Absolute Power (46 page)

“By doing it ourselves.”

No one said anything for a couple of minutes. Russell glanced incredulously at her boss. Her entire life had just gone straight to hell and now she was compelled to participate in a conspiracy to commit murder. She had felt emotionally numb since all of this had started. She had been absolutely certain her situation could not get any worse. And she had been absolutely wrong about that.

Finally Burton ventured an analysis. “I’m not sure the police would believe Sullivan would be that crazy. He’s gotta know they’re on to him, but can’t prove anything. If we pop Whitney, I’m not sure they’d look Sullivan’s way.”

The President stopped strolling. He stood directly in front of Burton. “So let the police reach that conclusion themselves, if they ever do.”

The reality was that Richmond no longer needed Walter Sullivan to regain the White House. Perhaps more important, this was a perfect way to rid himself of the obligation to back Sullivan’s Ukraine deal over Russia; a decision that was growing into more and more of a potential liability. If Sullivan were even remotely implicated in the death of his wife’s killer, he would be doing no more global deals. Richmond’s support would be discreetly withdrawn. Everyone who counted would understand that silent retreat.

“Alan, you want to set Sullivan up for a murder?” These were the first words Russell had spoken. Her face betrayed her complete astonishment.

He looked at her, with unconcealed contempt in his eyes.

“Alan, think about what you’re saying. This is Walter Sullivan, this is not some two-bit crook no one gives a damn about.”

Richmond smiled. Her stupidity amused him. She had seemed so bright, so incredibly capable when he first brought her on board. He had been wrong.

The President did some rough calculations. At best Sullivan had perhaps a twenty percent chance of going down for the killing. Given similar circumstances, Richmond would take those odds. Sullivan was a big boy, he could take care of himself. And if he faltered? Well, that was why they had prisons. He looked at Burton.

“Burton, do
you
understand?”

Burton didn’t answer.

The President said sharply, “You were certainly prepared to kill the man before, Burton. As far as I can determine, the stakes haven’t changed. In fact they’re probably higher. For
all
of us. Do you understand, Burton?” Richmond paused for a moment, then repeated his question.

Burton finally looked up and said quietly, “I understand.”

For the next two hours they laid their plans.

As the two Secret Service agents and Russell rose to leave, the President looked at her. “So tell me, Gloria, what happened to the money?”

Russell looked straight at him. “It was donated, anonymously, to the American Red Cross. I understand it was one of their biggest single contributions ever.”

The door closed and the President had smiled.
Nice part
ing shot. Enjoy it, Luther Whitney. Enjoy it while you can,
you insignificant little nothing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

W
ALTER
S
ULLIVAN SETTLED INTO HIS CHAIR WITH A BOOK
but never opened it. His mind wandered back. Back to events that seemed more ethereal, more wholly unconnected to his person than anything else that had ever happened in his life. He had hired a man to kill. To kill someone who stood accused of murdering his wife. The job had been botched. A fact for which Sullivan was quietly thankful. For his grief had subsided enough to where he knew what he had attempted to do was wrong. A civilized society must follow certain procedures unless it were to become uncivilized. And no matter how painful it would be to him, he was a civilized man. He would follow the rules.

It was then that he looked down at the newspaper. Many days old now, its contents continued to beat incessantly into his head. The thick, dark headlines shone back at him on the white background of the page. As he turned his attention to it, distant suspicions in his mind were starting to crystallize. Walter Sullivan was not only a billionaire, he possessed a brilliant and perceptive mind. One that saw every detail along with every landscape.

Luther Whitney was dead. The police had no suspects. Sullivan had checked the obvious solution. McCarty had been in Hong Kong on the day in question. Sullivan’s last directive to the man had indeed been heeded. Walter Sullivan had called off his hunt. But someone else had taken up the chase in his place.

And Walter Sullivan was the only person who knew that for a fact other than his bungling assassin.

Sullivan looked at his old timepiece. It was barely seven in the morning and he had been up for four hours already. The twenty-four hours in a day meant little to him anymore. The older he grew, the less important became the parameters of time. Four o’clock in the morning could find him wide awake on a plane over the Pacific while two in the afternoon might be the halfway point in his sleep for the day.

There were many facts that he was sifting through, and his mind worked rapidly. A CAT scan done at his last physical evidenced a brain with the youth and vigor of a twenty-year-old. And that splendid mind was now working toward the few undeniable facts that were leading its owner to a conclusion that would amaze even him.

He picked up the phone on his desk and looked around the highly polished cherry paneling of his study as he dialed the number.

In a moment he had been put through to Seth Frank. Unimpressed with the man early on, Sullivan had grudgingly given him his due with the arrest of Luther Whitney. But now?

“Yes sir, Mr. Sullivan, what can I do for you?”

Sullivan cleared his throat. His voice had a humble note to it that was as far from his customary tone as was possible. Even Frank picked up on it.

“I had a question regarding the information I had given you earlier about Christy, um, Christine’s sudden departure on the way to the airport for our trip to the estate in Barbados.”

Frank sat up in his chair. “Did you remember something else?”

“Actually I wanted to verify whether I had given you any reason for her not going on the trip.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Well, I suppose my age is catching up with me. My bones aren’t the only thing deteriorating I’m afraid, though I don’t care to admit it to myself much less anyone else, Lieutenant. More to the point I thought I had told you she had taken ill and had to return home. I mean I
thought
that’s what I had told you in any event.”

Seth took a moment to pull his file, although he was certain of the answer. “You said she didn’t give a reason, Mr. Sullivan. Just said she wasn’t going, and you didn’t push it.”

“Ah. Well I guess that settles that. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Frank stood up. One hand lifted a cup of coffee and then put it back down. “Wait a minute, Mr. Sullivan. Why would you think you had told me that your wife was sick? Was she sick?”

Sullivan paused before answering. “Actually no, Lieutenant Frank. She was remarkably healthy. To answer your question, I believe I thought I had told you differently because, to tell you the truth, aside from my occasional memory lapses, I think I’ve spent these last two months trying to convince myself that Christine staying behind was for some reason. Any reason, I guess.”

“Sir?”

“To, in my own mind, justify what happened to her. To not let it be just a damn coincidence. I don’t believe in fate, Lieutenant. For me, everything has a purpose. I suppose I wanted to convince myself that Christine’s staying behind did too.”

“Oh.”

“I apologize if an old man’s foolishness has caused you any unnecessary perplexity.”

“Not at all, Mr. Sullivan.”

*   *   *

W
HEN
F
RANK HUNG UP THE PHONE HE ENDED UP STARING AT
the wall for a good five minutes. Now what the hell had all that been about?

Following up on Bill Burton’s suggestion, Frank had made discreet inquiries into Sullivan having possibly hired a contract killer to make sure his wife’s presumed killer never stood trial. Those inquiries were going slow; one had to tread cautiously in these types of waters. Frank had a career to think about, a family to support, and men like Walter Sullivan had an army of very influential friends in government who could make the detective’s professional life miserable.

The day after the slug had ended Luther Whitney’s life, Seth Frank had made immediate inquiries as to Sullivan’s whereabouts at the time although Frank was under no delusions that the old man had pulled the trigger on the cannon that had propelled Luther Whitney into the hereafter. But murder for hire was a particularly wicked deed, and although perhaps the detective could understand the billionaire’s motivation, the fact was he had probably gunned down the wrong guy. This latest conversation with Sullivan left him with even more questions and no new answers.

Seth Frank sat down and wondered briefly if this nightmare of a case would ever leave his watch.

*   *   *

A
HALF HOUR LATER
S
ULLIVAN PLACED A CALL TO A LOCAL
television station of which he happened to own a controlling interest. His request was simple and to the point. In an hour a package was delivered to his front door. After one of the staff handed him the square box he ushered her out, shut and locked the door to the room he was in, and pressed a small lever on a portion of the wall. The small panel slid down silently, revealing a very sophisticated audiocassette tape deck. Behind most of this wall rested a cutting-edge home theater system that Christine Sullivan had seen in a magazine one day and simply had to have, although her tastes in video entertainment ventured from pornography to soap opera, neither of which in any way taxed the electronic muscle of this monolithic system.

Sullivan carefully unwrapped the audiocassette and placed it inside the tape deck; the door automatically closed and the tape began to play. Sullivan listened for a few moments. When he heard the words, no emotion was revealed on his intricate features. He had expected to hear what he had. He had outright lied to the detective. His memory was excellent. If only his sight were half as good. For he had indeed been a blind idiot to this reality. The emotion that finally penetrated the inscrutable line of his mouth and the deep gray of his introspective eyes was anger. Anger like he had not felt in a long time. Not even at Christy’s death. A fury that would only be relieved through action. And Sullivan firmly believed that your first salvo should be your last because that meant that either you got them, or they got you, and he was not in the habit of losing.

*   *   *

T
HE FUNERAL WAS CONDUCTED IN HUMBLE SURROUNDINGS
and with only three people other than the priest in attendance. It had taken the utmost secrecy to avoid the obvious assaults by the armies of journalists. Luther’s casket was closed. The remains of violent trauma to the head was not the lasting impression loved ones typically wanted to carry away with them.

Neither the background of the deceased nor the means of his demise mattered the slightest to the man of God, and the service was appropriately reverent. The drive to the nearby cemetery was short as was the procession. Jack and Kate drove over together; behind them was Seth Frank. He had sat in the back of the church, awkward and uncomfortable. Jack had shaken his hand; Kate had refused to acknowledge him.

Jack leaned against his car and watched Kate as she sat in the fold-up metal chair next to the earthen pit that had just accepted her father. Jack looked around. This cemetery was not home to grandiose monuments of tribute. It was rare to see a grave marker sticking up, most were the in-the-dirt variety; a dark rectangle with its owner’s name, dates of entry and exit from the living. A few said “in loving memory,” most ventured no parting remarks.

Jack looked back at Kate and he saw Seth Frank start toward her, then the detective apparently thought better of his decision and made his way quietly over to the Lexus.

Frank took off his sunglasses. “Nice service.”

Jack shrugged. “Nothing’s really nice about getting killed.” Though miles away from Kate’s position on the issue, he had not entirely forgiven Frank for allowing Luther Whitney to die like that.

Frank fell silent, studied the finish on the sedan, drew out a cigarette, then changed his mind. He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared off.

He had attended Luther Whitney’s autopsy. The transient cavitation had been immense. The shock waves had dissipated radially out from the bullet track to such an extent that fully half the man’s brain had literally disintegrated. And it was no small wonder. The slug they’d dug out of the seat of the police van was an eye-popper. A .460 Magnum round. The Medical Examiner had told Frank that type of ammo was often used for sports hunting, big game in particular. And it was no wonder, since the round had slammed into Whitney with stopping power equal to over eight thousand pounds of energy. It was like someone had dropped a plane on the poor guy. Big game hunting. Frank shook his head wearily. And it had happened on his watch, right in front of him in fact. He would never forget that.

Frank looked over the green expanse of the final resting place for over twenty thousand dearly departed. Jack leaned back against the car and followed Frank’s gaze.

“So any leads?”

The detective dug a toe in the dirt. “A few. None of them really going anywhere.”

They both straightened up as Kate rose, laid a small arrangement of flowers on the mound of dirt, and then stood, staring off. The wind had died down, and although cold, the sun was bright and warming.

Jack buttoned his coat up. “So what now? Case closed? Nobody would blame you.”

Frank smiled, decided he’d have that smoke after all. “Not by a fucking long shot, chief.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

Kate turned and started to walk toward the car. Seth Frank put his hat back on, pulled out his car keys.

“Simple, find me a murderer.”