“He’s not in custody.” The officer followed her into the barren living room, scanning an array of boxes stacked against the faux fireplace. “Planning to move?”
“Yes,” she answered, waving the question aside. She frowned. “Your badge said DC Police. If he’s not in custody, why are you here?”
“Because he is in trouble, Mrs. Lewis.” He laid a hand on a box. “Do you already have a place, Jamie?”
Fear for her husband morphed into personal terror. She abruptly recognized the voice if not the face. This was the man who’d engaged her to work for Justice Wynn. “I don’t…,” she stammered, her hand rising to her throat. “You’re not with the police.”
“No, I’m not.” He folded his hands behind him as his legs braced apart, subtly but effectively blocking her route to the front door. “You disappointed us. You had a very simple task, and you failed.”
She took a small step back. “I tried.”
“He’s still alive.”
“I panicked, sir.”
“No, Mrs. Lewis. You didn’t panic. In fact, we engaged you because you don’t panic. You were a field medic with two tours in the Gulf.” He shook his head. “No, you chose to disobey orders. Why?”
“Because it wasn’t right,” she blurted out. “He’s a good man. I couldn’t sit there and watch him die.”
“According to you, he tried to kill himself. You simply could have allowed it to happen.” Another thirty minutes without care, and Howard Wynn would have been a corpse. “He’s a threat to national security. You know that. You were with him at the graduation.”
“He’s a terrified old man who sees shadows. Now he’s a threat to no one.”
“Not your decision to make.”
“He’s in a coma and probably won’t wake up. That should be enough.”
The man watched her steadily. “Nurse Lewis, did you make a call after we spoke last night? To the Supreme Court?”
Jamie started to formulate a lie, then nodded haltingly. He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t already know the answer. “He woke up for a couple of seconds. He asked about his law clerk, Avery Keene, and I thought she should know what he said.”
“What did he say?”
“That Avery has to save us. Look to the East and the river,” she recited. “He was adamant. And someone named Lask Bauer. It was gibberish.”
“Then why make the call?”
“Because I swore I would tell her.”
“You were hired for your discretion, not for heroics. I thought you understood this.”
“I did. I do,” she stammered. “I haven’t told anyone else about you or what you asked me to do. I doubt Avery will understand his message. There’s no harm done.”
“How can I believe you, Nurse Lewis, when you’ve just admitted you broke protocol? You called the U.S. Marshals rather than follow orders. You called his clerk.” He took a step closer, his eyes cold on hers. “I must know the truth. Did anyone else know that you’d been asked to report on Justice Wynn?”
“No!” The protest squeaked out; then she flushed in memory. “I mean—no one else, besides the judge.” When his cold blue eyes flattened, she sputtered, “You must have heard him yesterday. He figured it out; but now, with the coma, he’s the only other one who knows.” She held up her hands, pleading. “I haven’t told anyone about you, God’s truth.”
“Thank you, Nurse Lewis.” He turned away and walked over to the single stretch of windows. The blinds were closed. Good. “I believe you.”
Jamie watched him in silence. The man in her apartment looked perfectly pleasant, which failed to explain the knots tying themselves in her stomach. Her hands fluttered nervously to her throat, and, eager to have him gone, she asked, “Is there anything else?”
“Yes.” He slipped his hand into his jacket. “May I trouble you for a glass of water?”
“Of course.” She smiled in relief and turned.
The shot was silent and accurate, exploding through her brain with ruthless efficiency. The bullet lodged in the drywall.
Jamie’s body crumpled soundlessly to the ground, the yellow flowers of the carpet darkening with blood. Snapping latex onto both hands, he leaned over the body and pressed two gloved fingers to her throat. Like any good officer, he regretted the necessity of killing; but sometimes, options were limited. With her betrayal, she’d become a liability.
He pulled out a set of needle-nose pliers, removed the bullet, and collected the casing. Removal of the body was possible, but an unnecessary risk. Her husband would keep hiding until he got a signal from her, and no one expected them in Santa Fe. By the time she was discovered, the authorities would chalk the death up to home invasion. He considered violating her, but he hadn’t come adequately prepared for that scenario.
With efficient motions, he replaced his tools, then crossed to the thermostat on the window unit. After adjusting the knob to its lowest setting to keep the stench of death at bay, he collected his bag and walked out the front door. Satisfied, he returned to his vehicle, though no evidence showed in his stiff expression. The resolution to his mission had been sloppy, but the objective had been achieved.
The swing justice of the Supreme Court was on the verge of death, and the only person who knew of this operation had been terminated. The hospital’s doctors would try to save Justice Wynn. If they succeeded, Wynn could still be terminated.
The man opened the door to the car he’d parked blocks away, a nondescript Ford that would be found abandoned in the coming days, and started the ignition. Traffic had begun to creep onto the quiet streets of the city, and he merged into the stream of cars advancing toward Washington, DC.
Jamie Lewis’s confession had revealed a loose thread: Ms. Avery Keene. Though the man recognized it was more of a formality, he dialed his aide.
“Sir?”
“We have a new project.”
FOUR
“You’re late.” Matt Brewer offered the indictment as Avery trudged into the conference room that adjoined the offices of Associate Justice Howard Wynn. “Really late.”
“Shhh.” She pressed past her fellow clerk and weaved toward the oblong table where they would begin the week. Tiny jackhammers wielded by spiteful elves threatened to split her skull, and the Egg McMuffin she’d scarfed down on the Metro seemed determined to force its way back up and out. Despite the muted light of most government buildings, this morning the fluorescent glare seemed obscenely intense to her sleep-deprived eyes. She lifted an unsteady hand to shield against both the death ray above and the unholy smirk that twisted Matt’s aristocratic mouth. “Long night.”
“Should have gotten your rest. The chief justice’s office called for you, but you weren’t here. I’d have covered for you, but I hate to lie.”
Avery felt her stomach cartwheel. She’d missed her accidental coffee with the Chief, a chance meeting she’d been plotting for months. The stiletto sounds of Matt’s amusement were quickly joined by frantic tap dancers without rhythm kicking at her roiling gut. How could I have forgotten?
Chief Justice Teresa Roseborough maintained a careful distance from the clerk staff, including her own. Polite greetings and head nods comprised her communication with the lower beings who inhabited the chambers. In Roseborough’s two decades on the bench, she’d been known to hold a handful of personal conversations with clerks. A private audience with her carried more weight than a tête-à-tête with the pope and much better benefits.
It took a year and a half for Avery to pick her strategy. The multipronged attack included sucking up to the Chief’s two secretaries. Adoring coos over the prized basset hound of Debi Starnes and the cockeyed three-year-old grandniece claimed by Mary Gonzalez had opened a sliver of a window in January. By March, Debi was offering Avery scotch oatmeal cookies and dating tips.
But it was Mary, the harridan who guarded the
Chief’s calendar like the nuclear football, who mattered most. The Great Thaw occurred on April 7. That morning, during her six a.m. sweep of the chambers, Mary uncovered a nest of water bugs who’d somehow penetrated the layers of concrete and steel of the U.S. Supreme Court. Avery woke up from her overnight slumber in camera to the woman’s frenetic screams and rushed into the common room, where Mary perched on a rickety ladderback chair.
Avery sprang into action. Armed with a dustpan and a memorable summer in southern Mississippi, she cornered and crushed the vermin, to Mary’s amazed delight. By May, she’d been invited to meet the blessed grandniece. Then last Friday, Mary and Debi casually dropped the forbidden intel about the Chief’s plan to come in extra early on Monday.
“Last few weeks of term brings out the tiger in her,” Mary had offered. “Likes to be here by the break of day.”
“Yep,” echoed Debi. “I remember that time Serena came in early to get a jump on her cases. She and the Chief grabbed some coffee and gabbed for hours.”
“Isn’t she managing partner at Wachtell now?” Mary cut her eyes to Avery, to make sure she was listening.
“Serena Sparks?” Avery widened her eyes, as they would have expected. “I didn’t realize she’d clerked for the Chief.”
“Didn’t. Old Justice Fiss. But smart as a whip, she was. Could pump out pool memos in half the time of the others.”
“Cute little thing too. Just as polite as you’d please,” Debi added. “From the South, like you. Virginia, I believe.”
“No, Debi. She was from Arkansas. You always get that wrong.”
“I do not—”
Avery reeled with triumph. The gatekeepers had told her to be at the Court by six on Monday, and she’d be able to talk to the Chief over coffee.
And she’d missed it. Shit. Throat closing over the return of the McMuffin, she sank into a conference chair that leaned drunkenly when she collapsed into its embrace. Trying to breathe, Avery contemplated the relative merits of matricide and suicide.
When Matt propped a bony hip on the polished surface at her hand, the scales tipped toward clerkicide.
“What do you want?” she mumbled, trying vainly to keep her voice from wavering.
“Did you see our boss’s performance yesterday? Wow.”
“He didn’t say anything he hasn’t expressed before,” Avery retorted. “They should lay off him.”
Matt smirked. In a tone designed to reach the rafters, he responded, “And you might want to lay off yourself. Too much fun this weekend? We’re not in law school anymore, babe. Save the binges for the recess, ’kay?”
Fun? That’s not how she would describe hours spent creeping along Sixteenth Street and into neighborhoods usually featured on Cops. Hours when she’d discarded her future. Hot tears burned against her lowered lids, stunning her with their appearance.
She didn’t cry. Ever.
Certainly not over an eternity spent looking for a woman who didn’t really want to be found and could have been in Dupont Circle or down in Shaw for all she knew. She’d spent the early morning pub-crawling and visiting heroin dens in search of the last person she wanted to see, while she had missed the one she’d wanted to speak with desperately.
Now Avery faced a long week of writing legal opinions for a man who seemed to consider her only a step up from the merry monkeys that could type Shakespeare. In cooperation with a raving asshole like Matt Brewer who made her life miserable. One of these indignities she could take—but not all of them.
She reached into her oversized bag for the Advil she was sure lay at the very bottom. Finding the bottle, she dry-swallowed one and then another.
Matt watched her and taunted, “Hungover? Hope Justice Wynn doesn’t find out.” They both knew he planned to tell him.
“Bite me.” Avery would have said more, but her head refused to sit still long enough to feed her the pithy insults she kept on hand for Matt “I Kiss All Ass” Brewer of the Boston Brewers. But the old standby was good in a pinch.
“You’re slipping, Keene. Need some hair of the dog? Or does that explain your appearance?”
“Screw you.”
Stroking a long, soft finger along her wan cheek, Matt replied, “I’ve offered. Happy to take a spin. After you shower.”
The slick rise of OTC pain meds and eerily round fast-food egg sandwich warned Avery to turn her head. She didn’t. Instead, she bent at the waist, opened wide, and let revenge run free.
“Goddamn it, Avery!” Matt leaped up and barely resisted the urge to kick her face with his ruined shoe. “These are John Lobbs. Three thousand a pair, for Christ’s sake! What the hell?”
Wiping vainly at her mouth, she mumbled, “Sorry…rough morning.”
“It’ll get rougher when you get my bill.” He spun toward the door and stormed awkwardly away.
Avery turned away to find something to mop up the mess. Grabbing a handful of Kleenex, she also retrieved her water bottle. She took a hasty swallow, then crouched down to clean as the justice’s phone rang. Several rings later, she noticed that neither of his secretaries had answered. With a curse, Avery snatched the receiver up. “Justice Wynn’s chambers. Avery Keene speaking.”
“Chief Justice Roseborough wants you in her chambers. Now.” Mary spoke quickly, her voice oddly muffled.
A second chance? Stunned by her good fortune, Avery quickly agreed. “I’ll be right there. Thanks, Ms. Gonzalez.”
In response, Avery heard a soft hiccup before the line disconnected. She stumbled to her feet and quickly swished more water, wishing she had time to make herself more presentable. As she tried to gauge how long she could delay, a new thought occurred.
Opportunity didn’t knock twice. How likely was it that her accidental meeting would be replaced by a real one for good reasons? Slim to none. The disquieting alternative occurred as she circled the table. She froze.
Rita.
Panic abruptly dislodged nausea. Somehow, Rita had managed to find her stoned way to the Great Hall and was downstairs, demanding to see her supplier. Or she’d been arrested and told the DC cops that her daughter worked for the Supreme Court. In Washington, that would either be laughed off or readily believed, depending on what Rita was wearing in lockup and who was taking her statement.
For the first decade of Avery’s life, Rita’s femme fatale skills, accented by wild red hair and emerald-green eyes, had kept her daughter in diapers and jeans and school. The following decade hadn’t proven as successful, which often left Avery to her own devices, a state Avery preferred. Left alone, she could occasionally provide for trips to rehab and nights at hourly motels when Rita crashed. The model worked—as long as Rita remembered the rules.
Avery took a slow, measured breath. She’d been at the Court for two terms now. She did good work. Too good for the sudden appearance of her strung-out mother to derail everything. Right?
With careful steps, she left the conference room and wound her way through the anteroom. Down the hallways and through the warren of spaces that lay between the associate offices and the sanctuary of the chief justice.
Avery smoothed her hair with her fingertips and took a final deep breath as she approached the Chief’s offices. Flanking her inner sanctum doors were the desks of Debi and Mary. “Ms. Gonzalez? Mrs. Starnes?” Avery approached Mary’s desk. The taller woman, her burnished black hair pulled into a severe bun at her nape, lifted her head.
“Ms. Keene. The Chief said you should go right in.” Mary pressed a button on her phone, and the faint buzz echoed and lingered.
“I’m so sorry,” murmured Debi as Avery passed between them.
Avery looked back, wondering fatalistically what waited on the other side. She’d never rapped lightly on the door to announce her presence. Never turned the brass knob before.
“Come in, Ms. Keene.” Teresa Roseborough, the most
powerful judge in the world, stood in front of a broad partners desk that even Avery’s untutored eye knew was a Chippendale. Out of her robes, the Chief looked almost diminutive in a dove-gray suit piped at the lapels in black brocade. Barely five-four, she often wore three-inch heels that added height, but not stature.
Feigned stature was unnecessary. One listen to the famous voice provided all the authority she needed. The crisp tones had been marinated in a smoky voice that edged on husky. With a sharp face that boasted a pointed chin and almost beaked nose, the Chief was a study in angles and planes. Observers of the Court called her striking. Political foes preferred haughty.
The Court family simply recognized the power.
“Please come in.” The Chief stepped away from the doorway and ushered Avery inside. When she pushed the door closed, it shut with a click of the lock. “Have a seat.”
Avery chose the creamy taupe leather sofa closest to her knee. Unsteady, she lowered herself, trying not to gape at the supple fabric. Instead, she focused on the man standing across the room at the windows, nearly hidden.
Following her gaze, the Chief nodded. “This is Major William Vance, the president’s liaison from the Department of Homeland Security.”
“Major Vance.” Avery turned back to the Chief. “Ma’am?”
“I have some troubling news, Avery.” The Chief crossed to Avery and sat on the sofa, angled toward her. “How close are you and Justice Wynn?”
Puzzled, Avery responded, “I’m his clerk, ma’am. He gives me instructions, and I follow them.”
“Nothing more?”
“No, ma’am. I work for him. That’s all.” Wondering where the question had come from, Avery glanced at the tall, hulking figure at the window. Built like a defensive lineman, Vance stood stiffly and said nothing, simply looked back at her. The hooded blue gaze carried no expression. Turning back to the Chief, she asked, “Why? Is there something wrong?”
“Yes.” The Chief reached out, covered Avery’s hands with tapered fingers bare of polish.
While Justice Sleeps Page 4