by Sydney Bauer
“A penny for . . .” said Sara, reaching across the table to lay her hand on his.
“Oh, sorry,” said David, squeezing her hand before turning to Jake. “I was just thinking about that kid—you know, James Matheson. I gather Sara told you we hooked up for a coffee. He had some questions about criminal law and evidence that I attempted to help him out with.”
“Sure,” said Jake, taking another huge bite of the stringy wedge in his right hand. “In fact, James told me you’d been great—and that he was going to call you up for another chat sometime soon. But what made you think of him?”
David hesitated, knowing it was not his place to give too much away. “Nothing really. I was just thinking of the night that we met and how I felt really old because these days, more often than not, I limit myself to a few wines over dinner.” He lifted his glass. “While guys such as yourself and Matheson can drink ’til dawn and still function perfectly well the following . . .”
“Uh-uh,” said Jake, shaking his head. “I had a wicked hangover after that particular drinking fest. And the guys from Deane, well, don’t you remember? That was the night the Nagoshi girl was killed so they were all pretty upset the following day.”
“You spoke to James the next day?” asked David.
“Yeah, he called to try and lock me down for a tutoring time. He said everyone was crushed.”
David nodded.
“It’s weird how things work out, isn’t it?” said Sara, stealing a sideways glance at David. “You know—Jake tutoring Matheson, Matheson meeting you, Matheson knowing the Nagoshi daughter, our friend Joe investigating her murder, you catching up with Joe . . .”
David sensed what she was getting at. Sara knew that he had had a drink with Joe the previous evening and the fact that he had not been particularly forthcoming about the nature of their “chat” had probably piqued her curiosity. She respected the fact that he and Joe shared a mutual trust, but, considering where Joe and David’s hidden confidences had led them during the Montgomery trial, she also tended to get a little nervous when David chose not to divulge the nature of their conversations.
“Hang on a minute.” Jake smiled. “Is this some game of ‘Six Degrees of Separation’? Because if it is you only have two degrees left before you have to get to Kevin Bacon. And seriously, man, I really can’t see where this one is going.”
“Very funny,” said David.
Sara looked directly at him, that familiar you know something you’re not telling me expression on her flawless face.
“Spill it, David,” said Sara. “What gives?”
“It’s nothing. I had a beer with Joe and he told me they were scrambling for leads on the girl’s murder. I just thought Jake’s friend might have known her. I mean, he was going to the Lincoln Club that night and Jessica Nagoshi was seen there before she was . . .”
“You’re helping Joe with the investigation,” said Sara. A statement, not a question.
“No, Sara. Seriously, I’m not.”
“Hmmm.” She narrowed her eyes and took another sip of her wine before, to his relief, looking at him with a smile. “Why is it I find that hard to believe?”
“I have no idea.” He returned the smile.
“Well,” interrupted Jake, “James Matheson is one smart bastard but there is no way he had anything to do with Jessica Nagoshi’s murder—if that is what you are suggesting. He’s actually a very likable guy. I get the feeling there is a heart under all that Ralph Lauren. Which is more than I can say for his friends who are . . .”
“Are what?” asked David.
“Two rich wankers named Westinghouse and E. Ledger or H. Edgar or something like that. The Westinghouse kid is okay, just believes his own publicity. But the other one is a conceited piece of work. So far up himself he practically eats his own breakfast for dinner.”
“Jake!” said Sara, ever the older sister.
“Sorry, sis.” Jake grinned.
“He’s probably right, Sara,” said David, taking it all in. “I knew kids like that in college.” And then he said nothing, just picked up another pizza wedge and bit into the thick topping.
“What?” he said, realizing Sara’s eyes had not left him since he brought up the Matheson boy.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Come on, Sara,” said David with a grin. “I was just shooting the breeze. I’m curious by nature. You know me.”
“You’re right,” she said, leaning across the table to wipe a stray string of cheese from his chin and kiss him squarely on the lips. “I do know you, and that is exactly why I know we haven’t heard the last of this.” He kissed her back.
“Did you know Kevin Bacon went to Deane?” he said at last.
“That’s bullshit,” said Jake.
“Yeah,” said David. “But it was worth a shot.”
17
Heath Westinghouse was totally pumped. It was only 9:52 on a Wednesday morning and here he was, flat on his back, his hips elevated, moving back and forward to a rhythm set by one of the most beautiful girls on campus by the name of Charity Summers. And there she was, rocking away, her perfectly shaped double D-cup breasts bouncing up and down like two taut miniature basketballs above him. Her long blond hair lashed his chest intermittently as she arched her back and stretched her long pale neck, releasing bursts of “oohs” and “ahs,” reminding him that he was the definition of a young American alpha male, in a sea of similarly blessed, but not quite as exceptional, beings at the hallowed university around him.
No doubt about it, he thought as Charity bent to run her long pink tongue down his hairless buffed chest, those glorious breasts now rubbing back and forward against his flexed torso and making it hard for him to maintain the thought his brain had just begun to contemplate which, he believed, went something like this . . .
The last time he saw Charity she was seeing some rich senator’s arts major son named “Wes.” In fact, every time he had seen her, she had been either on Wes’ puny arm or “towing an anchor”—which was freshman talk for being shadowed by some fat, unattractive girlfriend who never left her side when Wes was not around. Heath even suspected Wes was paying the “anchor” to play bodyguard while he was mixing it with his equally as inferior arts degree friends, which would be typical of the ball-less billionaire asshole who thought his dad’s DC address and Capitol Hill connections won him a woman like Charity and all the kudos that went with it.
Of course he had heard Charity was a “knob snob”—the type of girl who only went for rich or powerful guys because of the money and connections they could provide. But seriously, even if she was, who gives a fuck?
I sure as hell don’t, he managed to finish his rambling, pleasure-driven train of thought just as Charity sat up and drove those strong narrow hips down upon him resulting in his experiencing the best goddamned orgasm he had had since . . . well, since the last time he banged Charity about a week ago.
And then, there was a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” called Charity, which was her prerogative given they were going at it in her dorm. It was probably that pesky “anchor” he had thought about earlier. She was probably hoping to keep the towing gig until the next rich asshole came along and put her right back on the payroll.
“Westinghouse,” said the voice behind the door, prompting Heath to feel both pleased (that it was not the anchor) and pissed (at being interrupted) all at the very same time. “Westinghouse, if you are in there I need you to get the hell out here.”
“H. Edgar,” said Heath, recognizing his friend’s voice and rising to his elbows to shake the post-beating bliss from his brain. “Fuck off. I’m busy.”
“No way. Tell little Miss Charity you can renew your donation later.” Westinghouse had to muffle a laugh at that one. “I need to talk to you now.”
“Your friend’s a prick,” said Charity, climbing off him, her substantial breasts now covered by the sheet she dragged along with her.
“I know.” Heath sm
iled, jumping up to put on his pants.
“I don’t know why you stay friends with him,” she said. “I mean, he’s nowhere near as hot as you, or your other friend for that matter.”
“Honey,” said Heath. “No one is as hot as me.” He said this tongue-in-cheek so as not to sound smug, but was pretty sure she agreed with him just the same. “I have some free time tomorrow morning. What do you say, same time, same place?”
She looked at him then, as if unsure how to answer, before cutting to the chase. “You got invited to the President’s Halloween Ball, right?”
“Sure, my dad’s on the Board of Trustees.”
The President’s Annual Halloween Ball was a massive event for Deane—a black-tie celebration frequented by alumni that included some of the most influential businessmen and politicians in the country.
“You got a date?” she asked.
“I do now.” He smiled, realizing she was a knob snob after all and still not giving a fuck.
“Okay then, tomorrow.” She smiled, allowing the sheet to drop ever so slightly below her right nipple. “But tell your creepy little friend he’s not invited.”
“Done,” he said, lacing his hand behind her neck and pulling her close to stick his tongue down her soft pink throat one last time before heading toward the door. “Something to remember me by,” he said, prompting her to drop the sheet, arch her back and place her hands on her hips.
“Just so you won’t forget,” she said in reply. And with that, feeling the front of his pants starting to stand to attention once again, he took one last look before opening the door and bounding out into the hallway.
“Move it, Westinghouse,” said H. Edgar, unable to contain the annoyance in his voice.
“Jesus, H. Edgar,” said Westinghouse as Simpson dragged him out of the side entrance of the lakeside girls’ dorms. “What’s the rush, man? I was just about to ask Charity to . . .”
“We’re late for Heffer’s lecture,” said H. Edgar.
“What?” Westinghouse threw up his hands, only to have them forced down again as Simpson slammed his friend’s copy of Law and the Entrepreneur against his chest.
“You mean to tell me,” Westinghouse went on, “that you dragged me out of the bed of one of the most incredible women on campus just so that I wouldn’t be late for another round of unjustified abuse from that communist asshole.”
“That communist asshole is giving out the details of his assignment today, remember? You know, the one where we are gonna burn his Marxist butt and shit all over his ‘wealthiest’ theories regarding our personal intellectual worth as independent from our parents’ substantial means and influence.” Simpson took a breath. “We miss this lecture, he won’t allow us to submit the assignment. No assignment, no law review, no socialist ass-kicking. You got that so far, or is your bourgeois brain still deferring to your dick?”
“H. Edgar,” said Westinghouse, now keeping time with his friend, “one mention of Heffer shut my poor dick up for good.”
“Good, because you’ll want a clear head when I tell you what else I found out this morning.”
“What?” said Westinghouse, now obviously intrigued.
“The cops were on campus again yesterday.”
“Really?” said Westinghouse, now double-stepping to keep up with his friend as they strode across the main quad. “So did they arrest someone? I always thought the Nagoshi girl was done by one of those quiet intellectual psychopaths. She was smart from what I hear, and those girls always attract the weird ones with the high IQs who are more turned on by a girl’s aptitude than her ass.”
“They were here to see James.” H. Edgar glanced sideways as he said this, trying to gauge his friend’s reaction and, concluded from his expression, that Matheson hadn’t told him either.
“What?” said Westinghouse, stopping short. “I saw James last night and he said nothing about . . .”
“I know,” interrupted H. Edgar. “I saw him before ‘Agency and Partnership’ this morning and he didn’t mention a thing to me either.”
“What did they want?” asked Westinghouse, starting to move again as Simpson picked up the pace.
“How the fuck should I know?”
“Who told you?”
“Davenport.”
“The senior with no neck.”
“Yeah, that’s him. He was at the boathouse when they sought James out.”
“We gotta find him, H. Edgar,” said Westinghouse, now grabbing his friend’s arm just as they were about to enter a redbrick building monikered “Law 1B.” “We have to find out what they wanted.”
“One thing at a time, Westinghouse,” said H. Edgar, knowing his friend would follow his direction. “First Heffer, then Matheson.”
H. Edgar studied Westinghouse’s face, waiting for it to move through its usual predictable cycle of uncertainty, disappointment and then acceptance.
“All right,” said Westinghouse, at last pushing at one of the front glass double doors before starting to move inside. “But your scheme to fry Heffer better be good. James is our friend, H. Edgar. He may need our help.”
“I know,” said H. Edgar. “But don’t worry, Westinghouse, Matheson knows we’ve got his back.”
“Which we do, right?”
“No question.”
“Because his problems are our problems.”
“Absolutely.”
“And that’s just what friends are for.”
“Right,” said Simpson, checking his watch and walking into Heffer’s lecture room exactly on time. “Whatever it is, we’ll be there for him. In fact, if we three put our heads together, who knows what we can come up with.”
18
Roger Katz put down the phone and took a long, slow breath. And sure enough, there it was—that sweet, seductive smell attributed to success. All of a sudden the air seemed thick with it, which was no surprise considering the nature of his recent call, and the identity of the person who had engaged him.
Massachusetts Attorney General Patrick Sweeney was nothing short of effusive in his praise for the Acting DA. He had called to congratulate Katz on his “capable leadership” in Scaturro’s absence, on his “impeccable record” as a dedicated prosecutor, and then had suggested in no uncertain terms that his future was one of great promise.
“The thing is, Roger,” he had begun, “if DA Scaturro decides to step down, I want you to know that you have my support. You would be a more than worthy successor to her post, Roger, and the County is lucky to have you. Having said that,” he had continued, “I believe I should add that my motives are purely selfish. For ultimately, I know, with a few years of experience as the County’s top law enforcer under your belt, a man like you would be a major asset at the State Attorney General’s office.”
And there it was—plain and simple—a bona fide “feeler” to gauge Katz’s interest in representing the Commonwealth on a higher, more significant level. The Massachusetts AG was not just the top legal advisor to the state government, but also the chief law enforcement officer in the whole goddamned state. Of course, then Sweeney had gone on to ask about his progress in the Nagoshi case—a juxtaposition not lost on the savvy ADA. And maybe that was why the recall of Katz’s unsubstantiated assurance that “an arrest was imminent” was quickly turning that sweet smell sour.
The truth was, he was stuck in a hole—a hole dug by that incompetent Mannix, a pit he must climb from quickly given that the Nagoshis were due in his conference room in a little under an hour. Men like Mannix weren’t forgers of justice; they were weak, sympathetic procrastinators who stalled the criminal process by adhering to some touchy-feely bullshit that apprehending a perp was not justified until they had proof said perp committed the crime. But Katz didn’t need proof, at least not at this early stage of the game. He just needed a target, someone for him to work on, someone for the press to name in association with the crime and play their subtle role in convicting a man in the eyes of the great American public long befo
re the suspect ever set foot in a courtroom.
Justice wasn’t about the truth, it was about the most likely scenario. And nine times out of ten that was as close as you were ever going to get. Reasonable doubt was all a matter of opinion, after all, and when Katz tried a case, any “reasonable” notion of innocence was slaughtered about half an hour into the trial—just as the Acting DA sat down, after making his flawless opening statement.
Strictly speaking (and despite Sweeney’s generous reference to him as such) he was not the Acting DA. He was still, at least on paper, the Assistant District Attorney kindly minding his boss’s temporarily vacated position while she was off spoon-feeding some absentminded old bird who had no idea whether she was Arthur or Martha. Scaturro had not physically offered her resignation, but her extended leave was becoming longer than the Great Wall of China and to all intents and purposes he was executing the top job with a lot more skill and finesse than his minority-hugging superior ever had the charisma to achieve. And that’s why Mannix’s disregard for his current level of authority pissed him off so much—that and the fact that John Nagoshi and his cardboard-faced son would be demanding answers by nightfall.
Enough was enough, he told himself as he picked up his sterling silver letter opener to check his reflection in its narrow polished surface. Timing is everything, he reinforced as he lifted the blade upward to check his hair which, as usual, sat slick and flat and stylish, with not a single dark strand out of place.
If he played his cards right, he would be elected DA before the following year was out—a stepping-stone that, with Sweeney’s support, could well lead to a coveted post at the Attorney General’s Office at One Ashburton Place. It was time for Mannix to deliver—not tomorrow or the next day, but now! In fact he made the decision, right then and there, that he would not permit Mannix to leave his conference room without offering up a name. For that is all he would need. One poor sod and he would be on his way to victory—the rest falling neatly and deservedly into place.