Political Suicide (6 page)

“My money’s on the kid,” he said. “Listen, pal, I need your help.”

Lou checked to make sure Emily was out of earshot and following instructions. She was shadowboxing in front of the mirrors alongside four other fighters, all of whom were young black men in perfect shape. It was impossible not to smile at the scene. Lou’s ex, Renee, was a social liberal and political moderate, but she was not a fan of Emily staying in Lou’s hardscrabble neighborhood, and expressed more than a little displeasure at her daughter’s sudden desire to take up boxing. Lou’s position was that as good as the Carlisle School in Arlington was in terms of academics, it did little to expose its students to the richness of multiculturalism. The more time Emily spent in his world, the more aware she seemed of the sheltered homogeneity within her own.

“Feel like going a couple of rounds with your professor?” Cap asked.

“Ordinarily I would never refuse an offer like that—especially if you promise to take it easy on me when my kid’s watching.”

“And I will.”

“But not today. Cap, have you read about the guy who got arrested for the murder of Congressman Colston?”

“A little. We’ve got a big AAU tournament coming up, so I’ve been spending my time with the kids and not with the news.”

“Well, you’ve met the guy a couple of times, most recently at that fund-raiser for the gym last year, where you talked me into sparring two rounds with you. His name’s Gary McHugh. He’s a doc, and has been a good friend of mine since college. In fact, I was in his wedding.”

“Did he do it?”

“He says no, but he was in a blackout and doesn’t remember much.”

“Lord. I would wager that ninety percent of those in jail don’t really remember what they did to get there.”

“So, I believe he’s innocent until there’s good reason not to. At the moment, the police and the court have a strong enough case to arrest him and keep him without bail.”

“He’s in jail?”

“The Baltimore City Detention Center.”

“That hellhole? How in the heck did he end up there?”

“No idea. He said something about overcrowding.”

“Nasty, nasty place. Most jails are, even the newer ones, of which there ain’t too many. Less space, less protection, fewer guards than a prison. I swear, neither one of them is a rose garden, but I would take a penitentiary over a jail anytime.”

“Gary’s having it tough there, Cap. Apparently word is out that he’s a doctor, and the inmates want stuff from him. He’s afraid. Is there anything we can do for him?”

“Let me check with the grapevine and see if anybody I know is doing time up there. The odds favor it. If there is, I can ride up there with you during visitors’ hours and speak with them—see if we can get your pal a little protection.”

“You’re the best.”

“Give me a couple of hours.”

Cap headed up the flight of stairs to his office, perched on supports that suspended it out over the gym. In a minute, Lou could see him through the plate glass window, making calls.

Lou did a little foot and glove work himself and was about to motion Emily back into the ring, when he saw Cap stand up from his desk, wave, and start back down the stairs.

“That was way too easy, Doc. In the old days, it would have taken a bunch of calls and a few hours or more to pin down someone doing time in any specific tank in the tristate area. Now, it’s like two calls, and I’ve got a name. Seems like there’s more brothers in the joint than out. That’s sad, man, real sad. Rolando Booker’s in Baltimore City right now for B and E. He’s always been called Tiny. I suppose because he ain’t. He and I used to run together after I was forced out of the ring. He’s a good guy and a real artist with locks and safes of any sort. Great at plannin’, not so good at gettin’ away with it. Everything I know about B and E—and that used to be quite a bit—ol’ Tiny taught me. We can find out when the visitors’ hours are for their cell blocks and make a road trip.”

“Thanks, pal. Gary’s not exactly everybody’s cup of tea, but he’s always meant a lot to me, and right now, he’s scared stiff.”

“As soon as we have a time, we’re there. It’ll be good to reconnect with Tiny. He actually was a decent fighter at one time himself. Listen, I’ve got some pointers to give to Tommy, the kid with the red trunks shadowboxing to Emily’s right. He has some serious potential if he can just stay in school and out of trouble.”

“He’s lucky to have you on his case.”

Lou watched as his sponsor strode easily over to Emily, whispered something that made her grin, and sent her back to the ring. Then Cap turned to the boy and motioned for him to get his hands up. It was impossible to watch the man at work and not feel good. Lou knew that he had been orphaned at a young age, and made this way through some seriously hard times.

You never know,
Lou found himself thinking as he watched his kid dancing across the gym toward him on her fawn’s legs.

“Hey, Pop, I’ve got the best idea ever,” Emily said, still holding her mouthguard.

“Let me guess,” Lou said. “You want to be Cap’s partner in the Stick and Move.”

“Close,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I’ve decided to move in with you.”

CHAPTER 7

Detective Christopher Bryzinski, of the Maryland State Police, hated funerals. With the exception of his wife, he had buried everybody who mattered to him, and this overwrought ceremony for a murdered congressman served only to bring those bitter memories to the surface. His father, Bart, a cop’s cop, was run down ten years ago on a Maryland highway, killed by a drunk driver on a gray and rainy day like this one. His mother, who, much like himself, was a revolving member of Weight Watchers, died soon after, not surprisingly from a heart attack.

Bryzinski knew he needed to drop weight. He always needed to drop weight. His wife, Agnes, rode him about it mercilessly—that was when she wasn’t riding him about his cigars. But then, what would be the point of it all? If he gave up food, booze, and an occasional smoke, Agnes might as well stuff him inside a wooden box as well.

Bryzinski shivered against the raw cold. He gazed absently at the guests who were shuffling across the depressing landscape of milk white gravestones, which reminded Bryzinski of soldiers on a perpetual death march. He had argued with the captain that sending him out here to take pictures with a lapel camera and record notes about the attendees was going to be as fruitless as trying to milk a bull, but the man must have been pissed off at him for something.

Dr. Gary McHugh was their killer, and that was that.

Only a fraction of the mob at the service in Bethesda had made the trip down to Arlington, but many of those who did were easily recognizable high-profilers. Jeannine Colston was trudging up the gentle slope, accompanied by her children and two or three others. She was a fine-looking woman, no doubt about that. Bryzinski tried to imagine how she was handling the damning stories about her affair with her husband’s killer. With nothing much else to do, he moved closer and snapped off a few shots.

For a time, he wondered where Colston’s son was buried. Mike? Mark? Something like that. He was killed in Afghanistan and had won an important medal for his troubles. Father and son. Both marines, both dead.

The final groups of mourners were headed from their cars toward the burial site. Bryzinski estimated two hundred or so would form the final gathering. Maybe a couple of unidentified or unexpected faces would show up. That’s what the captain was thinking. Still, no matter what, nothing would change the conclusion that Bryzinski and his crew of seasoned homicide detectives had reached. Gary McHugh, the society doc, one of the beautiful people in D.C., was the man.

The wind kicked up in a sudden gust, spattering rain on beleaguered faces, and actually inverting some umbrellas. The priest, his white robes flapping like sodden sails, was settled beneath a canvas canopy, preparing to read from the Scriptures. Some people were openly weeping, but mostly what Bryzinski saw were people there to be seen. The military brass arrived in full peacock dress, while Secret Service agents stood at a conspicuous distance.

The chilly rain, mixed with windblown sleet, had peppered his face long enough for Bryzinski to declare his assignment a job well done. He took a few backward steps, turned, and eased away from the crowd and back down the hill. He had made it halfway to his Pontiac, parked parallel to the line of black town cars, when a deep voice startled him from behind. Bryzinski whirled, and his eyes widened with recognition. Secretary of Defense Spencer Hogarth stood alone and unaccompanied beneath a broad, black umbrella.

“Detective Bryzinski?”

Bryzinski’s throat tightened. His exposure to politics never ventured past the Maryland governor’s office, and he found himself speechless in the presence of the square-jawed, silver-haired, leathery-skinned admiral, whom many pundits thought to be a potential nominee for the presidency, or at least the vice presidency. A champion of traditional American values, and an all-American running back at the Naval Academy, Hogarth had become a fixture in all the news magazines.

“That’s me,” Bryzinski said, stunned more than flattered that Hogarth would know his name.

“Got a moment to talk?”

“Sure. How do you know me?” Bryzinski wiped his face with the back of his hand.

“Let’s just say that when I have an interest in someone, I do my homework,” Hogarth said.

“And you have an interest in me?”

“A sound conclusion. Detective Bryzinski—may I call you Chris?”

“Sure.”

“Chris, I could use your help.”

Bryzinski sensed the secretary wasn’t a threat, and began to relax. “My help with what?” he asked.

“You are the lead investigator on the Elias Colston murder case, are you not?”

“I am,” Bryzinski said, finding his mental footing now. Maybe this day wouldn’t be a total loss after all. “Do you have information about the congressman’s murder you want to share, Mr. Secretary?”

“No,” Hogarth said, grinning. “Flip it around.”

Bryzinski appraised the man curiously. Even in the gloom of the day, he felt riveted to Hogarth’s eyes, almost an iridescent blue—the eyes of power. “You mean if I have information about Colston’s murder, you want me to share it?”

Hogarth’s smile was engaging. “No wonder your reputation as a fine detective precedes you,” he said.

Over his career, Bryzinski had not been above accepting the occasional inducement for one favor or another. Every cop did it. He sensed an offer coming from the secretary of defense that he would not refuse. First, though, the obligatory feeling out on both sides.

“And exactly how will my sharing this information help in my investigation?”

“I have a strong interest in tracking the developments in this case,” Hogarth replied. “You keep me informed, and I see to it you know how grateful I am.” Again, that smile.

“I’m sorry, Secretary Hogarth,” Bryzinski said. “With all due respect, sir, I realize you’re a very important man, but if I understand you right, that’s not how we go about our business at the Maryland State Police. I hope you understand.”

“Let me walk you to your car,” Hogarth said.

Bryzinski saw a pair of bodyguards lingering among the row of limos and executive sedans, watching the two of them but staying well out of earshot. “Maybe you should get to the point, sir.”

“The point is, I’m not asking.” Hogarth placed his arm around Bryzinski’s broad shoulders, as though the two were duck-hunting buddies headed for a blind. Walking with slow, purposeful steps, he led the stunned detective toward the curbside row of parked cars. The rain played rhythmically on Hogarth’s wide umbrella.

“Pardon?” Bryzinski finally managed.

“Here’s the thing, Chris,” Hogarth went on. “Let’s make it short and sweet. Jamie Lambert. I assume that name means something to you.”

“I don’t—”

“Please, don’t play games with me. Twelve years ago, you shot and killed Lambert during a shakedown you and your partner were running. You planted a gun and some drugs on the kid—seventeen, I believe he was—and ended up getting off.”

“I’m not going to admit to that. What, are you wearing a wire?”

“Not my style, Chris. Lambert’s killing is not all I’ve learned about you. I know about your wife, Agnes. Thirty years next June, yes? I know you don’t have any children. I know you don’t have much money because you have the tendency to gamble too much—even tried Gamblers Anonymous, if my information is correct. I know your parents are both dead and that you’re a reasonably well respected police officer. What I don’t know is if you’re a smart man, too—smart enough to know I wouldn’t approach you like this if I didn’t already have proof. Now, do we do business, or not?”

Bryzsinki’s stomach lurched. At that instant, his foot sank above his shoe in a nearly frozen puddle. “And what would make me smart?”

“The people who do what I ask, Chris,” Hogarth said, walking even slower now, “often find themselves with promotions or certain other—how should I say it—rewards.”

“And what is it you want in this case?”

“What I want is to know anything and everything pertaining to the murder investigation of Elias Colston. I want you to personally feed me all the information you get—every tip, every lead, every name. I want everything you come across, not just what you think is important. I want you to let me be the judge of that.”

Bryzinski’s breath left him momentarily. He could barely feel the icy water that had filled his shoe and soaked his sock. The man was incredible. In just a couple of minutes, Hogarth had snatched his life away, and now was in the process of giving it back, with bonuses. Incredible.

“And if I don’t do this,” Bryzinski said, “then would that make me not smart?” Blood was thundering like river rapids in his ears.

“If you’re not smart, Chris, then the Lambert murder will be just one of the things the world learns about you, starting with the detective’s exam you didn’t take yourself.”

Bryzinski could only stare at the man. It had been years since the exam, and he was sure now that no one would ever find out. Shaughnessy had sworn that he had the switch to take the test for another man down to a science.
Goddamn mick bastard!
Now, his job, his pension—hell, maybe even the loss of Agnes. Everything was on the line for him.