by Sydney Bauer
They all laughed as Frank turned to head first up the slope towards the two carts parked on the path just off to their right. The others followed, Frank making sure to leave space for Ryan who had loaded his clubs on his cart and got into the seat beside him.
‘What are you listening to?’ asked Ryan, obviously too curious not to ask now that McKay was sans earphones and they were free from interruption from Howell as they headed down the long shady fairway.
‘Some of the old ones – Conway Twitty, Johnny Cash, Nelson. But the back nine are even trickier than the first so I’ll probably switch to a more upbeat tempo – you know, some of the younger guys like Tim McGraw, Travis Trit and maybe a little Lorrie Morgan to ease me into the 17th.’
Ryan was looking at him now, a half smile on his broad, tanned face. ‘Country music? Somehow I wouldn’t have picked you as a fan. Where’s that accent from anyway? Irish American? Massachusetts is my guess.’
‘In one. But my grandmother was from Tennessee, and she always said appreciating country music was a gift. She also said don’t waste the gifts God gave you, so I guess I make the most of it.’
‘The appreciation of country music, or your obvious ability to hit a ball?’ Ryan finally allowed the smile to spread across his face.
‘Both,’ smiled Frank.
‘Fair enough,’ said Ryan. ‘Fair enough.’
It was working.
Twenty-four hours ago Frank McKay knew nothing about iPods, country music, the nuances of the complicated eighteen holes that were the Congressional Golf Club’s Blue Course or Dick Ryan the man – but that was before a full day and night’s cramming with Joe Mannix, Leo King and his fellow homicide detective partner Susan ‘Encyclopaedia’ Leigh, who fired facts at him like bullets, daring him to forget a single one.
He was their only hope, and Mannix chose him for this all-important stage of their investigation because he knew he could chip away at the toughest of exteriors without said subject realising there was any chipping going on – that, and the fact that he had a handicap of 3 while Mannix couldn’t hit a ball for crap.
It was Leigh who had schooled him on the country music, researching Ryan’s reported likes and dislikes and discovering the CIA Director had a home collection to rival the best of them. Ryan was forty-four, a Harvard scholarship grad from Jackson, Alabama, the fourth of four sons and the only Ryan male currently not retired or serving in the Jackson Police Department.
‘He always wanted to be a cop,’ said Susan at about four this morning, curled into the corner of a couch in one of four rooms they had booked at a cut-rate Bethesda B&B. ‘But his father knew he was smart and made him sit for the Harvard scholarship – which he got, and studied law, specialising in the criminal and international varieties. He was recruited by the CIA in his final year and graduated with honours, moving straight from Boston to Langley where he started out as a Clandestine Service Trainee. Before long he was working his way up through Counter Intelligence and Crime and Narcotics. Then he was given the job of Deputy Director of Intelligence and then, thanks to Bradshaw’s pushing, the top job of Director of the CIA.’
‘Was this a case of jobs for the boys?’ a bleary-eyed McKay had asked Leo King, wondering if Bradshaw’s long-term debt to, and friendship with, his Harvard law buddy had fast tracked Ryan’s rapid rise through the CIA’s ranks.
‘His early critics would have said so,’ replied King. ‘Especially since Bradshaw was the first to credit Ryan as the person who saved him from a potential life of addiction. But over the past few years Ryan has worked hard to prove them wrong. He’s tough but well liked, demanding but fair. In other words, his agents back him because they respect him, not because they’re scared of him.’
‘Just remember, he’s worked in intelligence so he’s a master at interrogation,’ said Mannix. ‘My advice is to spend the game winning him over – get him to like you, put him at ease. You can’t talk shop in front of Howell in any case. Hit him with whatever feels right after the last hole and then, see if you can arrange a meeting.’
‘Got it,’ Frank had said, hoping to hell his over-tired brain would remember his Willie Nelson from his Waylon Jennings.
‘There’s one more thing,’ said Susan, who was sharp as a tack despite their all-night cram. ‘Just try not to be so . . .’
‘So what?’ asked Frank.
‘So . . . um . . . Frank.’
‘Frank – as in . . . honest?’
‘No, as in . . . Frank. I mean ease up on being you a little. No offence McKay, but sometimes you can get a little intense.’
‘Susan,’ said Frank, smiling at the other two, knowing his partner meant well but not being able to resist the comeback. ‘I have three words for you – pot, kettle, black. Lighten up, partner, it’s gonna be okay.’
And so at 6.31am, Mannix and King had dropped McKay at the scenic front entrance of the Congressional CC, stocked with the paraphernalia and credentials he would need to tee off with two of the country’s most noted political golfers, borrowed Pings in hand, and a hastily pre-arranged guest pass, thanks to King’s mother-in-law Linda Leung, in his back pocket.
At 6.42 McKay signed on to be part of the Howell/Ryan party, listing his occupation simply as BPD (and hoping the acronym would throw them off), renting two carts and waiting for his fellow players to join him for a 7am tee off.
And now, four hours later as they approached the 179 yard 18th hole (par 3 green close to waterfront, bunkers behind), McKay felt comfortable enough to drop a crumb in the hope that Ryan would bend to pick it up. ‘Nobody is more curious than a CIA spook,’ King had said just before McKay left the car. ‘You bait him, he’ll bite. I’m sure of it.’
And he was right.
‘Nice swing, Dick,’ said Howell, as Ryan whacked his shot in a long straight line over the meandering water hazard onto the fringe of the green.
‘The Vice President is right,’ said Frank. ‘You play this course like an old friend.’
‘No one plays this course like Dick Ryan, Frank,’ said Howell. ‘He’s had a standing reservation here every Saturday for the past five years. He and Tom Bradshaw used to carve up the greens like Butch and Sundance. The two of them could whip the pants off every registered pair in the Club, including me and Governor George ‘Eagle’ Boots, which is saying something.’
‘Bradshaw was a good player?’
‘There was nothing Bradshaw wasn’t good at,’ said Howell.
‘Except maybe getting himself killed.’
Shit. It was too much, and Frank regretted it the second it came out of his mouth. His plan had been to drop a crumb – not dump a whole loaf of bread in one opinionated sweeping statement. But it had been a long twenty-four hours and he was feeling the stress. He had said it, he had been too ‘Frank’ and now it was time to deal.
‘What did you say, Frank?’ said Ryan, turning from the tee to face McKay.
‘I’m sorry, Director, I know the two of you were close and nobody had more respect for the late Vice President than me, but to be honest I can’t help but think the whole thing is a little . . . I don’t know, unbelievable.’
‘What’s not to believe?’ said Howell. ‘The poor man’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘No, that’s not what I meant.’
‘Then what did you mean?’ said Ryan, club in hand, grip tightening just a little.
‘I mean, this whole Montgomery thing, it’s all too convenient. The Professor and the Vice President had a few bones to pick, granted – but murder? It just doesn’t add up. The Professor is an intelligent man. He’s made a career out of knowing when to step up and when to back off. Such a man never takes uncalculated risks, and certainly not those that can not only ruin your career but see you facing the death penalty. No, Montgomery is a player and that ain’t the way the game is played.’
‘And you know all this because . . . ,’ said Ryan, moving a step closer to McKay, a learned interrogator’s expression on his face.
‘. . .
because I work at the BPD and, fortunately or unfortunately, we know more than most.’
‘See, Dick,’ laughed Howell, obviously trying to throw a little water on the heat that was rising fast between his two previously calm companions. ‘I told you the Treasury guys know it all.’
‘Take your shot, Larry,’ said Ryan, obviously seeing something in McKay’s expression and reading the man’s desire to have a word with him alone.
Howell, despite no doubt being as curious as all hell, turned away and mounted his ball on the tee. McKay guessed the ex-VP had built a career on knowing when and where to leave a room – and this was one of those times.
‘Who are you?’ asked Ryan. ‘Your card said you work for the BPD. What the hell would a pencil pusher from Public Debt know about the murder of Vice President Bradshaw?’
‘The Bureau of Public Debt probably know diddly squat, but there’s a few of us up in Boston who have an idea or two.’
‘The BPD . . . you’re . . . Boston Police,’ said Ryan.
‘Homicide actually – and I never said otherwise,’ said Frank.
‘Well tell me, Detective Frank McKay,’ said Ryan, stepping forward, now facing McKay eye to eye. ‘It’s pretty obvious this golfing rendezvous was orchestrated for a reason. So here I am – you’ve got my attention, which is what you wanted, am I right? What is it you know, McKay? And perhaps more to the point, what is it that you want?’
Frank knew he didn’t have much time. He had to convince this man of his sincerity before Ryan lost his cool and Howell fluxed his shot.
‘I know what I have read in the Bible, I know about the four Gospelmen who set out to re-write history and I know Nancy Doyle is still alive.’ Mannix and King had told McKay that, if necessary, he should give Ryan a piece of information too shocking for the CIA Director to dismiss, and he could tell by the look on Ryan’s face that now he really had the Director’s attention.
‘As for what I want – what we want – is your help. We are not sure who to trust, Director, and I’m here today to take a chance on you.’
Ryan said nothing, just sized McKay up and down, obviously wondering how on earth he could know all that he did and what in the hell he should do about it.
‘You said “what we want”. Who are we?’
‘My boss Joe Mannix, my partner, and a Feeb from Boston.’
‘FBI,’ said Ryan, and McKay immediately saw the distrust on his face.
‘Think of him as a renegade good guy.’
‘This have anything to do with Montgomery’s wife’s claims last night?’
‘Yes. Her lawyer, Cavanaugh, he rounds out our team.’
Ryan said nothing, just turned slightly to make sure Howell, who had just hooked his shot too far to the left, was still out of earshot.
‘You know the Lincoln Memorial?’
‘I’ve seen it on TV. I’m sure I can find it in real life.’
‘Meet me there tomorrow morning, 9am. That’s early enough for us to blend into the first of the tourist crowd but not late enough to be bothered by it. Don’t bring the Feeb or your partner. Just your boss, Mannix.’
‘You know Mannix.’
‘I’ve heard of him.’
‘Then you know what I say is true.’
‘I know you’re an idiot for getting mixed up in things you don’t understand.’
‘Maybe we understand things better than you think,’ said Frank before taking his bag off the cart, sizing up the drive on the last hole and moving a step closer to Ryan. ‘Three people are dead, Director, and those who are responsible need to be stopped. We may be a bunch of Beantown cops but where we come from, murder is murder no matter how important the killers claim to be.’
41
‘The ideal man bears the accidents of life with dignity and grace, making the best of circumstances.’
David said nothing, just sat there and stared at his latest client – Stuart Ignatius Montgomery – his orange prison garb temporarily replaced by a tweed suit and crisp white shirt, his pepper hair combed back, his face cleanly shaven and a look of smug satisfaction on his face.
The English mahogany, tall-case grandfather clock ticked loudly on the far wall of Arthur’s office, cutting into the silence with its monotone beat, as Montgomery, already lording over proceedings, looked from David to Sara to Karin to Arthur, revelling in their discomfort and obviously determined to garner control from the get go.
‘Aristotle, my dear people – and so profound under the circumstances, would you not agree? Come now, this is a sombre group.’
It was just after noon, and with the air-conditioning taking another unscheduled day off, David had opened all the windows in Arthur’s office. The breeze was now strong enough to ruffle the papers on Arthur’s large old desk but not cool enough to lower the temperature in a room now thick with anticipation.
This private meeting had been David’s idea. He wanted to avoid the barrage of press now parked outside Suffolk County Jail and thus called in some favours, resulting in Montgomery being given a fresh change of clothes and a grant of ‘temporary leave’. The Professor, along with his wife and two large prison guards, had left the jail via an undercover garage and entered the offices of Wright, Wallace and Gertz the same way – underground and around the back – with strict orders to return by two.
‘Thanks, Nora,’ said David as she served him a mineral water and handed Montgomery the iced tea he had requested – strong, with one sugar, three ice cubes and a twist of lemon.
‘My pleasure, Mr Cavanaugh. Please let me know if there is anything else you require,’ she replied and David gave her a half smile knowing she had not called him Mr Cavanaugh, nor asked him if he ever ‘required’ anything, in the entire twelve years she had known him.
‘Professor,’ Arthur began, and David knew his boss would be determined to establish the firm’s own point of control over this all-important first meeting. ‘As Aristotle also said “the beginning is the most important part of the work”, so I suggest we begin with a confirmation of our agreement.’
Montgomery nodded and gave some sort of majestically inspired gesture with his right hand, indicating he was ready for Arthur to go on.
‘You will be represented by Mr Cavanaugh and Ms Davis for the remainder of your discovery and throughout the duration of your trial. As partner in this firm, I will be providing additional assistance, but mainly in the area of research and administration. David is your first chair and thus your principal legal representative both in and out of the courtroom.’
Montgomery frowned slightly but said nothing – just gave the royal wave again, indicating for Arthur to go on.
‘You have been provided with details of our billing structure,’ Arthur went on. ‘And from what your wife has told us, you agree to all terms. What we ask from you in return is quite straightforward – the plain and simple truth. We need to know every detail of your dealings with the late Vice President and everything you can tell us about the night of his death. Anything short of this will be taken as a failure to fulfil your part of the “contract” and will result in termination of our agreement. Do you understand?’
‘Understand?’ beamed Montgomery, as if just jolting to life. ‘How could I not? Good Lord, man, I like your style, succinct, direct, persuasive.
‘Karin, my dear,’ he said, turning to his wife. ‘Are you sure you chose the right firm member to represent me? Mr Wright certainly seems to command a strong sense of authority. Forgive me, gentlemen, but is it not true that Mr Wright is a partner in this firm, and as such Mr Cavanaugh’s superior?’
Karin said nothing, just furrowed her brow at her opinionated husband, as if in a silent plea for him to stop.
‘And Ms Davis is, well, forgive me, my dear,’ he said, turning to Sara. ‘But from what I’ve heard you are new to this firm, with a background dealing mainly in petty crimes committed by those less fortunate?’
‘They’re called innocent Americans, Professor,’ Sara bit back. ‘Just a
s you claim yourself to be.’
‘Of course, my dear. Reasonable doubt and all that.’
Sara looked to David as if asking his permission to lash out at their self-opinionated client, but a slight shake of David’s head told her this was not the time.
‘I am sorry to be so pedantic, my dear,’ Montgomery went on, still focusing on Sara. ‘But isn’t it the case that your joining this firm coincided with the formation of a special relationship with your learned co-counsel? Which is all very cosy but . . .’
‘For God’s sake,’ Sara began as she started to rise from her chair.
‘Please, I apologise,’ said the Professor, holding up his hands in mock surrender and then bringing them down in some sort of indication that it was safe for Sara to return to her seat. ‘I have forgotten my manners, but Aristotle was right, beginnings are important and these things are best discussed up front. Am I wrong?’ Cue smile, sip iced tea, sigh with satisfaction and give concerned look to indicate a desire for some response.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
David could see Arthur out of the corner of his eye – his face now red, his brow shiny, his mouth now open and ready to tell this guy to shove it and then some. But then he sensed Arthur’s mouth closing and saw his body relax back into his chair. Arthur was handing him the floor, and David was more than happy to take it.
‘Professor Montgomery,’ said David finally, his voice calm, his demeanour composed. ‘Perhaps it will help if I give you a better idea of how I operate.’
‘Excellent, Mr Cavanaugh. By all means, please do.’
‘Then allow me to begin at the beginning. First of all, I never take on a client unless I believe in their innocence. Call me naïve, idealistic, economically bereft, I really don’t care. I don’t think you killed the Vice President but you still have to convince me. You fail in doing that, and we say goodbye, have a nice life – however long or short yours may turn out to be.’
David took a deep breath and slowly moved himself forward onto the edge of his chair. Then he shifted his weight, leaning in towards the Professor, his body language giving the subtlest of threats.