The Ambition (26 page)

“I’m sorry, Eric — I can’t say anything more. Leave it at that. He’s not around anymore and the tape has disappeared.”

“Where was it?”

“I locked it in the safe where we keep the offering. But when I checked today, there was nothing there. I can’t figure out how anyone could crack that vault. Who would even know the tape was in there?”

“Let me get this straight. Someone confesses something to you — something serious, something that has a bearing on the Senate race. Now he’s gone and the tape that confirms his story is missing.”

“I’ve already said too much.”

“But if I understand this correctly, you’ve become a liability to anyone who wants to keep his confession quiet.”

Art didn’t reply.

“Look, if you can’t confide in me, then I hope you’ll go ahead and get some help from Dick. He’s an attorney; he’s got a lot of wisdom. And you obviously need some protection — especially when whoever tried to kill you finds out you’re all right.”

“Well, he apparently thinks he shot me. So that could buy some time.”

“He
did
shoot you,” Eric said. “But you were protected.”

“Yeah. In more ways than one.”

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

I

Eric Snow took a step to the side and lowered his shoulder in order to allow the light from an overhead fixture to illuminate his hands. Finally he managed to slip his key into the front–door lock of the small office building in downtown Diamond Point, with Debra Wyatt looking anxiously over his shoulder.

“I don’t get it,” she said, swatting at mosquitoes attracted by the lit entrance. “Why are we here in the middle of the night?”

Without replying, Snow motioned for her to follow him. They went up the stairway to his suite. Once inside, he unlocked the door to his office, flipping the light switch as he rushed inside, Wyatt trailing behind.

Snow went straight to a stack of papers and envelopes that were sitting on the edge of his desk. Picking them up, he shuffled through them until he extracted what he was looking for — an unlabeled manila envelope bearing something bulky inside. He ripped it open and pulled out a micro–recorder, holding it up for Debra as if it were a treasure.

“A volunteer from the church dropped this stuff off a few days ago,” he said. “He was putting the offering into the safe on Sunday and noticed a stack of papers in the back. Most had my name on them, so he grabbed the whole pile and brought it over here, since he knew I had left the church and moved my offices.”

“Yeah? So?”

“I didn’t pay any attention to it; I just let it sit here. It’s personal stuff I like to keep locked up for security, like my passport. But this,” he said, scrutinizing the recorder, “is something else. We need to listen to it.”

Snow sat behind his desk; Debra leaned forward, her hands planted on the desk’s edge. Snow rewound the tape to its beginning and hit “play.” Initially, there were just the muffled sounds of footsteps and hard–to–define movement. He fast–forwarded to where the conversation began.

I don’t have much time. I’m meeting you because I was a very close friend of your father’s. Why was it so pressing to meet in chambers?

Wyatt looked perplexed. “Who is that …?” she whispered.

I have something from Dom … Dom Bugatti … There’s 30K in there.

Eric stopped the tape; Debra’s mouth was agape. “Dominic Bugatti is one of the leaders of the Taylor Street mob. We were constantly investigating those guys when I was with the U.S. Attorney’s office.”

Snow nodded and pushed “play” again.

What’s this all about? Don’t move! Deputy Marshall, come in here. Now! … Mr. O’Sullivan brought something from Dom Bugatti.

You want me to frisk him?

No, he’s okay. I knew his dad. We did a lot of deals together.

Wyatt reached over to halt the tape. “I prosecuted Thomas O’Sullivan,” she said. “He was one of the most corrupt pols in state government. And this is his son — the one who was killed recently. We’ve got to find out who he was talking to.” She restarted the recording.

But we need to be careful. Buster handles details for me. So what’s this all about? Is it the case I read about in the papers?

That’s right. You’re arraigning Tony Bugatti’s nephew, Nick Moretti, tomorrow morning.

Debra squealed and snapped bolt upright, grabbing her head with both hands. “Oh my God! That’s Reese McKelvie!”

Snow sprang to his feet. “Are you sure?”

“He’s the one who arraigned Moretti, the hit man. O’Sullivan is acting as a go–between for the mob. He’s offering a bribe to McKelvie in a murder case.” Her beaming face could hardly contain her smile. “Eric, this is golden! Where did this tape come from?”

Snow put a finger to his lips. “Shh,” he said. “Listen.”

The two of them sat back down and listened with rapt attention — shaking their heads in amazement, covering their mouths in astonishment — as O’Sullivan demanded that Moretti’s trial be assigned to Judge Sepulveda, and McKelvie calmly explained how the judicial selection computer could be rigged to steer the case.

You tell Bugatti this: I will make every effort to get the case to Sepulveda. If I succeed, I keep the money. But if I don’t succeed, I still keep the money. You got that? He’s not paying me for results; he’s paying me for the risk. You make that clear.

When the tape went silent at the end, Snow clicked off the recorder and the two of them merely sat and stared at each other. “This is absolutely incredible,” Wyatt said at last. “At a minimum, we’ve got evidence of McKelvie committing a felony by receiving a bribe. And we may have more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“O’Sullivan was shot to death. I don’t know the details, but do you think it could have been connected with this payoff? We might have evidence that’s relevant to a murder investigation.”

“Here’s the problem,” Snow said. “As I’ve pieced things together, apparently Tom O’Sullivan confessed this scheme to Art Bullock and gave him the tape for safekeeping. But he also gave him strict instructions to keep all of this confidential.”

Wyatt clasped her hands over her mouth. “Do you think someone tried to kill Art tonight to keep him quiet about all this?”

“Why else would someone want to kill him?”

Debra’s mind churned. “So we’re in possession of an incriminating tape that, first, we’re ethically prohibited from sharing and, second, is inadmissible in a court of law.”

“Why is it inadmissible?”

“It’s against the law in Illinois to tape anyone without their consent. And with O’Sullivan dead, a prosecutor couldn’t lay a foundation for admitting it into evidence anyway.”

For a while, they were silent again. “Of course,” she ventured, “you and I never promised confidentiality.”

“But Art did. And we got the tape by mistake. Maybe we never should have listened to it.”

“Do we just ignore the fact that McKelvie is a corrupt judge? And that he might become a United States Senator? Or that he may be implicated in murder and attempted murder? What about Art’s safety? If they tried to kill him once, they may try again.”

Snow’s face was knotted in thought.

“Think about it this way,” she added. “If O’Sullivan could speak right now, don’t you think he would go public with all of this? I can’t believe that at this point he would want this covered up.”

“So we’re supposed to divine his intentions? Overrule his specific instructions and Art’s explicit promise on a hunch?”

“We’ve got to weigh the competing interests. On one hand, we need to respect Art’s promise and the sanctity of the pastor–penitent relationship. On the other hand, we’re obligated as citizens to report a serious crime and cooperate in ongoing investigations. Both are important, but I think the scales clearly tip toward disclosure.”

“I doubt whether Art’s promise was conditional. I’m sure he didn’t say he’d respect his promise of confidentiality until a competing interest outweighed it. When a pastor makes a pledge to a congregant, that’s it. He takes it to the grave.”

“But do we literally want Art taking this to his grave? Because that’s what Reese McKelvie and Dom Bugatti want. They want Art dead to make sure he keeps his mouth shut.”

Again, they were quiet. Then Wyatt spoke up once more.

“I was a prosecutor because I believe in accountability and the law. I spent years locking up criminals because they thumbed their nose at society and callously hurt innocent people. The truth is that we simply cannot let the bad guys win —
Senator
Snow.”

II

At first, Reese McKelvie was wary. There was no way to know if a tape recorder was capturing his voice. So when his phone rang past midnight and the caller identified himself as Eric Snow, he started out choosing his words very carefully.

“Sounds like you have me on a speaker phone,” McKelvie said.

“Yes. Debra Wyatt is with me. Do you know who she is?”

Pause. “Yes.”

Snow and Wyatt decided to call McKelvie immediately, despite the late hour. She had his phone number in her database from her days as a prosecutor investigating the courts. After huddling to discuss strategy, the two of them — with some trepidation — dialed the judge’s home, catching him while he was still in his study.

“Judge, we’ll keep this brief,” Snow said. “We know the entire story about Tom O’Sullivan and Dom Bugatti.”

Silence.

“We have the tape.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why are you saying these things?”

“We thought you’d say that,” Debra said. She pushed the “play” button:
You tell Bugatti this: I will make every effort to get the case to Sepulveda. If I succeed, I keep the money. But if I don’t succeed, I still keep the money. You got that? He’s not paying me for results; he’s paying me for the risk. You make that clear.

She clicked off the recorder. For a few seconds there was no response. Then McKelvie said: “That’s not me. That’s not my voice.”

“You know it is,” Wyatt replied. “And it’s going to the media in twenty–four hours unless three things happen: you resign from the bench, withdraw from the Senate race, and call off the Taylor Street boys.”

“First of all, you’ve been duped. That’s not me on that tape. And even if it were real — and it’s not — then you know the Illinois law, don’t you, counselor?”

Wyatt was well aware that publicizing such a surreptitiously recorded tape would be a felony in the state. But she leaned over to get closer to the speaker phone, almost whispering: “Do you think a judge would convict me for something petty like that if I’m blowing the whistle on a conspiracy of this magnitude?
Not … a … chance.”

“I thought you were church leaders,” McKelvie retorted. “If this falsified tape was part of a confidential conversation, then you’re ethically prohibited from propagating it.”

“I never promised confidentiality,” Wyatt said.

“Ah, still looking for loopholes, eh? You haven’t changed since you stretched the rules as a prosecutor. I’ve heard the stories. You were as corrupt as the people you put in prison. The way you leaked lies to the media — it was disgusting. And this is just more of the same.”

Eric and Debra looked at each other.

“I’ve got plenty I could tell the press about you, Ms. Wyatt. Don’t pretend you’re so pure. This is part of the same old pattern of you trying to use the media to browbeat people into submission. If you want to sling mud, I can throw it back. Have you ever told Reverend Snow about how you used to trade sex for favors from reporters?”

“You bast — “

“What about you and Garry Strider?” he continued. “Everyone’s heard those rumors.”

“That,” she sputtered, “was before I was a Christian.”

“And that makes it all right? You may think your God has forgiven you, but the bar association won’t. You’re dirty and you know it.”

“You’re a desperate old man, McKelvie.” she said. “When your façade is stripped away, the public will find out the truth about you.”

“Look — this blackmail isn’t going to work with me. The tape is a forgery — and a crude one at that. It’s illegal for you to play it for anyone — and if you do, I’ll make sure you’re disbarred and both of you are sent to prison. Besides, it would be a gross violation of pastoral confidentiality. You’re bluffing and you know it. I’m warning you — don’t play games with me. You have no idea how powerful I am.”

Wyatt was undeterred. “You’ve got twenty–four hours,” she said.

His response was a dial tone.

III

His face flushed crimson, the broken capillaries in his cheeks redder still, his eyes lit with anger. Reese McKelvie ran a hand over his mouth and then through his thinning white hair, the loose flesh jiggling under his chin.

“One thing,” he barked. “I want to know one thing — how are you gonna fix this? What’s your plan, because right now there doesn’t seem to be any.”

Unperturbed, his eyes casually cast downward, Dominic Bugatti stood with his back against the wall, one knee bent so that the sole of his black boot was flat on the dingy brick. His brother Tony, nine years his senior, stood beside him in a charcoal silk suit, eyeing McKelvie with increasing concern.

“You’re gonna have a coronary,” warned Tony as he crossed his arms. “Calm down, old man.”

That only stoked McKelvie’s rage. “Calm down? Do you understand the predicament you’ve put us in?”

Tony glanced around the Friday Night Liquor storage basement, spotting a metal card–table chair and dragging it toward himself. He lowered himself into it and crossed his legs, exposing his $2,500 shoes imported from Bologna, Italy, the soles hot–stamped with his family crest, and the black leather polished to a mirror shine.

Tony fired up a stogie and waved it in McKelvie’s direction; his tone was demanding: “You’re gonna calm down right now.”

McKelvie huffed and massaged the back of his neck. He strode over to where the crates of wine were stacked and sat down, petulantly cinching the belt on his tan trench coat.

A few moments later, he spoke again. “I didn’t say anything when you flattened O’Sullivan. I only suggested that you should talk with him, but — fine. No problem. He was a liability and, frankly, you pulled it off pretty well.”

Dom shrugged. “It was a holdup, right? Things like that happen.”

“Right,” said the judge. “And there’s been no heat from that. But this Strider thing is a disaster.”

“The tape,” said Tony. “We wanted the tape.”

“But the hit was botched. Now the girlfriend of the most dangerous reporter in Chicago is dying. Do you know what the press is gonna do? They’ll be relentless. They won’t stop digging until they get to the bottom of this.”

Tony dismissed the idea with a flick of his hand. “The papers aren’t powerful like they used to be. They’ve got one foot in bankruptcy. They’ve got bigger problems than us.”

Dom snorted. “Benito messed up that Strider thing,” he said to nobody in particular.

McKelvie shot him a glance. “He messed it up, all right. Is he the one who messed up the Bullock thing too?”

“We’re not sure what happened there,” Tony said. “We’ll find out. We sent a reliable guy. He said he got him, but — I don’t know. We’ll see.”