Absolute Power

Chapter Twenty-six

Seth Frank looked at the old man. Short, with a soft felt cap covering his head, dressed in corduroy pants, a thick sweater and winter boots, the man looked both uncomfortable and greatly excited at being in the police station. In his hand was a rectangular object covered in brown paper.

“I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Flanders.”

“You see I was out there. At the courthouse that day. You know, when the man got killed. Just went to see what all the fuss was about. Lived here all my life, nothing ever came close to that spectacle, I can tell you that.”

“I can understand that,” Frank said dryly.

“So anyway I had my new Camcorder, real nifty thing, got an image screen and all. Just hold, look at it and shoot. Great quality. So the wife said I should come down.”

“That’s terrific, Mr. Flanders. And the purpose of all this?” Frank looked at him inquiringly.

Realization spread over Flanders’s features. “Oh. I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I’m standing here rambling, have a tendency to do that, just ask the missus. Retired for a year. Never talked much at work. Assembly line at a processing plant. Like to talk now. Listen too. Spend a lot of time down at that little café over behind the bank. Good coffee and the muffins are the real thing, no low-fat stuff.”

Frank looked exasperated.

Flanders hurried on. “Well, I came down here to show you this. Give it to you, really. Kept a copy for myself of course.” He handed across the package.

Frank opened it and looked at the videocassette.

Flanders took off his cap, revealing a bald head with cottony tufts of hair clustered around his ears. He went on excitedly. “Got some really good shots, like I said. Like of the President and right when that fella was shot. Got all that. Jesus did I. I was following the President, you see. Ran me right into all the fireworks.”

Frank stared at the man.

“It’s all there, Lieutenant. For what it’s worth.” He looked at his watch. “Huh. I gotta go. Late for my lunch. Wife doesn’t like that.” He turned to leave. Seth Frank stared down at the cassette.

“Oh, Lieutenant. One more thing.”

“Yes.”

“If anything were to come from my tape, do you think they might use my name when they write about it?”

Frank shook his head. “Write about it?”

The old man looked excited. “Yeah. You know, the historians. They’d call it the Flanders Tape, wouldn’t they, or something like that. The Flanders Video maybe. You know like before.”

Frank wearily rubbed his temples. “Like before?”

“Yeah, Lieutenant. You know, like Zapruder with Kennedy.”

Frank’s face finally sagged in recognition. “I’ll be sure to let them know, Mr. Flanders. Just in case. For posterity.”

“There you go.” Flanders pointed a happy finger at him. “Posterity, I like that. Have a good one, Lieutenant.”

“Alan?”

Richmond absently motioned for Russell to come in and then looked down once again at the notebook in front of him. Finished, he closed it and looked at his Chief of Staff; his stare was impassive.

Russell hesitated, studying the carpet, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. Then she hurried across the room and fell rather than sat in one of the chairs.

“I’m not sure what to say to you, Alan. I realize my behavior was inexcusable, absolutely inappropriate, if I could plead temporary insanity I would.”

“So you’re not going to attempt to explain it away as being somehow in my best interests?” Richmond sat back in his chair, his eyes remained on Russell.

“No, I’m not. I’m here to offer my resignation.”

The President smiled. “Perhaps I did underestimate you, Gloria.”

He stood up, went around the desk and leaned against it, facing her. “On the contrary, your behavior was absolutely appropriate. If I had been in your position I would’ve done the same thing.”

She looked up at him. Her face betrayed her astonishment.

“Don’t misunderstand me, I expect loyalty, Gloria, like any leader. I do not, however, expect human beings to be anything more than that, meaning human, with all their associated weaknesses and survival instincts. We are, after all, animals. I have attained my position in life by never losing sight of the fact that the most important person in the world is myself. Whatever the situation, whatever the obstacle, I have never, never lost sight of that one simple truism. What you did that night displays that you also share that belief.”

“You know what I intended?”

“Of course I do. Gloria, I don’t condemn you for taking a situation and attempting to maximize its beneficial effect on you. My God, that’s the basis upon which this country and this city in particular are built.”

“But when Burton told you—”

Richmond held up one hand. “I admit I felt certain emotions that night. Betrayal perhaps foremost among them. But in the time since, I have concluded that what you did evidenced strength, not weakness, of character.”

Russell struggled to see where this was going. “Then may I correctly assume that you do not want my resignation?”

The President bent forward, took one of her hands. “I can’t recall you ever mentioning the word, Gloria. I can’t imagine breaking up our relationship after we’ve come to know each other so well. Shall we leave it at that?”

Russell rose to go. The President went back to his desk.

“Oh, Gloria. I do have a number of things I want to go over with you tonight. The family’s out of town. So perhaps we can work in my private quarters.”

Russell looked back at him.

“It might be a late night, Gloria. Better bring a change of clothes.” The President didn’t smile. His stare cut right through her, then he went back to his work.

Russell’s hand trembled as she closed the door.

Jack pounded on the door so hard he could feel the thick, polished wood cut into his knuckles.

The housekeeper opened the door but Jack shot through before she could say a word.

Jennifer Baldwin swept down the curved staircase and into the marbled entrance foyer. Dressed in yet another expensive evening gown, her hair tumbled down her shoulders framing significant cleavage. She was not smiling.

“Jack, what are you doing here?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“Jack, I have plans. This will have to wait.”

“No!” He grabbed her hand, looked around, pushed open a pair of carved doors and pulled her into the library, shutting the doors behind them.

She jerked her hand free. “Are you insane, Jack?”

He looked around the room with its huge bookcases and well-fed shelves of gilt-edged first editions. All for show, none of them had probably ever been opened. All for show.

“I’ve got one simple question for you to answer and then I’ll leave.”

“Jack—”

“One question. And then I’ll leave.”

She eyed him suspiciously, crossed her arms. “What is it?”

“Did you or did you not call my firm and tell them to fire Barry Alvis because he made me work the night we were at the White House?”

“Who told you that?”

“Just answer the question, Jenn.”

“Jack, why is this so important to you?”

“So you did have him fired?”

“Jack, I want you to stop thinking about that and start realizing the kind of future we’re going to have together. If we—”

“Answer the goddamned question!”

She exploded. “Yes! Yes I had the little shit fired. So what? He deserved it. He treated you as an inferior. And he was dead wrong. He was nothing. He played with fire and he got burned and I don’t feel the least bit sorry for him.” She looked at him without a trace of remorse.

Having heard the answer he expected to hear, Jack sat down in a chair and stared at the massive desk at the other end of the room. The high-backed, leather desk chair faced away from them. He looked at the original oils adorning the walls, the huge windows with perfectly pooled flowing drapes that probably cost more than he could even guess, the ornate woodwork, the omnipresent sculptures of metal and marble. The ceiling with yet another legion of medieval characters marching across it. The world of the Baldwins. Well they were welcome to it. He slowly closed his eyes.

Jennifer swept back her hair, looked at him, more than a hint of anxiousness in her eyes. She vacillated for a moment and then went to him, knelt beside him, touched his shoulder. The scent of her perfumed body cascaded over him. She spoke low, close to his face. Her breath tickled his ear.

“Jack, I told you before, you don’t have to put up with that sort of behavior. And now that this ridiculous murder case is out of the way we can go on with our lives. Our house is almost ready, it’s gorgeous, it really is. And we have wedding plans to finalize. Sweetheart, now everything can go back to normal.” She touched his face, turned it toward hers. She looked at him with her best pair of bedroom eyes and then she kissed him, long and deeply, letting her lips pull back slowly from his. Her eyes quickly searched his. She didn’t find what she was looking for.

“You’re right, Jenn. The ridiculous murder case is over. A man I respected and cared for got his brains blown apart. Case closed, time to move on. Got a fortune to build.”

“You know what I mean. You never should have involved yourself in that thing in the first place. It wasn’t your problem. If you would just open your eyes you’d realize that all of that was beneath you, Jack.”

“And hardly convenient for you, right?”

Jack abruptly stood up. He was more exhausted than anything else.

“Have a great life, Jenn. I’d say I’d see you around but I really can’t imagine that happening.” He started to leave.

She grabbed his sleeve. “Jack, will you please tell me what I did that was so awful?”

He hesitated and then confronted her.

“The fact that you even have to ask. Jesus Christ!” He shook his head wearily. “You took a man’s life, Jenn, a man you didn’t even know, and you destroyed it. And why did you do that? Because something he did to me ‘inconvenienced’ you. So you took ten years worth of a career and wiped it out. With one phone call. Never thinking about what it would do to him, his family. He could’ve blown his brains out, his wife could have divorced him for all you know. You didn’t care about that. You probably never even thought about that. And the bottom line is I could never love, I could never spend my life with someone who could do something like that. If you can’t understand that, if you really think what you did wasn’t wrong, then that’s all the more reason why we need to say good-bye right now. We might as well flesh out the irreconcilable differences before the wedding. Saves everybody a lot of time and trouble.”

He turned the handle on the door and smiled. “Everybody I know would probably tell me how crazy I am for doing this. That you’re the perfect woman, smart, rich, beautiful — and you are all of those things, Jenn. They’d say we’d have a perfect life together. That we’d have everything. How could we not be happy? But the thing is, I wouldn’t make you happy because I don’t care about the things you do. I don’t care about the millions in legal business, or houses the size of apartment buildings or cars that cost a year’s salary. I don’t like this house, I don’t like your lifestyle, I don’t like your friends. And I guess the bottom line is, I don’t like you. And right now I’m probably the only man on the planet who would say that. But I’m a pretty simple guy, Jenn, and the one thing I’d never do to you is lie. And let’s face it, in a couple of days, about a dozen guys a lot better suited to you than Jack Graham are going to be knocking on your door. You won’t be lonely.”

He looked at her and felt a grimace of pain as he observed the absolute astonishment on her face.

“For what it’s worth, anybody who asks, you dumped me. Not up to the Baldwin standard. Unworthy. Good-bye, Jenn.”

She still stood there several minutes after he left. A series of emotions competed for space across her face, none, in the end, winning out. Finally she fled the room. The sounds of her high heels against the marble floor disappeared as she hurried up the carpeted stairs.

For a few seconds more the library was quiet. Then the desk chair swung around and Ransome Baldwin eyed the doorway where his daughter had been standing.

Jack checked the peephole, half-expecting to see Jennifer Baldwin standing there with a gun. His eyebrows raised a notch when he saw who it was.

Seth Frank walked in, shrugged off his coat, and looked around appreciatively at Jack’s cluttered little apartment.

“Man, this brings back memories of another time in my life, I can tell you.”

“Let me guess. Delta House ’75. You were vice president in charge of bar operations.”

Frank grinned. “Closer to the truth than I’d care to admit. Enjoy it while you can, my friend. Without meaning to sound politically incorrect, a good woman will not allow you to continue such an existence.”

“Then I might be in luck.”

Jack disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a brace of Sam Adamses.

They settled into the furniture with their drinks.

“Trouble in wedded-bliss-to-be-land, counselor?”

“On a scale of one to ten, a one or a ten depending on your perspective.”

“Why am I thinking that it’s not the Baldwin gal that’s entirely gotten to you?”

“Don’t you ever stop being a detective?”

“Not if I can help it. You want to talk about it?”

Jack shook his head. “I might bend your ear another night, but not tonight.”

Frank shrugged. “Just let me know, I’ll bring the beer.”

Jack noticed the package on Frank’s lap. “Present?”

Frank took out the tape. “I’m assuming you’ve got a VCR under some of this junk?”

As the video came on Frank looked at Jack.

“Jack, this is definitely not G-rated. And I’m telling you up front, it shows everything including what happened to Luther. You up to it?”

Jack paused for a moment. “You think we might see something in here that’ll catch whoever did it?”

“That’s what I’m hoping. You knew him a lot better than I did. Maybe you’ll see something I don’t.”

“Then I’m up to it.”

Even forewarned, Jack was not prepared. Frank watched him closely as the moment grew closer. When the shot rang out he saw Jack involuntarily jerk back, his eyes wide in horror.

Frank cut off the video. “Hang in there, I warned you.”

Jack was slumped over in his chair. His breathing was irregular, his forehead clammy. His entire body shuddered for an instant and then he slowly came around. He wiped his forehead.

“Jesus Christ!”

Flanders’s passing remark to the Kennedy example had not been inappropriate. “We can stop right now, Jack.”

Jack’s lips set in a firm line. “The hell we can!”

Jack hit the rewind one more time. They had gone through the tape about a dozen times now. Watching his friend’s head virtually explode was not getting any easier to watch. The only mitigating factor was that Jack’s anger was increasing with each viewing.

Frank shook his head. “You know it’s too bad the guy wasn’t filming the other way. We might’ve gotten a flash from the shooter. I guess that would’ve been too easy. Hey you got any coffee? I have a hard time thinking without caffeine.”

“Got some pretty fresh stuff in the pot, you can bring me a cup. Dishes are over the sink.”

When Frank returned with the steaming cups, Jack had rewound the tape to a demonstrative Alan Richmond saying his piece on the impromptu stage outside the courthouse.

“That guy’s a dynamo.”

Frank looked at the screen. “I met him the other day.”

“Yeah? Me too. That was in my I’m-marrying-into-the-rich-and-famous-set days.”

“What’d you think of the guy?”

Jack gulped his coffee, reached for a bag of peanut butter crackers that lay on the couch, offered one to Frank, who took it and then put his feet up on the rickety coffee table. The detective was slipping easily back into the less-structured domain of bachelorhood.

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean he’s the President. I always thought he was presidential. What do you think of him?”

“Smart. Really smart. The kind of smart you want to be real careful not to get into a battle of wits with unless you’re real sure about your own abilities.”

“I guess it’s a good thing he’s on America’s side.”

“Yeah.” Frank looked back at the screen. “So anything grab your eye?”

Jack punched a button on the remote. “One thing. Check this out.” The video leapt forward. The figures jerked around like actors in a silent movie.

“Watch this.”

The screen showed Luther stepping out of the van. His eyes were turned toward the ground; the manacles were obviously making it difficult for him to walk. Suddenly, a column of people moved into the video, led by the President. Luther was partially obscured. Jack froze the flame.

“Look.”

Frank scrutinized the screen, absently munching peanut butter crackers and draining his coffee. He shook his head.

Jack looked at him. “Look at Luther’s face. You can see it right between the suits. Look at his face.”

Frank bent forward, almost touching the screen with his face. He recoiled, his eyes wide.

“Damn, looks like he’s saying something.”

“No, it looks like he’s saying something to somebody.”

Frank looked across at Jack. “You’re saying he’s recognized somebody, like maybe the guy who popped him?”

“Under the circumstances, I don’t think he’d just be making casual conversation with some stranger.”

Frank looked back at the screen, studying it intently. Finally he shook his head. “We’re going to need some special talents on this.” He rose. “Come on.”

Jack grabbed his coat. “Where to?”

Frank smiled as he rewound the tape and then put on his hat.

“Well first I’m gonna buy us some dinner. I’m married, and I’m also older and fatter than you. Consequently, crackers for dinner don’t cut it. Then we’re going down to the station. I’ve got somebody I want you to meet.”

Two hours later Seth Frank and Jack walked into the Middleton Police Station, their bellies lined with surf and turf and a couple slices of pecan pie. Laura Simon was in the lab; the equipment was already set up.

After introductions, Laura popped the tape in. The images sprung to life on a forty-six-inch screen in the corner of the lab. Frank fast-forwarded to the appropriate spot.

“There,” Jack pointed, “right there.”

Frank froze the tape.

Laura sat at a keyboard and typed in a series of commands. On the screen, the part of the frame containing Luther’s image was blocked out and then magnified in increasingly large degrees, like a balloon being blown up. This process continued until Luther’s face seemed to span the entire forty-six inches.

“That’s as far as I can take it.” Laura spun her chair around and nodded to Frank. He pushed a button on the remote and the screen again came to life.

The audio was choppy; screams, shouts, traffic noise and the blended sounds of hundreds of people served to make what Luther was saying incomprehensible. They watched as his lips moved open and closed.

“He’s pissed. Whatever he’s saying he is not happy.” Frank pulled out a cigarette, got a dirty look from Simon and put it back in his pocket.

“Anybody read lips?” Laura looked at each of them.

Jack stared at the screen. What the hell was Luther saying? The look on his face. Jack had seen that once before, if he could only remember when. It had been recently, he was sure of it.

“You see something we don’t?” Frank asked. Jack looked over to see Frank staring at him.

Jack shook his head, rubbed his face. “I don’t know. There’s something there, I just can’t place it.”

Frank nodded to Simon to cut off the equipment. He stood up and stretched. “Well, sleep on it. Anything comes to you, let me know. Thanks for coming in, Laura.”

The two men walked out together. Frank glanced over at Jack, then reached across and felt behind his neck. “Jesus, you are a stress grenade ready to explode.”

“Christ, I don’t know why I should be. The woman I was supposed to marry I’m not, the woman I wanted to marry just told me to get out of her life, and I’m reasonably sure I’m not going to have a job in the morning. Oh, not to mention, someone murdered a person I cared a lot about and we’re probably never going to find out who it is. Hell, my life couldn’t get any more perfect, could it?”

“Well, maybe you’re due for some good luck.”

Jack unlocked his Lexus. “Yeah, hey if you know anyone who wants an almost-brand-new car, let me know.”

Frank’s eyes twinkled as he looked at Jack. “Sorry, nobody I know could afford it.”

Jack smiled back. “Me either.”

Driving back, Jack looked at his car clock. It was almost midnight. He passed the offices of Patton, Shaw, looked up at the stretch of darkened offices and wheeled his car around, turning into the garage. He slid his security card in, waved to the security camera posted outside the garage door, and a few minutes later was in the elevator heading up.

He didn’t know exactly why he was here. His days at Patton, Shaw were now clearly numbered. Without Baldwin as a client, Kirksen would ride him out on a rail. He felt a little sorry for Lord. He had promised the man protection. But he wasn’t going to marry Jennifer Baldwin simply to ensure Lord’s mammoth draw check. And the man had lied to him about Barry Alvis’s departure from the firm. But Lord would land on his feet. Jack hadn’t been kidding about his faith in the man’s resiliency. A number of firms would snap him up in a New York minute. Lord’s future was far more assured than Jack’s.

The elevator doors opened and Jack stepped into the firm’s lobby. The wall lights were on low and the shadowy effect would have been a little unnerving if he hadn’t been so completely preoccupied with his thoughts. He walked down the hallway toward his office, stopped at the kitchen and grabbed a glass of soda. Ordinarily, even at midnight, there were a few people beating their brains out over some impossible deadline. Tonight there was only stone-cold silence.

Jack turned on his light and closed his office door. He looked around at the domain of his personal partnership. His kingdom, if only for another day. It was impressive. The furniture was tastefully expensive, the carpet and wall coverings luxurious. He went down his line of diplomas. Some hard-earned, others freebies that you got for just being a lawyer. He noticed that the scattered papers had been picked up, the work of the meticulous and sometimes overzealous cleaning crew who were used to attorney sloppiness and the occasional full-blown tantrum.

He sat down, leaned back in his chair. The soft leather was more comfortable than his bed. He could visualize Jennifer talking with her father. Ransome Baldwin’s face would flame red at what he would perceive as an unforgivable insult to his precious little girl. The man would lift the phone tomorrow morning and Jack’s corporate career would be over.

And Jack couldn’t have cared less. His only regret was not instigating that result sooner. Hopefully PD would take him back. That was where he belonged anyway. No one could stop him from doing that. No, his real troubles had started when he had tried being something and someone he wasn’t. He would never make that mistake again.

His attention shifted to Kate. Where would she go? Had she really been serious about quitting her job? Jack recalled the fatalistic look on her face and concluded that, yes, she had been quite serious. He had pleaded with her once more. Just like four years before. Pleaded with her not to go, not to leave his life again. But there was something there he could not break through. Maybe it was the enormous guilt she carried. Maybe she simply did not love him. Had he ever really addressed that possibility? The fact was he hadn’t. Consciously had not. The possible answer scared the hell out of him. But what did it matter now?

Luther dead; Kate leaving. His life hadn’t really changed all that much, despite all the recent activity. The Whitneys were finally, irreversibly, gone from him.

He looked at the pink pile of messages on his desk. All routine. Then he hit a button on his phone to check his voice mail, which he hadn’t done in a couple of days. Patton, Shaw let their clients have their choice of the antiquated written phone message or the technologically advanced voice mail. The more demanding clients loved the latter. At least then they didn’t have to wait to scream at you.

There were two calls from Tarr Crimson. He would find Tarr another lawyer. Patton, Shaw was too expensive for him anyway. There were several Baldwin-related matters. Right. Those could wait for the next guy Jennifer Baldwin set her laser sights on. The last message jolted him. It was a woman’s voice. Small, hesitant, elderly, clearly uncomfortable with the concept of voice mail. Jack played it back again.

“Mr. Graham, you don’t know me. My name is Edwina Broome. I was a friend of Luther Whitney.” Broome? The name was familiar. The message continued. “Luther told me that if anything happened to him I was to wait a little bit and then I was to send the package on to you. He told me not to open it and I didn’t. He said it was like a Pandora’s box. If you looked you might get hurt. God rest his soul, he was a good man, Luther was. I hadn’t heard from you, not that I expected to. But it just occurred to me that I should call and make sure that you got the thing. I’ve never had to send something like that before, overnight delivery they call it. And I think I did it right, but I don’t know. If you didn’t get it, please call me. Luther said it was very important. And Luther never said anything that wasn’t true.”

Jack listened to the phone number and wrote it down. He checked the time of the call. Yesterday morning. He quickly searched his office. There was no package lurking there. He jogged down the hallway to his secretary’s workstation. There was no package there either. He went back to his office. My God, a package from Luther. Edwina Broome? He put his hand through his hair, assaulted his scalp, forced himself to think. Suddenly the name came to him. The mother of the woman who had killed herself. Frank had told him about her. Luther’s alleged partner.

Jack picked up the phone. It seemed to ring for an eternity.

“H-hello?” The voice was sleepy, distant.

“Mrs. Broome? This is Jack Graham. I’m sorry for calling you so late.”

“Mr. Graham?” The voice was no longer sleepy. It was alert, sharp. Jack could almost envision her sitting up in bed, clutching at her nightgown, looking anxiously at the phone receiver.

“I’m sorry, I just got your message. I didn’t get the package, Mrs. Broome. When did you send it?”

“Let me think for a minute.” Jack could hear the labored breathing. “Why it was five days ago, counting today.”

Jack thought furiously. “Do you have the receipt with a number on it?”

“The man gave me a piece of paper. I’ll have to go get it.”

“I’ll wait.”

He tapped his fingers against his desk, tried to stop his mind from flying apart. Just hold on, Jack. Just hold on.

“I’ve got it right here, Mr. Graham.”

“Please call me Jack. Did you send it by Federal Express?”

“That’s right. Yes.”

“All right, what’s the tracking number?”

“The what?”

“I’m sorry. The number on the upper-right-hand corner of the piece of paper. It should be a long series of numbers.”

“Oh yes.” She gave it to him. He scribbled the numbers down, read them back to her to confirm it. He also had her confirm the address of the law firm.

“Jack, is this very serious? I mean Luther dying the way he did and all.”

“Has anyone called you, anyone you don’t know? Besides me?”

“No.”

“Well if they do I want you to call Seth Frank, Middleton Police Department.”

“I know him.”

“He’s a good guy, Mrs. Broome. You can trust him.”

“All right, Jack.”

He hung up and phoned Federal Express. He could hear the computer keys clicking on the other end of the line.

The female voice was professional and concise. “Yes, Mr. Graham, it was delivered at the law offices of Patton, Shaw & Lord on Thursday at ten-oh-two A.M. and signed for by a Ms. Lucinda Alvarez.”

“Thank you. I guess it’s around here somewhere.” Bewildered, he was about to hang up.

“Has there been some special problem with this package delivery, Mr. Graham?”

Jack looked puzzled. “Special problem? No, why?”

“Well, when I pulled up the delivery history of this package it shows that we already had an inquiry about it earlier today.”

Jack’s whole body tensed. “Earlier today? What time?”

“Six-thirty P.M.”

“Did they leave a name?”

“Well, that’s the unusual part. According to my records, that person also identified himself as Jack Graham.” Her tone made it clear she was far from certain of Jack’s real identity.

Jack felt a chill invade every part of his body.

He slowly hung up the phone. Somebody else was very interested in this package, whatever it was. And someone knew it was coming to him. His hands were shaking as he picked up the phone again. He quickly dialed Seth Frank, but the detective had gone home. The person would not give out Frank’s home phone, and Jack had left that number back at his apartment. After some prodding by Jack the person tried the detective’s home, but there was no answer. He swore under his breath. A quick call to directory assistance was useless; the home number was nonpub.

Jack leaned back in his chair, the breaths coming a little more rapidly. He felt his chest where his heart suddenly threatened to explode through his shirt. He had always considered himself a possessor of above-average courage. Now he wasn’t so sure.

He forced himself to focus. The package had been delivered. Lucinda had signed for it. The routine at Patton, Shaw was precise; mail was vitally important to law firms. All overnight packages would be given to the firm’s in-house gofer team to be distributed with the day’s other mail. They brought it around in a cart. They all knew where Jack’s office was. Even if they didn’t, the firm printed out a map that was routinely updated. So long as you used the correct map...

Jack raced to the door, flung it open and sprinted down the hallway. Completely unbeknownst to him, around the corner, in the opposite direction, a light had just come on in Sandy Lord’s office.

Jack clicked on the light in his old office and the room quickly came into focus. He frantically searched the desktop, then pulled out the chair to sit down and his eyes came to rest on the package. Jack picked it up. He instinctively looked around, noted the open blinds and hurriedly shut them.

He read the package label: Edwina Broome to Jack Graham. This was it. The package was boxy, but light. It was a box within a box, that’s what she had said. He started to open it, then stopped. They knew the package had been delivered here. They? That was the only label he could think to apply. If they knew the package was here, had in fact called about it this very day, what would they do? If whatever was inside was that important and it had already been opened, presumably they would already know about it. Since that hadn’t happened, what would they do?

Jack sprinted back down the hallway to his office, the package held tightly under his arm. He flung on his coat, grabbed his car keys off his desk, almost knocking over his half-empty glass of soda, and turned to go out. He stopped cold.

A noise. He couldn’t tell from where; the sound seemed to echo softly down the hallway, like water lapping through a tunnel. It wasn’t the elevator. He was sure he would have heard the elevator. But would he really? It was a big place. The background noise produced by that mode of transportation was so everyday, would he have even noticed it? And he had been on the phone, all his attention had been so concentrated. The truth was he couldn’t be sure. Besides it might just be one of the firm’s attorneys, dropping in to work or pick up something. All his instincts told him that conclusion was the wrong one. But this was a secure building. But then again how secure could any public building be? He softly closed his office door.

There it was again. His ears strained to pick up its location without success. Whoever it was, they were moving slowly, stealthily. No one who worked here would do that. He inched over to the wall and turned off the light, waited for an instant and then carefully opened the door.

He peered out. The hallway was clear. But for how long? His tactical problem was obvious. The firm’s office space was configured such that if he started down one way he was more or less committed to that path. And he would be totally exposed, the hallways were absolutely devoid of furnishings. If he met whoever it was going that way, he wouldn’t have a chance.

A practical consideration struck him and he looked around the darkness of his office. His gaze finally fell upon a heavy, granite paperweight, one of the many knickknacks he had received upon making partner. It could do some real damage if wielded properly. And Jack was confident he could do so. If he was going down he wouldn’t make it easy for them. That fatalist approach helped to stiffen his resolve and he waited another few seconds before venturing out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Whoever it was probably would have to make a door-to-door search to find his office.

He crouched low as he came to a corner. Now he desperately wished the office was in total darkness. He took a deep breath and peered around. The way was clear, at least for now. He thought quickly. If there was more than one intruder, they would probably split up, cut their search time in half. Would they even know if he was in the building? Maybe he had been followed here. That thought was especially troubling. They might even at this moment be circling him, coming from both ways.

The sounds were closer now. Footsteps — he could make out at least one pair. His hearing was now raised to its highest level of acuteness. He could almost make out the person’s breathing, or at least he imagined he could. He had to make a choice. And his eyes finally fell upon something on the wall, something that gleamed back at him: the fire alarm.

As he was about to make a run for it, a leg came around the corner at the other end of the hallway. Jack jerked back, not waiting for the rest of the body to catch up with the limb. He walked as swiftly as he could in the opposite direction. He turned the corner, made his way down the hall, and came to a stairwell door. He jerked it open and a loud creak hit him full in the face.

He heard the sounds of running feet.

“Shit!” Jack slammed the door closed behind him and clattered down the stairs.

A man hurtled around the corner. A black ski mask covered his face. A pistol was in his right hand.

An office door opened and Sandy Lord, dressed in his undershirt, with his pants halfway off, stumbled out and accidentally plowed into the man. They went down hard. Lord’s flailing hands instinctively gripped the mask, pulling it off.

Lord rolled to his knees, sucking in blood from his battered nose.

“What the goddamn hell is going on? Who the hell are you?” Lord angrily looked eye-to-eye with the man. Then Lord saw the gun and froze.

Tim Collin looked back at him, shaking his head half in disbelief, half in disgust. There was no way around it now. He raised his gun.

“Jesus Christ! Please no!” Lord wailed and fell back.

The gun fired and blood spurted from the very center of the undershirt. Lord gasped once, his eyes glazed and his body landed back against the door. It fell the rest of the way open to reveal the nearly naked figure of the young legislative liaison, who stared in shock at the dead lawyer. Collin swore under his breath. He looked at her. She knew what was coming, he could see it in the terror-filled eyes.

Wrong place, wrong time. Sorry lady.

His gun exploded a second time and the impact knocked her slender body back into the room. Her legs splayed, her fingers clenched, she stared blankly at the ceiling; her night of pleasure turned abruptly into her last night on earth.

Bill Burton ran up to his kneeling partner and surveyed the carnage with incredulity, which was quickly replaced with anger.

“Are you fucking crazy!” he exploded.

“They saw my face, what the hell was I supposed to do? Make them promise not to tell? Fuck it!”

Both men’s nerves were at their breaking point. Collin gripped his gun hard.

“Where is he? Was it Graham?” Burton demanded.

“I think so. He went down the fire stairs.”

“So he’s gone.”

Collin looked at him and then stood up. “Not yet. I didn’t waste two people just so he could get away.” He started to take off. Burton grabbed him.

“Give me your gun, Tim.”

“Goddammit, Bill, are you nuts?”

Burton shook his head, pulled out his piece and handed it to him. He took Collin’s weapon.

“Now go get him. I’ll try to do some damage control here.”

Collin ran to the door and then disappeared down the stairs.

Burton looked at the two dead bodies. He recognized Sandy Lord and sucked in his breath sharply. “Goddamn. Goddamn,” he said again. He turned and went quickly to Jack’s office. Trailing his sprinting partner, he had found it right at the moment the first shot rang out. He opened the door and turned on the light. He surveyed the interior quickly. The guy would have the package with him. That was clear. Richmond had been right about Edwina Broome’s involvement. Whitney had entrusted her with the package. Shit, they had been so close. Who knew Graham or anybody else would be here this late?

He made another sweep of the room’s contents with his eyes. They went past and slowly came back to the desk. His plan came together in a few seconds. Finally, something might be going their way. He moved toward the desk.

Jack reached the first floor and yanked on the doorknob. It didn’t budge. His heart sank. They had had trouble with this before. Routine fire drills and the doors had been locked. The building management said they had fixed the problem. Right! Only now their mistake could cost him his life. And not from any inferno.

He looked back up the stairs. They were coming fast, silence was no longer an issue. Jack raced back up the stairs to the second floor, prayed silently before he grabbed the knob and a rush of relief swept over him as it turned in his sweating hand. He turned the corner, hit the elevator bank, pushed the button. He checked his backside, ran to the far corner and crouched down out of sight.

Come on! He could hear the elevator heading up. But then an awful thought ran through his mind. Whoever was following him could be on that elevator. Could have figured what Jack would try to do and attempt to checkmate him.

The car halted on his floor. At the instant the doors opened Jack heard the fire door smash against the wall. He jumped for the car, slid in between the doors and crashed against the back of the elevator. He leapt up and hit the button for the garage.

Jack felt the presence immediately, the slightly elevated breathing. He saw a flash of black, then the gun. He hurled the paperweight, and threw himself into the corner.

He heard a grunt of pain as the doors finally closed.

He ran through the dark underground parking garage, found his car and a few moments later he was through the automatic door and hit the accelerator. The car raced up the street. Jack looked back. Nothing. He looked at himself in the mirror. His face was drenched with sweat. His entire body was one large knot. He rubbed his shoulder where he had slammed into the elevator wall. Jesus, that had been so close. So close.

As he drove he wondered where he could go. They knew him, knew all about him it seemed. He clearly couldn’t go home. Where then? The police? No. Not until he knew who was after him. Who had been able to kill Luther despite all the cops. Who seemed to always know what the cops knew. For tonight he would stay someplace in town. He had his credit cards. In the morning, first thing in the morning, he would hook up with Frank. Everything would be okay then. He eyed the box. But tonight he would see what had almost cost him his life.

Russell lay underneath the sheets. Richmond had just finished on top of her. And without a word he had climbed off and left the room, her sole purpose brutally fulfilled. She rubbed her wrists where he had clenched them. She could feel the abrasions. Her breasts hurt where he had mauled them. Burton’s warning came back to her. Christine Sullivan, too, had been mangled, and not just by the agents’ bullets.

She slowly moved her head back and forth, fought to hold back the tears. She had wanted this so badly. Had wanted Alan Richmond to make love to her; she had imagined it would be so romantic, so idyllic. Two intelligent, powerful and dynamic people. The perfect couple. How wonderful it should have been. And then the vision of the man startled her back to reality; pounding away at her, with no more emotion on his features than if he had been masturbating alone in the toilet with the latest Penthouse. He had never even kissed her; had never even spoken. He had just pulled off her clothes as soon as she came in the bedroom, sunk his hardened flesh into her and now he was gone. It had all taken barely ten minutes. And now she was alone. Chief of Staff! Chief Whore more like it.

She wanted to scream out I fucked you! You bastard! I fucked you in that room that night and there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it you sonofabitch.

Her tears wet the pillow and she cursed herself for breaking down and crying yet again. She had been so sure of her abilities, so confident that she could control him. God, she had been so wrong. The man had people killed. Walter Sullivan. Walter Sullivan had been killed, murdered, with the knowledge, indeed the blessing, of the President of the United States. When Richmond had told her she couldn’t believe it. He said he wanted to keep her fully informed. Fully terrified was more like it. She had no idea what he was up to now. She was no longer a central part of this campaign and she thanked God that she wasn’t.

She sat up in bed, pulled the ripped nightgown over her quivering body. Shame rocked her again, momentarily. Of course she was now his personal whore. And his consideration for that was his unspoken promise not to crush her. But was that all? Was that really all?

She huddled the blanket around her and looked into the darkness of the room. She was an accomplice. But she was also something more. She was a witness. Luther Whitney had also been a witness. And now he was dead. And Richmond had calmly ordered the execution of one of his oldest and dearest friends. If he could do that, what was her life worth? The answer to that question was shockingly clear.

She bit into her hand until it hurt. She looked at the doorway through which he had disappeared. Was he in there? in the dark, listening? thinking about what to do with her? A cold shudder of fear grabbed her and did not leave. She was caught. For once in her life she had no options. She wasn’t sure if she would even survive.

Jack dropped the box on the bed, took off his coat, looked out the window of his hotel room and then sat down. He was pretty sure he hadn’t been followed. He had gotten out of the building so fast. He had remembered, at the last minute, to ditch his car. He didn’t really know who was pursuing him, but he assumed they were sophisticated enough to trace his car’s whereabouts.

He checked his watch. The cab had dropped him off at the hotel barely fifteen minutes ago. It was a nondescript place, a hotel where tourists on the cheap would stay and then wander around the city to get their fill of the country’s history before heading back home. It was out of the way but then he wanted out of the way.

Jack looked at the box and then decided he had waited long enough. A few seconds later he had it open and was staring at the object inside the plastic bag.

A knife? He looked at it more closely. No, it was a letter opener, one of the old-fashioned kind. He held the bag by its ends and examined the object minutely. He wasn’t a trained forensic specialist, and thus he didn’t register that the black crustings on the handle and blade were actually very old, dried blood. Nor was he aware of the fingerprints that existed within the leather.

He lay the bag carefully down and leaned back in the chair. This had something to do with the woman’s murder. Of that he was certain. But what? He looked at it again. This was obviously an important piece of physical evidence. It hadn’t been the murder weapon; Christine Sullivan had been shot. But Luther had thought it critically important.

Jack jerked straight up. Because it identified who had killed Christine Sullivan! He grabbed the bag and held it up to the light, his eyes searching every inch of space. Now he could dimly make them out, like a swirl of black threads. Prints. This had the person’s fingerprints on it. Jack looked at the blade closely. Blood. On the handle too. It had to be. What had Frank said? He struggled to recall. Sullivan had possibly stabbed her attacker. In the arm or the leg with a letter opener, the one in the bedroom photo. At least that was one of the detective’s theories he had shared with Jack. What Jack held in his hand seemed to bear that analysis out.

He carefully placed the bag back into the box and slid it under the bed.

He went over to the window and again looked out. The wind had picked up. The cheap window rattled and shook.

If only Luther would have told him, confided in him. But he was scared for Kate. How had they made Luther believe Kate was in danger?

He thought back. Luther had received nothing while in prison, Jack was certain of that. So what then? Had whoever it was just walked up to Luther and told him flat out: talk and your daughter dies? How would they even know he had a daughter? The two hadn’t been in the same room with each other for years.

Jack lay down on the bed, closed his eyes. No, he was wrong about that. There was one time when that would have been possible. The day they had arrested Luther. That would be the only time that father and daughter would have been together. It was possible that, without saying anything, someone could have made it crystal-clear to Luther, with just a look, nothing more. Jack had handled cases that had been dismissed because witnesses were afraid to testify. No one had ever said anything to them. It was solely intimidation by the unspoken word. A silent terror, there was nothing new about that.

So who would’ve been there to do that? To deliver the message that had made Luther shut up like his mouth was stapled closed? But the only people who were there, as far as Jack knew, were the cops. Unless it was the person who had taken a shot at Luther. But why would he hang around? How could that person just waltz into the place, walk up to Luther, make eye contact, without anyone becoming suspicious?

Jack’s eyes shot open.

Unless that person were a cop. His immediate thought hit him hard in the chest.

Seth Frank.

He dismissed it quickly. There was no motive there, not a scintilla of motive. For the life of him he couldn’t imagine the detective and Christine Sullivan in any type of tryst and that’s what this boiled down to, didn’t it? Sullivan’s lover had killed her and Luther had seen the whole thing. It couldn’t be Seth Frank. He hoped to God it wasn’t Seth Frank because he was counting on the man to get him out of this mess. But what if tomorrow morning Jack would be delivering the very thing Frank had been desperately searching for? He could have dropped it, left the room, Luther comes out of his hiding place, picks it up and flees. It was possible. And the place sanitized so clean a pro had to be behind it. A pro. An experienced homicide detective who knew exactly how to cleanse a crime scene.

Jack shook his head. No! Dammit no! He had to believe in something, someone. It had to be something else. Someone else. It had to be. He was just tired. His attempts at deduction were becoming ludicrous. Seth Frank was no murderer.

He closed his eyes again. For now he believed he was safe. A few minutes later he fell into an uneasy sleep.

The morning was refreshingly cold, the close, trapped air expunged by the storm of the night before.

Jack was already up; he had slept in his clothes and they looked it. He washed his face in the small bathroom, smoothed down his hair, cut the light off and went back into the bedroom. He sat on the bed and looked at his watch. Frank would not be in yet, but it wouldn’t be long now. He pulled the box from under the bed, laid it beside him. It felt like a time bomb next to him.

He flicked on the small color TV that sat in the corner of the room. The early-morning local news was on. The perky blonde, no doubt aided by substantial amounts of caffeine as she waited for her break into prime time, was recounting the top stories.

Jack expected to see the litany of various world trouble spots. The Middle East was good for at least a minute each morning. Maybe Southern California had had another quake. The President fighting the Congress.

But there was only one top story this morning. Jack leaned forward as a place he knew very well flashed across the screen.

Patton, Shaw & Lord. The lobby of PS&L. What was the woman saying? People dead? Sandy Lord murdered? Gunned down in his office? Jack leaped across the room and turned up the volume. He watched with increasing astonishment as twin gurneys were wheeled out of the building. A picture of Lord flashed into the upper-right-hand corner of the TV screen. His distinguished career was briefly recounted. But he was dead, unmistakably dead. In his office, someone had shot him.

Jack fell back on the bed. Sandy had been there last night? But who was the other person? The other one under that sheet? He didn’t know. Couldn’t know that. But he believed he knew what had happened. The man after him, the man with the gun. Lord must have run into him, somehow. They were after Jack and Lord had walked right into it.

He turned off the TV and went back into the bathroom and ran cold water over his face. His hands shook, his throat had dried up. He could not believe that this had all happened. So quickly. It had not been his fault, but Jack could not help feeling enormously guilty for his partner’s death. Guilty, like Kate had felt. It was a crushing emotion.

He grabbed the phone and dialed.

Seth Frank had been at his office for an hour already. A contact from D.C. Homicide had tipped him to the twin slayings at the law firm. Frank had no idea if they were connected to Sullivan. But there was a common denominator. A common denominator that had given him a throbbing headache and it was barely seven in the morning.

His direct line rang. He picked it up, his eyebrows arched in semidisbelief.

“Jack, where the hell are you?”

There was a hard edge in the detective’s tone that Jack had not expected to hear.

“Good morning to you too.”

“Jack, do you know what’s happened?”

“I just saw it on the news. I was there last night, Seth. They were after me; I don’t know exactly how but Sandy must’ve walked into it and they killed him.”

“Who? Who killed him?”

“I don’t know! I was at the office, I heard a noise. The next thing I know I’m being chased through the building by someone with a gun and I barely get out of there with my head intact. Do the police have any leads?”

Frank took a deep breath. The story sounded so fantastic. He believed in Jack, trusted him. But who could be absolutely certain about anyone these days?

“Seth? Seth?”

Frank bit on his nail, thinking furiously. Depending on what he did next one of two totally different events would take place. He momentarily thought of Kate Whitney. The trap he had laid for her and her father. He had still not gotten over that. He might be a cop, but he had been a human being long before that. He trusted he still had some decent human qualities left.

“Jack, the police do have one lead, a real good lead in fact.”

“Okay, what is it?”

Frank paused, then said, “It’s you, Jack. You’re the lead. You’re the guy the entire District police force is combing the city for right this very minute.”

The phone slowly slid down from Jack’s hand. The blood seemed to have ceased flowing through his body.

“Jack? Jack, goddammit talk to me.” The words of the detective did not register.

Jack looked out the window. Out there were people who wanted to kill him and people who wanted to arrest him for murder.

“Jack!”

Finally, with an effort, Jack spoke. “I didn’t kill anybody, Seth.”

The words were spoken as though they were spilling down a drain, about to be washed away.

Frank heard what he desperately wanted to hear. It wasn’t the words — guilty people almost always lied — it was the tone with which they were spoken. Despair, disbelief, horror all rolled into one.

“I believe you, Jack,” Frank said quietly.

“What the hell’s going on, Seth?”

“From what I’ve been told the cops have you on tape going into the garage at around midnight. Apparently Lord and a ladyfriend of his were there before you.”

“I never saw them.”

“Well, I’m not sure that you necessarily would have.” He shook his head and continued. “Seems they were found not completely clothed, especially the woman. I guess they had just finished doing it when they bought it.”

“Oh God!”

“And again they have you on the video blowing out of the garage apparently right after they were killed.”

“But what about the gun? Did they find the gun?”

“They did. In a trash Dumpster inside the garage.”

“And?”

“And your prints were on the gun, Jack. They were the only ones on the gun. After they saw you on the videotape, the D.C. cops accessed your fingerprints from the Virginia State Bar file. A nine-point hit I’m told.”

Jack slumped down in the chair.

“I never touched any gun, Seth. Somebody tried to kill me and I ran. I hit the guy, with a paperweight I pulled off my desk. That’s all I know.” He paused. “What do I do now?”

Frank knew that question was coming. In all honesty he wasn’t sure what to answer. Technically, the man he was speaking to was wanted for murder. As a law enforcement officer, his action should have been absolutely clear, only it wasn’t.

“Wherever you are I want you to stay put. I’m gonna check this out. But don’t, under any circumstances, go anywhere. Call me back in three hours. Okay?”

Jack hung up and pondered the matter. The police wanted him for murdering two people. His fingerprints were all over a weapon he had never even touched. He was a fugitive from justice. He smiled wearily, then he stiffened slightly. A fugitive. And he had just hung up from talking to a policeman. Frank hadn’t asked where he was. But they could have traced the call. They could have done that easily. Only Frank wouldn’t do that. But then Jack thought about Kate.

Cops never told the whole truth. The detective had suckered Kate. Then he had felt sorry about it, or at least he had said he had.

A siren blared outside and Jack’s heart stopped for an instant. He raced to the window and looked out but the patrol car kept on going until the flashing lights disappeared.

But they might be coming. They might be coming for him right now. He grabbed his coat and put it on. Then he looked down at the bed.

The box.

He had never even told Frank about the damned thing. The most important thing in his life last night, now it had taken a back seat to something else.

“Aren’t you busy enough out there in the boonies?” Craig Miller was a D.C. homicide detective of long standing. Big, with thick, wavy black hair and a face that betrayed his love of fine whiskey. Frank had known him for years. Their relationship was one of friendship and the shared belief that murder must always be punished.

“Never too busy to come over to see if you ever got any good at this detective stuff,” Frank replied, a wry grin on his face.

Miller smiled. They were in Jack’s office. The crime unit was just finishing up.

Frank looked around the spacious interior. Jack was a long way from this kind of life now, he thought to himself.

Miller looked at him, a thought registering. “This Graham fellow, he was involved in the Sullivan case out your way, wasn’t he?”

Frank nodded. “The suspect’s defense counsel.”

“That’s right! Man, that’s a pretty big swing. Defense counsel to future defendant.” Miller smiled.

“Who found the bodies?”

“Housekeeper. She gets in around four in the morning.”

“So any motive work its way through that big head of yours?”

Miller eyed his friend. “Come on. It’s eight o’clock in the morning. You drove all the way in here from the middle of nowhere to pick my brain. What’s up?”

Frank shrugged. “I don’t know. I got to know the guy during the case. Surprised the shit out of me to see his face on the morning news. I don’t know, it just stuck in my gut.”

Miller eyed him closely for another few seconds and then decided not to pursue it.

“The motive, it seems, is pretty clear. Walter Sullivan was the deceased’s biggest client. This fellow Graham, without talking to anybody at the firm, jumps in and represents the dude accused of murdering the guy’s wife. That, obviously, didn’t sit too well with Lord. Apparently, the two had a meeting at Lord’s place. Maybe they tried to work things out, maybe they just made things worse.”

“How’d you get all the inside scoop?”

“Managing partner of the place.” Miller flipped open his notebook. “Daniel J. Kirksen. He was real helpful on all the background shit.”

“So how does that lead to Graham coming in here to pop two people?”

“I didn’t say it was premeditated. The video time tables show pretty clearly that the deceased was here several hours before Graham showed up.”

“So?”

“So the two don’t know the other’s here, or maybe Graham sees Lord’s office light on when he’s driving by. It overlooks the street, it’d be easy enough to see someone in the office.”

“Yeah, except if the man and woman were getting it on, I’m not sure they’d be showcasing it to the rest of the city. The blinds were probably down.”

“Right, but come on, Lord wasn’t in the best of shape so I doubt if they were doing it the whole time. In fact the office light was on when they were found and the blinds were partially open. Anyway, accidental or not, the two run into each other here. The argument is rekindled. The feelings accelerate, maybe threats are made. And bam. Heat of the moment. It could be it was Lord’s gun. They struggle. Graham gets the piece away from the old guy. Shot’s fired. Woman sees it all, she has to eat a round too. All over in a few seconds.”

Frank shook his head. “Excuse me for saying so, Craig, but that sounds awfully farfetched.”

“Oh yeah? Well we got the guy blowing out of here white as a sheet. The camera got a clear shot of him. I’ve seen it, there was no blood left in the guy’s face, Seth, I’m telling you.”

“How come Security didn’t come and check things out then?”

Miller laughed. “Security? Shit. Half the time those guys aren’t even looking at the monitors. They got a tape backup you’re lucky if they even review on any consistent basis. Let me tell you it is not hard to get into one of these office buildings after hours.”

“So maybe somebody did.”

Miller shook his head, grinning. “Don’t think so, Seth. That’s your problem. You look for a complicated answer when the simple one’s staring you in the face.”

“So where did this gun mysteriously appear from?”

“A lot of people keep guns stashed in their office.”

“A lot? Like how many is a lot, Craig?”

“You’d be surprised, Seth.”

“Maybe I would!” Frank shot back.

Miller looked puzzled. “Why do you have such a bug up your ass about this?”

Frank didn’t look at his friend. He stared over at the desk.

“I don’t know. Like I said, I got to know the guy. He didn’t seem like the type. So his prints were on the weapon?”

“Two perfect hits. Right thumb and index. Never seen clearer ones.”

Something in his friend’s words jolted Frank. He was looking at the desk. The highly polished surface had been defaced. The small water ring was clearly visible.

“So where’s the glass?”

“What’s that?”

Frank pointed to the mark. “The glass that left that mark. Have you got it?”

Miller shrugged and then chuckled. “I haven’t checked the dishwasher in the kitchen, if that’s what you’re asking. Be my guest.”

Miller turned to sign off on a report. Frank took the opportunity to check out the desk more closely. In the middle of the desk was a slight dust ring. Something had been there. Square in shape, about three inches across. The paperweight. Frank smiled.

A few minutes later Seth Frank walked down the hallway. The gun had perfect prints on it. Too perfect more like it. Frank had also seen the weapon and the police report on it. A .44 caliber, serial numbers obliterated, untraceable. Just like the weapon found next to Walter Sullivan.

Frank had to allow himself a smile. He had been right in what he had done, or more accurately, what he had not done.

Jack Graham had been telling the truth. He hadn’t killed anybody.

“You know, Burton, I’m becoming a little tired of having to devote so much time and attention to this matter. I do have a country to run in case you’ve forgotten.” Richmond sat in a chair in the Oval Office in front of a blazing fire. His eyes were closed; his fingers formed a tight pyramid.

Before Burton could respond, the President continued. “Instead of having the object back safely in our possession, you have managed only to contribute two more entries to the city’s homicide fiasco, and Whitney’s defense attorney is out there somewhere with possibly the evidence to bury us all. I’m absolutely thrilled with the result.”

“Graham’s not going to the police, not unless he’s real fond of prison food and wants a big, hairy man as his date for life.” Burton stared down at the motionless President. The shit he, Burton, had gone through to save all their asses while this prize stayed safely behind the lines. And now he was criticizing. Like the veteran Secret Service agent had really enjoyed seeing two more innocent people die.

“I do congratulate you on that part. It showed quick thinking. However, I don’t believe we can rely on that as a long-term solution. If the police do take Graham into custody he’ll certainly produce the letter opener, if he has it.”

“But I bought us some time.”

The President stood up, grabbed Burton’s thick shoulders. “And in that time I know you will locate Jack Graham and persuade him that taking any action detrimental to our interests would not be in his best interests.”

“Do you want me to tell him that before or after I put a bullet in his brain?”

The President smiled grimly. “I’ll leave that to your professional judgment.” He turned to his desk.

Burton stared at the President’s back. For one instant Burton visualized pumping a round from his weapon into the base of the President’s neck. Just end the bullshit right here and now. If anyone ever deserved it this guy did.

“Any idea where he might be, Burton?”

Burton shook his head. “No, but I’ve got a pretty reliable source.” Burton didn’t mention Jack’s phone call to Seth Frank that morning. Sooner or later Jack would reveal his location to the detective. And then Burton would make his move.

Burton took a deep breath. If you loved a pressure-filled challenge it didn’t get much better than this. It was the ninth inning, the home team was up by one, there were two outs, one runner on, and a full count on the bruiser at the plate. Could Burton close it out or would they all watch as the white orb disappeared into the stands?

As Burton walked out the door, more than a small part of him hoped it was the latter.

Seth Frank was waiting at his desk, staring at the clock. As the second hand swept past the twelve the phone rang.

Jack sat in the phone booth. He thanked God it was as cold as it was outside. The heavy, hooded parka he had bought that morning fit right in with the bundled-up mass of humanity. And still he had the overwhelming impression that everyone seemed to be looking at him.

Frank picked up on the background noise. “Where the hell are you? I told you not to leave wherever you were staying.”

Jack didn’t respond right away.

“Jack?”

“Look, Seth, I’m not real good at being a sitting duck. And I’m not in a position where I can afford to completely rely on anyone. Understood?”

Frank started to make a protest, but then leaned back in his chair. The guy was right, flat-out right.

“Fair enough. Would you like to hear how they set you up?”

“I’m listening.”

“You had a glass on your desk. Apparently you were drinking something. You remember that?”

“Yeah, Coke, so what?”

“So whoever was after you ran into Lord and the woman like you said and they had to be popped. You got away. They knew the garage video would have you leaving right about the time of the deaths. They lifted your prints off the glass and transferred them to the gun.”

“You can do that?”

“You bet your ass, if you know what you’re doing and you’ve got the right equipment, which they probably found in the supply room at your firm. If we had the glass we could show it was a forgery. Just as one person’s prints are unique from another person’s, your print on the gun couldn’t match in every detail the print on the glass. Amount of pressure applied and so on.”

“Do the D.C. cops buy that explanation?”

Frank almost laughed. “I wouldn’t be counting on that, Jack. I really wouldn’t. All they want to do is bring you in. They’ll let other people worry about everything else.”

“Great. So now what?”

“First things first. Why were they after you in the first place?”

Jack almost slapped himself. He looked down at the box.

“I got a special delivery from someone. Edwina Broome. It’s something I think you’ll get a real kick out of seeing.”

Seth stood up, almost wishing he could reach through the phone and snatch it. “What is it?”

Jack told him.

Blood and prints. Simon would have a field day. “I can meet you anywhere, anytime.”

Jack thought rapidly. Ironically, public places seemed to be more dangerous than private ones. “How about the Farragut West Metro station, 18th Street exit, around eleven tonight?”

Frank jotted the information down. “I’ll be there.”

Jack hung up the phone. He would be at the Metro station before the appointed time. Just in case. If he saw anything remotely suspicious he was going underground as far as he could. He checked his money. The dollars were dwindling. And his credit cards were out for now. He would risk hitting several ATM machines. That would net him a few hundred. That should be enough, for a while.

He exited the phone booth, checked the crowd. It was the typical hurried pace of Union Station. No one appeared the least bit interested in him. Jack jerked slightly. Coming his way were a pair of D.C. police officers. Jack stepped back into the phone booth until they passed.

He bought some burgers and fries at the food court and then grabbed a cab. Munching down while the cab took him through the city, Jack had a moment to reflect on his options. Once he got the letter opener to Frank would his troubles really end? Presumably the prints and blood would match up with the person in the Sullivan house that night. But then Jack’s defense counsel mentality took over. And that mind-set told him there were clear, almost insurmountable obstacles in the path of such a pristine resolution.

First, the physical evidence may well be inconclusive. There may be no match because the person’s DNA and prints may not be on file anywhere. Jack again remembered the look on Luther’s face that night on the Mall. It was somebody important, somebody people knew. And that was another obstacle. If you made accusations against a person like that, you better make damn sure you could back it up or else your case would never see the light of day.

Second, they were looking at a mammoth chain-of-custody problem. Could they even prove the letter opener came from Sullivan’s home? Sullivan was dead; the staff might not know for certain. Christine Sullivan had presumably handled it. Perhaps her killer had possessed it for a short period of time. Luther had kept it for a couple of months. Now Jack had it and would, hopefully, soon be passing it on to Seth Frank. It finally struck Jack.

The letter opener’s evidentiary value was zilch. Even if they could find a match, a competent defense counsel would shred its admissibility. Hell, they probably wouldn’t even get an indictment based on it. Tainted evidence was no evidence at all.

He stopped eating and lay back in the grimy vinyl seat.

But come on! They had tried to get it back! They had killed to get it back. They were prepared to kill Jack to take possession of what he had. It must be important to them, deadly important. So regardless of its legal efficacy, it had value. And something valuable could be exploited. Maybe he had a chance.

It was ten o’clock when Jack hit the escalator heading down into the Farragut West Metro station. Part of the orange and blue lines on the Washington Metrorail system, Farragut West was a very busy station during the day due to its close proximity to the downtown business area with its myriad law and accounting firms, trade associations and corporate offices. At ten o’clock in the evening, however, it was pretty much deserted.

Jack stepped off the escalator and surveyed the area. The underground Metro stations of the system were really huge tunnels with vaulted honeycombed ceilings and floors consisting of six-sided brick. A broad corridor lined with cigarette advertisements on one side and automated ticket machines on the other culminated in a kiosk that sat in the center of the aisle with the turnstiles flanking it on either side. A huge Metro map with its multicolored rail lines, and travel time and pricing information, stood against one wall next to the dual phone booths.

One bored Metro employee leaned back in his chair in the glass-enclosed kiosk. Jack looked around and eyed the clock atop the kiosk. Then he looked back toward the escalator and froze. Coming down the escalator was a police officer. Jack willed himself to turn as casually as possible and he passed along the wall until he reached the phone booth. He flattened himself against the back of the booth, hidden behind its barrier. He caught his breath and risked peering out. The officer approached the ticket machines, nodded to the Metro guy in the kiosk and looked around the perimeter of the station entrance. Jack drew back. He would wait. The guy would move on shortly; he had to.

Time passed. A loud voice interrupted Jack’s thoughts. He looked out. Coming down the escalator was a man, obviously homeless. His clothing was in tatters, a thick bundled blanket slung over one shoulder. His beard and hair were matted and unkempt. His face weather-beaten and strained. It was cold outside. The warmth of the Metro stations was always a welcome haven for the homeless until they got run out. The iron gates at the top of the escalators were to keep just such people out.

Jack looked around. The police officer had disappeared. Perhaps to check out the train platforms, shoot the breeze with the kiosk guy. Jack looked in that direction. That man too had vanished.

Jack looked back at the homeless man, who was now crumpled in one corner, inventorying his meager belongings, rubbing ungloved hands back and forth, trying to work circulation into limbs stretched to their breaking point.

A pang of guilt hit Jack. The gauntlet of such people downtown was staggering. A generous person could empty their entire pockets in the span of one city block. Jack had done that, more than once.

He checked the area one more time. No one. Another train would not arrive for about fifteen minutes. He stepped out of the booth and looked directly across at the man. He didn’t seem to see Jack; his attention was focused on his own little world far away from normal reality. But then Jack thought, his own reality was no longer normal, if it ever had been. Both he and the pathetic mass across from him were involved in their own peculiar struggles. And death could claim either of them, at any time. Except that Jack’s demise would probably be somewhat more violent, somewhat more sudden. But maybe that was preferable to the lingering death awaiting the other.

He shook his head clear. Thoughts like that were doing him no good. If he were going to survive this he had to remain focused, he had to believe he would outlast the forces marshaled against him.

Jack started forward and then stopped. His blood pressure almost doubled; the sudden metabolic change he was experiencing left him light-headed.

The homeless man was wearing new shoes. Soft-soled, brown leathers, which probably cost over a hundred and fifty bucks. They were revealed from out of the mass of filthy clothing like a shiny blue diamond on a bed of white sand.

And now the man was looking up at him. The eyes locked on Jack’s face. They were familiar. Beneath the depths of wrinkles, filthy hair and wind-burnt cheeks, he had seen those eyes before; he was sure of it. The man was now rising off the floor. He seemed to have much more energy than when he first staggered in.

Jack frantically looked around. The place was as empty as a tomb. His tomb. He looked back. The man had already started toward him. Jack backed up, clutching the box to his chest. He thought back to his narrow escape in the elevator. The gun. He would see that gun appearing soon. It would be pointed right at him.

Jack backed down the tunnel toward the kiosk. The man’s hand was going underneath his coat, a torn and beaten behemoth that spilled its woolen guts with every step. Jack looked around. He heard approaching footsteps. He looked back at the man, deciding whether he should make a run for the train or not. Then he came into sight.

Jack almost screamed in relief.

The police officer rounded the corner. Jack ran to him, pointing back down the tunnel at the homeless man who now stood stock-still, in the middle of the corridor.

“That man; he’s not a homeless person. He’s an imposter.” The chance of him being recognized by the cop had crossed Jack’s mind although the young cop’s features didn’t betray any such realization.

“What?” The bewildered cop stared at Jack.

“Look at his shoes.” Jack realized he was making little sense, but how could he when he couldn’t tell the cop the whole story?

The cop looked down the tunnel, saw the homeless man standing there, his face turned into a grimace. In his confusion he retreated to the normal inquiry.

“Has he been bothering you, sir?”

Jack hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

“Hey!” The cop shouted at the man.

Jack watched as the cop ran forward. The homeless man turned and fled. He made it to the escalator, but the up escalator wasn’t working. He turned and raced down the tunnel, darted around a corner and disappeared, the cop right after him.

Now Jack was alone. He looked back at the kiosk. The Metro guy hadn’t returned.

Jack jerked his head. He had heard something. Like a shout, of someone in pain, from where the two men had disappeared. He moved forward. As he did, the cop, slightly out of breath, came back around the corner. He looked at Jack, motioned him to come over with slow movements of his arm. The guy looked sick, like he had seen or done something that disgusted him.

Jack hustled up next to him.

The cop gulped in air. “Goddammit! I don’t know what the hell’s going on, buddy.” The cop again struggled to catch his breath. He put one hand out against the wall to steady himself.

“Did you catch him?”

The cop nodded. “You were right.”

“What happened?”

“Go see for yourself. I’ve gotta call this in.” The cop straightened up and pointed a warning finger at Jack. “But you are not to leave. I’m not explaining this one by myself and it sounds like maybe you know a helluva lot more about this than you’re letting on. Understood?”

Jack nodded quickly. The cop hurried off. Jack walked around the corner. Wait. The cop had told him to wait. Wait for them to arrest him. He should bolt now. But he couldn’t. He had to see who it was. He was certain he knew the guy. He had to see.

Jack looked up ahead. This was a service way for Metro personnel and equipment. In the darkness, far down the tunnel, there was a large bundle of clothing. In the dim lighting Jack strained to see more clearly. As he moved closer he saw that it was indeed the homeless man. For a few moments Jack remained motionless. He wanted the cops to show up. It was so quiet, so dark. The bundle did not move. Jack couldn’t hear any breathing. Was the guy dead? Had the cop needed to kill him?

Finally, Jack moved forward. He knelt beside the man. What an elaborate disguise. Jack moved his hand briefly across the matted hair. Even the pungent odor of the street person was authentic. And then Jack saw the stream of blood as it trickled down the side of the man’s head. He moved the hair away. A cut was there, a deep one. That was the sound he had heard. There had been a struggle and the cop had hit him. It was over. They had tried to trick Jack and gotten tripped up. He wanted to remove the wig and other elements of disguise, to see who the hell his pursuers had been. But that would have to wait. Maybe it was good the police were now involved. He would give them the letter opener. He’d take his chances with them.

He stood up, turned and watched the cop striding quickly up the corridor. Jack shook his head. What a surprise this guy was about to get. Chalk it up to being your lucky day, pal.

Jack moved toward the cop and then stopped as the 9mm swiftly came out of the holster.

The cop glared at him. “Mr. Graham.”

Jack shrugged and smiled. The guy had finally identified him. “In the flesh.” He held up the box. “I’ve got something for you.”

“I know you do, Jack. And that’s exactly what I want.”

Tim Collin watched the smile fade from Jack’s lips. His hand tightened on the trigger as he moved forward.

Seth Frank could feel his pulse quicken as he drew nearer to the station. Finally, he would have it. He could envision Laura Simon devouring the evidence like it was a slab of aged beef. And Frank was almost one hundred percent certain they would score a hit on some database, somewhere. And then the case would crack open like an egg hurled from the Empire State Building. And finally his questions, the nagging, nagging questions would be answered.

Jack looked at the face, absorbing every detail. Not that it would do him any good. He glanced over at the crumpled clothing on the floor, at the new shoes covering lifeless feet. Poor guy had probably wangled his first new pair of shoes in ages and now would never enjoy them.

Jack looked back at Collin and said angrily, “The guy’s dead. You killed him.”

“Let me have the box, Jack.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“That really doesn’t matter, does it?” Collin flipped open a compartment on his belt and pulled out a suppressor that he quickly twirled onto the barrel of his gun.

Jack eyed the hardware pointed at his chest. He thought of the gurneys wheeling out Lord and the woman. His turn would come in tomorrow’s paper. Jack Graham and a homeless man. Twin gurneys. Of course they’d work it so Jack would be blamed for having done in the poor, wretched street person. Jack Graham, from partner at Patton, Shaw to deceased mass murderer.

“It matters to me.”

“So?” Collin moved forward, placed both hands on the butt of his weapon.

“Fuck you, take it!” Jack flung the box at Collin’s head right as the muffled explosion occurred. A bullet tore through the edge of the box and imbedded itself in the concrete wall. In the same instant, Jack hurled himself forward and made impact. Collin was solid bone and muscle but so was Jack. And they were about the same size. Jack felt the man’s breath driven completely from his body as Jack’s shoulder connected right at the diaphragm. Instinctively, long-ago wrestling moves came flowing back to his limbs and Jack picked up and then body-slammed the agent into the unwelcoming arms of the brick floor. By the time Collin managed to stagger to his feet, Jack had already turned the corner.

Collin grabbed his gun and then the box. He stopped for an instant as sickness enveloped him. His head hurt from having struck the hard floor. He knelt down, fighting to regain his equilibrium. Jack was long gone, but at least he had it. Finally had it. Collins’s fingers closed around the box.

Jack flew past the kiosk, hurdled the turnstiles, raced down the escalator and across the train platform. He was vaguely aware of people staring. His hood had fallen off his head. His face was clearly exposed. There was a shout behind him. The kiosk guy. But Jack kept running and exited the station on the 17th Street side. He didn’t think the man had been alone. And the last thing he needed was someone tailing him. But he doubted if they had both exits covered. They probably figured he wouldn’t be leaving the station under his own power. His shoulder ached from his collision and his breath came in difficult gulps as the cold air burned his lungs. He was two blocks away before he stopped running. He wrapped his coat around himself tightly. And then he remembered. He looked down at his empty hands. The box! He had left the goddamned box behind. He slumped against the front glass of a darkened McDonald’s.

A car’s lights came down the road. Jack looked away from them and quickly moved around the corner. In a few minutes he hopped a bus. To where he wasn’t sure.

The car turned off L street and onto 19th. Seth Frank made his way up to Eye Street and then turned toward 18th. He parked on the corner across from the Metro station, got out of his car and went down the escalator.

Across the street, hidden behind a collection of trash cans, debris and metal fencing, the products of a massive demolition project, Bill Burton watched. Swearing under his breath, Burton put out his cigarette, checked the street, and made his way quickly across to the escalator.

As he got off the escalator, Frank looked around and checked the time. He wasn’t as early as he thought he would be. His eyes fell upon a collection of junk that lay against one wall. Then his gaze drifted over to the unmanned kiosk. There was no one else around. It was quiet. Too quiet. Frank’s danger radar instantly lit up. With an automatic motion he pulled his gun. His ears had pricked up at a sound that came from his right. He moved quickly down the corridor away from the turnstiles. There a darkened corridor awaited him. He peered around and at first saw nothing. Then as his eyes adjusted to the diminished light he saw two things. One was moving, one wasn’t.

Frank stared as the man slowly rose to his feet. It wasn’t Jack. The guy was in a uniform, a gun in one hand, a box in the other. Frank’s fingers tightened on his own weapon, his eyes locked on the other man’s weapon. Frank stealthily moved forward. He hadn’t done this in a long time. The image of his wife and three daughters veered across his mind until he pushed it back out. He needed to concentrate.

He was finally close enough. He prayed his accelerated breathing would not betray him. He leveled his pistol at the broad back.

“Freeze! I’m a police officer.”

The man did indeed stop all motion.

“Lay the gun down, butt first. I don’t want to see your finger anywhere near the trigger or I’m gonna put a hole right in the back of your head. Do it. Now!”

The gun slowly went toward the floor. Frank watched its progression, inch by inch. Then his vision became blurry. Frank’s head pounded, he staggered and then he slumped to the floor.

At the sound, Collin slowly looked around to see Bill Burton standing there, holding his pistol by the barrel. He looked down at Frank.

“Let’s go, Tim.”

Collin shakily got to his feet, looked at the fallen officer and put his gun to Frank’s head. Burton’s massive hand stopped him.

“He’s a cop. We don’t kill cops. We’re not killing any body else, Tim.” Burton stared down at his colleague. Discomforting thoughts flickered in and out of Burton’s head at the calm and accepting manner in which the younger man had stepped into the role of conscienceless assassin.

Collin shrugged, put his gun away.

Burton took the box, looked down at the detective and then over at the other crumpled mass of humanity. He shook his head disdainfully and looked reproachfully at his partner.

Several minutes after they were gone, Seth Frank let out a loud groan, tried to rise and then floated back into unconsciousness.