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  Marshall sat and listened to Toby with Nathan Williams and Toby's assistant, a straight-arrow lawyer named Robert Ryder. Marshall didn't like Ryder's looks. He was too clean, too handsome, too blond, too—good. Lawyers were all at least a little dirty. It was an occupational necessity. Ryder seemed more priest than lawyer, more Boy Scout than snake. Perhaps Marshall's cynicism was peaking, but Ryder's lack of negativity was downright unsettling.

  Toby, on the other hand, was a real lawyer. Tough, ambitious, and earthy. She was the kind of person who even as a little girl probably showed that she was destined to run things—organizing the doll parties and sleepovers, manipulating the prettiest girls and their parents to do what she wanted. She was a natural-born leader.

  Toby was a former army colonel and CIA staffer. She was also a former D.A. out of Colorado and had a reputation for being hard on her subordinates. She was neither a Republican nor a Democrat and was widely rumored to be a serious political candidate in both parties.

  Nathan looked tired. He'd gone for a day without sleep, and one of his best friends had been killed right under his nose. Marshall felt sorry for him. Nathan was a private man, not usually given to public emotion. Marshall had seen him preside over all manner of human nastiness without ever losing his cool, reserved fed-face. But this murder had crippled him. He looked like he needed a hug.

  "The president wants this shit put to bed as soon as possible," said Toby. "The people want to know the government avenges its own. I've authorized everything you'll need to catch this fucker, whoever he is. Bob here will keep me posted on everything you do, but other than that, it's your show, Nate. So, what do we have?"

  "Don Bathers from the Secret Service was head of security," said Nate.

  "I know him," said Toby. "A good man."

  "He said after the shots that killed Douglas were fired," Nate continued, "a man was seen running from near a door to the rafters. He appeared to have a weapon. Said man was pursued and killed. We didn't find the murder weapon on him or at the scene."

  "I know all that," said Toby. "Who is he?"

  "We don't know," said Nate. "His prints don't match anything we have. He had a wallet, but the ID was phony."

  "Wonderful," said Toby. "I'll tell that to Douglas's family. Your husband was murdered by a man with no gun, and he has no damned identity." She took a second, then: "I apologize for that. I'm feeling the stress."

  "All's forgiven." Nate smiled a little. "But I know your frustration. We can't tie the man to anyone who helped him, now that he's dead. And having no identity only makes it worse."

  "He was obviously a planned distraction," said Toby. "The question is, who was he a distraction for?"

  "The CIA is working on his identity," said Ryder. His voice had a tinge of Kentucky in it, and he seemed eager to join in. "The cop who shot the suspect is going to be cleared."

  "The killer was in a crawl space close to a door," said Nate. "The man with the gun broke security and allowed a window for any accomplices to escape."

  "My Lord," said Toby. "Does the media know about that?"

  "No," said Nate, "and I don't think they will."

  "What else do we have, Nate?" asked Toby.

  "We found the place where the shots came from," said Nate. "The killer was holed up in a little area that's used by servicemen. That whole area is being swept by our people. If there's anything there, we'll find it."

  "How did he get in?" asked Ryder.

  "We don't really know," said Nate. "The building was swept before the ceremony. I've seen all the reports. Nothing was missed on our end."

  "He got in during the ceremony," said Marshall.

  Toby turned to Marshall, as if she had just noticed he was there. Her left eyebrow was arched, as though she didn't believe he was capable of speech. "Someone report that?" she asked.

  "Just a feeling," said Marshall.

  "Oh, really?" Toby turned her full attention to Marshall. She had steel blue eyes, and an expression that made her look like she knew everything that you didn't. Marshall could see Williams shift in his seat a little. Ryder leaned back in his chair, waiting for what was coming.

  There was tension in the room now, but Marshall remained cool. Toby and her kind loved to intimidate, but he already knew that if he was going to work his way up, he'd have to stand his ground.

  "A feeling?" said Toby. "Did you know that no major American assassination case has ever been closed satisfactorily? Mr. Jackson, we're gonna need hard evidence to end this matter. Many people, especially your people, hated Farrel Douglas. There may have been a great many reasons to want him dead. Feelings won't get me a conviction."

  "I know, ma'am," said Marshall. "And I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn, but we've looked at all the security reports. The killer had to have walked into that building, and somehow slipped up to the rafters."

"And the gun?" asked Toby.

  "My working theory is that it was already there, or he brought it in concealed as equipment, perhaps. I think this thing was planned out months ago, when Douglas announced he was coming here."

  "You would make a good FBI man, Jackson, but these conjectures don't make for good lawyering," said Toby.

  This was a direct assault to Marshall's competence. If she was to respect him, then he could not back down. Toby had a reputation for admiring strength, and not taking any shit from her people. The ranks of her assistants had turned over twice since she'd taken office. He had to go at her before she sensed weakness.

  "Sorry if you feel that way, ma'am," said Marshall, "but that's the way I work."

  Toby seemed to wince a little at these words. Williams was openly nervous now. Toby stared into Marshall, as if she were reading something in his eyes.

  "If you're gonna win this case for me, Mr. Jackson, you can't ever let anyone deter you from your instincts—not even me." Then to Williams she said: "Good choice, Nate." Toby motioned to Ryder, who pulled out a large, brown case. "This is the information on all the major political assassinations in the country since Lincoln caught one on his night out. Study them, Jackson. Powerful men don't die quietly. They always leave people screaming."

  Marshall took the case and opened it. Inside were about twenty CD-ROMs. They were stored chronologically. From what he'd heard and read, assassination investigations were always massive, labyrinthine undertakings that usually led to nothing. So far, this case didn't seem as though it would be any different. There was a lot of data to digest, but he vowed that if there was a bottom, he'd get to it.

  "Thank you, ma'am," said Marshall.

  "Now, I have to meet with all of the local law enforcement people," said Toby. "Your FBI point man on this will be Bill Webber; he's assigned a senior agent, Chris Sommers, to head the investigation."

  Toby got up and went to the door. Over her shoulder, she called Nate. Nate went to her dutifully, leaving Marshall and Ryder alone.

  "Well," said Ryder. "Looks like we have the ball." He had an expression on his face that was too smug to be a frown, and yet too hard to be a smile.

  "Yes," said Marshall. "I'm going to bring on two people from my office to assist us."

  "No problem," said Ryder. "As long as they know it's our case."

  Marshall didn't respond. Ryder was getting territorial early, and with good reason: this was going to be a national case of epic proportions, and if they won, they'd come out of it with glory, TV appearances, and the capability of going into any of a hundred high-paying jobs.

  Marshall walked to the door, when Jessica stepped into view. She smiled sweetly at him and handed him a note.

  "Marshall, I have a note from Judge Langworthy's court," she said.

  "Oh," he said. "It must be my verdict in the Quince case. Thank you, Jess."

  Marshall took the note and looked at it. It seemed that despite his winning closing, Quince, the gunrunner, had been acquitted.

  "Bad news?" asked Ryder.

  "Yeah," said Marshall. "A gunrunner I prosecuted got off."

  "Sorry," said Jessica. "You'll get him next time." She walked away. She was wearing a short little skirt and high heels. Her behind swayed, and Marshall thought that she was putting on for him just a little. Ryder watched her walk away with interest.

  "Pretty girl," said Ryder.

  Marshall didn't answer. He looked away from Jessica and stared at Langworthy's note.

  "You okay?" asked Ryder.

  "Yes, I just hate to lose," said Marshall.

  "Me too," said Ryder. "That's a good quality to have when you work for Toby."

  "Come on," said Marshall. "Let's go to the crime scene. Maybe we'll find one of Toby's screaming people."

T
he score had been easy, they'd hit a little check-cashing and party store at noon, the same day the government checks came in. As expected, the store had been stocked with cash, stockpiled to steal money from the poor bastards who didn't have bank accounts to cash their dole. They'd hit the place hard, wounding the security guard, and scaring the living shit out of everyone there.

  The three men divided up the cash quickly on a table. They were holed up in a little house on the near east side of the city. A big shotgun lay next to the score. The job was smooth, but the store owner had a silent alarm. The cops had come, and the bullets flew. They had run and lost them around the Davison Freeway.

  The robbers were all black and in their twenties. One was a stocky man with brownish hair. The other two were brothers. Rael was lanky with light-brown skin. His brother, Paul, was fat with a mess of uncombed hair.

  "Hurry the shit up," said the stocky man, named Noon. "I gotta get on. I got bitches waiting."

  "What bitch would wait for your fat ass?" said Rael. His brother laughed.

  "Yo' whoring-ass mama," said Noon. "Think I'll ass-fuck her today."

  "Just count the money, nigga, and don't fuck it up," said Rael.

  Paul counted the big pile of money faster. Check-cashing stores always had a lot of small bills. After their customers cashed their checks, they usually bought liquor and food and the store got it all right back. He didn't know who was worse, the damned store owners, or the lazy-ass, nonworking people they serviced. He was a robber, but at least that was a job.

  "And don't fuck up the count, Paul," said Noon. "Yo' dumb ass was never good in math."

  "You made me forget where I was, nigga," said the fat man. "Now, I got to start all over."

  Paul's brother, Rael, laughed. "Both of y'all need to be on TV. Dumb asses."

  "Damned cop fucked up my car," said Noon. "Did you pitch them plates?"

  "Yeah, I told you I did it three times," said Paul. "Damn, you a scared-ass nigga."

  "I set this shit up," said Noon. "So I gotta worry about stuff. Unlike your triflin' tagalong ass, I think about what I do. If we was in a company, I'd be a watcha call it? A CEO and you two would be them muthafuckas carrying my shit to the airport."

  "How the fuck do you figure that," said Rael. "I got all the guns and shit together. I would at least be a vice president or something."

  "Both of y'all need to quit," said Paul. "The white man ain't gonna let y'all run no damned company. That's why we gotta do what we did today. Damned shit is all against a muthafucka from birth. We ain't never had a chance to get ahead."

  Noon and Rael echoed agreement to this commentary. The men could agree on nothing but the well-worn notion that omnipotent men controlled their destiny, made them unfit for decent society, and drove them to their desperation.

  The men went back to counting their cash. Paul's lips moved as he counted, struggling to keep the numbers in his head.

  Suddenly, the door to the room flew open. A big, uniformed cop swung in the door, holding a 9mm Glock in one hand, and a .45 revolver in the other.

  "Wha'sup fellas?" he said. "Gettin' yo' party on up in here, I see."

  For a second, the three men were stunned. The voice sounded like that of a black man. The depth, the cadence of it, was unmistakably black. But the face it came out of was white, a handsome Irish face under reddish hair.

  The tension in the room was electric as Officer Danny Cavanaugh stood before the robbers, guns out in front, his eyes darting among the three men. Behind him was a black woman in a uniform with a riot gun aimed at them.

  "Okay, fellas," said the woman. "You know the drill—"

  Paul reached for the shotgun that was on the table. He was fat, but he moved with quickness and fluidity. Paul was swinging up the weapon when Danny shot him in the forehead with the Glock in his left hand. As Paul's body fell, the shot from the .45 in Danny's right hand hit him right in the ear almost at the same time.

  Rael pulled out a gun, getting off a shot that missed the two cops. The woman cop fired the riot gun, and the left side of the table exploded, sending wood splinters and money flying into the air.

  Danny yelled something and opened fire on the two remaining men. Rael caught one in the stomach from the Glock, then another in the leg from Danny's .45. Noon fell to his knees, and was raising his hands in surrender.

  Danny fired another shot that missed Noon. He was about to fire again when the female cop pulled Danny's gun down, causing him to fire the Glock into the floor.

  "No, Danny!" she said.

  Danny looked dazed for a moment. Then he lowered his guns. "Call an ambulance, Vinny. And take your time," he added.

  Officer Venice Shaw left as Danny kicked the guns away from the wounded men. He walked over to Noon, who was trembling with fear. Danny put the .45 away and knelt beside Noon.