"Well, we're available to help with whatever you need," Assad said.
"Thanks. We've been working hard on the `C-B' neck lead, which I'm sure you've heard about. It's the only identifying mark we have, assuming it wasn't a deliberate red herring. If the assassin was that smart-and we think that's possible-we're screwed. But if not, someone from the guy's past has to have seen that mark-that's why we decided to release the information to the public." He held up his hand over his head. "We've got a stack this high of leads to chase down. I was hoping you two could help."
"Absolutely," Assad said.
Milstein creased her brow. "Other than the administrative work, what's the plan for the Parker Sinclair investigation?"
Pacini sized up the detective. She reminded him of his daughter: self-confident, independent-not one to suffer fools gladly. Holding her gaze, he said, "Look, I didn't ask for you guys, and I know you're sure as hell not thrilled to be on my team-I don't blame you. But it is what it is. If you've got some bright ideas on connecting Sinclair to Black Wednesday, I'm more than happy to listen. But despite what you may think, we don't have thousands of agents at our beck and call, so we could use the help on the neck leads. You both know by now, sometimes it's the bullshit leads that break it wide open. Remember Son of Sam?" Pacini was referring to a case where a serial killer, David Berkowitz, had been caught because he got a parking ticket near the scene of one of the murders.
"We're here to help," Assad intervened, giving Milstein a hard stare.
"Okay, then," Pacini said, turning around at the end of the block. They walked back to the front of the restaurant in silence and stood under the awning.
"I've got to get back to my family, so why don't we meet at the New York field office in the morning and we'll get you started? Twenty-six Federal Plaza, twenty-third floor."
Before they could discuss the details, Pacini's cell phone rang. He would have ignored it, but it was the distinctive ring that meant important business. Stopping, he turned his back on them as he answered.
A few seconds later, pocketing the phone, he said, "Change of plans. I need you both ready to go at four a.m."
When the two detectives looked at him skeptically, Pacini checked his watch and sighed. "I'll explain on the ride to D.C. Trust me; this'll be something you don't get to do every day. Four a.m., at the field office. Can you do that?"
They both nodded.
"Now, I've gotta get back in to my family." As he opened the door to the restaurant, he turned and said, "Oh, yeah-pack a bag for the night, and wear your best suits."
8:30p.m. Home ofAiden Porter, Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
cKenna paced the living room, the wood floors creaking with every step. How long had he been here? It seemed like hours. He sat down again at the small dining room table and forced himself to continue reading the Supreme Court Commission briefing book. He was restless, and it was hard to concentrate, but Kate was right: he needed to focus. He scanned each section, considering the theories set out in the report.
The Nevel Industries case was the obvious start, given the murder of Griffin Nash. But there was little that McKenna could do since law enforcement agents would be watching Nevel's offices and Nash's home. If he showed up anywhere near Nash's haunts, he could end up arrested.
And there was the "CB" neck lead-it meant nothing to McKenna, and he knew that agents were running down the thousands of leads prompted by the release of the information to the media.
So that left the inquiry into Chief Justice Kincaid's widow and the Hassan case. He had met Liddy Kincaid at a few court-related functions and had once been to the Kincaids' home for a dinner party. It was in Chevy Chase, D.C., an exclusive neighborhood near the D.C.-Maryland border-walking distance from McKenna's home. From those brief encounters, the elegant Liddy Kincaid hardly seemed to fit the image of a ruthless murderer.
Next he read his office's report on the Hassan case. He had always thought the Hassan brothers' connection to the assassinations was far-fetched. True enough, there were hundreds of millions at stake, and the months of delay created by vacancies on the high court would give the Hassans time to hide assets and evade collection of the judgment against them. On the other hand, there were plenty of legal maneuvers they could pull in the foreign courts to create a delay, so why run the risk and expense of murdering two-thirds of the U.S. Supreme Court?
As McKenna read the Hassan report, a name caught his eye: Harrington & Caine. Jake Seabury, an old law school buddy and now a partner at Harrington, was the lead lawyer representing investors defrauded by the Hassan brothers. He had always been careful never to discuss Hassan with Seabury, to avoid letting on that it was a case of interest to the commission, something Seabury would undoubtedly try to use to help his clients. But that was yesterday.
Taking a quick look around the room, McKenna found a cordless phone on a bookshelf, next to a framed photograph of a man skydiving. He picked up the phone, paused a moment, then dialed.
"Hello?" The voice sounded tired.
"Jake, it's me."
"J? Jesus, pal, what the hell's going on? You're all over the news!"
"I need your help."
There was a long pause. Seabury was a good friend, but he had a wife and three little girls, and he understood the consequences of harboring someone accused of a crime.
"You know I can't," he said, in a tone at once firm and apologetic.
"All I need is a little information," McKenna said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.
"I can line up a lawyer for you, J. But you need to face this. I understand there's been no warrant issued yet, so it's not too late to come in and-"
"It's about Hassan," McKenna interrupted. "I just need some information."
"Hassan?" Seabury said, drawing a breath. McKenna knew that he had worked the case for years and wouldn't be able to resist.
"Well, what exactly is it you want to know?"
"The assassination of the justiceswould the Hassans be capable of it?"
"Does the commission think they had something to do with it?"
"Would they be capable of Black Wednesday?" McKenna repeated.
"You think they're involved, don't you? Why? Is it the connection to Judge Petrov's law clerk who was murdered?"
McKenna was taken aback. "What would Parker Sinclair's murder have to do with the Hassans?"
"Didn't Sinclair clerk for Judge Petrov?" Seabury said.
"Sure, but..."
"Well, Petrov wrote the opinion affirming our judgment against the Hassans in the appeals court. He was brutal. Petrov actually said in the opinion that any further appeal-meaning the Supreme Courtwould be frivolous. He knew they'd move for high court review purely as a stall tactic, so they could hide whatever's left of the money."
McKenna saw a thread of hope. That was a big coincidence, but it could be just that.
"Dear God," Seabury murmured.
"What?" McKenna said. "Jake, what is it?"
"I've gotta get to my office."
"Wait ..."
"I need to go. Call me later. I may have more to say then." Seabury hung up the phone.
"Damn it!" McKenna threw the cordless phone into the chair.
The moment the call ended, two men in a small van parked two blocks from Seabury's home in Cleveland Park hurriedly placed a call of their own. The listening device on Seabury's phone had captured every word.
8:50p.m. Georgetown, Washington,
cKenna raced down M Street on Aiden Porter's Ducati motorcycle. He hadn't ridden a bike since college, and at first he was a little jerky taking off and braking. The streets were well lit, but the full-coverage red helmet would keep him from being identified. He also had on Aiden's leather jacket, jeans, and sneakers.
Too antsy to sit idly by, he wanted to catch Jake Seabury at his office. He took a hard left onto Nineteenth Street, then a right on K. Finding the Harrington & Caine building on K, he pulled into a metered spot and sat straddling the bike,
watching the entrances to both parking garage and building.' street was relatively quiet, and there was no sign of Seabury.
Using the cell phone Kate had given him, McKenna called the firm's main switchboard. The automated voice mail answered, directing him to punch in the last name of the person he wanted to reach. The extension for Seabury's office began to ring.
No answer.
A pizza delivery man walked up to the main entrance and was buzzed in, and McKenna began to wonder if Seabury was really coming to the office or had just said that to get him off the phone. He waited another ten minutes, until a security guard posted inside began watching him through the lobby's glass front. The guard put a cell phone to his ear as he continued to watch the suspicious loiterer on the motorcycle outside.
It was time to leave. Without Jake Seabury and the Hassan case, he had only one other potential lead: Chief Justice Kincaid's widow. McKenna kicked the bike into gear and started east on K, into Dupont Circle.
Unlike downtown, which was dead, the streets in Dupont were bustling. He took the roundabout onto P Street, merging into Rock Creek Parkway, a winding road surrounded by forested parkland.
Ten minutes later, he was in front of an estate on Tennyson Avenue in Chevy Chase. He looked at his watch, debating whether to knock on Liddy Kincaid's front door. An unannounced knock at this time of night undoubtedly would frighten her.
He had started to put down the kickstand when he saw Mrs. Kincaid come out of the house and walk to her Mercedes in the driveway. She wore a fitted blue Chanel dress and heels, expensivelooking jewelry, and walked with the slow confidence of someone who liked to make an entrance wherever she went.
Waiting until the car pulled out of the circular driveway and rolled past him, McKenna veered around and trailed it toward Rock Creek Park. He was beginning to wonder why he had bothered to follow, when the Mercedes turned off Military Avenue and went slowly up a gravel road, past a sign that read "ROCK CREEK HORSE CENTER." He flicked off his lights and followed. When the Mercedes stopped, he pulled over, laid the bike down in the weeds, and walked quietly through a patch of trees by the center's parking lot.
A car flashed its lights at Mrs. Kincaid's Mercedes, and someone got out and approached her car. A light flickered on a concrete building adjacent to the lot, emitting just enough light for McKenna to see that the man was broad shouldered, wore a fitted black leather jacket, and had dark hair and a thick mustache. McKenna was too far away to catch any words, but he could see Mrs. Kincaid's profile at the open driver's-side window. The two exchanged words, and she then flung a small envelope at the man. He picked it up from the ground and tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket. He then pulled out a large manila envelope and held it just outside the car window. As Mrs. Kincaid reached out her hand to take the envelope, the man pulled it from her grasp, taunting her. As the man turned and walked to his car, Mrs. Kincaid slapped her hands on the steering wheel and let out a desperate yell.
"You son of a bitch!"
As McKenna watched the man get into his white Pontiac, Mrs. Kincaid's Mercedes suddenly accelerated, kicking gravel as she turned and started to drive back toward home. The Pontiac then headed south, toward downtown.
McKenna's mind was racing as he walked quickly back to the motorcycle. Whom to follow? He decided to follow the envelopes.
Harrington & Caine law offices, Washington, D.C.
ake Seabury rummaged through the file cabinet built into the wall directly outside his spacious corner office. The hallway was quiet and most of the surrounding offices were dark, though he could hear some voices in a nearby conference room. He was looking for a conflict notice that had made the rounds a couple months ago when a new associate, a recent Supreme Court law clerk, joined the firm. With seven hundred lawyers working here, the caste system at Harrington & Caine meant that normally Seabury would have no interest in-let alone contact with-a junior associate. As head of the litigation practice group, he rubbed elbows with only the junior partners, who dealt with the senior associates, who met with the midlevels, who were the junior lawyers' only lifelines. So when the conflict notice went around notifying the Hassan litigation team that the new associate needed to be walled off from the case because the Hassan appeal had been pending at the high court during the new guy's clerkship there, Seabury paid little mind. But right now he needed to know the former clerk's name.
As he went from file to file, Seabury thought about the years he had spent working the case. Although they had won at trial, the case was living up to the adage "Winning the case is one thing, collecting on the judgment is another." And the Hassans always seemed one step ahead of Seabury's team of U.S. and foreign lawyers and asset trackers. Lawyers on Seabury's team had speculated that someone on the inside at the firm was feeding information to the Hassans, but Seabury had always brushed off such talk as paranoia or frustration. But McKenna's call gave him a jolt. If the commission actually thought the brothers would murder to protect their assets, the idea that they would pay someone at the firm to leak information no longer seemed far-fetched. And McKenna's call had reminded him of an odd encounter he'd had two months ago when he returned to the office late after a client dinner and found a junior associate rifling through his desk. The associate had explained that he had run out of redaction tape needed for an emergency document production and was looking in all the nearby offices. Seabury had scolded the young associate but had not thought much else of it-hadn't asked for his name and didn't really care.
But tonight Seabury had decided to look further. After a bit of digging through the files, he found the conflict memo discussing screening procedures for the former Supreme Court clerk.
"Douglas Pratt," he said aloud, vaguely remembering the name. Hurrying back to his office, he logged on to the firm's intranet and pulled up the guy's picture and bio.
"Fuck," he said, looking at the computer monitor.
Gazing back at him from the screen was the associate he had found in his office that night. Seabury's emotions went from anger to concern. Concern for his clients in the Hassan case. Concern for the firm. He picked up his desk phone and called the home of one of his partners.
"Stan, it's me."
"What's up, Jake? Everything okay?" He could hear Chicago blues music playing in the background.
"No. I think you've been right all along about the Hassans."
"Hold on one minute, Jake ..." Seabury could hear Stan shushing someone in the background. "Sorry about that. I was right? Right about what?"
"We may have a leak at the firm."
10:05p.m. ConnecticutAvenue, Washington,
he white Pontiac pulled off an unlit exit ramp from Rock Creek Parkway onto Connecticut Avenue. McKenna followed at a distance on the motorcycle, trailing it to a parking lot near the Cleveland Park metro station. Wedging the bike into the small space between two cars parked along a row of restaurants and bars, he watched the mustached man with the black leather jacket, who had taunted Liddy Kincaid with the envelope back at the Rock Creek stables, walk into a crowded bar.
McKenna decided to follow. As he approached the door to the bar, his cell phone rang.
"Hello," he said as he entered the bar.
"Where are you?" Kate said.
"At a bar in Cleveland Park. It's called Martini Park," he said, as he walked to the back of the bar. It was a long, narrow place lined with orange couches with lime green pillows.
"I know the place. I'll be right there."
"No, you shouldn't-" McKenna said, but she had hung up. Her condo wasn't far away, but she did not say where she was calling from.
The mustached man was sitting at a table in the back, talking with a short balding guy who looked like George Costanza from the old television show Seinfeld.
Finding a stool at the bar, McKenna positioned himself so that he could watch the two men without being noticed. After wistfully eyeing the bottles lined up behind the bar, he ordered a club soda.
The two men were drinkin
g highballs, leaning toward each other as if speaking softly amid the noisy crowd. Then the man with the mustache took something from his pocket and shook Costanza's hand, passing it. They drank another round and then, finally, got up to leave.
McKenna followed them casually out of the bar, working his way through the crowd. As the men reached the door, Kate walked in, wearing the jeans and sweatshirt and ball cap she had on earlier in the day. Just inside the door, McKenna took her gently by the arm and escorted her out.
"What is it?" she said.
He cocked his chin at the men, and then led her to the motorcycle, where they watched George Costanza disappear into the subway entrance, while the mustached man walked to his Pontiac. The mustached man did not get in but leaned against the side of the car. A black SUV pulled up, and he seemed to have a conversation with the driver. Then the SUV pulled away, and the mustached man got in his Pontiac and pulled into traffic onto Connecticut.
"We can split up and follow them," Kate offered. "I can try and catch the other guy before he gets on a train, you follow the car."
"No," McKenna said. "Hop on."
11:15p.m. Watergate Hotel,
smiling doorman ushered them into the quiet lobby of the Watergate Hotel. The ornate lobby, which like the rest of the hotel had recently undergone a massive renovation, was empty except for a receptionist who was checking in a weary-looking traveler.
"What are we going to do?" Kate asked as they followed the mustached man through the reception area.
"A break-in, of course," McKenna said. "It is the Watergate."
Kate gave a little eye roll but said nothing.
"I want to know which room he's in. It may help identify him later."
As the man with the mustache and black leather jacket approached the bank of elevators, Kate said, "You should wait herehe may recognize you."
"No, it's not safe."
The Last Justice Page 7