The Patriots' Club

57

“Wolf’s got him,” said Guilfoyle, striding up to James Jacklin outside his office.

“Well, hallelujah. I thought I’d never see the day. Where’d they nab him?”

Guilfoyle took Jacklin to one side. “In Mickey Schiff’s office.”

“What the hell was he doing there?”

“Looking into the financial affairs of some of our counselors.”

“He’s one resourceful individual. I’ll give him that much.”

“Does it surprise you?” Guilfoyle monitored Jacklin’s expression. As ever, it was impossible to read anything in the man’s features except scorn and a general frustration that the world didn’t run quite the way he’d like it to.

The office was quiet for a Wednesday evening. The entire staff had received invitations to the dinner. Most of the executives were either at Jacklin’s home or on their way. A few stragglers hurried up and down the hallways, throwing on their dinner jackets, spending a last moment adjusting their ties.

“Have you talked to Schiff?” asked Jacklin.

“Voice mail. But I plan on speaking with him as soon as he arrives. Bolden had these documents with him.”

Jacklin accepted the sheaf of papers that had been faxed to D.C. for Guilfoyle’s inspection. “Busy bee, isn’t he? Most people would have done the smart thing and run for the hills.” He thumbed through the copies, frowning when he came across the LexisNexis reports listing Schiff as a director of Defense Associates. “These reports were printed this afternoon. Who does he have on the inside?”

“His secretary helped him. Her name is Althea Jackson. We can assume she’s conversant with the material.”

“Married?”

“Single. One boy. Twelve years old.”

“Dammit,” said Jacklin. He shook his head and sighed. “See that the boy’s well taken care of. Set up a scholarship or something. Remind me to give St. Paul’s a call. I know the rector. They’re good about taking needy cases.”

Guilfoyle nodded. “I spoke with Marty Kravitz. He swore that Bolden impersonated one of HW’s senior executives when ordering the reports. Apparently, Bolden strong-armed him into handing over the information. I think we can count on Kravitz keeping his mouth shut. If Prell tattled every time they found something incriminating, they wouldn’t have any customers left.”

“All right then, get Bolden down here. I want to talk to him face-to-face.”

“He’s on his way.” Guilfoyle stepped closer to Jacklin. “Got a minute?”

“I’ve got the limo waiting downstairs. I can give you a lift.”

“It won’t take long.” Guilfoyle took Jacklin by the arm and guided him into the confines of his office. “There’s something you need to know. Something about Albany.”

Jacklin folded his arms, giving Guilfoyle his undivided attention. “What about Albany?”

“A detective in New York ran latents of your thumb and index finger through the NCIC’s database and got a match.”

“Where the hell did he get copies of my fingerprints?”

“I don’t know, but we have to assume the worst.”

“And that is?”

“The prints came from the gun used to kill David Bernstein.”

“How is that possible? I thought the matter was cleared up a long time ago.”

“I never found the prints. It bothered me at the time, but without Kovacs there wasn’t a reason to be concerned. The problem was localized and contained. Twenty-five years, J. J. Really, I’m as shocked as you.”

“That I very much doubt,” said Jacklin. When he spoke next his voice was quiet as a rattlesnake’s whisper. “It was our bargain. You cleaned up that mess in exchange for a cozy job with Jefferson. I had thought it a fair one at the time. I’m no longer so sure.” Jacklin stepped toward the model of the battleship Maine. “Who ran the prints?” he asked.

“Detective John Franciscus. He’s the same one who questioned Bolden last night.”

“What makes him so damned curious?”

“Just a good cop, I guess. We’ve tracked him to a flight to D.C.”

“He’s coming here? Wonderful. Maybe we should leave an invitation to the gala at the airport for him.”

“Hold on, J. J. I’m as upset about this as you.”

“You?” Jacklin shook a finger at him. “You cold-blooded bastard. You haven’t got a feeling inside you. What do you know about being upset?”

Guilfoyle felt part of him lock up. He knew as much about emotions as anyone. He knew how destructive they were. How they controlled you. How once you gave in to them, you were powerless. He said, “We had a man at LaGuardia keeping an eye out for Bolden. He was able to get on board the plane with Franciscus.”

“What are you waiting for, then?” asked Jacklin.

“He’s a police officer.”

“So? It didn’t stop you before. Those fingerprints can put both of us away.”

“First, they need a witness to place you at the scene.”

“They have one,” Jacklin flared. “Bobby Stillman. Those fingerprints are her ticket to freedom.”