True Blue (40 page)

“A bullet to the head would be better,” Tyson had told him at the time.

And he’d been right, of course. But Burns wanted the woman to suffer. He wanted her to wake up and see the hopelessness of her situation with warmth and air only a few inches away. It had been a mistake, a rare occurrence for him, but still a mistake.

“You said she went to the microwave and saw that it was broken?” Burns asked.

“She never said anything, but that seemed to be what she was thinking. So she might know I was lying about that. And if they know Tolliver was dead on Friday, they’d know I lied about that too.”

“And you didn’t hear who Perry was talking to or what she said while on the fourth floor?”

“I was waiting on the other side of the door. I just heard mumbles.”

“We can check her cell phone records. Probably either her sister or Roy Kingman. If the former, the concern is vast. If the latter, it might be manageable.”

“But they took her to the hospital, sir. And Beth Perry was there. She might’ve talked about what she knows.”

“She may know about the subterfuge regarding Tolliver’s death. And the fact that you might be involved somehow. If you disappear then they might think you did it acting alone, and then tried to cover it up.”

“Perhaps,” said Tyson, as he shifted his bulk in the chair. “But they went to the restaurant where Tolliver ate on Friday. If they put two and two together?”

“I am fully aware of the ramifications of that potential development, Tyson. No solution is perfect. We are clearly in damage control territory. We knew something like this might happen. That was why we had you stationed there as the security guard. Gave us eyes and ears on the ground and complete access to the building. It also allowed us the intelligence about the old soldier sneaking in.”

“He makes the perfect patsy.”

“Maybe not so perfect now. They must’ve figured out that the sperm was planted, and that he is not nearly smart enough to pull this off. That was always a risk.”

“But unfortunately my own cover is probably blown.”

“You’re on the next agency flight to Riyadh. You’ll spend two years there to let things quiet down before reassignment. I strongly suggest you lose about eighty pounds and have facial reconstructive surgery by approved agency surgical personnel. I’ll provide full paper coverage for you. We may be able to convince them that you are indeed one of the great serial killers of all time.”

“I’m sorry the mission wasn’t successful, sir.”

“It was my call, my fault. You were following orders. That is what you’re supposed to do. I will never blame you for that.”

“Will you require a close-out report?”

“No. Enjoy Saudi Arabia.” Burns nodded at the door. A few seconds later he was alone once more.

He spent most of his time alone, thinking through the next doomsday scenario. He was tasked to keep America safe by any means possible. He thought about nothing else 24/7. He had used his muscle, training, and wits in uniform for his country. And now in a suit and tie he used what he had left to serve America.

He spent twenty minutes on three different calls. As he set the phone down for the last time, his mind went back to Mace Perry.

He didn’t like losing. Never had since he was a small boy running through the cornfields of Kansas chasing dreams. She was good, but she was still just a street cop.

He picked up his phone and made another call. “It’s time for the contingency plan,” he said into the receiver.

It was very late but Chester Ackerman was awake and sitting in the living room of his lavish apartment in the Watergate Building. The managing partner of Shilling & Murdoch had traded his suit, wingtips, and braces for khaki pants, an orange cashmere sweater, and Docksiders. As soon as he heard Burns’s voice his thoughts about taking a ride the next day in his forty-foot cabin cruiser vanished.

Ackerman put his tumbler of scotch and soda down, sat up straight, and gathered his courage to say it. “I really think I should maintain a low profile with all this. I already told you about Diane when she came to me asking questions. I fired Kingman. I’ve kept the money flowing. I think I’ve done enough.”

Burns’s retort was like a cannonball fired right into his belly. “You’ve also made a bloody fortune for basically sitting on your fat ass because of business deals that I got for you! Now here’s where you repay the kindness of your beneficent government. So just shut up and listen. You should already have the legal documents prepared like I told you to do.”

“I do,” he said in a shaky voice, his meager courage gone.

“Now you will act exactly in accordance with my instructions. And if you don’t…”

Burns spoke uninterrupted for nearly ten minutes. When he’d finished he hung up and leaned back in his chair.

That sonofabitch has made more in one year than I’ve made in my entire life. A draft dodger who pays his first-year know-nothings more than I’ll ever make. And he wants to lay low. He wants to take a time-out after making millions! He’s done enough!

Part of Burns wished that Ackerman would fail to follow his orders just so he could order the man’s execution. Mary Bard could probably kill him with simply a stare.

Don’t tempt me, you parasite. Don’t you dare tempt me.

Thirty-five minutes later she was walking through the cavernous Union Station. She got her ticket from the self-serve machine and boarded the Acela train a few minutes before it was to leave. She snagged a window seat and for the next two hours or so watched the scenery of the Northeast go by as she thought about her upcoming encounter with the law firm of Hamilton, Petrocelli & Sprissler. She grabbed a cab at the station and walked into the law firm’s suite in a twenty-story building in downtown Newark fifteen minutes later.

The place was all polished wood and marble with tasteful paintings on the wall. It looked very old money, yet Roy had looked up the law firm on an online legal directory for her and told her that it had only been in existence for fifteen years. The firm specialized in divorce and other civil litigation, and had three female partners, Julie Hamilton, Mandy Petrocelli, and Kelly Sprissler. They were all from New Jersey, had graduated from the same law school in the same year, and had returned to their roots to open the firm. From what Roy had been able to find, the practice had been a success from nearly day one and each of the name partners had stellar reputations in the Newark legal community. The firm currently employed a total of fourteen attorneys, and they were known in the area as a go-to legal shop for high-profile divorces, many of which came from nearby Manhattan.

The receptionist, a polished-looking woman in her early thirties, made a face when Mace told her who she was and why she was there.

“They don’t want to talk to you,” she said bluntly.

“I know. That’s why I came all this way. It’s really very important. Can you at least let them know I’m here?”

She made the call, spoke briefly with someone, and then put the receiver down.

“That was Ms. Hamilton.”

“And?” said Mace hopefully.

“She wishes you a safe trip back home.”

“Can I talk to her on the phone?’

“That would not be possible.”

“I can wait here until they come out.”

“Ms. Hamilton anticipated you might say that, so she told me to tell you that the building has excellent security and that spending several months in jail for trespass was probably not a good use of your time.”

“Wow, I haven’t even met this woman and already I like her. Okay, I’ll just have to turn it over to the FBI. I know some of the agents in the field office up here. They’re good people, and very thorough. Since this is a murder investigation with possible national security implications, I hope the firm can do without its computers for a while.”

“What do you mean?” the receptionist said in a stunned tone.

“Well, it’s standard operating procedure for the Feds to confiscate all computers during an investigation like this.”

“You said national security?”

“Jamie Meldon was a U.S. attorney. His murder may be tied to a terrorist organization.”

“Oh my God. We don’t know anything about that.”

“Well, the FBI likes to find that out for itself.” Mace pulled out her phone, hit a speed dial button, and said, “FBI Special Agent Morelli, please. It’s Mace Perry.”

“Wait a minute!”

Mace eyed the woman standing in the doorway. She was about forty, Mace’s height, a little heavier, and dressed in a jacket and skirt with black hose and heels. Her brown hair was cut short and precisely traced the outline of her head. Mace clicked off the phone. She’d only dialed 411 after all. “Are you Julie Hamilton? I recognize your voice from the phone call.”

“I can give you five minutes.”

“Great.”

She walked down the hall with Mace scurrying after her. On the way Hamilton leaned into two other offices and gave the people inside a nod of the head. When Mace and Hamilton entered a small conference room, two other women joined them.

Hamilton indicated with her hand, “My partners, Mandy Petrocelli and Kelly Sprissler.”

Petrocelli was tall and big-boned with dyed blond hair, while Sprissler was short and wiry and her reddish hair was clipped back in a tight braid. All three women looked tough, professional, and were probably excellent at their work, Mace assumed. If she ever did manage to marry someone and things turned ugly, she’d probably call one of these women to rep her.

“I’m Mace Perry, a private investigator from Washington.”

“Get to the point,” interjected Sprissler in a harsh tone.

“The point is Diane Tolliver was brutally murdered at her law office on Friday of last week and her body stuffed in a fridge. A few days later Jamie Meldon was found inside a Dumpster. On the night Diane was killed, she and Meldon had dinner together. We think she knew of some illegal activity and might have been trying to get Meldon’s help. What we don’t know is why she picked him. From what we’ve been able to determine so far, they never had any connection.”

The three lawyers glanced at one another. Hamilton said, “You mentioned out in the lobby that this case had national security implications?”

Mace nodded. “Terrorism potential.”

Petrocelli said in a booming voice, “If so, why are you here and not the FBI?”

“I wish I had a good answer to that, but I don’t. All I want to know is how Meldon and Tolliver knew each other.”

“How did you even find out about us?” Sprissler interjected.

“Joe Cushman. Diane’s ex. He spoke highly of your firm.”

“That’s because we took him to the cleaners during the divorce,” said Petrocelli.

“Now we’re on retainer to his company,” added Sprissler. “That’s the mark of good legal work, turning adversaries into clients.”

“But getting back to why you’re here,” said Hamilton.

“Right. How did Meldon and Tolliver know each other?”

“I guess it’s all right to tell you. It’s public record anyway. Before we were retained to represent her, Jamie was Diane’s counsel of record in her divorce proceedings from Joe.”

“While he was in private practice in New York?”

“That’s right.”

“But I was told he was primarily a mob lawyer.”

Hamilton said sternly, “Jamie represented many companies and individuals that were involved in myriad civil and criminal matters. I would not describe him as a mob lawyer.”

“Okay, but did he also handle divorce cases in New Jersey?”

“Diane lived in New Jersey, although she practiced law in Manhattan,” said Sprissler.

“A very common occurrence,” added Petrocelli.

“But did Meldon handle divorce cases as a ‘very common occurrence’?”

Hamilton cleared her throat. “No, he didn’t.”

“Is that why he passed the baton to you?”

“We’d worked with Jamie before. He knew we specialized in marital law cases.”

“So why not just get you on board from the get-go?”

“There was a matter of timing,” explained Hamilton.

“Timing? I know divorce cases can last years. What was the hurry?”

“Jamie got a restraining order against Joe Cushman. He was making threats apparently against Diane. The order had to be obtained quickly for obvious reasons, although having gotten to know Joe over the years I don’t believe he meant any of it.”

“But that still doesn’t explain why Meldon was involved in the first place.
How
did he know Tolliver?”

“I’m not sure that is relevant to anything,” barked Sprissler, who looked like she wanted to leap over the table and take a bite out of Mace’s leg.

“Well, I think it’s relevant. And I damn sure know the FBI would think it was.”

“They were friends,” said Hamilton after a few tense moments of silence.

Mace arched her eyebrows.

“
Very
good friends,” amended Hamilton.

“I see. Did Joe Cushman know they were having an affair?”

“While neither confirming nor denying the accuracy of your words, from a purely hypothetical basis, I would assume not.”

“But they didn’t end up together,” said Mace.

“Jamie’s wife developed breast cancer,” said Petrocelli. “Let’s just say he did the right thing by her.”

“We were surprised when he moved to D.C. and became a U.S. attorney,” added Hamilton. “But in a way we understood. He wanted to make a clean break of it.”

“We were stunned to hear about his death,” said Sprissler.

“So were a lot of people,” said Mace.

She asked a few more questions, got nothing else helpful, and headed back to the train station. It was good to finally know of the connection between Tolliver and Meldon, but it didn’t really advance the investigation as far as Mace could see. As she sat down to wait for her train, it seemed like they were right back at square one and running out of time.