by David Ellis
He didn’t speak, though his nonverbal communication—the widening stain in the crotch of his gray sweats—told me I had his attention. Here was the most notorious assassin on the city’s streets, in a t-shirt and urine-stained sweats, frozen in place with both palms planted on the carpet and one leg bent, as if he were just on the verge of bouncing up.
I trained the gun on him and let it all consume me. This, I now realized, was why I’d been on this quest from the beginning. Someone had to pay for what had happened to Talia and Emily, and I was tired of it being me.
“Why?” he said.
“Why?” I nodded at him. “How many people you kill?”
He was watching the gun more than me. “Not one,” he said, “that didn’t have it comin’.”
I moved closer. Then I lowered the gun and delivered a kick into the center of his chest. He didn’t take it well, his mouth popping open, his hands off the floor, his body falling to his right side. Something unleashed in me and I tossed the gun on the couch, then dropped my knees down on him, swinging wildly with my fists, missing more than landing, hitting his hands as they shielded his skull. I was doing plenty of damage anyway, slamming his head into the floor from my blows. When I took a brief pause, he surprised me with a surge upward, trying with his legs and arms to toss me off-balance. For one brief moment he almost succeeded, then I brought my full force down on him. He was now turned over on his back, facing up at me. He swung at me with both hands but he had nothing behind the blows, lacking the advantages of gravity or momentum. It was all me, and now that I had him square on his back, I made his face pay. He tried to run interference but it was raining down on him. I landed about a dozen solid blows before his defenses subsided.
I caught my breath and reached for my gun, which luckily I was able to do without compromising my position. I didn’t know what I was thinking, giving up that gun, except that I hadn’t been thinking at all.
Kiko made a low burst of noise, blood coming from his mouth in the process. I didn’t recognize the sound at first but then I got it. He was laughing.
“You gonna kill me, you’d a done it.”
That would make it all the more satisfying. I placed the gun against his forehead. The cymbals clashed inside my head, the hatred and anger poisoning everything inside me. Everything about this made sense. This guy had killed so many people. Maybe some of them not so innocent, but I could count a number of them that didn’t have it coming. I didn’t really know my God anymore but I couldn’t comprehend a world where taking this guy out wasn’t a good thing.
“Don’t, Jason.”
I stifled the instinct to turn, because I knew the voice hadn’t come from behind me. Or next to me or in front of me. I imprinted the barrel of my gun into Kiko’s forehead. He started mumbling something in Spanish. I thought he was praying.
“Don’t ask God for help,” I said. Then I raised the gun off his forehead. I pushed myself off him and stood over him. He wasn’t moving, the only sign of life his soft moans and a bubble of blood enlarging and contracting from his mouth.
I opened the glass door, rather than work my way through the jagged glass, and walked through the yard. A couple of lights were on in the neighborhood, maybe even some people looking out. They might be able to identify me but I doubted it. Some white guy in a suit and long coat, walking through a dark backyard. Anyone living close by knew who resided at this particular address, and odds were they wouldn’t be in a hurry to involve themselves in this affair.
I made it to the car and drove through the alley. When I got onto a main thoroughfare, I let out a long breath. The post-event adrenaline flooded me; it was all I could do to keep my hands on the wheel. I was confused, or at least incapable of rational thought, so I focused on getting myself home, on getting the car in the garage and myself into bed.
I would sleep tonight, I decided, at least for the few remaining hours of night afforded me. Like the flip of a switch, I was utterly exhausted. I fell onto the bed and closed my eyes. It was true, I’d been blaming Ernesto’s killer for the death of my family. Maybe I’d done so to transfer culpability from where I thought it really belonged, at my own feet. But I now realized it had been something different altogether.
Don’t, Jason.
She’d meant so much more with those two words, I thought, than just sparing Kiko’s life. I’d assigned blame for her death everywhere I could find—myself, Hector, Kiko, whomever—to avoid the more plausible and, therefore excruciating truth, that what happened to my wife and daughter was nobody’s fault.
The next thing I remembered was her hand in mine, our fingers interlocked, gripped so tightly that one hand ceased being independent of the other. Then, slowly, a release, our fingers straightening, our palms separating, nothing but our fingertips in contact.
And then my hand reached for hers and there was nothing. I opened my eyes and it was morning.
85
I NEEDED SOME EXTRA TIME TO GET READY THIS morning, having discovered a number of cuts along my hairline from shards of glass last night. My hands were swollen and sore, but I didn’t think I’d broken any fingers. I had plenty of reminders of what had happened last night but it still felt more like a dream than anything else.
Lee Tucker and Chris Moody were waiting for me when I walked into Suite 410 at eight in the morning. They’d been deliberating quietly and hadn’t heard me enter. They popped to attention when I showed my face.
“Cut myself shaving,” I said when Tucker asked.
“Shaving your forehead?”
“I wasn’t paying attention.”
Moody leaned back in his chair. He didn’t look good. His eyes were set deeply and shaded dark. He usually had a bright-and-eager look about him, but these were long days he was spending.
“Do you think you’ll be having more conversations with Snow?” Moody asked. “I mean, after the incident last night. Is he too embarrassed now? Or do you think you’ll still be on the inside?”
“Hard to say,” I said. “My guess, I’m still in.”
“Good. Because we need more,” he told me. “Snow’s a slippery one.”
The same word Tucker had used. Slippery, as in, we know he’s guilty but he doesn’t quite admit it.
“You mean, you need more,” I said.
“You need to pin him down,” he said. “When he gets on a topic, you have to keep pushing it. You just let him move on.”
“It’s not cross-examination,” I said. “It’s conversation. I can’t force it.”
“You’re being too cautious, Jason. You already passed their test. You passed. Greg failed.”
“Whose test? Charlie’s test? Yeah, I passed his test.”
“Oh, and what happened to ‘Charlie wasn’t calling the shots’? You think Snow doesn’t know anything about what happened to you and Greg Connolly that night?”
These guys had listened to every word of the F-Bird from last night. They’d heard what both Madison and the governor had said about Greg Connolly. They’d heard Charlie Cimino say that he hadn’t told Madison anything about it.
Chris Moody did one of his patented chuckles, filled not with humor but condescension. “You think because Madison Koehler and Governor Snow played dumb last night, it means they don’t know anything?”
“You weren’t there,” I said.
“No, but I know these people. I know them and I know a hundred people like them. They aren’t going to admit it to you, Jason. Don’t be so damn naïve. These people are programmed to lie. They’re smart enough not to admit anything out loud.”
Their skepticism wasn’t surprising, nor was it unfounded. I was as cynical as the next person. But I was there last night. I saw both of them, Madison and the governor, when they talked about Greg Connolly. I didn’t trust anyone in this room or anyone working for the governor, but I trusted my instinct, and it told me that neither of them had anything to do with Greg’s murder.
“I don’t think either of them knows,” I said. “And I
’m not sure I want to do this anymore.”
“You’re not—” Lee Tucker’s head snapped in my direction. “What, you’re announcing your retirement?”
“Maybe I am.”
“Kolarich, I’m really not in the mood for this.” Chris Moody pushed himself out of his chair. This conversation was upsetting him terribly, not simply because I was resisting him but because I was going to be his star witness at trial, and if asked, I would testify that I believed what each of these people were saying about Greg Connolly.
“Okay.” Lee Tucker, ever the peacemaker, raised a steady hand. “You think what you think; we think what we think. But keep pushing, Jason, okay? If you’re right, then you’ll just prove that to us. What’s the harm in probing the subject a little harder?”
I didn’t answer. I was running out of steam here. I’d found what I was looking for. I’d finally figured out who was behind the murders and why. And I’d done plenty for the feds. They had Charlie Cimino on countless felonies, including a pretty good case on the murder of Greg Connolly. They had Madison Koehler and Brady MacAleer on the illegal trades for union endorsements—both the appointment of George Ippolito to the supreme court and the jobs for the other union boss’s people, for whom we’d had to bend and twist a number of laws. They had three of the main players in the governor’s inner circle dead to rights. Moody could ask those people what the governor knew and when he knew it.
Moody was staring at me, chewing on his lip like he was debating something. “The governor’s going to appoint George Ippolito to the supreme court tomorrow,” he said.
I looked at him. “How do you know that?”
He gave me a look that told me I didn’t need to know that information. Madison had made it sound like it might be a few days away. But if she’d changed her mind, she wouldn’t have told me.
“Shit,” I said. “Are you going to move before then?”
He shrugged. “It’s being debated right now. A lot of it depends on you, Counselor.”
Sure. Right now, they were playing offense. Every day brought more admissions from the governor’s people. Every day without an arrest was a day that the federal government could build a stronger case. The spigot would shut off the moment the arrests were made.
And as of right now, from my tally, the main target of their investigation—Governor Carlton Snow—had made a grand total of one clearly incriminating statement, his suggestion about getting those pro-choice groups to cough up money to get him to veto that abortion bill. I hadn’t heard anything else on that subject, and it was entirely possible that nothing was happening on that front. And beyond that, the governor had only made veiled references to the things going on under him.
Which meant that they had the governor’s people, but not the governor. Would they dance on the people they had—Madison, Charlie, Brady—to get more? Sure. Of course. And they’d probably succeed. But there was nothing more damning than getting it from the governor’s mouth.
“Jason, listen.” Lee Tucker framed his hands. “We never expected you. We never expected to get this close inside. But you’re here. You’ve helped us expose corruption at the highest levels of government. Now we’re this close to Snow. Jason, they’re insulating him. It’s how this always works. His top advisers filter everything. It all stops at them, and then when no one else is around, they whisper in his ear. They carry out this charade for the exact reason that we’re having this conversation—so the governor can deny everything.”
“Maybe they don’t tell him,” I said.
“Bullshit,” said Chris Moody.
Tucker raised his hands higher, keeping the fragile detente. “Okay, okay—but let’s see then. Maybe today’s our last shot, Jason. Let’s assume it is. Will you see what you can get from Snow? Tonight’s the night Antwain Otis dies, right? You’re going to be having discussions with him? You’ll have some time with him. Will you at least try?”
I wasn’t sure where my head was at this point. Having finally fulfilled my own personal mission, and feeling sure that the governor knew nothing about the murders, I was really doing nothing more than being a classic snitch in an undercover operation. It felt different. It felt like something that wasn’t me.
“Lee,” said Moody, “we’re talking to Jason like it’s a friendly request. I think he forgot that he’s got criminal liability hanging over him. He’s working for our gratitude and mercy.”
Judging from Tucker’s face, he wasn’t pleased with this turn of events. Tucker was a guy who always liked to use honey to catch the bee.
“And the fact that I almost got killed while helping you isn’t enough?” I said. “And that I continued to risk my life for you? We forget all that, I guess?”
Chris Moody shrugged. “You’re the one who didn’t want a deal. I offered you immunity more than once.”
He was right. I’d rejected a plea bargain because I didn’t want even a tacit admission of criminal wrongdoing. I didn’t want the word immunity attached to my name, because no matter how you sliced it, it meant you were a criminal who caught a break.
And I’d wanted my freedom. I wanted to be able to stop working for them whenever I pleased. Like now. But I’d known the risks, and now they were staring at me square in the face.
“So I take one more shot at the governor, you spare me an indictment? And you move in before Ippolito gets appointed? I got that pretty much correct, Chris?”
“Hey, look.” Now he was playing the slippery one. “I’m just saying, we’ll take all of your cooperation, and lack thereof, under advisement. I never promised differently.” He raised a finger, then reached for a folder behind him. He held up a thick document that was stamped DRAFT. It was an application for an arrest warrant, along with several affidavits to be signed by FBI agents.
I took it in my hands. The draft application requested arrest warrants for Governor Carlton Snow, Madison Koehler, Brady MacAleer, and Ciriaco “Charlie” Cimino.
“Is this the document we file?” he asked.
Then he removed a second document from his folder. “Or is this the one?” he said.
He handed me the second document. It looked largely the same as the first, but with one addition. The document requested a warrant to arrest Jason Kolarich.
I put my hand out. Lee Tucker handed me the F-Bird.
“I guess we’ll find out,” I said.
86
I WAS TEN MINUTES LATE TO APPLE JACKS, A POPULAR breakfast spot just north of the commercial district. A lot of lawyers have their pretrial eggs here before heading down for a day in court. It felt like ages since I’d been one of those people.
Hector already had a booth for us. He looked fresh and eager, his wardrobe matching his attitude—olive suit with olive shirt and brownish-red tie and that fucking tie clip.
“I ordered you some eggs,” he told me, which was his way of reminding me I was late. I wanted to reach across the table and shove the tie clip into his windpipe, but instead I just acknowledged his power move and let it go.
“Today’s the endorsements, don’t forget,” he said, as if I’d given him some reason to think I’d forgotten. “With SLEU and the Laborers, we’re golden. It’s our fucking election.”
He was reminding me that Governor Snow was going to win, and that was all that was supposed to matter.
“So like I said last night, Carl feels terrible about what happened.”
Our food arrived. Mine was eggs over easy with toast and bacon. My stomach was growling but the way I was feeling about Hector right now, I wouldn’t hold down the meal if I ate it.
“He’s very grateful that you can be discreet, Jason. And what you should be doing, right now, is thinking about what you want when Carl is elected to a full term. I was serious, what I said last night. The sky’s the limit for a talented lawyer like you. You want to be on the bench? You want a boat full of legal work sent your way? You just need—”
“Hector, stop,” I said reflexively, when I couldn’t stand he
aring his voice any longer. I took a breath, because this was the last thing I wanted to do, but I had to get through it.
“I want to clear the air here, Hector. You and I need to be square on a few things.”
Hector didn’t particularly enjoy being interrupted, but his curiosity was trumping his pride. Plus, his number one goal here was protecting the governor, so he was proceeding with caution.
“I got into this thing because of you. Not Charlie Cimino and not Carlton Snow. Charlie’s a good guy and the governor’s okay, but I’m loyal to you. You understand?”
I made a point of not looking at my food as I spoke, because I wasn’t sure how much more of this crap I could spew without becoming physically ill. But Hector? Talk about my words finding a soft landing. I’d hit his sweet spot.
“Good,” he said.
“I think you’re going to be governor someday, and I want to be there with you. I think you’re twenty times the person Carlton Snow is, and all the rest of them. But if I’m with you, if we’re a team, then we have to be on the same page. You have to talk to me. You have to be more careful. We have to be more careful. Okay? Or I’m out. I’m out, as of now.”
Hector shook his head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—and listen, I’m not your lawyer anymore, okay? You understand that.”
“Right,” he said, more as a question. Didn’t matter—he’d acknowledged my point. He’d just eviscerated any possible contention that this conversation was protected by attorney-client privilege.
“But that doesn’t mean you can’t trust me. For some reason, you think you can’t. Why is that?” I leaned forward over the table. “You, of all people, wonder whether I can keep a secret? You? How many secrets of yours have I kept? How many? Adalbert Wozniak? Ernesto Ramirez? Greg fucking Connolly? Did I ever say a word?”
It was a risk, I knew, throwing out all these names at him, but it was the only way I knew how to work this conversation.