Gospel

by Sydney Bauer

  ‘. . . for the greater good,’ finished Melissa.

  ‘Yes, that’s it – the sacrifice for the greater good. That is what democracy is about, after all.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Now if you don’t mind,’ said Bryant, glancing at her watch. ‘I have a Cabinet meeting in ten minutes and I really need to . . .’

  ‘It’s all right, Mother. I’m leaving. Just . . .’

  ‘Just what, my dear?’

  ‘Just remember I am not one of your campaign contributors who need to be mollified by euphemisms. If you want to tell me something, then state it plainly and do not coat your motives in the deceptively sweet syrup of democracy. I know you, Mother. If you want something you will set out to get it, and I have never had a problem with that. But do not waste my time with poorly disguised platitudes. This is me you are talking to and, frankly, I find it insulting.’

  27

  ‘He had a beard.’

  ‘What?’ said Officer Susan Leigh, wishing to all hell that Joe Mannix would rescue her from the ridiculous ranting of her partner by walking through the door of Lenny’s Diner on the corner of Revere and Hopkins in downtown Roxbury.

  ‘The perp. He had a beard,’ said Detective Frank McKay, swallowing a chunk of stringy bacon before tearing a corner from the greasy cardboard menu and using it to wrestle the gristle from between his teeth.

  ‘This was Saturday, right? About four. I just took my kids to the movies and I see this guy run around the corner with a ladies’ handbag under his arm. So he slows, looking behind him and I step in his face and ask him where he got the nice lavender shoulder piece and he says . . . .’

  Blah, blah, blah . . . Susan Leigh forced herself to tune out. Seriously, the guy knew no restraint. She could drop every hint known to man that she ‘did not give a shit!’ but on and on McKay would go, regardless, undeterred, like a broken record stuck on the same godforsaken track.

  ‘Long story short,’ finished McKay.

  She tuned in again, the irony of his words hitting her smack in the face.

  ‘He was lying through his teeth.’

  ‘Because all men with beards are liars,’ she could not resist.

  ‘Well, I am not one to generalise but . . .’

  Jesus. It never stops.

  Just then the tiny tinkle of the well-used bell above Lenny’s Diner door finally signalled Susan’s salvation with the arrival of her boss. Lieutenant Joe Mannix had said little on the phone late last night, except that he needed to meet with her and McKay early, before work and away from the office. She hadn’t asked why, knowing when (unlike her partner) to shut the hell up, but had been bursting with a combination of curiosity and excitement ever since.

  ‘Hey,’ said Mannix, signalling the fifty-something waitress behind the counter for a coffee.

  ‘Hi Lieu,’ said Leigh, passing him the sugar. ‘I was going to order ahead for you but I didn’t know what you . . .’

  ‘It’s okay, Susan,’ said Mannix, suppressing a smile. ‘The coffee’ll do.’

  ‘What’s up, Chief?’ asked McKay. ‘No complaints about the change of scenery, this breakfast special actually ain’t too bad, but I get the feeling you got something to say outa school.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mannix, taking the coffee from the surly bottle-blonde and downing a gulp before going on. ‘I just got back from a weekend in LA. There’ve been some . . . ah . . . new developments.’

  ‘LA?’ said Leigh.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said McKay. ‘This has something to do with Bradshaw.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Knew that one stunk from day one.’

  ‘What is it, Chief?’ said Leigh now perched on the end of the plastic gingham-print bench.

  ‘I don’t think we got the right guy.’

  ‘No?’ said McKay. And Susan noticed he didn’t sound surprised.

  ‘Tell us about it, Lieu,’ she said at last. ‘Start from the beginning. Tell us everything you know.’

  And so he did – beginning with Croker’s phone call last Friday night, his trip to LA the following afternoon, and all the details from Croker’s Saturday night briefing at Mal’s.

  McKay said nothing, just sat there listening, and even Leigh, who Mannix knew found it impossible to go longer than thirty seconds without interrupting with a question, sat quietly, absorbed, her wide brown eyes locked on her boss in an expression of disbelief.

  ‘The next day Croker takes me to see this woman,’ continued Joe. ‘Up at some picturesque convent hospital in the Hollywood Hills. Rita Walker is crazy but smart crazy. As soon as we walk in she starts up – despite the fact there are still two nuns on their way out of the room.

  ‘At first her ravings sounded just like that – ravings, mostly because she seemed incapable of answering any of our questions. But then we get straight with her, told her what we knew – that her husband’s death was riddled with inconsistencies, that a hole had been punched in the brake line of her car, that her “cousin” came to visit her in the ICU and left behind a complimentary dose of cyanide in her IV unit. She stops screaming and we can see it in her eyes, the fear, the pure unadulterated terror. So I say the only thing I can say – that we would protect her, that we would promise to stop whoever was responsible for murdering her family. And then, she started to cry.

  ‘“I want to trust you,” she said, her blue eyes bloodshot, her bottle-blonde hair showing a week’s worth of growth. “I am just so tired. I want to trust someone, but how can you trust somebody when you don’t exist yourself?” She looked at us then and I understood. And by the look on Croker’s face he had worked it out as well.

  ‘“That’s right, detectives,” she went on. “I do not exist. I am nothing. No one. Persa . . . persanis . . . persanis non gratum or whatever it is the Romans used to say. Rita Walker is a pathetic, self-centred fake. And I have no one to blame but myself.”

  ‘“Witness protection,” I said. “You’re in witness protection and whoever it was you and your family were hiding from found out where you were . . .”

  ‘Rita shrugged with a weary half smile. “But there’s the problem, detective. Was there ever anyone hunting us in the first place or was it just some huge ploy to separate my husband from the rest of his holy conspirators, and then, pick us off, one by one?”

  ‘“What’s your name?” Croker asked then. Moving towards “Rita Walker”, who was perched on the edge of a sunbed the sisters had placed near the large western window giving her a breathtaking view over the valley. Croker reached out his hand so that she might shake it – as if being introduced for the very first time.

  ‘“My name is Nancy Doyle,” she said, sitting up straight to shake my hand as well. The gesture was pure and honest, as if fuelled by the freedom of the truth. “And I am very happy to meet you.”

  ‘Obviously we told her,’ Mannix went on, ‘that once she told us what she knew, we could notify the FBI, contact US Marshals Office and if necessary have her relocated. But that was the last thing she wanted.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ asked Susan.

  ‘Because according to Nancy, the FBI are the ones who were trying to kill her – the same ones who killed her husband because of what he knew.’

  ‘Who was this guy, boss?’ asked McKay at last.

  ‘Kevin Walker is . . . was . . . Robert Doyle, a decorated undercover agent for the Drug Enforcement Agency. And according to his wife Nancy, he also had a third name – a religious moniker that was one of four. His name was Luke and Nancy claims he was killed by Matthew, Mark and John.’

  ‘The Bible references,’ said McKay.

  ‘These people actually exist?’ asked Susan.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mannix. ‘And according to Nancy, they also killed the Vice President of the United States.’

  Mannix stopped for a moment, asking for another re-fill of his bottomless cup of mud, allowing his two detectives to absorb the information at their own pace.

  ‘So what did Robert Do
yle do?’ asked Leigh at last. ‘Or maybe it was what he didn’t do that saw the other three turn against him. I mean, how does a respected DEA agent become the victim of some murderous faction of the FBI? He must have had something on them. Maybe he threatened to expose what they were doing . . . which was . . . what?’

  ‘Nancy said her husband was cryptic,’ said Mannix. ‘Like he didn’t want to tell her too much – especially not their identities – for fear they would come after her or Gavin. At first she thought her husband was paranoid but then he told her that he had done something wrong, misused his position at the DEA, and that he felt guilty as hell about it.’

  ‘So I’m guessing,’ interrupted McKay, ‘that the other three were . . .’

  ‘. . . more concerned with pushing on and covering their own asses,’ finished Mannix. ‘In other words, Doyle was alone in his dissension and thus a sitting duck. He wanted Nancy and Gavin to go into hiding with him but Nancy was sick of all the “new identity” shit and protested. She said she wouldn’t move an inch unless he proved this crazy story was true and not some delusional fit of paranoia on his part. So he told her she’ll have her proof – that they were about to murder a major public figure and that he was powerless to stop it.’

  ‘Doyle knew about Bradshaw’s murder before it happened?’ asked McKay.

  ‘As it was happening. He told Nancy all of this on the night of the thirtieth – probably around the same time that Bradshaw was being injected with the lethal narcotics that killed him.’

  ‘So why Bradshaw?’ asked Susan, her elbows flat on the table, her look intense. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Think about it,’ said Joe. ‘Bradshaw was obsessed with exposing illegal drug activity and we have to guess, that given Doyle’s previous place of employment, that this has to have something to do with the illicit trade of narcotics. Maybe Bradshaw was on to them, and that’s why they . . .’

  ‘. . . had to eliminate him before they were exposed,’ finished Leigh.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said McKay, his brow now furrowed in thought. ‘First up, according to the wife, Doyle was – at least initially – a willing member of this covert little group, one quarter of the original four.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But then he starts to grow a conscience, starts to rock their boat, begins to question their plans, gets cold feet. So . . .’

  ‘So . . . ?’ said Susan.

  ‘So he becomes a liability – and as such is “dealt” with. But maybe Doyle’s termination was more than just a matter of getting rid of the potential problem. Maybe his murder was also a “message” to any other possible dissenters.’

  They both looked at him, not sure where this was going.

  ‘It was something you said earlier, Chief,’ said McKay turning to his boss. ‘About the night Doyle was killed, about the white rose and the thirty quarters in his pocket. You did say there were thirty?’

  ‘Thirty exactly, mint condition according to Croker.’

  ‘Right,’ said McKay. ‘A white rose, thirty quarters, don’t you see? White roses are the flower of traitors – they were traditionally given after battle to deserters and turncoats, a blossom symbolising shame. Just like the quarters – thirty pieces of silver. My guess is Doyle, Luke, whatever you wanna call him, was killed because he was their “Judas” and his death was a message, most likely to one of the other three who was showing signs of weakness.’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ said Susan.

  ‘You could be right,’ said Mannix, seeing this new angle for the first time. ‘And if you are, this also means the four most likely have their own system of hierarchy. A leader, maybe a lieutenant, and possibly a third soldier falling out of line.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, taking it all in, McKay stirring a fourth sugar into his coffee, Susan pouring another one for her boss.

  ‘The funny thing is,’ Mannix began, ‘I probably would have dismissed Croker’s information as completely crazy itself if he hadn’t told me about the Bible references.’

  ‘The missing seventh piece of evidence,’ said Susan. ‘The same piece of evidence Ramirez dismissed as irrelevant.’

  Mannix nodded. ‘So maybe Ramirez is a liar after all. Maybe that Bible tells us more than all the other six bedside table items put together.’

  ‘We have to find that Bible,’ said McKay.

  ‘Yeah, Frank,’ said Mannix. ‘Yeah, we do.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Susan, practically jumping out of her seat. ‘But we can’t exactly call Leo King, or Ramirez and tell them what we’ve got. King may be clean but he’s still FBI.’

  ‘I trust Simba,’ said Joe. ‘But you’re right, we can’t go to him, at least not yet. I figure we start from scratch, do the investigating that should have been done in the first place. We go back to the Fairmont – to the Presidential Suite – and find out exactly what happened in that room in the minutes preceding and following Tom Bradshaw’s death. And maybe in the process we find out who bagged that Bible and where it is now.’

  ‘What about Montgomery?’ said Leigh. ‘You heard Special Agent King’s evidence. The Feebs have built a good case against him. If what this Nancy Doyle says is true, the Professor is being framed for a crime he didn’t commit. Isn’t it our obligation to . . . shouldn’t we say something to prevent him from . . .’

  ‘Say what?’ said Mannix. ‘In all honesty we have nothing but the outrageous accusations of a bereaved nut case from LA. We start shooting our mouths off now, without concrete evidence, and we’ll be shut down faster than a brothel in Utah. We need more before we do anything, which means we have to work fast.’

  ‘And Nancy Doyle?’ said McKay. ‘Are we sure she is safe? If this thing comes off, we are gonna need her big time.’

  ‘Croker says he’ll protect her and I believe him. Anyone calls or goes to LA Community, the nurses are cued in to say she was transferred to theatre, and then passed away.’

  ‘That might not stick for long if these people are as savvy as we expect they are,’ said McKay.

  ‘True, but in the very least it buys us some time. Our only immediate problem is the California legal system. Croker can’t exactly go to the authorities with this wild story. Rita’s been charged with vehicular manslaughter, driving in a reckless manner which resulted in the death of her son, and the Los Angeles DA will want her to have her day in court.’

  ‘So how are we going to fudge that and keep it quiet at the same time?’ asked Susan. ‘We can’t fake her death to the courts and I’m guessing her lawyer doesn’t know anything about all of this.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Joe. ‘Her current lawyer is a public defender and he doesn’t have a clue. So we need someone to stall her case and help her disappear for a while. It won’t be easy. Croker says he has a few contacts but finding someone we can trust will be . . .’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Leigh. ‘Why does the lawyer need to come from LA? He could be from anywhere as long as he has a licence to practise in California. And correct me if I am wrong but didn’t David Cavanaugh play co-counsel in a San Francisco case with his boss when he was just a rookie. I read something about it in the paper over the weekend. They had a profile on him considering he was once married to . . .’

  ‘Jesus,’ said McKay. ‘Do you think he’d do it? I mean, that’s a stretch asking a guy to help prove the rich Professor who stole his wife from under his nose is innocent of murder. But then again, we don’t have that many options. At least we know we can trust him.’

  ‘No,’ said Joe a little too loudly. There was no point in telling them he had broached the subject with David before. Nor about the relief he had heard in his lawyer friend’s voice when he had called him off – and the fact that he had promised never to mention the name ‘Montgomery’ again.

  ‘Involving David would be . . .’ he was about to say ‘unfair’ but somehow that sounded like a huge underestimation of the scale of this request. ‘It would be inappropriate at this poi
nt. Croker will find someone. We just need to give him a little time.’

  28

  ‘They’re doing a job on her,’ said Newsline presenter Caroline Croft, removing her camel pumps from her stockinged feet and massaging them with her perfectly manicured fingers. ‘Last week she was the respected physician, now she’s the Latino slut from hell.’

  ‘The question is then,’ said her husband and Newsline executive producer Bernard Jefferson. ‘Who’s the source? Who’s planting the seed that’s turning our talent into trash?’

  The pair, along with Caroline’s researcher Macy Dole and her producer Chris Conroy, were seated in Jefferson’s glass-walled office, downing lattes and Danishes from the local Starbucks. This morning, like every other Tuesday morning, they were meeting to try to lock in their lead story for this coming Friday night’s show – which, in this instance, was proving extremely difficult.

  ‘The unnamed source – I have my theories,’ said Croft, now resting her feet up on her husband’s glass and stainless steel desk. ‘But none of them are pretty and most of them are impossible to prove. Whoever they are, they have done a very good job. I have never seen such a swiftly executed character assassination except for perhaps the ones we have orchestrated ourselves.’

  ‘Touché, my love,’ said Jefferson. ‘Except this one really screws us. If our story is going to work, we need Karin Montgomery to remain the victim. And now she is the victim – except not in the way we anticipated.’

  Last week they had decided to make Karin Montgomery the focus of this coming Friday night’s show by pitching her against the cool elegance of Melissa Bryant Bradshaw – two opposites, but equals, passion and poise. But all of this was not going to work if the rest of the media were successful in dragging the dark-haired beauty down into the gutter where their tripe-toting tabloids usually ended up blocking drains. This latest round of innuendo meant they could no longer put Montgomery on the same page as the Vice President’s widow, for to do so would be an insult to Melissa Bryant Bradshaw’s stellar reputation. They knew any attack on the wife of the late VP would be seen as a slight on the great man himself, and that was out of the question considering Tom Bradshaw had now reached saint status in the eyes of the masses. No, if their ‘angle’ was to survive, they had to pull Karin Montgomery out of the mud before any of it began to stick, which was easier said than done.