by Mike Pace
Out cold, but not dead.
Tom felt his pulse. Weak, uneven beats, but still there. He glanced at the TV. Two minutes.
Tom figured it had to take some time for the alcohol to get into Mackey’s bloodstream. But how much time? More than two minutes?
Mackey was making gurgling noises, like he was having trouble breathing. But he was still breathing. Tom watched intently, and it appeared the breathing was becoming more erratic.
He glanced at the TV. Comcast time: 11:59. He couldn’t wait, couldn’t take the chance.
He pulled the Glock from his pocket. Tom’s own breathing was erratic, and it wasn’t from the alcohol. Comcast didn’t offer the time in seconds, so he checked his watch. Forty-five seconds. His palms were wet and slippery. He needed two hands to steady the gun as he raised it to Mackey’s temple.
Wait. He remembered. No blood spatter. He stood up and stepped back from the table. Both hands were shaking heavily now. What if he missed? He’d have to fire more than once and—it hit him. The sound. He hadn’t planned on dealing with the sound. Shit! His eyes searched the room for a pillow. That’s what they always used in the movies. No pillow. He could get one from the bedroom—no time.
He stepped over to the TV and turned up the volume as high as it could go. The football fans’ cheering filled the room, like they were cheering for him. Gooooo Tom! Puuuuull the trigger! He was on the field at the one-yard line. Time’s running down, Joe. Just a few seconds on the clock. No time-outs left. Can Booker score? The fans are in a frenzy. Here he goes—
Tom willed himself to pull the trigger.
Murder’s a sin, Tom.
He told himself Mackey had killed another man.
Murder’s a sin, Tom.
Mackey was a despicable human being and deserved to die. But slumped over with his face on the table, the man looked so helpless.
Murdering a defenseless, unconscious man’s a sin, Tom.
Tom thought of Janie. His finger tightened. Tears poured from his eyes. He had to do it.
Pull the damn trigger!
Then Mackey vomited. Tom saw him gagging, though he remained out cold. The man couldn’t breathe, he was unconscious and choking on the vomit. A thick yellow liquid dripped from his nostrils and dribbled from the sides of his mouth, but none projected out. His chest shivered in three rapid beats searching for oxygen, but his air passages were blocked.
Then his eyes flew open, looking straight at the gun in Tom’s hand. Was there a glint of recognition?
More gagging, one last gasp, then his eyes glazed over.
Tom rushed back to the table and felt for a pulse. Nothing.
Reece Mackey had choked to death on his own vomit.
Tom glanced at the TV.
Comcast time: 12:00.
CHAPTER 24
Tom was almost home and still hadn’t received a message from the Doublemint twins. He’d turned off the TV in Mackey’s apartment, then exited quickly. Didn’t want La Chiqua popping in after a long night at the office and finding him with her freshly deceased boyfriend.
He’d considered taking the bottle of Wild Turkey with him, but figured forensics would likely be able to tell the contents of Mackey’s stomach contained bourbon as well as gin. Again, hide in plain sight. He’d visited his client to prepare for trial and taken him a bottle of whiskey as a gesture to encourage his client to trust him. Mackey had consumed a couple of drinks while they talked, but when Tom left, Mackey, while a little woozy, appeared okay. Of course, the likelihood of him even being interviewed was low. La Chiqua would find her man dead from alcohol poisoning. Good riddance. End of story.
Where were they? Maybe all that fire and brimstone caused interference. He needed to know Janie was saved. He needed to reconfirm the kids from hell were real, to reconfirm he hadn’t just murdered a man for no reason. But did he really kill Reece Mackey? The man had drunk himself to death; all Tom did was offer the man a friendly drink. Right.
By the time he entered his apartment, he still hadn’t received any message from the underworld. His hands shook and he needed a drink. He headed straight for the fridge and popped open a beer. Downed it in one swig, then reached for another, his last can. He hung up his jacket; no need to worry about blood.
His hands still shaking, he stripped off his clothes and, after setting his phone on the bathroom vanity, stepped into the shower. As the near-scalding water pelted his skin, his legs buckled and he slid down the tiled walls. He sat there slumped under the shower, bawling his eyes out, until the water turned cold.
Three hours later he lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Almost four a.m. and no word from Chad and Brit. He felt a compulsion to call Father Sheran. Good news, Matt. Didn’t shoot the guy. Just shared a couple drinks. Very friendly. Watched the game. How ’bout them Terps? Poor fellow died from his own excesses, end of story.
Murder’s a sin, Tom.
After another forty-five minutes, he finally fell asleep.
He awoke to a loud click. He checked his watch. Almost eleven a.m. Damn, he’d slept for seven hours.
The click came from the TV. He’d never turned it on. Immediately wide awake, he sat straight up as the images of Chad and Britney appeared on the screen. They were walking down a suburban street on a sunny day. The street looked familiar. Was it Poplar Drive? The big white house on the corner—sure looked like Poplar, two streets over from his old Arlington house.
The couple smiled and waved to Tom as they approached three girls skipping rope on the lawn of a two-story brick rambler. One of the girls twirling the rope was Janie. Emma Wong, aka Emma 2, held the other end of the rope. Angie looked on as an African-American girl—had to be Abby Jackson—easily jumped in rhythm as the rope spun under her feet.
Brit spoke to Janie.
“Hi, mind if I hop in?”
Janie shrugged. “Sure.”
Brit timed the swing and jumped into the arcing rope with Abby. She chanted in sing-song in time with the twirling rope. “TWINK-le IS my CAT, SHE’S a YEL-low TAB-by; SHE’S so HAP-py NOW be-CAUSE, TOM saved MY friend AB-by!”
Chad clapped enthusiastically. Brit jumped out of the rope swing. The two of them waved to the girls and continued walking down the sidewalk.
The picture focused on the back of their two heads. Without missing a step, both heads swiveled 180 degrees. Chad grinned at Tom. “Thanks for Reece.”
Brit gave him a finger wave. “Still owe two.”
The heads swiveled back and the two happy demons continued walking down Poplar Drive.
CHAPTER 25
Tom checked the obituaries in the Post on Sunday and again Monday morning. No mention of the untimely passing of one Reece Mackey, a good sign. Surely, if foul play had been suspected, a story would’ve appeared.
All day Monday, Tom was assigned to handle arraignments for the first time by himself. Fortunately, the judge was sympathetic to his rookie status, and the AUSA wasn’t a jerk, so there were very few hiccups. He’d met Eva for a sandwich at a shop across the street from the courthouse. He’d thought she’d be proud of him when he told her how smoothly things had gone during the morning session, but no pat on the head. Shanny was leaving PDS, and Eva admitted being preoccupied with her application for the opening.
As they walked back to court after lunch, he received a call from Zig reminding him about the big sixtieth birthday bash for Bat Masterson that evening. Every member of the firm was expected to attend. Zig sounded excited. Not only would Bat’s colleagues be there, but also the upper echelon of the city’s political establishment.
As Zig was hanging up, he added, “and you can bring a date.”
That he in all likelihood would be spending the rest of his life behind bars gave Tom a level of courage he otherwise would not have exhibited.
“So, that was my friend, Zig. My firm’s hosting a sixtieth birthday party for the senior partner—”
‘Bat Masterson.”
“Right. Anyway, it’s tonight and I kno
w this is late notice, but I wondered if you’d have any interest in coming with me?”
“I’d love to.”
“You would?”
She smiled. “What time?”
At seven p.m. he picked up Eva at her apartment in Southwest near the waterfront. When she opened the door, he struggled to hold his jaw from dropping. She looked stunning—a low-cut, emerald-green sleeveless sheath, six-inch heels, shimmering hair falling loosely to her shoulders.
“You look great.”
“Thanks. Don’t get a chance to polish up very often and, I’ll admit, it was fun.”
Unfortunately, the drive to the Four Seasons only took fifteen minutes; he would’ve loved nothing more than driving around the beautiful city alone with her for an hour or so. Most important, her presence temporarily diverted his mind from the clock ticking in the back of his head.
When they arrived, the doorman opened Eva’s door. Tom hurried around the car so he could offer his hand to assist her exiting the vehicle. Her hand felt strong, yet soft. When she stood, she momentarily lost her balance. Tom grabbed her and she fell forward into him. She laughed as he held her.
“I’m not used to the heels.”
He held her a moment longer than necessary, and she didn’t seem to mind. She steadied herself, smiled up at him, then took his arm.
Once inside the lobby, they found their way to the Corcoran Ballroom by following the well-dressed couples streaming down a wide corridor. Tom recognized many of them as politicians he’d seen from time-to-time on the Sunday morning talk shows.
Unlike many other hotel ballrooms, where one had the feeling he was in a wallpapered airplane hangar, the Corcoran somehow made space for 500 feel intimate. And with the firm picking up the tab, no expense was spared to fete a man who was not only a former governor, attorney general, and now the senior partner of one of the most prestigious firms in the world, but also a possible future president. An orchestra played on a makeshift stage, while couples drank, exchanged the latest political gossip, and danced around a spacious dance floor.
Tom felt the energy in the air, and he concluded by Eva’s expression, she shared the sensation.
“How about an adult beverage?” he asked.
“Sounds good.”
As they walked toward one of the many bars positioned around the room, Tom couldn’t help but notice, despite being among many very attractive women dressed in their finest, virtually every male head swiveled to see the woman in the green dress.
The line was short, and they quickly reached the bartender, a middle-aged man with a pencil moustache and a snooty expression. His name-tag read: Marcel. Marcel offered Eva a smarmy smile and held up a bottle of white wine.
“May I pour the lady a glass of our Grand Cru Puligny-Montrachet?”
“Thanks, but I’ll take a Bud if you’ve got it.”
At that moment, Tom wondered if anyone would notice him dropping to a knee and proposing. Marcel’s expression froze for a moment. He responded with clenched teeth.
“I believe we have a few bottles of Heineken here, or if you wish I can send someone—”
“A Heinie would be fine,” responded Eva.
“Make that two,” said Tom.
Marcel dug deep under the bar, retrieved two green bottles, and popped the tops. “Would the lady like a glass, or would she prefer to drink from the bottle?”
“Oh, a glass, absolutely,” responded Eva. “After all, this is a classy joint.”
Marcel probably set a record for the fastest one can pour a beer into a glass, then quickly greeted the couple in line behind them.
They only made it a few steps away from the bar before the giggles came.
“Did you see his face?” asked Eva.
“Worried he might stroke out.” God, he liked this girl. God? His expression sobered. Was there really a God who would allow innocent children to die, who would force a man to kill another human being as some sort of—? Some sort of what? A cosmic board game? My piece can score more kills than your piece?
“Tom, are you all right?”
Before he could respond, Zig intersected them. He had Marcie on his arm.
“There you are. And this must be Eva.” Introductions all around.
“Marcie works for Senator Guthrie,” Tom told Eva.
“From what I read, she has a bright future.”
“Speak of the devil,” said Zig, gesturing toward an attractive blond chatting with the guest of honor. Appearing to be in her mid-forties, the senator was accompanied by a tall man, a few years older, with curly brown hair streaked with silver at the temples.
“She’s amazing,” gushed Marcie. “She and Bill are always so gracious to even us lowly staffers.”
“I’ve heard lots of talk about her being VP material,” said Zig.
“Masterson-Guthrie would look great on a bumper sticker,” Marcie added.
Tom spotted Jess across the room. She saw him and waved. Tom waved back. She appeared anxious. Maybe she was upset seeing him with another woman.
“Who’s that?” asked Eva.
“Marcie’s roommate. Jess also works for Senator Guthrie. We dated a couple of times.” He tried to convey by his tone that it wasn’t a big deal.
Marcie checked her watch. “Time to start the show.” She excused herself, walked across the room, and whispered in Senator Guthrie’s ear, then nodded to the orchestra leader.
The orchestra struck up “Boomer Sooner,” the University of Oklahoma fight song. Tom joined in the heavy applause as Senator Guthrie, with a politician’s practiced wave and smile, stepped to the microphone.
“Thank you so much for that kind welcome. Before I introduce our guest of honor, there’s someone else I must recognize. Politicians’ spouses often pay a heavy price, and I could not be more fortunate than to be married to such a wonderful, understanding husband and super dad to our twin boys—Bill Guthrie.” Bill waved, hugged his wife, and the crowd applauded.
“But Bill and I are here tonight to honor two of our closest friends, Bat and Mary Masterson.” Loud cheers. “Bat served our country honorably as a Marine officer in Desert Storm, as governor of some backwater state, forget the name”—the crowd laughed—“and until recently, as the nation’s chief law enforcement officer. Since then, he’s led one of the most influential law firms in the country. It’s the worst-kept secret in Washington that Bat’s on the short list to be the party’s nominee for president in two years. Without further ado, please welcome the birthday boy, and, hopefully, the next president of the United States, Bat Masterson!”
Tom clapped politely. He glanced over at Zig who, with an adoring expression, was attempting to applaud louder than anyone else in the room. Tom had heard Zig refer to Bat as a rock star, and his friend was treating him as one. Bat bounded up on stage with his wife, Mary, two adult children, and five grandchildren trailing behind. Bat bent his wife over for a theatrical kiss, which ramped up the applause volume even higher.
As Bat began his remarks, Tom felt a tug at his coat. He turned to see Jess. She seemed highly agitated.
“I need to talk to you,” said Jess.
Tom glanced at Eva, who was straining to maintain a blank, disinterested expression. “Sorry, but this isn’t a good—”
“Now!” pressed Jess. “And I don’t care about your fancy new girlfriend, I just need—”
“Jess,” Tom spoke more sharply than he’d intended. People with disapproving looks were turning toward them, and the last thing he needed was a scene in the middle of Bat Masterson’s speech.
“Jess, what’s wrong?” asked Marcie. Her tone conveyed more annoyance than concern for her roommate.
“Shhhh!”
Tom turned to see Zig with his finger to his lips. “Sorry,” Tom whispered.
Jess ignored Zig. “Something bad’s happened, and I don’t know what to do.”
“What? What happened?”
She froze, her eyes focused over Tom’s shoulder. He could thin
k of no better way to describe her expression than terrified.
He followed her gaze, but everyone’s back was toward them, watching and listening to Bat use his legendary oratory skills to keep all in the room enthralled. Tom thought he saw Senator Guthrie tilt her head and smile directly at Jess, but no, she was smiling at everyone.
When he turned back, Jess grabbed his lapels and pulled him close, knocking him off balance. She whispered, “Tom, I need a lawyer, and you’re the only—”
Angry and embarrassed, Tom pushed her away. She tripped and fell on her back. Guests standing nearby gasped.
Mortified, Tom reached down to help her up. “Sorry, didn’t mean to—”
Jess climbed to her feet and, with one last plaintive look at Tom, disappeared into the crowd.
CHAPTER 26
Tom had been in his familiar late-night position for almost two hours—lying on his back in bed, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. This time he was accompanied by a bottle of his good friend, Dr. Daniel’s, to help him go to sleep. He’d briefly recalled his post-orange puke vow, but this was different. Dr. Daniel’s would help him get the sleep his body needed. Medicine, that’s all.
He’d had a great time with Eva at the party. After Bat’s uplifting remarks, everyone had been in a good mood. He and Eva had never left the dance floor, and he believed she’d enjoyed herself as much as he had. When he held her in his arms, he felt like he was back at his high school prom, trying to ascertain whether the girl’s closeness was anything more than standard dance position. Then, toward the end of the evening, he received from Eva what he’d been hoping for—that squeeze of her arm against his back, paired with a nuzzle under his neck.
He couldn’t wait to drive her home. Not that he’d expected an invite to spend the night; in fact, strange as it seemed, he hoped she wouldn’t extend such an offer. He didn’t want to believe she was the kind to jump into the sack on the first date.
It turned out she didn’t invite him in, but did give him a good-night kiss that was definitely more than perfunctory. The best thing about his time with Eva was its power to temporarily numb his mind to the horror he’d have to face in less than two weeks.