His hands were shaking.
Was he in shock?
How had this happened?
How could something have gone wrong?
He always, always knew what would happen before it did. He knew what people would do as events unfolded before they knew it themselves. He had spent a year carefully planning this, everything, down to the last detail. He was as meticulous as ever this time—no, even more meticulous. Nothing had ever gone wrong before, on any of his jobs. Ever.
Unthinkably, things were unraveling. First, there was that goddamn model soldier’s eyes that were the wrong color, then Judge Jeffers’s damn stomach cancer, now this.
As he drove, mindful of the speed limit, listening to the sirens fade away behind him, he reflected on his plan. He desperately wanted to pull over and consult his bible, but he couldn’t risk it. Instead, he forced his mind to flip through the binder and study its pages, to consider all the contingency plans he had created, to picture the tiniest detail of the mosaic of photos and summaries and sticky notes and arrows and lengths of fine, colorful yarn on the wall in his war room.
He needed to see it. In person. Could he still perform the final tasks? Could he complete the job? The answers were in his mosaic. He had to see it. Seeing it would calm him. Refocus him. He needed to sit and gaze upon his creation, at the thousands of words and dozens of photographs and countless bits of information that, together, made up his beautiful plan. He needed to rethink it all because . . .
Doubt had set in. He hadn’t experienced it in so long, he almost didn’t recognize it. But, he realized with something close to horror, if he had made one mistake, perhaps he could make another. Perhaps more things could go wrong.
It was unheard of.
Unprecedented.
But . . . possible.
He risked giving the car a little more gas. He wasn’t certain he’d be able to breathe properly until he got home and into his war room.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Egan had been gone for more than an hour, and Henry had begun to consider the possibility that the guy had strung him along, that he had no intention of looking for a connection among the names Henry had given him. Then there was a knock on the passenger window, followed by Egan opening the door and sliding into the passenger seat.
“I thought maybe you were screwing me over,” Henry said.
“I considered it. You deserve it. But before I could, I found something.”
Henry’s pulse quickened.
“I tried all four names first,” Egan said, “and when I kept coming up with nothing, I took out Lewis, like you told me to, and finally got a single hit, from eight years ago. A guy named Kevin Austin. Ring a bell? It should.”
It did. A clanging, deafening bell.
“Austin was convicted of the murder of one of our guys,” Egan said, “a former state police detective named Dave Bingham. They found Bingham in Rutland, in one of the abandoned buildings in the projects everyone’s been fighting over for the past year. Bingham had retired, become a PI. Everybody liked him. Records list you as the arresting officer on the case. Remember that?”
Henry nodded almost mechanically.
“It was a big story, murder of an ex-cop. Your brother was an assistant state attorney at the time, held a bunch of press conferences about it, made a lot of noise about assigning the top prosecutor they had to it. Made a lot of headlines, both the case and your brother. I pulled the file. Seems there had been rumors that Austin had an accomplice, the son of Clifton Barnes. I assume you know that name, too.”
He nodded again. Part of him wanted Egan to shut the hell up. It had taken years for Henry to train himself not to think about that night, the last night of Dave Bingham’s life. In visits to a therapist mandated by his captain at the time, Henry had learned special mental techniques to help him compartmentalize his thoughts and feelings about it. But he didn’t employ them now. Egan kept talking, and Henry had to listen; if they were going to stop all of this, whatever it was, he needed to hear what the man had to say.
“Barnes owns several commercial properties in Vermont and nearby states—New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Maine. Everyone pretty much assumes he’s connected with organized crime, as you probably know, but nobody’s proven it. Anyway, you remember who the judge was on Austin’s trial?”
“Jeffers,” Henry said quietly.
“Bingo. The same Judge Jeffers who was killed earlier tonight by another person he’d sent to prison.”
“And Kevin Austin—”
“Died in prison two years ago. Beaten to death by some homophobic skinhead.”
Henry took a long breath. He’d known Austin had died in prison, but he hadn’t known the details. “Homophobic? Was Austin gay or just in a jailhouse relationship?”
“Supposedly, he was gay. I guess someone took offense to that, instead of him just doing things out of physical necessity—you know, being in prison and all.”
Henry tried to focus . . .
Jeffers was the judge on the trial, Andrew was the assistant state attorney pledging to assign their office’s best and brightest prosecutor to the case . . . and Henry had been the arresting officer and potential star witness.
Tumblers began falling into place. “If I remember right, Austin didn’t have much of a family.”
“Being the hotshot detective that I am,” Egan said, “I figured you’d ask me that. According to his obituary, he was survived by his father. Nobody else. Guess his mother wasn’t in the picture, or she’d died before him. No brothers or sisters.”
“I remember that now.”
Just a grieving father, he thought, one who might go to great lengths to exact revenge on those who took his only child away from him.
“And the father . . . ?”
“No criminal record. Not even a speeding ticket. Served in the navy, according to the son’s obituary.”
“Is he local?” Henry asked.
“Yeah, not that far away actually. Less than a half hour.”
“Any chance you’ll give me the address?”
“You gonna do something stupid?”
“Got a badge and gun on you?”
“Of course. Why?”
“Because I don’t.”
With that, he cranked the engine, threw the car into drive, and screeched away from headquarters before Egan could utter a word of protest.
“Buckle up,” Henry said.
“What the hell, Kane?”
“Sorry, but I need you. So where are we going?”
Egan looked like he was considering his options: perhaps grabbing for the steering wheel, or throwing open his door and rolling out of the car, or drawing his gun. Finally, he said, “Are we on our way to find whoever you think killed Judge Jeffers?”
“I think so.”
“And I’m the only one in this car with a gun?”
“As far as you know.”
“I’m serious, Kane.”
“Cross my heart.”
Egan gave him the address.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
When Andrew had left the house earlier, he had planned to go straight home, but before he’d made it there, the blackmailer had called, informing him that he’d killed Judge Morgan Jeffers and pinned it on Kyle Lewis; that he had destroyed the recording that could have cleared Tyler of murder charges; and that everything was over now and he intended to just disappear. After that call, Andrew couldn’t imagine going home, couldn’t imagine facing his wife, knowing that he was guilty of so many things, including, to a large degree, playing a significant role in the murder of Judge Jeffers. And it didn’t matter to him that Jeffers had very little time left to live because of his cancer; he had lost precious days on this planet in no small part because of Andrew. And everything . . . all of it . . . had been for nothing. He hadn’t helped Tyler. And now he and Henry were ruined.
No, he wasn’t prepared to face Rebecca right now. He wasn’t proud of himself. He hadn’t been for some time.
&nbs
p; Instead of going home, he headed toward his office, hoping he might be able to lose himself in his job for a bit. Maybe it would help take his mind off everything else, at least for a little while. He could use some of that. He had draft legislation he could review, remarks to write, letters to compose, and the like. In his rearview mirror, he saw the lights of his security detail’s vehicle following not far behind.
At that time of night, the Pavilion was quiet. He went in through the back entrance, as always, then headed up to his offices on the fifth floor. Not surprisingly, everyone else had gone home hours before.
He sat wearily in his office chair and reached for a pile of mail that Peter had opened and date-stamped before leaving in the in-box on the corner of his desk. He read a few letters, his eyes glazing over every minute or so. He was tired. And despite his plan to fill his mind with work for a few hours, he was also distracted by the recent tragic events and his part in them.
Morgan Jeffers, a good public servant and an even better man, was dead because Andrew had pardoned Kyle Lewis. Even if Lewis hadn’t actually killed the judge, his pardon had led to it.
Andrew vowed never to look at the pardon file again.
Then he remembered the promise he had made himself not long ago: when this was over, he planned to review the file and give serious consideration to worthy pardon requests—because the recent trouble hadn’t been caused by pardons in general, but a very specific pardon requested by a bad person, on behalf of another bad person . . . and granted by a morally questionable governor. But it was possible, perhaps even probable, that there were those whose requests truly warranted consideration. And if that were true, it was cowardly for Andrew to wait until he was about to leave office to consider them solely because he wanted to avoid the enmity of registered voters. It didn’t have to be done tonight, of course, but if he was determined to get some work done anyway, why not? With the recent abuses of his pardon power, perhaps he could atone—even if only a little—by using that power the way it was meant to be used.
He walked down a hall to a small room where, during his first month in office, he’d had Peter relocate numerous files, including pardon requests. The door was locked. The file cabinets inside would no doubt be locked, too. On a hunch, he walked back to Peter’s desk, opened the top drawer, and found a key on a ring labeled File Room. On the ring was another, smaller key that no doubt opened the cabinets themselves. He’d have to speak with Peter about file cabinet security.
He located the pardon request folders, of which there were several, and without bothering to check the dates of the requests within them, he grabbed several thick folders and headed for his office. Before he’d gone ten steps, his cell phone rang.
Caller ID told him that Molly was calling. It was late, but he remembered that she had been planning to attend her regular study group tonight after they’d parted ways. Perhaps she was on her way home.
He sighed, knowing he would have to tell her about the murder of Judge Jeffers. And of Kyle Lewis, too.
“Hey, Molly,” he said. “I’m glad you—”
“Tyler’s gone, Andy.”
“What?”
“Tyler’s gone, and Julie’s dead.”
“Hold on. Julie? Davenport? She’s dead?”
“Someone killed her. I overheard them say it was the same way Sally Graham was killed.”
Julie . . . dead? That couldn’t . . . Julie was . . . she was a friend of the entire family. Tyler loved her. She couldn’t be dead.
“They think Tyler murdered her and ran off,” Molly said, her voice tight.
“Who thinks that? Slow down, Molly.”
“The police. They’re here at the house. They’re everywhere. And Tyler’s gone.”
“I don’t understand. How the hell can he be gone?”
“They found his ankle monitor in the front yard. He left.”
Tyler’s gone?
It didn’t cross Andrew’s mind for a fraction of an instant that his brother had killed Julie—he knew their blackmailer had certainly murdered her, as he had Sally Graham—but if Tyler had discovered the body, he almost certainly would have panicked. Panicked and run. Unless . . .
Unless for some reason the blackmailer had taken him.
“Did you try calling Tyler’s phone?” Andrew asked.
“Yeah. A cop inside the house answered. Tyler must have left it behind.”
“Where are you?”
“Standing in the yard. They won’t let me inside. What do we do, Andy? He’s out there all alone with almost every cop in the state looking for him, convinced he’s killed two women.”
Molly—battle-tested, combat-hardened, levelheaded Molly—sounded close to breaking in two.
“I’m on my way,” he said.
Rather than spend time returning the pardon files to their cabinet, Andrew tucked them under one arm and hurried back downstairs and out to his car.
Tyler was gone.
Pickman ignored the ringing. He stood in the middle of his war room, staring at the mosaic taking up the entire wall above his desk, from corner to corner, five feet high and fifteen feet long. Seventy-five square feet of graphical representation of a year-long plan. It was beautiful. It was creative. It was impeccably detailed. It was perfect . . .
Until Judge Jeffers’s cancer and Tyler Kane’s disappearing act.
Pickman’s plan had been sailing along smoothly, every puzzle piece falling neatly into place according to his grand design, until Jeffers went public with his stomach cancer, necessitating his murder earlier than originally planned. Couldn’t have him dying of natural causes. That wasn’t the plan. No, he had to die in a way that looked as though Lewis had killed him after being pardoned by Andrew Kane. And once it had been executed, that part of the plan had gone well. But then . . .
Tyler Kane had done the unexpected, the unanticipated, and run away from Pickman. That was definitely not part of the plan. Now . . .
The phone kept ringing. Pickman tuned it out.
Things had to change. The mosaic was no longer perfect. It no longer reflected events as they would need to unfold. And it was supposed to. It needed to.
But he hadn’t determined how to fix things yet. Tyler Kane should have come home with him. Tyler Kane was supposed to be dead before morning, with the entire world—including his family—convinced that he was on the run.
That was what was supposed to happen.
That was the plan.
Now Pickman was going to have to revise the plan for the second time in one night, something he’d never had to do even once before. He was going to have to . . . improvise.
He hated the word. The very sound of it in his head was harsh and ugly.
He wanted the phone to stop ringing. Surely, it was the governor calling, but Pickman didn’t trust himself to speak yet. He needed to be cool when he talked to Andrew Kane, to speak with authority and make certain the governor knew who was in charge, but he was too upset at the moment to do that, too unsure of himself.
So this was what self-doubt felt like. He didn’t care for it.
The phone wouldn’t stop its damn ringing. He could shut it off, but he didn’t want to take his eyes from the wall for even a split second. He didn’t want to diminish his focus any further as he stood rooted in the center of the room, his eyes on the mosaic, his mind on his bible.
His plan could stay largely intact, he believed, but he had to review his bible to be sure. He had to think it through. He would likely be forced to make at least a few hopefully minor revisions.
And his wall . . . despite its beauty, despite how perfect it was exactly as it now appeared, he’d have to tweak a few things.
Damn Tyler Kane.
Damn the phone that wouldn’t stop ringing.
He took a deep breath, then another, then walked over to the desk, picked up the voice changer, and punched the “Talk” button on the burner phone with his thumb.
“Yes?” he said.
“You’d better
hope I never get my hands on you.”
“Well, good evening to you, too, Governor.”
“My brother’s gone, you son of a bitch.”
“I know. Believe me, that wasn’t part of the plan.”
“I did everything you asked.”
Pickman’s eyes traveled ruefully over his masterpiece on the wall. “I disagree. You followed Lewis after he was released, counter to my instructions. But that doesn’t matter now. He’s played his part. No harm, no foul.”
“I was a fool to think you’d hold up your end of the bargain.”
“To be honest, Andy, I agree. But don’t beat yourself up. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say. And you shouldn’t dwell on the past right now. Your brother is out there somewhere. Who knows what trouble he might get into?”
A long pause followed.
“You don’t have him, do you?” the governor finally said. “I thought you might, but you don’t. He got away from you.”
Pickman hesitated. “That’s not what I meant. What I said was . . . I mean, he’s not . . .”
“Don’t bother,” Kane said. “I know now that he got away from you.”
Damn it. Pickman wasn’t sure whether he had just lost a tactical advantage he hadn’t even considered. He needed to get back to thinking things through. This was why he didn’t like to improvise. This was why he planned so meticulously. This had happened only because Tyler Kane had run from him instead of getting into his car trunk as expected.
And now Pickman was going off script, talking about things he wasn’t ready to talk about, things he hadn’t thought through, hadn’t outlined ahead of time.
“I’m going to find you,” Kane said.
He was tired of this conversation, tired of thinking about what to say, how to respond, trying to maintain the upper hand when all he wanted to do was think, damn it, get the plan back on track. He never should have answered Kane’s call in this frame of mind.
He hung up on the governor, switched the phone off so it wouldn’t distract him by ringing again, and stared at the wall.
He saw the big picture first, as clear as always. Then his eyes began to pick out the details. Most of them were fine, but . . .
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