The Last Word (25 page)

The interrogation room at the Federal Building looked a lot like the interrogation room at police headquarters. The same paint color. The same lighting. The same hard, uncomfortable furniture. Steve wondered if there was some obscure law somewhere that dictated exactly how interrogation rooms had to be designed and furnished. Or maybe they’d just used the same interior decorator.

“Daydreaming, Lieutenant?” Ort asked, holding a file under his arm and pacing in front of Steve.

“I have to entertain myself somehow,” Steve said.

“You find this funny?” Ort said. “The DA was assassinated and you were found in the sniper’s perch.”

“No, I don’t think it’s funny,” Steve said. “I think it’s infuriating. You’re wasting valuable time questioning me when you should be out there looking for the assassin. But I’ve come to expect this from you, Ort. This is the second time you’ve bungled a murder investigation.”

“The second?”

“You arrested Jesse and Susan for the West Nile virus killings,” Steve said. “You let the real killer go free, long enough for someone to silence her.”

“And who might that be?”

“Mercy Reynolds, the utilization nurse,” Steve said irritably. “I explained that to Detective Morales and I’m sure that she told you. I was investigating a homicide and that’s what led me to Konrath’s apartment.”

“At the precise moment that Burnside was shot,” Ort said.

“I told you why I was there,” Steve said. “There was a message on Mercy’s answering machine. I ran the number, and the address that came up was the apartment building.”

“There is no message on the tape machine,” Ort said.

“Then it’s been erased,” Steve said.

“Of course it has,” Ort said. “When you say you ‘ran the number, ’ what you mean is that you got the information from Tanis Archer, who is presently assigned to the Anti-Terror Strike Force.”

“Yes,” Steve said.

“Is Mercy Reynolds a terrorist?”

“Ask the next of kin of the people she killed.”

Ort smiled. “Why did you have Tanis Archer get you the information rather than calling your office or your contact at the phone company?”

“She happened to call me at the right moment,” Steve said.

“From her desk in Anti-Terror.”

“She has quite a computer system there.”

“Yes, she does,” Ort said. “We traced an unauthorized incursion into our FBI database to her computer. She accessed information on our case against Dr. Amanda Bentley.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“You’re a lousy liar. Tanis Archer discovered that Mercy Reynolds was a government witness, that she’d agreed to testify against Dr. Bentley and her coconspirators,” Ort said. “Archer discovered that arrangements were being made to place Ms. Reynolds in the Witness Protection Program. So you had to act fast. That’s why you killed her last night and then pretended to discover her body this morning to deflect suspicion from yourself.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Steve said.

Ort pulled out a chair and took a seat across from Steve. He placed a file on the table and removed two pieces of paper from it for Steve to see. It was a ballistics report and a fingerprint analysis.

“The sniper rifle came from Yokley’s house,” Ort said. “It was one of the weapons that you recovered that you neglected to log. The rifle was wiped clean, but you missed a spot. We found a partial print of yours.”

“It doesn’t make me the shooter,” Steve said. “It just means I touched the rifle in Yokley’s house or afterwards when we were tracing the weapons. Do you think if I killed Burnside I would have just stood there with the rifle, waiting around to be caught?”

“You’ve had a stormy relationship with Burnside for years. And then he went on television and trashed your father, ruining his reputation. That must have infuriated you.”

“Not enough to kill him,” Steve said.

“Maybe you were ordered to do it.”

Ort opened the file and spread out a series of eight-by-ten glossy photographs on the table in front of Steve. They were grainy surveillance shots of Steve and Tanis in phone company uniforms planting bugs outside of Tony Sisk’s house and in the garage of his building.

Steve felt like he’d taken a gut punch, delivered by Carter Sweeney himself. The scope of Sweeney’s machinations and manipulations over the last few weeks was becoming clear to him now.

“How many years have you been violating civil rights, planting evidence, and committing murders as the chief’s covert operatives?” Ort asked. Steve remained silent. “Killing Burnside was just one more mission, wasn’t it? You knew that after you shot Burnside there was no way you could get away in time, so you concocted this story about a call to Ms. Reynolds from Rusty Konrath, an innocent victim whose fatal mistake was having an apartment with a clear view of the high school. You remained at the scene because you knew it was the one thing no assassin would ever do. You were essentially hiding in plain sight.”

Ort had the facts right, but they didn’t point to Steve. They pointed directly at someone else.

“It wasn’t me. It was Olivia Morales. She didn’t get a call from Burnside asking her to come meet him at the high school. She was in the building already because
she
was the shooter,” Steve said. “She knew I was coming. Olivia shot Burnside and hid somewhere on the third floor until I went into Konrath’s apartment. Then she waited in the stairwell for the officers, fooling them into thinking she’d run into the building moments ahead of them. She probably killed Mercy Reynolds and Rusty Konrath, too.”

Ort shook his head and sighed. “Why would she do all that killing?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “But it involves Carter Sweeney.”

“Why stop there?” Ort asked. “Maybe I was involved. And the Vatican. And SpongeBob SquarePants.”

“Olivia Morales and I worked the Yokley case together from the start,” Steve said. “We became lovers. She knew everything I was doing. She had access to my home. She was setting me up the whole time.”

“The reason Burnside called her was because he had these pictures,” Ort said. “Someone slipped them to him. He knew you and Olivia Morales had become intimate. He was hoping she could give him more information about your covert ops for Chief Masters.”

“Did Olivia tell you that?”

“ADA Karen Cross did,” Ort said. “If you really want to bring someone else down to save yourself from death row, don’t waste my time with this crap about Morales. Get serious and start cooperating. Testify against Masters and everyone else involved in this conspiracy.”

“There is no conspiracy,” Steve said. “Except the one perpetrated by Sweeney, Mercy Reynolds, and Olivia Morales.”

Ort motioned to the photos and reports on the table. “The evidence says otherwise. This is a limited-time offer. Because once we apprehend Tanis Archer, we’re going to make her the same offer, and you know she’ll take it. Sure, she’ll do some time—but you’ll die.”

Steve met Ort’s gaze. “We’re done talking. Let me know when my lawyer gets here.”

Ort got up and headed for the door.

“You must be awfully devoted to Chief Masters to sacrifice yourself for him,” Ort said. “I’m sure he appreciates it.”

It was a nightmare that kept getting worse. Mark’s son was in jail for murder. The only hope Mark had left was that Amanda, Jesse, and Susan would be released on bail soon so they could somehow help him find the proof to clear them all.

But Arthur Tyrell had just taken that slim hope away from him. Mark sat down slowly on the couch in Tyrell’s office and tried to absorb this latest body blow.

“Would you like a drink?” Tyrell asked, strolling over to his wet bar.

“I don’t drink,” Mark mumbled.

“This would be a good time to start,” Tyrell said.

“I don’t think so,” Mark said. “I need a clear head.”

“The problem is that you’re seeing things too clearly, and so am I,” Tyrell said, mixing himself a martini. “You need to blur the picture a bit so you can relax.”

“My son has been arrested for murder and so have Jesse and Susan. Amanda is imprisoned for looting bones and organs from the dead,” Mark said. “How can I relax? I have to get them all out and prove that they are innocent.”

“You can’t,” Tyrell said.

“But you can,” Mark said hopefully.

Tyrell picked up his drink and took a seat in an overstuffed easy chair facing Mark.

“I can’t either,” Tyrell said.

“You’re being modest,” Mark said.

“I told you I’m seeing things very clearly,” Tyrell said. “I can’t represent them or your son.”

“You’re quitting?” Mark asked in disbelief.

Tyrell nodded. “These are unwinnable cases, and you simply can’t afford to pay me what it will cost to defend the four of them.”

“They’re innocent,” Mark said. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“I don’t practice law to seek justice. I practice law to make a living. I can recommend a lot of other criminal defense attorneys. But I’ll be honest with you, Doctor. Whoever is foolish enough to take the cases will lose on every front. Bail will be denied for Steve. And in the months leading up to the trial, the media will publicize the damning evidence against all four of them, so it will be impossible to find a jury that hasn’t been tainted. The jury will convict your son, Amanda, and the Travises on all counts. The defense attorney will then face the eternal wrath of the DA’s office and the LAPD, which will make it brutally difficult for him to work in this city, since he will be unable to cut any deals for his clients. He might as well take the bar exam in another state, because he will be finished in California.”

“It sounds like the perfect case for you,” Mark said without a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

“What I’ve just described is a lawyer committing career suicide. I don’t want that pitiful schlub to be me.”

“For someone who says he’s seeing clearly, your vision is awfully muddy,” Mark said. “You’re already that pitiful schlub. The only reason Amanda, Jesse, and Susan were denied bail was because you’ve lost your pull.”

“The evidence against them was too strong,” Tyrell said, downing the rest of his drink. “No lawyer could have done any better.”

“Before the Lacey McClure case, you would have gotten them out on bail,” Mark said. “But McClure ruined you. The DA and the police hate you. The public hates you. You and I both know that there’s no celebrity case that’s going to come along and revive your career. Because nobody wants to be associated with failure. Judges, juries, and reporters look at you and see the McClure case all over again. If you don’t take these cases, you’re done. I’m the only one who sees you for the lawyer you once were.”

“Because you’re desperate,” Tyrell said.

“Of course I am,” Mark said.

“And you know that nobody else has the stones to represent your son and his friends.”

“Neither do you,” Mark said. “The old Arthur Tyrell didn’t scare so easy. The fact that you do now should tell you something about how far you have fallen.”

“These are no-win cases, not just for the defendants but for me too. I’ll be crucified in the press, and for what? The money?” Tyrell laughed ruefully. “I’ll eat through every penny you and my four clients have in the first month. After that, you’ll all be destitute and I’ll be defending four people pro bono.”

“But if you win, it will be an audacious, high-profile victory, one that will totally eclipse the embarrassment of the McClure case forever. You will be revived and reinvigorated, coming back onto the legal scene even bigger and more powerful than you were before. And the big-ticket cases of clients who will come to you then will more than make up for your financial gamble.”

“And what happens when I lose?”

Mark sighed. “Look at yourself, Arthur. What are you really risking? You can’t be any worse off than you are right now. This is your last, best chance to save your career. You need Steve, Amanda, Jesse, and Susan as much as they need you.”

“I wish you drank,” Tyrell said and made himself another martini.

Arthur Tyrell hadn’t lost all his influence, at least not at the Los Angeles County Jail. He was able to arrange for him and Mark to meet with Steve, Amanda, Jesse, and Susan in a large holding cell late that night.

Steve was the first to be brought in by the guards. He was in a jail jumpsuit, his arms and legs in chains. Mark embraced him.

“I am so sorry,” Mark said.

“It’s not your fault, Dad. Carter Sweeney has every reason to hate me, too. I was the guy who arrested him.”

“It’s not just Carter Sweeney,” Mark said,

“It’s not?”

“I’ll explain everything when the others get here,” Mark said.

“Fair enough.” Steve looked past Mark to Arthur Tyrell. “I never thought I’d be glad to see you. What are the odds of getting me out of this?”

“A million to one,” Tyrell said.

“Are you good enough to beat those odds?” Steve asked.

“Probably not,” Tyrell said. “But I’m closer to it than most.”

“At least you’re honest,” Steve said.

“I wouldn’t make that assumption if I were you,” Tyrell said. “But if I am going to be your lawyer, you will have to trust me anyway and do exactly what I tell you. Can you live with that?”

“Easier than I can live with the idea of spending my life behind bars.”

Jesse was brought in next. He was clearly startled to see Steve in the same jumpsuit and chains that he was in.

“I don’t suppose you’re dressed like that in a show of sympathy for my plight,” Jesse said.

“I’m afraid not,” Steve said. “They didn’t tell you what happened today?”

“For some reason my room here doesn’t have a TV, radio, or telephone,” Jesse said. “I’ve been meaning to talk to the concierge about that. So, who did you kill?”