The Last Justice (12 page)

They both nodded.

"Now, I've gotta get back in to my family." As he opened the door to the restaurant, he turned and said, "Oh, yeah-pack a bag for the night, and wear your best suits."

8:30p.m. Home ofAiden Porter, Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

cKenna paced the living room, the wood floors creaking with every step. How long had he been here? It seemed like hours. He sat down again at the small dining room table and forced himself to continue reading the Supreme Court Commission briefing book. He was restless, and it was hard to concentrate, but Kate was right: he needed to focus. He scanned each section, considering the theories set out in the report.

The Nevel Industries case was the obvious start, given the murder of Griffin Nash. But there was little that McKenna could do since law enforcement agents would be watching Nevel's offices and Nash's home. If he showed up anywhere near Nash's haunts, he could end up arrested.

And there was the "CB" neck lead-it meant nothing to McKenna, and he knew that agents were running down the thousands of leads prompted by the release of the information to the media.

So that left the inquiry into Chief Justice Kincaid's widow and the Hassan case. He had met Liddy Kincaid at a few court-related functions and had once been to the Kincaids' home for a dinner party. It was in Chevy Chase, D.C., an exclusive neighborhood near the D.C.-Maryland border-walking distance from McKenna's home. From those brief encounters, the elegant Liddy Kincaid hardly seemed to fit the image of a ruthless murderer.

Next he read his office's report on the Hassan case. He had always thought the Hassan brothers' connection to the assassinations was far-fetched. True enough, there were hundreds of millions at stake, and the months of delay created by vacancies on the high court would give the Hassans time to hide assets and evade collection of the judgment against them. On the other hand, there were plenty of legal maneuvers they could pull in the foreign courts to create a delay, so why run the risk and expense of murdering two-thirds of the U.S. Supreme Court?

As McKenna read the Hassan report, a name caught his eye: Harrington & Caine. Jake Seabury, an old law school buddy and now a partner at Harrington, was the lead lawyer representing investors defrauded by the Hassan brothers. He had always been careful never to discuss Hassan with Seabury, to avoid letting on that it was a case of interest to the commission, something Seabury would undoubtedly try to use to help his clients. But that was yesterday.

Taking a quick look around the room, McKenna found a cordless phone on a bookshelf, next to a framed photograph of a man skydiving. He picked up the phone, paused a moment, then dialed.

"Hello?" The voice sounded tired.

"Jake, it's me."

"J? Jesus, pal, what the hell's going on? You're all over the news!"

"I need your help."

There was a long pause. Seabury was a good friend, but he had a wife and three little girls, and he understood the consequences of harboring someone accused of a crime.

"You know I can't," he said, in a tone at once firm and apologetic.

"All I need is a little information," McKenna said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

"I can line up a lawyer for you, J. But you need to face this. I understand there's been no warrant issued yet, so it's not too late to come in and-"

"It's about Hassan," McKenna interrupted. "I just need some information."

"Hassan?" Seabury said, drawing a breath. McKenna knew that he had worked the case for years and wouldn't be able to resist.

"Well, what exactly is it you want to know?"

"The assassination of the justiceswould the Hassans be capable of it?"

"Does the commission think they had something to do with it?"

"Would they be capable of Black Wednesday?" McKenna repeated.

"You think they're involved, don't you? Why? Is it the connection to Judge Petrov's law clerk who was murdered?"

McKenna was taken aback. "What would Parker Sinclair's murder have to do with the Hassans?"

"Didn't Sinclair clerk for Judge Petrov?" Seabury said.

"Sure, but..."

"Well, Petrov wrote the opinion affirming our judgment against the Hassans in the appeals court. He was brutal. Petrov actually said in the opinion that any further appeal-meaning the Supreme Courtwould be frivolous. He knew they'd move for high court review purely as a stall tactic, so they could hide whatever's left of the money."

McKenna saw a thread of hope. That was a big coincidence, but it could be just that.

"Dear God," Seabury murmured.

"What?" McKenna said. "Jake, what is it?"

"I've gotta get to my office."

"Wait ..."

"I need to go. Call me later. I may have more to say then." Seabury hung up the phone.

"Damn it!" McKenna threw the cordless phone into the chair.

The moment the call ended, two men in a small van parked two blocks from Seabury's home in Cleveland Park hurriedly placed a call of their own. The listening device on Seabury's phone had captured every word.

8:50p.m. Georgetown, Washington,

cKenna raced down M Street on Aiden Porter's Ducati motorcycle. He hadn't ridden a bike since college, and at first he was a little jerky taking off and braking. The streets were well lit, but the full-coverage red helmet would keep him from being identified. He also had on Aiden's leather jacket, jeans, and sneakers.

Too antsy to sit idly by, he wanted to catch Jake Seabury at his office. He took a hard left onto Nineteenth Street, then a right on K. Finding the Harrington & Caine building on K, he pulled into a metered spot and sat straddling the bike, watching the entrances to both parking garage and building.' street was relatively quiet, and there was no sign of Seabury.

Using the cell phone Kate had given him, McKenna called the firm's main switchboard. The automated voice mail answered, directing him to punch in the last name of the person he wanted to reach. The extension for Seabury's office began to ring.

No answer.

A pizza delivery man walked up to the main entrance and was buzzed in, and McKenna began to wonder if Seabury was really coming to the office or had just said that to get him off the phone. He waited another ten minutes, until a security guard posted inside began watching him through the lobby's glass front. The guard put a cell phone to his ear as he continued to watch the suspicious loiterer on the motorcycle outside.

It was time to leave. Without Jake Seabury and the Hassan case, he had only one other potential lead: Chief Justice Kincaid's widow. McKenna kicked the bike into gear and started east on K, into Dupont Circle.

Unlike downtown, which was dead, the streets in Dupont were bustling. He took the roundabout onto P Street, merging into Rock Creek Parkway, a winding road surrounded by forested parkland.

Ten minutes later, he was in front of an estate on Tennyson Avenue in Chevy Chase. He looked at his watch, debating whether to knock on Liddy Kincaid's front door. An unannounced knock at this time of night undoubtedly would frighten her.

He had started to put down the kickstand when he saw Mrs. Kincaid come out of the house and walk to her Mercedes in the driveway. She wore a fitted blue Chanel dress and heels, expensivelooking jewelry, and walked with the slow confidence of someone who liked to make an entrance wherever she went.

Waiting until the car pulled out of the circular driveway and rolled past him, McKenna veered around and trailed it toward Rock Creek Park. He was beginning to wonder why he had bothered to follow, when the Mercedes turned off Military Avenue and went slowly up a gravel road, past a sign that read "ROCK CREEK HORSE CENTER." He flicked off his lights and followed. When the Mercedes stopped, he pulled over, laid the bike down in the weeds, and walked quietly through a patch of trees by the center's parking lot.

A car flashed its lights at Mrs. Kincaid's Mercedes, and someone got out and approached her car. A light flickered on a concrete building adjacent to the lot, emitting just enough light for McKenna to see that the man was broad shouldered, wore a fitted black leather jacket, and had dark hair and a thick mustache. McKenna was too far away to catch any words, but he could see Mrs. Kincaid's profile at the open driver's-side window. The two exchanged words, and she then flung a small envelope at the man. He picked it up from the ground and tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket. He then pulled out a large manila envelope and held it just outside the car window. As Mrs. Kincaid reached out her hand to take the envelope, the man pulled it from her grasp, taunting her. As the man turned and walked to his car, Mrs. Kincaid slapped her hands on the steering wheel and let out a desperate yell.

"You son of a bitch!"

As McKenna watched the man get into his white Pontiac, Mrs. Kincaid's Mercedes suddenly accelerated, kicking gravel as she turned and started to drive back toward home. The Pontiac then headed south, toward downtown.

McKenna's mind was racing as he walked quickly back to the motorcycle. Whom to follow? He decided to follow the envelopes.

Harrington & Caine law offices, Washington, D.C.

ake Seabury rummaged through the file cabinet built into the wall directly outside his spacious corner office. The hallway was quiet and most of the surrounding offices were dark, though he could hear some voices in a nearby conference room. He was looking for a conflict notice that had made the rounds a couple months ago when a new associate, a recent Supreme Court law clerk, joined the firm. With seven hundred lawyers working here, the caste system at Harrington & Caine meant that normally Seabury would have no interest in-let alone contact with-a junior associate. As head of the litigation practice group, he rubbed elbows with only the junior partners, who dealt with the senior associates, who met with the midlevels, who were the junior lawyers' only lifelines. So when the conflict notice went around notifying the Hassan litigation team that the new associate needed to be walled off from the case because the Hassan appeal had been pending at the high court during the new guy's clerkship there, Seabury paid little mind. But right now he needed to know the former clerk's name.