Forbidden (12 page)

Then there was Nancy, who unfortunately was as hot-blooded as he himself was. He didn’t want to think about Nancy today, or
most any day. He considered his youngest daughter a lost cause. After their last blowup he was relieved she hadn’t put in
an appearance today.

Raising his glass, Joseph listened to Richard’s toast.

“To Sara Jane,” Richard said softly, looking into his wife’s eyes, “who makes our circle complete.”

They all drank, then moved to the hors d’oeuvres table that Emma had set up. Richard took a filled plate to his widowed mother,
who sat on the couch in a shower of sunlight, looking frail and almost ethereal. Lettie Fairchild had had a heart condition
for years. Katherine walked over to sit with Lettie, so Joseph took Richard aside.

“I’ve been thinking, Richard. How would you feel if I sponsored you as a member of the La Jolla Beach and Tennis Club?”

Richard was aware of the prestige in belonging to the best
club in southern California. Membership couldn’t hurt his client base. “I think I’d like that very much.”

“Good, good. You need to get involved in the community more. A two-attorney office such as yours is limited by too low a profile.
I’d also like to get you involved in politics. There’s big money to be made, if you meet the right people.”

Richard wasn’t offended. He knew Joseph was a wheeler-dealer. He certainly wasn’t averse to making more money. “I’ve always
had a keen interest in politics, just haven’t done much about it.”

“I’ll call you next week. We’ll set something up.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Richard watched Joseph saunter off, thinking that his father-in-law’s connections were a bonus to his
marriage, one he hadn’t thought of at the time of the wedding. He’d thought only of Liz and how much he loved her. Watching
her now as she and Molly Washington strolled out onto the terrace, he realized he’d never been happier.

“How are things going?” Molly asked Liz once they were out of earshot. She’d been so busy lately preparing for her latest
art show that she hadn’t really talked with Liz since the night of Sara’s birth.

“Fine. How are the paintings coming?”

“Good. Another week and I should be finished.” Molly sipped from her glass, then turned and noticed the
San Diego Union
where it had been tossed on the glass table in front of the wrought-iron couch. “So you’ve seen this morning’s paper,” she
commented, picking it up.

At the low brick wall, Liz stared out at a restless sea. The morning fog had lifted, and the sky was a robin’s-egg blue. She
loved the view from here, the pounding waves foaming onto the rocky shoreline. She often came out here to sit and think. She
hadn’t had much time for solitude since Sara’s birth. On Sunday mornings she loved to come out and read the paper. Today’s
lead story had given her pause. “How could I miss it? Front page, yet.” The California attorney
general was involved in a sweeping prison reform, and he was getting some flack over his ideas.

“Didn’t we always say he’d make a name for himself? No matter what else you may feel about him, you have to admit Adam’s a
fighter.”

“He is that. When he sees something wrong, he simply has to jump in and try to remedy it. I always admired that about him.”

“Then you’ve gotten over your harsh feelings for him?”

Glancing over her shoulder, Liz made sure they were alone, then looked at her friend. “I never felt animosity toward Adam.
He never lied to me, never led me along. I always knew his career came first. The situation I found myself in was of my own
doing.”

“Bullshit. No one gets pregnant alone.” Molly’s voice was a near whisper.

Again Liz glanced toward the open veranda doors. “We were careful. It just… happened. If anyone’s to blame, I am. I should
have gone on the pill ages ago.” She brightened, thinking of Sara. “However, I’m not a bit sorry. I’ve got a beautiful baby,
a good life.”

Perhaps, but did she have passion? Molly wondered. She could hardly imagine life without it. She tossed aside the paper. “Today’s
article couldn’t have been more supportive. I think most people are behind Adam.”

“As we often said, he’s a winner.”

“I’m enjoying watching his career. I have a feeling he’s going to do some pretty great things.” She paused eyeing her friend.
“You never hear his name linked with any woman. I wonder why not.”

“He guards his private life.” He’d certainly guarded the part she’d played in it. No one outside of Fitz and Molly had guessed
they’d had a relationship, she was certain. Since their split she’d begun to think Adam had wanted it that way. The realization
had hurt.

“Do you think he knows you’re married?”

Liz shrugged, watching a low-flying gull circle inland. “Hard to say. Probably. Fitz reads half a dozen papers daily cover
to cover.”

“But Adam’s never called or dropped you a note?”

“Why would he, Molly?”

Molly drained her glass. “You’re right, of course.” She’d just ended a three-month relationship with a handsome stockbroker
and was feeling argumentative and blue. Determined to overcome her mood, she slipped an arm around her friend’s waist. “Despite
everything, I envy you. You seem happy.”

Whether or not she was wasn’t a subject Liz allowed herself to dwell on. “I adore my baby, and Richard’s very good to me.
What’s to be unhappy about?” Putting on a smile, she slipped her arm through Molly’s. “Come on. Let’s check out the goody
table.”

Jesse Conroy closed Adam’s office door behind him and walked across the pale gray carpeting to take a seat across the desk
from the attorney general. Jesse was an underreactor, a calm man whose expression seldom changed. It was often said of Jesse
that if he won the lottery, he would probably say, “That’s nice,” and go on working.

However, today was an exception. His dark eyes were shining, and the corners of his expressive mouth twitched as he looked
first at Fitz seated alongside him, then at Adam. “You are
never
going to believe this report, but I can verify every word.” His fingers shaking, he handed the typed pages to Adam, then
sat back with a small smile.

Usually patient, Fitz sat up taller, watching Adam skim the first page. Ever since Adam had taken office fifteen months ago,
the three of them had been working on a white supremacy case, giving it priority above all others. It was a problem they’d
inherited from the previous administration. Someone was inciting young white men to riot and use violence against blacks.
They had half a dozen names, but
Adam didn’t want to nail the small fry. He was after their leader.

“Jesus,” Adam said, looking up from the report. “Judge Frederick Becker the third? Are you certain?”

Jesse leaned forward. “Check the second page. A sworn statement from the munitions manufacturer. Cut-and-dried ID. And he’s
willing to testify.”

Shocked, Fitz whistled through his teeth. “The sanctimonious son of a bitch.” Judge Becker, currently the youngest member
of the California State Supreme Court, was known for his maverick dissenting opinions; he usually distanced himself from the
majority and leaned toward an extremely conservative viewpoint. The former governor who’d appointed Judge Becker had been
widely criticized for putting one of his good friends into such a powerful position. “He probably feels inviolate since he’s
just been elected to his second twelve-year term.”

“That won’t do him much good if we can prove he’s involved in criminal activities,” Adam said.

“Can
we prove it?” Fitz asked, his excitement mounting.

Jesse showed him the report. “Becker personally went along with one of his more radical supremacists, Kent Nolan, to pick
up the explosives that have been traced to the recent bombing of that black meeting hall in San Francisco. According to the
shop owner’s testimony, Becker looked scruffy and needed a shave. But it was definitely Becker. He’s also the one who paid.
In cash, of course.”

“How could he be so careless, so stupid?” Adam wondered aloud.

“It’s more arrogance than stupidity,” Jesse ventured. “He gets off on getting away with something under our noses.”

Adam was excited, but outwardly calm. “This isn t nearly enough to get a conviction. It’s a start, but we’re not going to
go for indictments until we have an ironclad case. Becker could come up with half a dozen logical reasons why he was buying
explosives.”

“The very same explosives, fragments of which, with serial codes intact, were found at the scene? Hardly a coincidence. You
see, dynamite is sold in sticks, available in varying lengths, color-coded by the federal government with serial numbers on
each stick and box. A purchaser must produce a driver’s license and fill out a form when he buys dynamite, the same as for
guns or ammo.”

Fitz was incredulous. “You mean Becker signed for the purchase?”

Jesse grinned. “Yes, and we have a copy.”

Fitz’s smile split his face. “How about that!”

Adam leaned back on his chair, trying to contain his own excitement. “Let’s see if we can arrange some surveillance—unofficial,
of course—to start with. Not only on Becker, but on Nolan and any of the other skinheads who do his dirty work.”

Jesse frowned. “That could take weeks, maybe months, and it could cost lives if we don’t stop him before another violent incident.”

Adam nodded. “I’m aware of that. However, if we move too fast, they’ll disband here and, when the heat’s off, start over again
elsewhere. There’s already a similar group in Florida that call themselves the White Aryan Resistance. These hate groups are
growing in number. We’ve got to put together a strong case to halt their activities once and for all. If we don’t, even more
innocent people will get hurt or killed.”

“You’re right,” Fitz said.

“If we don’t follow the letter of the law,” Adam went on, “Becker will find a loophole and wiggle out. Remember, he’s got
friends in high places or he wouldn’t be in a powerful position to begin with.”

“When the time comes, we’ll topple his friends, too,” Jesse promised.

“I want only our most trusted men on that surveillance
team, Jesse. We can’t afford to blow this one. And let’s keep the details among the three of us.”

Jesse got to his feet. “I’d like to bring someone else in on it. Diane has been invaluable. She does whatever I ask, and I
ask a lot of her. She never complains, works late, comes in on weekends. I need her on this, and I believe she can handle
it while she juggles her other duties.”

Fitz stood also. “I have to agree with Jesse. Diane’s proven that she’s not only intelligent, but intuitive enough to find
that missing something quite often.”

Remembering several cases where she’d come through, Adam agreed. “Then let’s include her. Just make sure she understands the
need for discretion. One leak of this, one hint to the news media, and Becker will distance himself.”

“Right. I’ll get to work on it.” Jesse walked to the door.

“I want daily reports, Jess,” Adam called after him.

“You got it.” Jesse left quietly.

Adam rubbed his burning eyes. Seven in the evening, and he had at least two more reports he had to review and analyze before
he could leave. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Anything else?” he asked Fitz.

“Yeah. Why don’t we call it a day and grab a bite to eat? When was the last time you chucked work for a few hours and just
had fun?” Adam’s face was thinner, and the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened to resemble worry lines. Fifteen
months on the job, and he easily fit the workaholic image the media depicted.

He remembered the last time all too well. He’d done that frequently during the campaign, picking up a sack of Chinese food,
dropping in on Liz, eating and talking in her cozy kitchen, winding up in her bed, blocking out the whole world, waking up
refreshed and ready to tackle anything, instead of awakening more tired than the night before. But that was then and this
was now.

Picking up his pen, he frowned at Fitz. “I have a job to do, and it has little to do with fun. The voters didn’t elect me
so I
could whoop it up.” In an uncharacteristically dismissive gesture, he lowered his eyes to the report and began reading.

Fitz wasn’t hurt. He knew Adam, knew he was struggling with residual pain and not really angry with him. Sighing, Fitz picked
up his briefcase and left.

The ringing phone woke him. Instantly alert, Adam glanced at the bedside clock. Who’d be calling him at eight on a Sunday
morning? he wondered as he picked it up. “McKenzie.”

“Adam, it’s Jess. I’ve got some rotten news. The skinheads have struck again.”

“Shit.” Adam swung his legs over and sat up. A year had passed since they’d pinpointed Becker, and they still hadn’t been
able to gather enough evidence to trap him. “Fill me in.”

“A black church bombed in south Los Angeles. Bad. It’s on TV if you want to check the details. Several dead already, including
some children.”

Adam rubbed a hand across his scratchy face. “That does it, Jess. We can’t wait any longer. We need to call in our ace in
the hole.”

“You mean Kowalski?”

“You bet. Think his district will release him and let him give us a hand?”

“I’m pretty sure they will, unless he’s in the middle of a case. I’ll make sure they’re flattered to help out the attorney
general’s office.”

“Great. Get on it right away.” Adam hung up and turned on his television.

It took Jesse Conroy two days to get Detective Sergeant Leon Kowalski’s clearance. On Tuesday Kowalski appeared in Conroy’s
office wearing blue jeans and a tan V-necked sweater, looking much the same as he had the last time they’d worked together:
medium height, average build,
brown hair, and no distinctive features. Jesse thought Kowalski was so good at what he did partly because he blended in anywhere.
The veteran cop listened carefully and asked for a copy of the Becker file, which he perused quickly.

“Can you lend me some manpower?” Kowalski asked Jesse. “I’m out of my element up here in Sacramento.”

“No problem. But Adam wants you to use only people on our staff. Less chance of a leak that way.”