Mortal Faults

by Michael Prescott

  “All this takes place while you’re off providentially making a phone call to nine-one-one?”

  “I’m not sure how much providence had to do with it, but yeah.”

  “Why would the shooter run?” Tess asked. “Why wouldn’t he search the apartment like you did, take the evidence tying Dylan to the San Fernando raid?”

  “I’m guessing that was his plan. But maybe the second shot was too loud. Or he might have heard the sirens of the cop cars responding to my call.”

  Michaelson folded his arms again. A bad sign. “That’s an interesting series of suppositions.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But entirely unnecessary. We don’t need a mystery gunman on a grassy knoll. We have you.”

  “I never mentioned a grassy knoll.”

  “Are you listening, Ms. Sinclair? We have you. You’re looking very, very good for the murder of Dylan Garrick.”

  Abby gave up on Michaelson and looked at Tess for support. “You know that’s not my style.”

  Tess took a long moment to respond. “Honestly, Abby, I don’t know what to think about you anymore.”

  Silence in the room, broken finally when Abby heard herself say words she had never spoken before. “Maybe I’d better call a lawyer.”

  Michaelson gestured for Tess to rise. “There’ll be time for that later.”

  “Hey. I’m supposed to get a phone call. It’s in the Constitution, or the Declaration of Independence, or some old document under glass.”

  Tess walked out of the room without answering.

  “It could be the Magna Carta,” Abby added helpfully. “You might check there. You hear me? I want a lawyer.”

  Michaelson gave Abby a dismissive backward glance. “Later,” he said.

  The door shut behind him, and she was alone.

  50

  Abby didn’t know how long she was left in the interrogation room. Time had a funny way of not passing when there were no windows and no clocks. Even her wristwatch had been taken. From beyond the closed door she heard activity in the hall, which seemed to flow in cycles, brief periods of commotion interspersed with long intervals of quiet. After a while the quiet times seemed to become longer. She had the impression that it was late. They had brought her in at eight o’clock and interrogated her for more than an hour. By now it must be well past midnight. She wondered if she had been forgotten.

  “Hey,” she said loudly. “Anybody home?”

  No answer. She spent some time making faces at the corner of the ceiling where she believed a hidden camera would be installed. She half hoped somebody would come in and tell her to cut it out. No one came. Maybe no one was watching.

  Her left wrist remained manacled to the table. Although it constrained her movement, she was able to perform some simple exercises to work her biceps and hamstrings. Just because she was a prisoner in a federal facility didn’t mean she intended to get out of shape.

  At some point she became aware of being hungry. The roast chicken and potato salad she’d swiped at Reynolds’ barbecue had been the last meal she’d eaten. How long ago was that? Almost twelve hours, she figured. If she’d been smart, she would have grabbed an early dinner rather than a quickie with Wyatt.

  Then again, it might be the last quickie she would have for a while. Did they allow conjugal visits in federal prison? Didn’t matter; she wasn’t married. She had no husband to visit her. Ordinarily that thought wouldn’t have bothered her, but for some reason it chewed at her like acid tonight.

  She was all alone. She had no one to come to her aid. She’d built a life based on isolation and secrecy, and now she was facing its downside.

  “Anybody out there?” she yelled again. No response.

  She tried to take stock of her situation. Things weren’t all bad. Her purse, with the tape recorder inside, would probably turn up. Unless that prick Michaelson didn’t want it to turn up. He could make it disappear. Such things happened. But she couldn’t start speculating that way. She couldn’t operate on the premise of a government conspiracy that would conceal evidence just to nail her. Not because conspiracies were impossible, but because that line of thinking would make her crazy.

  She had to stick to the simple facts. Fact one, she was innocent. True, she might look guilty as hell, but she wasn’t. Fact two, the feds had already been suspicious of Reynolds. They would press him hard. Of course, what Reynolds said wouldn’t necessarily help her, even if he told the unvarnished truth. After all, she’d told him she had to get out of town because she was in trouble with the law. Her story had been a lie designed to sell the idea that she would betray Andrea, but unfortunately it also fit neatly into the scenario the feds had written for her.

  And the tape recording, even if it turned up, wouldn’t clear her in Dylan Garrick’s murder. She wasn’t sure what would exonerate her, short of a confession from the real killer.

  She winced. The real killer—it sounded like something O.J. would say. And she wasn’t one of your multimillionaire celebrity defendants. She couldn’t afford a Dream Team of lying lawyers.

  Heck, she wasn’t even sure there would be a trial. Maybe they would just lock her up in Guantanamo Bay and leave her there to rot.

  There was that incipient paranoia again. She really shouldn’t watch so many Oliver Stone movies.

  It could be any time of night now. One a.m., three a.m., later. No way to know. The sun could be rising, and she wouldn’t be aware of it. In here, there was no sun. That might be the worst thing about being locked up for life. She would so rarely see the sun or feel the air on her skin. Her world would be a concrete cell barely larger than a closet. She wasn’t worried about the other inmates—she could fend for herself in any company—but to be caged for life, trapped within walls like that guy in the Edgar Allan Poe story, the one who was bricked up alive ...

  She realized she had leaped ahead to her incarceration as if it were a sure thing. Maybe it was.

  The prospect seemed astonishing and unreal. She’d broken the law often enough in her career, but she’d never expected to be caught. Oh, sure, she could imagine herself on the run from the law—leaving the country, living abroad under an assumed name. She even had foreign accounts available for such a contingency. But never had she seriously imagined herself in lockup. Probably she’d always assumed the authorities would be too slow or too clueless to catch her. For the most part, her assumption had been valid.

  But Tess had been up to the challenge, hadn’t she?

  Abby shook her head. Never should have teamed up with a federale. But as the man said after diving naked into a briar patch, it seemed like a good idea at time.

  She studied the cuff on her wrist. If she’d had her set of pick locks, she could’ve made short work of it. Even a safety pin or a scrap of wire would do. She scanned the floor, vaguely hopeful of finding some usable item.

  Then she smiled at herself. Even if she did pick the lock, what was she going to do? Slip out of a high security federal high-rise unobserved? Steal a gun and shoot her way out?

  Besides, there was probably somebody watching her, even now. She thought about giving the finger to the hidden camera, if it was really where she thought it was, but didn’t bother.

  She was tired. She rested her head in the crook of her arm and closed her eyes. This was probably a mistake. She knew that law enforcement agents often judged a suspect guilty if he or she fell asleep in custody. An innocent person was presumed to be fueled with so much indignation and righteous anger that sleep was impossible. Only the guilty dozed off.

  She didn’t care. Hell, everybody was guilty of something.

  Abby slept.

  51

  Abby’s stomach was strongly advising her that it was breakfast time when the door finally opened and Tess came in.

  “Thought you folks forgot about me.”

  Tess smiled a little—a tight, nervous smile. “We didn’t forget.” She took out a handcuff key and released Abby from the manacle.

&nbs
p; “So what’s it’s gonna be?” Abby asked. “Lethal injection or firing squad?”

  “Come with me.”

  Abby stood up, massaging her wrist, though it wasn’t really sore. It just seemed like the right thing to do. “Come where?”

  “The director wants to see you.”

  “J. Edgar himself, back from the dead?”

  “The ADIC. Michaelson.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, girlfriend, level.”

  “I really don’t know, Abby. They pulled me off the case after I arrested you. I was in the interrogation room with Michaelson only because he thought you might talk more freely with me present.”

  Abby shot her a cool glance. “’Cause we’re such good buds.”

  “That was probably the idea. Anyway, I haven’t been privy to any new developments in the investigation. I have no idea what’s going on.”

  Tess led her out of the room and down a series of hallways. Abby tried to ignore her hunger and fatigue, and the fear that had been growing inside her since her arrest.

  “You know,” she said as they rounded a corner, “at some point I really am entitled to see a lawyer.”

  Tess nodded. “I’m aware of that. Most of the sworn agents in the Bureau have law degrees. We’re all very much aware of your rights.”

  “Then how come I spent the night in solitary? I mean, I assume it was the whole night. What time is it?”

  “Seven a.m. To be honest, I think they were trying to figure out what to do.”

  “With me?”

  “With us. This is a delicate situation. You have to appreciate that.”

  “Oh, I’m very appreciative. My sore ass is especially grateful. Not to mention my empty tummy. What makes the situation so delicate, anyhow? You’re guilty of misconduct, and I’m a menace to public safety. It’s open and shut.”

  “I’m sure that’s how Michaelson sees it.”

  “But ...?”

  “I don’t know if Washington has the same perspective. Especially given the way the story is playing in the media.”

  “How is it playing?”

  “To our advantage—I hope.”

  They reached a corner office and entered the anteroom, where Tess started to announce herself. Michaelson’s secretary cut her off. “Yes, he’s expecting you. Go right in.” Abby noted that the woman regarded them both with an unmistakable look of disapproval. She expected to be seeing a lot more of that look in the months ahead.

  She followed Tess into the assistant director’s inner office. Michaelson was lodged behind his desk, apparently talking to himself, a worrisome sign in a man in his position. Then—mystery solved—Abby saw a woman seated on the sofa opposite the desk.

  She rose to greet the new arrivals. Abby was mildly shocked to recognize Nora Reynolds.

  Nora seemed to recognize her, as well. “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “You may have seen me at the barbecue yesterday. I’d, uh, arranged to talk with your husband there.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Nora showed the practiced smile of a political spouse. “Working undercover, I imagine?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I hope you tried the food.”

  “It was excellent, thanks.” Abby didn’t think this was the right time to mention that the chicken had been overcooked.

  Tess evidently had never met Mrs. Reynolds. “You’re Congressman Reynolds’ wife?” she asked.

  Nora smiled again—a genuine smile this time. “Not for long. I wanted to meet you, Special Agent McCallum. I wanted to shake your hand.”

  “Shake my hand?”

  Nora already had Tess’s fingers in an unbreakable clasp. “You got the son of a bitch. It was more than I was able to do.”

  Tess’s expression changed. She had understood something. “You’re the insider we were working with.”

  “I am.”

  “But ... how?”

  “A few weeks ago I overheard my husband making a phone call. He was trying to track down someone named Bethany Willett. The name sounded familiar to me. I ran an Internet search and discovered that she was a key figure in an old murder case. The MEDEA case. I remembered it from the news coverage.”

  “Must have been quite a surprise,” Abby said, drawing a cool glance from Mrs. Reynolds.

  “Indeed. I spoke to a personal friend in the FBI. He got me involved in the investigation. I was to observe from inside.”

  “You must have known,” Tess said, “that whatever you found out might incriminate your husband.”

  “I wanted him incriminated. I wanted out of our marriage.”

  “Because your husband had broken the law?”

  “Because my husband is a sadist. And an increasingly violent sadist. He had become quite demanding in his, mmm, intimate conduct. I wouldn’t cooperate with him, so he stopped approaching me. I was reasonably sure he was going elsewhere. He had found someone who would go along with his ... tastes.”

  “I see,” Tess said quietly.

  “When I learned he was somehow involved in the MEDEA case—well, I just couldn’t stand to be with him any longer. I wanted to see him brought to justice. That’s why I was keeping tabs on my husband. Unfortunately, I don’t think I learned anything useful.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Nora,” Michaelson said patronizingly. To her credit, she ignored him.

  “As it turns out, my testimony isn’t needed, anyway. We have enough evidence to put my husband away for years.” She turned her smile on Tess. “And I have you to thank for it.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re the hero. Everyone knows it. It’s in all the papers and all over TV. They say you saved the day single-handedly.”

  Tess fidgeted. “Not exactly.”

  “She’s just being modest,” Abby said.

  Tess shot her a glare.

  Nora didn’t notice. “Well, I’ll leave you to your meeting. I stayed around only to express my gratitude. Thank you again.”

  She clasped Tess’s hand a second time, then left the room, forgetting to say goodbye to Abby.

  Tess looked after her. Abby said quietly, “I guess the media coverage is advantageous—for one of us.”

  “If you think—” Tess began, but Michaelson interrupted.

  “Be seated, both of you.”

  Tess took the space on the sofa vacated by Mrs. Reynolds. Abby sat next to her, feeling like a little girl in the principal’s office. Only, in this case she was facing the prospect of twenty or thirty years of detention.

  Michaelson focused on her, ignoring Tess for the moment. “First of all, Ms. Sinclair, you’ll be pleased to know that your purse was recovered at the crime scene.”

  “I’ll be even more pleased if my tape recorder was inside.”

  “It was. The tape has been played. It does substantiate your version of events with regard to Congressman Reynolds’ appearance at the hotel, and his subsequent abduction.”

  “Would it be wrong for me to say I told you so?”

  Michaelson regarded her without friendliness. “It would be ill-advised.”

  “Just asking.”

  “The tape has been brought to the attention of the congressman, who is recuperating from his gunshot wound at California Hospital. He is, by the way, expected to make a full recovery.”

  Abby blew out an exaggerated whew. “That’s a relief. I don’t know how our democratic republic would manage without him.”

  “It will have to try. Reynolds will not be returning to Congress. He will, in fact, be spending the next decade in a federal prison.”

  “For ordering the murders of Andrea and her children?”

  “And for ordering the hit on Andrea last Friday.”

  “He didn’t confess to that on the tape.”

  “He didn’t have to. We have two very good sources. One is the driver of the van, Mr. Ronald Shanker, who is also recovering at the same hospital. Recovering f
rom wounds you inflicted, Ms. Sinclair.”

  “In self-defense.”

  “I understand that. He’s permanently lost the use of his right hand, by the way.”

  “I hope he’s a lefty.”

  “He isn’t.”

  “He is now. So who is this Shanker guy? One of Reynolds’ Scorpion pals?”

  “As a matter of fact, he’s the president of the Santa Ana chapter of the club.”

  “I wouldn’t have expected a guy like that to turn state’s evidence.”

  “Fortunately we were able to apply pressure to Mr. Shanker. The congressman’s campaign manager has proven most helpful in that regard. I believe you’ve met Mr. Stenzel.”

  Good old Kip. Abby almost smiled at the predictability of it. “Yeah. He’s a weasel. I’m not surprised you turned him.”

  “We didn’t have to turn him. He called us. He was very eager to talk. The information he supplied is what persuaded Shanker to deal. And the combined effect of Stenzel’s and Shanker’s statements, plus the tape recording, motivated the congressman to make a deal of his own.”

  “So all the dominos fell in a neat row.” Abby tried to see ahead to the conclusion. “And the result is ... no trial? For any of them?”

  “No trials. Reynolds and Shanker are going away for a while. Stenzel escapes with probation.”

  “It figures he’d land on his feet. Weasels always do.”

  Tess spoke up beside her. “That’s cats. Cats land on their feet.”

  “Weasels, too,” Abby said. “It’s a little-known fact. How about Andrea Lowry? Is there a courtroom in her future?”

  Michaelson shifted in his seat. “She is certainly guilty of kidnapping and assault with a deadly weapon. She doesn’t even contest it. But there are extenuating circumstances.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “She’s been released, and no charges are pending.”

  “Well, it seems like everything is all wrapped up. Except I can’t help wondering about a little detail I like to call ... me. Where’s yours truly in all this? Still facing a murder rap for Dylan Garrick?”