Betrayal (41 page)

“Amen to that,” Allstrong intoned.

“Well, then”—Bracco pushed his chair back—“thank you for your time.”

A
T THREE-FIFTEEN,
Glitsky was standing in front of a video monitor in the tiny electronics room between the two similarly minuscule interrogation rooms that fed off a narrow hallway that, in turn, was separated from the homicide detail by a glass wall. “I give up,” he said to Debra Schiff, “what is it?”

“That, sir, is the top of your head.”

Glitsky looked again. He wore his graying hair short and close to his skull. Leaning over, he squinted into the seven-inch monitor. “Could be,” he said. “I couldn’t prove it isn’t.”

“You see any identifiable part of your face?”

“No.” He turned to her. “This is all the camera got in there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lord.” Glitsky walked out of the electronics room, took one step to his left, and reentered the interrogation room he’d left a minute before.

The room was four feet by five feet, so it was really more like a closet. It had no windows. Suspects in homicide investigations were often brought in for questioning and placed in these rooms, where they could be left alone and theoretically observed as they fidgeted or talked to themselves or otherwise did things that might be both incriminating and admissible in court. The problem was that the camera that was supposed to record all of this activity was cleverly hidden within the ceiling and the room was so small that the only image captured on tape, ever, was the top of the head of the suspect. As Schiff had just demonstrated to Glitsky.

“It’s hopeless,” Schiff told him. “We can’t do business like this. We need a new room.”

“I thought this
was
the new room.” Glitsky was right. The entire homicide department had transferred to the fifth floor from the fourth only a little over a year before. Newly designed and supposedly state of the art. “But you’re right, it’s a little small too. Who approved the plans for this thing?”

“Well, nobody, which is kind of the problem. There’s a couple of guys in robbery who moonlight doing construction here in the building.”

“We didn’t bid this out?”

Schiff laughed. “Are you kidding me? We have employees that do the maintenance in the building. We try to bid this out, the union’s going to have a fit. We’d be taking their jobs.”

“Well, then, why didn’t we have the people in maintenance do it?”

“Because they said there’s a three-year backlog on maintenance, and they’d need to charge us seventy-five thousand dollars from our budget. So we got the two guys from robbery to do it.”

“Perfect,” Glitsky said. “So where do you propose we put it, this new room?”

“I don’t know, Abe. Anyplace else. Maybe out where the lockers are. Or take part of the computer room, which is way too big anyway. But this thing is just crazy.”

“I agree with you.” He tried a small joke. “I’ll try to bring it up to somebody in facilities.”

Schiff didn’t laugh. “Sooner would be better, Abe.”

“I hear you, Debra, I’ll see what I can do. Really.” But even as he was finishing up with this unwelcome bit of housekeeping, Glitsky saw that one of the clerks from reception was hustling his way. “Yo, Jerry,” he said. “What up?”

“I’ve got Bureau Chief Bill Schuyler with the FBI holding for you, sir. He says it’s important.”

T
HE DOORBELL RANG
in Hardy’s hotel room. They’d gotten a small suite at the Rex, not far from Hardy’s office, and Hardy had checked in at a little before five o’clock.

He crossed to the door and, taking no chances, looked through the peephole. Glitsky frowned at nothing in the dusky light. When Hardy opened the door, the lieutenant focused the dark look on him. “When Phyllis told me you were here, I thought maybe she was kidding me.”

“Yeah, she’s a great kidder, that Phyllis.”

Glitsky threw a quick look around. “Obviously, you think this is necessary.”

“Precautionary, that’s all.”

Glitsky nodded, his expression set and hard. “In any event, we’ve got to talk.”

“And, lo, as if by magic, here we are talking right now.”

Abe tightened his lips enough that his scar stood out in relief. “Would you like to know the result of your ill-advised encouragement to Darrel Bracco that he go down and have a chat with the Allstrong people?”

Hardy’s face grew sober. “Is he all right?”

“Physically, he’s fine.” Glitsky pushed on the door and Hardy stepped back to let him in, then followed him into the sitting room. Grabbing the chair behind the desk, Glitsky spun it around and straddled it. “But he’s slightly ticked off at you. As am I, I might add.”

“And why is that?” Hardy sat down on the love seat.

“Because he was starting to get a feeling about this Bowen case, or cases. That he could crack them if he just had some time. And now that’s not going to happen, ever.”

“Why not?”

“Because I got a call this afternoon from Bill Schuyler. You remember Bill Schuyler? He’s the FBI bureau chief who couldn’t find the agents who’d testified in the Scholler trial.”

Hardy’s eyes lit up, although he tried to keep any sign of enthusiasm out of his face. “Tell me the FBI’s taken over the cases.”

“Lock, stock, and barrel.”

“Citing national security issues?”

“Citing they’re gonna do it and we can’t stop them. I think the actual line was ‘I don’t got to show you no stinkin’ badges.’ But even Schuyler went so far as to say that he didn’t really like it, but the order came from high up and there was nothing he could do about it. You know what a huge concession that was from him?”

“I can imagine.”

“I bet you can. So you know how me and Darrel have spent the last three hours? Packing up all our files on either of the Bowens and delivering them over to the Federal Building. These are two now very probable homicides in my jurisdiction, Diz, and now I’m off them for no reason that I can understand.”

“Which accounts for your less-than-stellar mood, not that you normally need anything specific. But that was faster than I would have thought.” He held out a hand. “I’m not talking about the three hours. I’m talking about Allstrong getting someone to pull the FBI’s strings. He’s got to be seriously highly connected, which is what we figured, anyway.”

“So you knew this was coming?”

Hardy nodded. “I hoped something like this would happen. This soon is a surprise, but that’s not a bad thing either.”

Glitsky’s face remained hard. “Well, I’m glad you’re so happy about it. Darrel and I are feeling just a little bit used and abused.”

But Hardy shook his head. “I told Bracco last night, and I’ll tell you now, you weren’t going to get Allstrong on either of the Bowens. Never. Those cases are old, Abe, what evidence there might have once been is gone. And since these guys are stone pros, I’m guessing there wasn’t much in the line of evidence anyway to begin with. So this FBI takeover, it’s actually very good news.”

“Yeah, I’m trying to keep my celebration pretty low-key. But just for the record, what’s good about it?”

Hardy sat up straight. “All of a sudden the whole situation, which from Allstrong’s perspective was under control and stagnant, is fluid again. It’s a live issue. He’s going to have to react and keep reacting if he wants to keep it where he can control it, which means he’s going to have to deal with me.”

“Like he dealt with Bowen?”

Hardy shook his head. “Not if I can help it, Abe, not this time. He’s tried that approach and now it’s come back to bite him. He’s going to see that.”

“I hope you’re right, but even so, if the FBI is protecting him from prosecution, what difference can anything you do matter to him? Best case, you’re a nuisance. He’s never going down for murder if the Feebs won’t let anybody build a case.”

“Ah, but that’s just it, you see? I don’t want him for murder. I want his help to try to get my client out of prison. Then I’ll just go away.”

Glitsky’s brow came down and hooded his eyes. “I hope I’m not hearing that all this has been about all this time is getting your
damn
client off.”

Hardy’s head snapped at Glitsky’s rare use of a swear word. If he’d come to that, he was far angrier than Hardy had perceived. “Abe,” he said quietly, “listen to me. Like it or not, my client’s the only leverage we’ve all got. The Bowen murders pose no threat, they’re ancient history. The attempt on Evan at San Quentin, same thing. That assailant’s dead and it’s never going to be anything more than a prison beef anyway. So what’s the only other crime we know about that he’s done here on U.S. soil? Putting out the hit on the Khalils, right? Which means Ron Nolan. And who’s the only guy interested in connecting him to Nolan? Me. He’s going to have to come to me.”

“And then what?”

Hardy leaned forward in his chair. “Then I play him.”

E
VAN CAME TO THE VISITING ROOM
in a wheelchair. He was going to recover completely, he told Hardy, although he joked that he never wanted to hear those particular words again. Still, it was a good sign that he could make a joke about anything. The attack, he told Hardy, had been completely unexpected and, except for his rib, professionally executed as he walked into what he thought was the empty bathroom. As far as he remembered, there were no witnesses.

Hardy brought him a copy of the brief to look over, and they discussed some of the finer legal points that he didn’t understand at first, but in the end he seemed satisfied that this was an approach that possibly had legs. Hardy also brought him up to date on the developments in the Bowen cases, the FBI takeover, and they talked about who the mysterious higher-up might be.

“We may never know,” Hardy said. “Somebody who believes that it’s more important for guys like Allstrong to build companies that grow and prosper than worry about if they exactly adhere to the letter of the law. So they need to kill a few people? Look at all the jobs they’re providing, the infrastructure. Totally worth the price, right? Damn straight.”

“I love the national security angle. Like if Allstrong goes under, what happens exactly?”

“At the very least, it hurts the war effort, all the good work Allstrong’s doing over there. That’s always a good one they pull out.” Hardy had his grin on. “But I’m also guessing that the big guy, whoever he is, loses a decent portion of his discretionary cash income.”

Evan drew a pained breath. “I don’t like to think that’s really happening.” He looked around at the prison walls. “But then again, I don’t like to think that any of this is really happening either.”

T
HE CALL CAME
in at a little after one o’clock, just after Hardy arrived back at his office.

“Mr. Hardy. Jack Allstrong.” He had his hearty good-guy voice back on. “This morning I received a copy of the appeal that you’re filing in this Evan Scholler case. Mr. Loy says we can probably expect an application for a writ of habeas corpus to follow. He admires your work, Mr. Hardy, and advises me that there is a fair chance the court will at least order a hearing into your issue. I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot in our last conversation, and I wondered if you might be free to come down to my headquarters office this afternoon.”

Hardy didn’t think it would hurt to play a little hard to get. “If you don’t know anything about Mr. Nolan’s connection to the Khalils, and last time you made it pretty clear that you didn’t, I’m not sure we have much to talk about.”

“Well, you seem fairly certain that Scholler didn’t kill Ron Nolan, and if that’s the case, there might be something we can do to help. I think it might be worthwhile to discuss it.”

Hardy let him hang for a few more seconds. “I could give you a couple of hours this afternoon, but I really think this meeting should take place in my office.”

H
ARDY SAT
at his desk with his legal pad in front him. He’d already written a few notes to remind him of things he needed to cover in his upcoming conversation. Feeling mostly embarrassed at himself for believing that he might actually have the need for it, he’d placed his gun in the top desk drawer on his left, in easy reach if in fact it came to that.

As Phyllis let Allstrong into the room, he pretended to be writing. Looking up—“Excuse me, a few more seconds”—he motioned to the straight-backed Queen Anne chair that he’d placed in front of his desk, indicating that Allstrong take it. While he did, placing his briefcase down next to the chair, Phyllis closed the door on her way out. Scrawling some more lines, Hardy finally put down his pen and pushed the pad to one side.

“It appears,” Hardy said, “you’ve got a guardian angel someplace in Washington who’s taken care of making the police investigation into the Bowens go away. But as long as Evan Scholler is alive and in prison, either me or someone like me is going to be digging into the connection between Allstrong, Ron Nolan, and the Khalils. Whoever tried to have Evan killed has missed his chance and, with him held in protective custody from now on, isn’t likely to get another one. And as you’ve recently found out, appellate lawyers are interchangeable. And, trust me, Mr. Allstrong, anyone who reads my file and my notes, of which there are several copies, will start this inquiry right where I left off. Does that about sum up the situation?”

Allstrong, wearing alligator cowboy boots with his light green gabardine suit, sat back and crossed a leg, his facial features relaxed, nearly friendly. “It adequately elucidates your understanding, certainly,” he said. “Although, as I said in our conversation the other day, any assumption you’re making that I’ve committed any kind of crime at all is false. I’m sure that federal investigators will find no evidence implicating me or Allstrong Security in what’s happened to either of the Bowens.”

“I’m sure they won’t,” Hardy said.

“And likewise they’ll find no evidence that I ordered Ron Nolan to kill anybody. That’s not the way I do business.” His pro forma pitch completed, he flashed a quick salesman’s smile.

“Since you’ve arranged to have Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles assigned to the investigation,” Hardy said, “I’d be surprised if they could find Allstrong in the phone book. But that’s not the point. What I’m going to uncover is the evidence the FBI already gathered that connects Nolan and your company to whatever it was that happened in Iraq that got the Khalils murdered. And if, in getting to Nolan, your company gets mixed up in a very public scandal, that’s just an added bonus.”

Allstrong sat impassively. “What makes you think the FBI has evidence tying Allstrong to these killings?”

“The agents told the Khalil family. What the agents found, I can find.”

“I understood that the agents further told them that the contract had come from Kuvan Krekar. Isn’t that so?” Allstrong asked.

Hardy nodded. “That’s my understanding too.”

“Well, then?”

“Well then what?”

“Well, then, it’s obvious where the contract originated, isn’t it? With Kuvan, not with me, and not with Allstrong.”

“That would be obvious except for one thing. Or rather, except for two people. The Bowens. The whole thing with Nolan and Kuvan and the Khalils was a closed circle until Charlie Bowen pried it open again. If the Bowens were still alive, I might have believed that killing the Khalils was Kuvan’s idea and Kuvan’s contract. But Kuvan was already dead when Charlie Bowen started sniffing around, and that kind of neatly eliminated the possibility that Kuvan was Bowen’s killer. But somebody still needed Charlie dead because he was going to find out and expose who’d really put out the contract on the Khalils. And you know who that was, Jack. You know because that was you.”

Allstrong let his shoulders sag for a moment. “Back to that,” he said.

“I’m afraid so.” Hardy met his adversary’s eyes, unyielding.

Allstrong shrugged, nodded, leaned down, picked up his briefcase, brought it up to his lap, and snapped it open. “Regrettably,” he said, “this has become a very inconvenient situation.”

And for an irrational moment, Hardy thought he’d miscalculated and in another half second he would be dead. Before he could even react to reach for his own gun, which he’d so stupidly, stupidly placed in the closed top drawer, Allstrong’s silenced bullet would explode with no warning at all through the expensive briefcase and blow Hardy into oblivion. That would put an end to Hardy’s threat right here, right now.

Hardy’s left hand went to his drawer, started to pull it out.

He wasn’t going to have enough time.

It was over. His life was over.

But in the moment Allstrong would have taken his shot if he could, instead of firing a weapon he’d perhaps concealed in his briefcase, he simply continued talking. “I have to admire your tenacity and industry. In fact, I’d like to offer you a retainer to take on some of my legal work. Mr. Loy is a fine corporate attorney but lacks the killer instinct sometimes required in my business. Like all our senior employees, you will be paid in cash.”

Allstrong turned the briefcase around, showing Hardy the neatly stacked packages of one-hundred-dollar bills. And no sign of a gun.

Hardy quietly exhaled and brought his shaking hands together, clasped now white-knuckled on his desktop.

And Allstrong continued. “This is two hundred thousand dollars, Mr. Hardy. I’d like to offer it to you against billings for the first year. If you prefer, I could arrange to have this deposited in an offshore account, a Swiss bank account, or any other place that you choose. You would in fact be retained by one of our Iraqi subsidiaries, who do not file tax returns in the United States. So whether you choose to report this to the IRS as income is completely up to you.”

“I wonder how many of those are my tax dollars,” Hardy said.

“Don’t be naïve,” Allstrong countered. “And don’t trifle with me.” The bribe offer having already, albeit tacitly, admitted his complicity in everything that Hardy had accused him of, he went on. “I’d strongly advise you to consider what I’m offering. As you yourself have noticed, other alternatives, though perhaps risky and more costly, are still available to me.”

Hardy clucked and cracked a grin. “I really thought we’d moved beyond that, Jack.”

Allstrong slowly and carefully closed up the briefcase, setting it down again beside him. Sitting back, he eyed Hardy for a long moment. “So, Mr. Hardy, do we have an understanding?”

“Oh, we understand each other, Jack. But, no, we don’t have a deal. I thought I’d made it clear. I want Evan Scholler out of prison. I don’t care how it happens, but that’s my price.”

“What if the FBI suddenly found evidence that did implicate Nolan in the Khalils’ deaths? What if there were surveillance reports linking some members of the Khalil family to terrorist organizations? And wiretaps where they discussed killing Ron Nolan? Do you think that would do the job, Mr. Hardy?”

“I think it might. So what you have to do, Jack, is get me that evidence.”

“And then what?”

“And then I lose interest in you.”

But Allstrong still wasn’t quite ready to give it up. “And what if the evidence just doesn’t exist?”

Hardy inclined his head. “Ah, but we know it does. Remember? The FBI found it before they talked to the Khalil children. You saw it when you decided to sell out Kuvan.”

A lengthy silence settled.

At last, Allstrong nodded once. “He should have never used the grenades,” he said quietly, as though explaining a complicated process to a child. “That was his own decision and just tactically stupid. But he didn’t care. He’d become a liability. He loved to blow things up. He thought it was fun. The fool thought he was invincible.”

“Y
OU WANT
my opinion,” Hardy said, popping a peanut into his mouth in Glitsky’s office, “he did Nolan too. Not personally. Allstrong himself was still over in Iraq back then. But one of his guys took out Nolan. Just another job.”

“Why?” Glitsky asked.

“Allstrong said it himself. Nolan had become a liability. He used the frag grenades that could be traced back to Allstrong.”

Bracco, sulking, stood against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re not telling me he’s giving you something that can be traced back to him? I’m talking about the frags.”

“No. He won’t do that. They might get back to the company, but old Jack will be able to say that Nolan stole them or something, that he was acting on his own when he killed the Khalils. It was a freelance gig.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway.” Glitsky sat all the way back, exuding frustration. “He’s got protection, remember? He might as well have immunity. I’m still having a hard time getting my arms around the fact that the Feebs are part of this. Schuyler wouldn’t go along with any of this on his own.”

“I wouldn’t take it personally, Abe,” Hardy said. “And it’s not on his own. He’s being told it’s national security, too, and he believes his bosses. There’s a greater good involved. So everybody winds up being good guys.”

“Peachy,” Glitsky replied.

“So what about the Bowens?” Bracco asked. “What about those murders? Collateral damage and we leave it at that? Does that seem right to either of you guys?”

Hardy turned to him. “You were never going to make the case anyway, Darrel. Never, ever, in a million years. Ask Abe if he agrees.”

For an answer, Glitsky shrugged.

Hardy held up a hand. “I’m not saying I’m happy with that, but it’s reality.”

“It sucks,” Bracco said. “What am I supposed to tell Jenna the next time she calls? That fat cats like Allstrong walk? Sorry, but that’s reality. Your parents don’t count.” He slammed his hand hard against a metal locker. “This just pisses me off.” And he walked out the door.

“It’s not over yet,” Hardy called after him.

In the ensuing silence, Glitsky growled. “It’s not over. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean I’m going to be getting this evidence in the next few weeks. And the great thing about evidence is that it speaks for itself.”

Glitsky glared at him. “Oh, yeah, your
client
. Good for him. Good for you too.”

“Not just us,” Hardy said.

“No?” Glitsky asked again. “Then who else?” Sitting up, he shook his head in disgust. “Get the door on your way out, would you? I’ve got real work I got to do.”