A Murder of Justice (12 page)

José was quiet for a block or two. “You think this is just a case of Emerson covering his ass?”

Frank looked at him. “Or?”

“Or something else?”

Y
ou got it made,” Frank said.

Monty sat on a nearby chair, giving Frank the look that said he wanted dinner, not conversation.

Frank mixed a half-cup of shredded chicken with some puréed pumpkin and banana, and put the result in a bowl by Monty’s door. The big gray cat pondered whether to make the effort, then leaped, achieving a cushioned four-point landing on the floor. He sent a cool glance to Frank, then began working on his dinner.

Frank turned to the refrigerator. He foraged listlessly through the freezer compartment. The sausage sandwich from lunch was still with him, dulling his appetite. Nothing in the emergency cache of Lean Cuisine appealed. Two beers would have worked. But you didn’t drink dinner. You ate at the end of a day, even a day as shitty as this one.

Groping at the back of the freezer, he found a plastic container. He brushed the frost off and held it to the light.
It came to him—the last of a batch of his father’s chili.

He bounced the container in his palm. Nothing else came to mind. “What the hell,” he muttered, and started the microwave.

Monty glanced up, then nosed back into his dinner.

Frank watched the microwave timer on its countdown. A restless pulse hit him.

Call Kate?

He stopped his hand halfway to the phone.

And we’ll talk about . . . what?

His hand detoured to the TV remote on the counter.

For a fractured moment, the story on Channel 9 rocked him back to another time:
A helicopter crash in Vietnam—seven GIs killed?
Not his war. Not this time. Days ago, not 1968. A few days ago, seven Americans died searching for remains of other Americans killed thirty-some years before. And so, in 2001, Americans continued to die in Vietnam.

Channel 7 dissected a report that Michael Jordan would return to the NBA to play for the Washington Wizards.

They used to be the Washington Bullets. Then D.C. earned the title of “America’s Murder Capital,” and sensitive souls changed the team name to Wizards, and they never had a season worth a damn after that.

Frank flicked over to Channel 4. A file clip of Chief Noah Day’s face filled the screen. Then the camera switched to Jim Vance. Barely concealing a smile, Vance reported a congressional investigation into obscene e-mails being sent among DCMPD patrol cars.

“Send in the clowns,” Frank whispered, keying the TV off. Without replying, Monty nosed his door open and disappeared.

Frank was reconsidering calling Kate when the microwave timer chimed.

H
e sat up in bed reading until after midnight. It was his second time through Martin Cruz Smith’s
Havana Bay
.
The Russian detective, Arkady Renko, had just regained consciousness after having been beaten by a thug with a baseball bat.

Frank closed the book and turned out the light. “G’night, Arkady,” he said. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your guy.”

He lay staring at the ceiling through the darkness. Smith had told a good story. He’d put Renko behind the curve, kept the pressure on, bombarded the Russian detective with bits and pieces of stuff from every direction, stuff that could be something or nothing at all.

Arkady Renko understood: Connecting dots was easy. . . a two-dimensional problem. But try a puzzle where the pieces constantly change shape, no one piece remaining the same.

Monty had come in from the night, and he settled into his place on the pillow beside Frank, who drifted off into a turbulent sleep.

And the scrambled pieces swirled in the darkness.

. . . Renfro Calkins . . .

Robin Bouchard . . . Brian Atkins at FBI—you have a road map?

Chief Day, fiddling with un-PC e-mails among bored cops on the night shift while the cold cases rise up out of their file cabinet graves, angry and accusing and demanding . . . demanding . . . what?

 FIFTEEN

F
rank parked on Second Street, SE, then walked down C Street toward South Capitol. He passed the Cannon House Office Building, the first of the three House of Representatives office buildings. Cannon, completed in 1908, was his favorite. The grand old building’s Doric columns and rotunda shouted out its Beaux Arts lineage. The Longworth building was next, its neoclassical style a product of the restraint of the Depression era. Last, the huge Rayburn building, finished in 1965, an H-shaped monstrosity of pink granite and white marble, reflecting the Texan grandiosity of its namesake, Speaker Sam Rayburn.

Leon Janowitz stood at the corner of C and South Capitol, nose deep in
The Wall Street Journal
.

“Running with the bulls?”

The young detective looked up. “Long as they’re running. Trick’s to know when to jump out. José not coming?”

“His turn for paperwork. Where’s Susan?”

“Said she’d meet us at the top of the horseshoe.” Janowitz motioned up the block. He folded his paper and
stuck it in a beat-up L. L. Bean canvas briefcase. “By the way,” he said, “thanks for asking for me.”

Frank nodded and waited for the follow-up that was in Janowitz’s voice.

“Question?” Janowitz asked.

“Yeah?”

“Why me? I mean, next month, I’m outta here.”

“Maybe we’ll get it done by then.”

Janowitz grinned. “And pigs’ll fly.”

Frank ignored him. “You’ve got a nose for digging. You can follow a paper trail.”

Janowitz shrugged. “Paper’s paper.”

“You did good on the Keegan case.”

Another shrug. “Tracking credit cards? Utility bills?”

The walking was uphill. The effort warmed Frank’s legs and lungs, and he wanted to keep going.

He looked at Janowitz. “Easy for you, hard for others. You’ve got intuition. Other people see a piece of paper or a computer file, you see connections.”

Janowitz lowered his eyes modestly, then looked back at Frank. “Long’s you know I’m outta here next month.”

“Question?” It was Frank’s turn. “Why’d a nice boy like you want to be a cop?”

“You mean, a nice Jewish boy?”

“Jew, schmoo. Why did Leon Janowitz want to be a cop?”

“Oh . . . I love cities.”

“Love cities.” Frank echoed.

“Yeah.” Janowitz had the intense look of someone thinking through a cosmic riddle. “I’m a city kid. My family, all the way back to Warsaw . . . city people. I love cities.”

“You love cities, you became a cop. Something in between?”

“I got fed up with what these schmucks have done to our cities. They fucked up our schools. They fucked up our streets. They fucked up everything.”

“Leon Janowitz, unfucker of America’s cities?”

“I just wanted to get my licks in.”

The two men turned to go up the horseshoe-shaped drive leading to the Rayburn Building.

“So you got your licks in, and now you’re getting out.”

“So I haven’t. And
that’s
why I’m getting out.”

“After this case,” Frank added.

“Next month,” Janowitz corrected. “No matter what.”

Frank sorted through the knot of people standing under the portico. “Where’s Susan?”

Practically all organizations in Washington with a phone number have go-betweens who know their way around Capitol Hill. Susan Liberman’s business card read “Legislative Counsel, District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Department,” a large title for the diminutive dark-haired woman whom Frank finally spotted.

“Big,” Janowitz said, looking up at the massive building.

“Two million, three hundred square feet of office space,” Liberman recited. “A gym, cafeterias, recording studio, its own subway system to the Capitol.”

“Real big,” Janowitz amended.

“And fireproof,” Liberman added.

“Too bad,” Frank said.

“Next life”—Janowitz motioned to Frank—“he wants to come back as a wrecking ball.”

They pushed through the tall glass-and-steel doors. Inside, the security checkpoint. Liberman shepherded the two detectives through the metal detector and a credentials check, and signed them in at the Capitol police desk.

Once out of the cavernous foyer, Rayburn shrank to human size. There were marble floors, but the hallways were plain, utilitarian, and filled with staff and visitors.

“The D.C. subcommittee?” Janowitz asked.

“Thirteen members of Congress,” Liberman answered. “Five Democrats, eight Republicans.”

“Why’re they in our knickers?”

“Two reasons. The subcommittee writes the checks that make the D.C. government work. There’s no way city hall could run on local taxes alone.”

“You said two.”

Liberman smiled cynically. “Publicity, silly boy. Democrat or Republican, don’t ever get between any of them and a camera or microphone. And Frederick Rhinelander’s no exception. Kevin Gentry was his chief of staff. Gentry’s replacement is Alessandro Salvani. Aka Al. Newark, New Jersey. Professional Italian-American, professional Democrat. Everybody says he’s related to Dean Martin. He never denies it. Looks like him too. One of those yummy Italian men who never age.”

“I thought he was dead,” Janowitz said. “Dean Martin.”

“He
is
dead, sweetie,” Liberman replied. She nodded toward the door on their right. A bronze plaque read “Subcommittee on District of Columbia Appropriations.”

Y
es, Ms. Harman. . . . No, Ms. Harman. . . . Consider the alternatives, Ms. Harman.” The patient voice came in a bourboned baritone. Tanned, toothy, and flat-bellied, Al Salvani stood behind an ornately carved walnut desk, one manicured hand folded around the telephone, the other hooked in a suspender strap. Frank saw that the suspenders were embroidered with clowns. Salvani rocked back and forth slightly as he talked, a man in perpetual motion. A man who owned the ground he stood on.

Salvani’s office had the requisite view of the Capitol across Independence Avenue. Autographed photos covered the walls: Salvani with presidents, sports celebrities, Hollywood stars. Salvani with Pope John Paul II, and next to that, Salvani with Yasser Arafat. These clustered around a larger photo of Salvani standing shoulder to shoulder with Joe DiMaggio in Yankee Stadium.

“. . . of course, I’ll talk to the chairman about it, Ms. Harman.”

Salvani hung up and looked curiously at Frank, Janowitz, and Liberman as though they’d materialized out of thin air.

“Susan Liberman,” Liberman said, “Metropolitan Police Dep—”

“Oh, yes.” Salvani shifted gears. He shot a scowl at Frank and Janowitz, and dropped with a pneumatic gust into a leather swivel chair. “Sit, sit.”

Liberman made the introductions. “Detectives Kearney and Janowitz.”

Salvani took them in with a sour look that said he was having a difficult time somewhere in his lower digestive tract.

“How,” he asked, “could such a screw-up like this come about?”

“We—”

Salvani held up an impatient hand, then rooted among the papers and pamphlets littering his desk. He came up with a thick bound document in a tan official-looking paper cover. He thumbed through several paper-clipped sections. Finally he nodded and stuck an index finger on one page.

“ ‘Forensics,’ ” he read, “ ‘in which the sharing of responsibilities among agencies increases the possibility of evidentiary mishaps resulting from lapses in coordination.’ ”

Salvani closed the report and held it up. “A two-hundred-page study on the criminal justice process.” He looked at the book with respect, then at Frank, Janowitz, and Liberman in accusation. “The General Accounting Office did that report. Just last month.” He swung his big head sadly. “Lapses in coordination,” he intoned, dirgelike. “Lapses in coordination . . .”

He let it trail off, then his eyes flashed. “And we had your chief up here when we published the report,” he snapped. “And your chief, Chief Noah . . . Alton . . . Day”—he rolled out the name—“your chief threw out a bunch of stats and as much as told us we were full of shit.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Salvani,” Frank said, “you’ve got a beef. But we”—his gesture took in Liberman and
Janowitz—“we’re just trying to find out who killed Kevin Gentry.”

Salvani paused a beat to bank that. “Okay,” he said. Apparently deciding he’d played enough hardass to set the newcomers’ impression of him, he settled back and asked, “How’re you going to do that?”

“We start with establishing Mr. Gentry’s timeline.”

“That was done, I remember—”

“I want it done again,” Frank cut in, playing hardass himself. He indicated Janowitz. “With a new set of eyes.”

Salvani studied Frank and the others.

Frank was about to say something when Salvani sighed. “People here thought that was all over. You gonna be flicking scabs off old wounds.”

“Wounds?”

Salvani laughed. “No shortage of walking wounded around here. This place’s a zoo of prima donnas. Each one, they look in the mirror in the morning, they see the next president of the United States. They eat breakfast, they plan how to get a leg up on the others. They elbow in the aisles, they backstab in the cloakrooms.”

“Nice place to work,” Janowitz said.

Salvani laughed again. “Hey! It’s the distilled essence of the human race, American politics is.” His smile went away.

“You replaced Gentry,” Janowitz said.

“Yes.”

“You weren’t aware of anything that could have made him a target?”

“Sometimes just walking down a sidewalk in this town’s enough to make you a target.”

“I don’t think it was walking down a sidewalk did it,” Janowitz said.

“Oh?”

Janowitz ignored the question. “Any subcommittee business?”

Salvani slapped his fingertips lightly on the edge of his
desk. “Like I told your fellas two years ago, we were gearing up for the District’s annual budget hearings.”

“You make it sound like an everyday thing.”

“Annual event. Bills have to be paid, pork has to be handed out. Hearings are part of the process.”

“Mr. Gentry was in charge of the hearing?” Frank asked. “What’d that involve?”

“Kevin and a couple of his assistants would do research . . . define the issues, sell the members on them. Then they’d line up witnesses, schedule the hearing, work out the press releases”—Salvani spoke dismissively—“that sort of thing. Standard stuff.”

“He kept Congressman Rhinelander informed?”

“Of course.” Salvani said it with care. “I suspect he didn’t come in often. Word was, he was a good staffer. You got to remember, at the time the subcommittee was up to its collective ass in alligators with the Waco investigation.” A sour look again crossed Salvani’s face. “What a godawful mess that was.”

“The hearings took place?” Frank asked. “After Mr. Gentry was killed?”

Salvani nodded. “Pro forma . . . nothing sexy.”

“Gentry’s files?” Janowitz asked. “The background research and all? You’ve kept them?”

Salvani made a show of checking the wall clock. “Not here.”

“Where?”

“Procedure is they archive the stuff . . . over at the library.” He pointed in the general direction of the Library of Congress.

“We’ll be wanting to go back over everything . . . correspondence, calendars, e-mail.”

Salvani frowned.

Anticipating resistance, Frank said, “This’s getting high on the flagpole.”

Salvani’s frown stayed. “I’ll have to clear everything with Mr. Rhinelander.”

“When . . . ?”

“I’ll talk to him this afternoon.”

Salvani stood, followed by the three visitors.

“If it’s not an imposition, I’ll call you,” Janowitz said.

Salvani eyed Janowitz, adding another dimension to his earlier measurement.

“No imposition at all.” Salvani drew his words out, making it clear he thought it was. He didn’t offer to shake hands, but sat down and pulled a sheaf of papers from an overflowing in-box.