Gospel

  It was late and time for her to head home. John tided the papers on her desk and focused on the day when she would humbly, respectfully, patriotically accept the top job. She pictured herself at her inauguration, her family around her, the billions watching around the world admiring her beauty, her courage, her dedication to a better America.

  It would be sublime, perfect – and more than enough to put Tom Bradshaw’s memory to bed forever.

  32

  ‘CIA Director Ryan,’ said David. ‘Friend or foe?’

  It was late but David felt strangely exhilarated.

  Following their meeting with Pieter Capon yesterday morning he had been snowed under with the Gabbit case. Time was running out for their elderly client and they still could not prove Hector Gabbit was innocent of tampering with his late Bridge Club president’s wheelchair. ADA Katz was on the warpath and they were running out of options. But somehow, despite his dedication to Gabbit, he could not stop himself from thinking about the Bradshaw murder. In fact, if he was truly honest with himself, he would admit to actually looking forward to this late night rendezvous in Mannix’s office.

  He still hadn’t told Sara about his involvement, convincing himself it wasn’t of any consequence, at least not as yet, and she was busy with the Gabbit case so . . . And besides, he was only in this for Joe, right? His involvement had everything to do with helping a friend and nothing to do with Montgomery. He had made that very clear. There was no way he was agreeing to Karin’s request, no matter how innocent her husband may be. There were plenty of good lawyers out there – so let her go find one.

  ‘My gut instinct says friend,’ said Joe, interrupting David’s thoughts before moving towards his office door and switching off the powerful overhead fluorescents.

  ‘I have no idea why they insist on lighting these offices like Times Square,’ he said, rubbing his eyes before switching on the softer muted light of his office desk lamp which cast a spotlight on the two-column puzzle before them.

  David looked across at the couch by Mannix’s door to see Frank McKay and Susan Leigh looking equally worse for wear. They explained they had just spent a long day dealing with a domestic homicide involving the stabbing of a young single mother and an even more distressing accidental death involving a ten-year-old boy playing with his father’s rusty hand gun.

  I don’t know how they do it, thought David. But then again, given this latest adrenalin rush, maybe he did know after all.

  ‘Okay,’ said David, trying to get things on track. ‘So let’s look at what we know, or at least what we think we know. Bradshaw wrote these letters in the Bible – and then, we assume, conferred with Ryan on what he knew, or suspected.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Susan. ‘And that’s why it was so important to Ryan to retrieve the Bible – for he knew the information it contained was . . .’

  ‘. . . enough to get a man killed,’ finished McKay, scooping the dregs of undissolved sugar out of the bottom of his coffee mug with a stained plastic teaspoon. ‘And he was right. I think we can safely assume that Ryan and Bradshaw were discussing some pretty heavy stuff involving the four authors of the Gospels.’

  David picked up the puzzle before going on. ‘These notations tell us Bradshaw and Ryan knew Luke’s identity – RD, Robert Doyle – on 30 April, nine days before Doyle was killed. And we have to assume Ryan suspected an FBI agent was involved given his determination to grab the Bible from under the Feeb’s noses, and the blatant referral in this riddle to M – Matthew being “FBI”.’

  ‘But what we don’t know,’ said Joe, ‘is what Ryan has discovered from that point on, or the definite identities of the remaining Gospel Three.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Leigh. ‘If Ryan had been following Doyle’s status, and knew about his death, why didn’t he pull Nancy and Gavin Doyle before they found themselves in the firing line?’

  ‘Because his information was scant,’ suggested Mannix. ‘He didn’t know Doyle told his wife about the other three. We would never have known about Nancy if it wasn’t for Croker and it certainly looks like Bradshaw and Ryan were playing this one close to their chest.’

  ‘Joe’s right,’ said David. ‘Bradshaw and Ryan didn’t trust anyone else with the information because they didn’t know who they could trust – literally. Don’t forget, they were old College buddies and still the best of friends.’

  ‘My bet is we just got lucky that Croker is better than your average LAPD recruit,’ said Joe. ‘He called us, Nancy gave us the link between her husband and the Gospel Four, and eventually their links with . . .’

  ‘. . . the Vice President,’ finished Susan. ‘Which all suggests you’re right, Lieu. Ryan is most likely a good guy and part of a two-, now one-man posse trying to expose the murdering four.’

  ‘Three,’ said Joe. ‘Murdering three – Luke is one of the deceased, remember?’

  ‘Shit,’ said Susan, stifling a yawn. ‘My brain is fried.’

  They all said nothing, just stared at the puzzle again . . .

  M – FBI

  M – 2V

  L – RD

  J – I ???

  ‘Okay,’ said David, standing from his chair to grab a worn white baseball from a battered leather mitt on the top of Joe’s filing cabinet, starting to toss it up and down as his thoughts began to come together.

  ‘The first “M” – Matthew, is listed as FBI which falls in line with Nancy’s theory that someone in the Bureau is involved. And the fact that Ryan enlisted Capon’s help so that he might steal that Bible out of Bradshaw’s room like a cat burglar suggests said FBI operative may have been in the VP’s room at the time of his death.’

  ‘It has to be Ramirez,’ said Mannix. ‘Why else would he be lying about the Bible being taken into evidence?’

  ‘I think so too,’ said David. ‘But that’s a big call. He’s one of the most powerful FBI Agents in the country and calling him a murderer would be . . .’

  ‘I know,’ said Joe. ‘So we need proof.’

  They all paused for a minute, and David knew they were contemplating the enormity of the task ahead.

  ‘The second “M”,’ David went on, ‘. . . is for Mark or 2V.’

  ‘Maybe his initials are VV?’ said Susan.

  ‘No,’ said Joe. ‘Then they would have written VV.’

  ‘Maybe the V is a 5 as in Roman numerals,’ said Frank. ‘Maybe Bradshaw was writing the number 55? No,’ Frank corrected himself. ‘That would be LV so . . .’

  ‘Too complicated,’ countered Joe again. ‘I think it’s something simpler. Something obvious we are missing.’

  ‘Or too tired to see,’ said McKay.

  ‘Well at least “L” is clear,’ said Leigh. ‘RD or Robert Doyle. But what the hell does “J–I” mean? Does John’s first name start with the letter I, or his last or . . .’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said David turning the sheet around. ‘Look at this. Capon has some pretty nice handwriting but those fancy ticks on the top and the bottom of the “I” . . . maybe it’s just Capon’s way of writing the number “1”. We should call him. Ask what it is he thought he saw.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Joe. ‘John could be number one. Maybe their leader, maybe the . . .’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said McKay. ‘The human brain normally works in consecutive order. The most obvious leader would be Matthew – the first of the four.’

  ‘Unless you’re talking biblically,’ said Susan.

  The three looked at her and David noticed that now familiar intensity in her eyes.

  ‘Think about it,’ she said. ‘Why choose those biblical pseudonyms in the first place? I mean, maybe each name holds its own individual significance. Maybe each of the four carries traits or holds responsibilities which mirror those of their religious counterparts.’

  David looked at Mannix.

  ‘You researched these Gospel characters?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Sure. I guess I just wanted to try to understand why they might
have chosen those four names over, well, I don’t know, Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan or Paul, John, George and Ringo.’

  ‘Okay,’ said David. ‘What if Susan is right? What do we know about Matthew, Mark, Luke and John that might give us a clue to their present day identities?’

  ‘Well,’ said Susan standing to stretch. ‘For starters Saint Matthew, the author of the first canonical Gospel, was a Roman tax collector, a pragmatic government official. According to scripture, Jesus saw qualities in him others could not, and chose him to be one of his twelve. Now he’s the patron saint for security forces, law enforcers and guards.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said McKay. ‘The FBI connection. Maybe you got something here, Leigh.’

  Susan smiled before moving on. ‘Saint Mark, the Evangelist, was the author of the second Gospel. He was not one of the original twelve apostles, but a younger disciple who was known for his idealism and enthusiasm. He is symbolised by a winged lion, someone with determination and the courage to see into the future.’

  ‘Maybe this 2V is our resident idealist?’ said Mannix.

  ‘Someone younger,’ said David. ‘It’s worth remembering.’

  ‘Luke,’ Susan continued, ‘was born a slave and later became a physician. He was known for his compassion and caring. He wasn’t one of the original apostles like Matthew and John but he was an avid writer who focused on Jesus’ teachings on forgiveness and family. He was also a rare gentile in a largely Jewish following, a sort of kind-hearted misfit, so to speak.’

  ‘Doyle,’ said McKay. ‘A family man . . . the misfit.’

  ‘And John,’ finished Susan. ‘Many Christians assume Peter was Jesus’ “favourite”, but historians believe it was not Peter but John. John was known as the “beloved disciple”, the young apostle who became like a brother to Jesus, travelling with him everywhere. He was the only one of the Twelve not to forsake the Saviour in the hour of His Passion, standing at the foot of the cross. Jesus made him his mother’s guardian after his death and Mary took John into her home and he became her “son”.’

  ‘So he was Jesus’ earthly replacement. His sort of second in command?’ asked McKay.

  ‘Sort of,’ said Susan.

  ‘And in our case . . .’

  ‘No, he couldn’t be,’ said David, snatching Joe’s baseball from the air, the thought flooding his head like a wave of light.

  ‘What?’ asked Joe.

  ‘What if John is the leader, and wants to fulfil his biblical destiny?’

  ‘Come again?’ said McKay.

  ‘What if this is not just a cover up but a set up, to eliminate Bradshaw so John can take his place and then graduate from second in charge to number one.’

  ‘Geez, Cavanaugh,’ said McKay. ‘I can see where you’re going with this, but that’s a very big leap.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said David, tossing the weathered ball across the office to Joe. ‘We’ve been assuming Bradshaw’s death was largely motivated by a need to protect the activities and identities of the four, but what if it is bigger than that? What if Bradshaw’s murder was always part of the original plan? What if John really does want to become . . .’

  ‘President?’ asked Susan, incredulous.

  ‘Well, you know what they say about Latham, that if re-elected, he won’t see out the term – which means his second in charge becomes the most powerful individual in the country. I know it’s a stretch,’ said David, sensing their scepticism. ‘But maybe Susan is right? Maybe those names weren’t chosen at random and if they weren’t then . . .’

  ‘Then whatever these guys are up to, killing Tom Bradshaw was just the beginning,’ said Mannix.

  They all said nothing, Joe tossing the ball back to David who snapped it into his mitt.

  ‘We need to think about this,’ said Joe.

  ‘We need to sleep,’ said McKay.

  ‘And after that,’ said David, the adrenalin still flowing, ‘we need to work out how we can get in to see CIA Director Ryan. We have to find out what he knows – and maybe, if he is one of the good guys like we suspect, tell him what he doesn’t.’

  33

  ‘It was premeditated,’ said Sara, blowing a loose brown ringlet away from her left eye. ‘The chair was tampered with at least three days prior to the accident,’ she went on, taking a seat across from David’s overcrowded desk and opening her yellow legal pad to where she had made notes from their independent technical advisor. ‘The modular extender bolt had been loosened and greased with motor oil and the oil in question was starting to coagulate which means it had been applied at least three days prior to Mulch’s fatal trip down the Bridge Club stairs.

  ‘My guess is Roger Katz has the same information which means he’ll be pushing for murder one.’ She put down the pad and looked across at him. ‘Which also means Hector Gabbit is in some serious trouble, and at this point I have no idea what the hell we can do to save him.’

  David looked across at her, hearing everything she had said and thinking about something else altogether. He felt so guilty for not sharing this with her. He loved this girl. He loved everything about her. Her passion, her determination, her tireless devotion to protecting those she cared about, her honesty, her openness, her trust. But deep down he knew he was terrified what his involvement in the Montgomery case might do to her – to them. For at the centre of this investigation was the woman he once called his wife, the woman he once loved more than life itself, and he feared Karin’s intrusion into what he had with Sara might jeopardise their future forever.

  ‘David? David, are you okay?’

  ‘What? Sure. I’m sorry, Sara. It’s just, you know, Gabbit is a good guy and we . . .’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  Sara put her yellow pad on top of a pile of manila folders at the edge of David’s desk and leant forward over the debris to take his hand.

  ‘Gabbit is a worry, that’s for sure, but I know you, David, and it’s more than that. For the past few days you’ve been quiet, distant, preoccupied. Is it the Montgomery thing? The press? Because if it is, we could finish the Gabbit trial and get away for a while. We could take a late summer holiday, trek west to Hawaii, make like beached whales for a couple of weeks and do nothing but swim, read and sleep as late as we like, or, maybe not sleep at all.’

  She smiled then, and he knew she was hoping for one in return. But all he managed was a strained expression of agreement. He felt the now familiar sliver of guilt slip down his spine as her eyes seemed to cloud over with doubt, disappointment, rejection. He had to tell her, he had to . . .

  ‘What is it David?’ she said at last. ‘Please. I want to help.’

  He looked at her then, on the brink of telling her everything, about Joe and his staggering suspicions, about the motions to delay he had just filed to a Los Angeles court, about his ex-wife’s incredible request, and about his strange compulsion to solve a mystery that could drag him into a quagmire from which there was no return.

  But in the end he said nothing, for in that moment, one simple, all-too-clear fact flooded into his consciousness and wiped all the rest away. If these four Gospel guys were as evil as they suspected, then anyone, everyone who crossed them could be in imminent danger. Nancy Doyle was living proof of that, and now Joe and his two homicide friends, Croker and maybe even himself were walking on some seriously perilous ground.

  And there it was, he realised, the true crux of the matter, the real source of all his fears. He was afraid for Sara, afraid of involving her and even that she may already be involved by association.

  But he was also afraid for Karin.

  Karin, who had told him and Lord knows who else that her husband was being framed, Karin who seemed oblivious of the consequences of such accusations, Karin who was so sure of her husband’s innocence that she had swallowed her considerable pride to ask him, to beg him, to represent the man she knew he had once hated more than any other.

  Bottom line, he feared, if Karin w
ent public with her claims of conspiracy, if she didn’t have someone to advise her, to silence her, to protect her, then she could be . . .

  ‘David?’

  David re-focused and took her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Sara. It’s just some stuff Joe was telling me the other night, about a case he was working – about a woman who lost her husband and son in the space of a couple of months.’

  A half truth.

  ‘And then this setback with Gabbit. Sometimes this job, well, sometimes it just gets you down, the injustice of it all.’

  He felt sick.

  ‘I know,’ she said squeezing his hand and he sensed her relief that that was all it was. ‘But just remember, whatever else, you have me and I’m always going to be here.’

  At that point David looked into her eyes and hated himself more than he had ever hated himself in his entire life.

  ‘Sara,’ he said at last. ‘Promise me that whatever happens, you will never forget how much I love you.’

  ‘Oh David, how could I?’ she said, reaching across the table to touch his face as if in an attempt to wipe the doubt from his troubled expression. ‘Don’t you see what you mean to me? How you have changed my life? Before I met you I was so afraid to see beyond life’s limitations, so terrified to look in the mirror and see someone that had no place in this world.

  ‘But I was wrong. I do have a place. You made me forget what I didn’t have and made me realise what I did.’ She looked at him then and he could see the small pools of tears gathering slowly in her eyes. ‘Don’t you see?’ she went on. ‘You have shown me who I am, and better still, who I can be. I will never be able to repay you for that. You mean everything to me, David Cavanaugh, and nothing, nothing you could say or do will ever change the way I feel.’

  34