Kodiak Sky (Red Cell Trilogy Book 3) (15 page)

CHAPTER 22

E
ARLY MORNING,
and Chief Justice Warren Bolger steered his brand-new BMW toward the Supreme Court building and through the thick fog drifting in off the Potomac River, which was shrouding the streets of downtown Washington. He loved this sleek, black 7 Series, and the hell with bloggers who ridiculed him for having such expensive tastes. And thank the Lord the car was all they’d found out about. His family’s investment income dwarfed the $231,000 salary he earned as chief justice.

If you really looked at the situation analytically, he was as powerful as the president, maybe more so. Every day Bolger made critically important decisions that would guide the country’s social and economic paths and policies for centuries to come. He never had to worry about reelection or Congress overriding him, so he made those momentous decisions free and clear of any childish whining by constituents. Therefore, he voted with his conscience, not for his campaign manager, the way the president had to, especially at reelection time.

Finally and most important, he stayed in power as long as he wanted to. There were no silly term limits to fret about. A Supreme Court justice might rule for fifty years, while the president was lucky to hold office for eight. Obviously, the Founding Fathers considered the Supreme Court a more important piece to the government than the executive branch.

Well, the head of the executive branch rode around in armored limousines and flying fortresses. Why shouldn’t the chief justice of the Supreme Court ride around in nice vehicles?

Bolger laughed harshly. He no more wanted to ride around in an armored limousine than he did on the back of a flea-bitten mule. He didn’t need a limousine to justify his self-worth. He needed a 7 Series.

He took a deep breath of the rich leather scent permeating the inside of the car. No, driving this car was a much better plan. This was a little piece of heaven on earth, the ultimate driving experience.

President Dorn had asked him several times to start using a limousine, to start being more safety-conscious in general in these days of heightened terrorism. But Bolger wasn’t about to give up his personal freedom or be told what to do in any facet of his life, even by the president of the United States.

Besides, in his opinion, limousines would only attract terrorist attention. And the 140-member Supreme Court Police did a fine job of protecting him while he was on the bench or in his office outside the most important courtroom in the world.

“David Dorn,” Bolger muttered sarcastically as he pulled to stop at a red light on Constitution Avenue. He liked the way the radio’s volume automatically softened as the car decelerated. “What an arrogant bastard. You’d think he could have called me directly.” The president hadn’t called Bolger personally to request that he be more security-conscious. He’d left that chore up to his lackey, Stewart Baxter. “And that worm Baxter’s even worse.”

Bolger stepped on the accelerator the instant the light turned green.

He didn’t see the truck careening through the intersection out of the fog until the vehicle’s grill was three feet from his door. Even as he screamed in mortal terror, it occurred to him that he’d never heard the truck’s horn.

Chief Justice Bolger was killed on impact.

C
HERYL LAUGHED
mostly good-naturedly but a bit in frustration as she followed Little Jack, who was darting down a sidewalk of the quiet Greenwich side street. She loved the boy as if he were her own, not just her grandson, and she’d been glad to take him in when his mother, Lisa Martinez, had died last year. God knows Troy would have been lost taking care of an infant. Besides, he was always gone, off in some distant corner of the world he could never disclose. How could he possibly have taken care of Little Jack? How could he take care of anyone?

So she’d become Little Jack’s primary caregiver. And it had given her so much joy to do it, since Jack and Troy had been out of the nest for quite some time. She was being a mom again after a decade off. It was wonderful.

All that had been fine until L.J. learned to walk this past spring, and then learned to run soon after that. Now, just over a year old, he was already almost more than she could handle. The boy had Bill and Troy’s athletic gene. That it had passed right through to him was undeniable, even at this young age. It had been wonderful to take care of him when he wasn’t mobile. Now it wasn’t so wonderful, and she was feeling her years.

Yesterday, at the birthday party, she’d asked Jennie to help her with L.J. today while she ran some early errands in town. But Jennie had politely declined, which was unusual, and it had been without a good reason, too. Normally, Jennie was happy to lend a hand, and she had always seemed to adore the little boy as well. After all, he was family.

Cheryl had noticed Troy and Jennie not spending much time together at the party last night, not even looking at each other, really. Typically, they were over the top for each other, holding hands, kissing, but not last night. Cheryl hadn’t asked Troy directly, but she was fairly certain she knew what was going on with them.

She shook her head as she ran after L.J. Troy never had a problem attracting women. Keeping them was his problem. When they finally understood that they’d forever place second to his career, they couldn’t take it any longer, and they left him, completely bitter. They’d delude themselves for a while into thinking that they could handle the long absences and the secrecy. But in the end, they never could. Mostly because he wouldn’t tell them what his career really entailed, so they were always suspicious.

She understood that, too. She’d fought those same doubts and suspicions when Bill had occasionally disappeared without explanation in the past. Now she was fighting it again, though this time she was worried he was gone for good. Before, she’d always known he’d come back. She wasn’t sure this time, though. It was terrifying, but she was trying to stay strong, at least outwardly.

“L.J., stop running!”

As Cheryl grabbed the little boy’s wrist to keep him from racing across the street, she happened to glance up, and her heart skipped a beat. She’d only seen the tall, dark man for an instant, and then he’d disappeared around the corner down the block. But it had looked so much like Bill. Could he possibly still be alive after nine months of hearing nothing from him? Would he really do that to her?

For a few seconds she actually considered picking up L.J. and risking a heart attack by running for that corner with the little boy on her hip. But then she closed her eyes and turned away. It hadn’t been Bill any of the other times.

A van skidded to a stop in front of them, and Cheryl’s eyes flew open. She screamed as two men wearing ski masks burst from the back, grabbed L.J. away from her, and tossed him into the back as he cried out in terror. She tried fighting the men, but she was no match, and one of them threw her roughly to the sidewalk after a short struggle.

“Stop,
stop
!
Oh my God!
”

Seconds later the van disappeared around the corner with the little boy inside, and Cheryl was left sprawled on the sidewalk with only her pathetic sobs and her pitiful screams for help.

A
SSOCIATE
J
USTICE
Espinosa was in his study at home, gathering files off his Rockefeller desk and carefully arranging them in his leather briefcase. He made certain to put the files he would read in the back of the limousine on the way to the court into the briefcase last; the ones that would wait for his perusal at the office had gone in first. Maybe Chief Justice Bolger wasn’t going to take the president’s advice about becoming more security-conscious, but he was. Besides, Espinosa rather liked riding to work in a chauffeured limousine. It was a glaring and good example of how far he’d come from the days of trudging to school through the slums of East New York in all kinds of weather as he dodged the drug dealers on every corner.

Espinosa was a neatnik, always had been. Keeping everything in strict order had been a key success factor for him down through the years, and he wasn’t about to change that habit now. Discipline built dynasties, and right angles everywhere were good things. They were words to live by. He’d taught them to his children well, and now they were successful, which justified all the ribbing he’d taken over time for his steadfast commitment to organization. So he took his time deciding which file to put where, never in the least bit self-conscious of or embarrassed by his obsessive attention to detail.

He glanced around the room at the pictures hanging on the walls. He was relieved to see that all the frames were perfectly straight with all edges parallel to other frames, as well as to the ceiling and the floor.

As his eyes moved across the Persian rug beneath his black leather shoes, he noticed that somehow its borders had become slightly askew in relation to the walls. It was a few degrees off-angle and not quite in the middle of the room anymore. He made a mental note to fix it tonight. He wanted desperately to fix it now, but his limousine was waiting, and he didn’t want to be late for his ten o’clock meeting with Chief Justice Bolger. They were discussing an upcoming pornography case. And how ironic was that?

He gritted his teeth as he placed the last manila folder carefully into the briefcase, making certain that it fit just right. He’d allowed himself to stray from his lifetime commitment to discipline just those few times two years ago, and for
what
? A little physical pleasure, that was all. Now those simple digressions seemed terribly embarrassing on so many levels. Worse, they could cost him his career and his marriage—perhaps even his freedom if things really broke badly enough. And how in the hell had Baxter found out about them, anyway? That had to be what he’d mentioned he knew right here in this study the other night.

Espinosa looked up from the briefcase when he heard his wife, Camilla, running through the house toward the study. She was a slender woman, and after twenty-five years of marriage he would have quickly recognized her light step even if there had been others in the home.

Still, the pace sounded strange this morning. There was an urgency to it he’d never heard before.

“Henry,” she called loudly as she burst into the study without knocking, which she normally did so as not to interrupt important telephone calls. “Turn on your television,” she ordered, pointing at the screen on the wall, “turn it to CNN.”

Espinosa detested watching news shows in the morning. There was always enough bad information to go around during the day, so there was no need to get a head start on it first thing. The sun always seemed to rise the next morning, he’d noticed, even when he wasn’t up-to-the-second on everything going on in the world.

“What is it?” he demanded, glancing at Camilla as she stood in the doorway.

She was getting old and tired-looking, he hated to admit. She was prematurely gray; the lines at the corners of her eyes were deep, and the stoop of her narrow shoulders was becoming very noticeable. All that and she was just forty-six. He loved her, but he wasn’t passionate about her any longer. She never wanted sex anymore, so how could there be passion? She told him her lack of interest was because she was embarrassed by her body, but that couldn’t be it. Her body was still very nice.

Whatever it was, she didn’t want it. And maybe that had been the straw that finally broke the camel’s back and why he’d done what he’d done. Maybe it wasn’t really his fault. Of course, that wouldn’t matter to the masses. The media would crucify him if they found out, and there could be an arrest. He might not end up being charged with anything, but the arrest and the involvement would spell doom for everything he’d worked for and held dear.

“Jesus,” Camilla moaned with aggravation when he didn’t move. She went to where the remote lay on the coffee table, grabbed it, pushed the power button, and jockeyed the screen to CNN. “There,” she said with a satisfied tone, dropping the remote so it clattered on the table. “See for yourself.”

He grimaced as the remote struck wood. The table was a genuine seventeenth-century antique from Boston, and it had probably just lost ten percent of its value.