barney himself. And Nelson Daly’s name never came up at any time during the countless interrogations either, which was all to the good.
As for Barney, shortly after Hartnell’s death Bishop had driven him up to Vancouver and delivered him into the care of his mom’s sister, Marian Slocombe, just as he’d promised. Bishop had visited the woman – an attractive, cheerful forty-something with an easy smile – earlier to sound her out and she’d been understandably devastated at the news of her sister’s death as well as that of her brother-in-law. But she’d been the one who’d suggested filing the necessary papers to become Barney’s legal guardian from now on. Bishop hadn’t even had to ask. He thought that was a good omen. On Bishop’s advice, once it was all finalized Barney was going to adopt the Slocombe name too. After all, you could never be too careful.
Barney looked almost happy when Bishop finally left him. Or at least, as happy as a boy who’d suddenly lost both his parents could be.
Bishop still found himself thinking about Angela Delaney, though, especially these past few days, which wasn’t all that surprising. She was the main reason he was here in Washington, DC, after all. She was the last loose end. Bishop and she had been intimate once, yet he’d never really known her all that well. But he’d liked her a lot. And he would like to have gotten to know her a whole lot better, but that was no longer possible. She was dead. And the man indirectly responsible was currently inside the house across the street, enjoying himself with his mistress.
Well, that was okay. After tonight, he wouldn’t be enjoying much of anything again.
At 23.42 the front door to 1209 opened and a man in a dark raincoat exited the house.
Bishop watched Lawrence Whitaker pull up his coat collar, then close the door behind him and begin walking down the long path towards the sidewalk and his parked Audi.
After checking the street was still empty of pedestrians, Bishop immediately got out of the Infiniti and shut the door and crossed the street towards the Audi. He was wearing a tan raincoat and kept both hands in his pockets and his head lowered as he closed in on his quarry. As Whitaker reached the driver’s side of his vehicle, Bishop stepped onto the sidewalk and, still with his head down, walked towards him. There was an electronic beep as Whitaker unlocked the vehicle and, as he was opening the driver’s door, the interior light came on and Bishop stepped up behind him and pulled the gun from his pocket and jammed the barrel into his lower back.
‘Hello, Whitaker,’ Bishop said. ‘Now get in and slide on over to the passenger side. You and I are going to have a little talk. And make sure you keep your hands in plain sight.’
Whitaker stood stock still. Without turning, he said, ‘Bishop? Is that you? What the hell is this?’
‘It’s me. Now stop talking and get in. Don’t make me ask twice.’
Whitaker looked ready to say something else, but Bishop added pressure to the barrel and he raised his hands instead. Then he carefully ducked down and slid into the Audi’s front seat. As he clambered over to the passenger side, Bishop got in the driver’s seat in one fluid motion and shut the door, instantly killing the interior light.
Whitaker looked at the gun pointed at his stomach, then at the black leather gloves Bishop was wearing. He said, ‘You’ve just crossed the line, Bishop. I hope you realize that.’
‘Funny, I was just about to say the same thing to you. Keep those hands up.’ Bishop then patted him down and when he felt the telltale bulge around the waist, he opened the man’s raincoat and pulled the Glock from the belt holster. Using one hand, he quickly ejected the magazine and tossed the gun on the floor in the back. The magazine he pocketed.
‘All right,’ Bishop said, ‘you can lower them now.’
Whitaker pulled his hands down to his lap, and said, ‘So now what? I assume you’ve got a reason for threatening me like this?’
With his free hand, Bishop reached into his own raincoat and pulled out a large manila envelope and dropped it on Whitaker’s lap.
Whitaker looked down at the unmarked envelope, then up at Bishop again.
‘Go ahead,’ Bishop said, ‘open it up. You know you want to.’
Whitaker opened the top flap and pulled out a sheaf of paperwork with a cardboard DVD wallet on top. Using the light coming in from the streetlamps to read by, he began to slowly flick through the paperwork silently. And the photos too, of course.
The thin package had taken a lot of time and effort to compile, and Bishop hadn’t been able to do it all on his own. Scott Muro had played a large part in the gathering of information, for example, as had Rafael Guzman, who’d surprised Bishop no end by sticking to his end of the deal. Quite simply, the man had contacts and informants everywhere.
Contained within the package on Whitaker’s lap were half a dozen screenshots of Whitaker and Veronica Knapp involved in various intimate bedroom activities. The full footage was on the DVD, and the audio-visual quality was excellent. Bishop himself had installed the tiny camera in Miss Knapp’s bedroom ceiling light one morning when she was out at work.
In addition, there were copies of Miss Knapp’s rental agreement, including Lawrence Whitaker’s signature as guarantor. There were also copies of overseas registration documents proving that Whitaker was the company director and sole employee of Hyacinth Inc., and there were also copies of electronic bank statements showing Hyacinth’s deposits into Miss Knapp’s account on the first of every month.
But that was all pretty tame compared to the rest of the contents. To begin with there were photos of Whitaker meeting with Hartnell and accepting a briefcase from the man, courtesy of Mr Guzman. There were also a number of financial documents taken from Hartnell’s offices, again courtesy of Guzman, that showed large deposits made by one of Hartnell’s shell companies into the same Caymans account as the one that paid Miss Knapp’s rent.
Then there were the official documents relating to Whitaker’s history within the US Marshals Service. They were the real cream topping.
Bishop had begun to seriously suspect Whitaker as being the source of the leak when Hartnell passed the four of them in the courthouse hallway on that first day of the trial. It was only a very small thing, but he’d acknowledged Bishop and the two deputies, yet for some reason completely ignored Whitaker even though he had to know who the guy was. It had seemed pretty odd at the time, and Bishop s
uspected the simple reason was that he already knew Whitaker very well and overcompensated by pretending the guy didn’t exist at all. It was an amateurish mistake, but a mistake nevertheless.
Bishop also recalled something interesting Callaway had said at the exchange, about his finally getting to Mechner ‘thanks to a little inside help.’
Once the trial was over Bishop visited Scott Muro’s Brooklyn office to settle his debts, then hired him to find out everything he could about Whitaker, including his history with the Marshals Service, as well as details of his increasingly unsatisfying, not to mention childless, marriage. One week later Muro came back with the goodies. It turned out that Whitaker’s rise to the deputy-directorship had been a slow but steady one through the ranks. He’d actually spent over fifteen years in the field, with seven of those as a supervisory deputy marshal.
And one of his final assignments in that role had been to head the team that looked after Paul Mechner and his wife, ten years ago.
Small world, all right.
In addition, one of those bank statements showed that his company had received a fat two-hundred-thousand dollar payment from one of Hartnell’s shell companies the day after Mechner’s murder. More recently, his company had received a million-dollar payment from the same shell company the day after Strickland blew himself up.
There was more, and Bishop watched as Whitaker slowly turned the pages and took it all in. It was too dark to really tell, but Bishop imagined his face had lost a lot of its colour in the last few minutes.
Finally, he looked up, his eyes hard, his face grim. ‘Where did you get all this?’
‘I have my sources.’
‘It’s all circumstantial. None of it would stand up in a court of law.’
‘I’m not interested in the law,’ Bishop said. ‘But I am interested in settling accounts. You’ve been in Hartnell’s pocket all along, and I know you were the one responsible for the leak of the safe house location that started all this. That leak resulted in the murder of Marshal Angela Delaney. You have to answer for her.’
