Absolute Power (56 page)

Miller shrugged and then chuckled. “I haven’t checked the dishwasher in the kitchen, if that’s what you’re asking. Be my guest.”

Miller turned to sign off on a report. Frank took the opportunity to check out the desk more closely. In the middle of the desk was a slight dust ring. Something had been there. Square in shape, about three inches across. The paperweight. Frank smiled.

A few minutes later Seth Frank walked down the hallway. The gun had perfect prints on it. Too perfect more like it. Frank had also seen the weapon and the police report on it. A .44 caliber, serial numbers obliterated, untraceable. Just like the weapon found next to Walter Sullivan.

Frank had to allow himself a smile. He had been right in what he had done, or more accurately, what he had not done.

Jack Graham had been telling the truth. He hadn’t killed anybody.

*   *   *

“Y
OU KNOW
, B
URTON
, I’
M BECOMING A LITTLE TIRED OF
having to devote so much time and attention to this matter. I
do
have a country to run in case you’ve forgotten.” Richmond sat in a chair in the Oval Office in front of a blazing fire. His eyes were closed; his fingers formed a tight pyramid.

Before Burton could respond, the President continued. “Instead of having the object back safely in our possession, you have managed only to contribute two more entries to the city’s homicide fiasco, and Whitney’s defense attorney is out there somewhere with possibly the evidence to bury us all. I’m absolutely thrilled with the result.”

“Graham’s not going to the police, not unless he’s real fond of prison food and wants a big, hairy man as his date for life.” Burton stared down at the motionless President. The shit he, Burton, had gone through to save all their asses while this prize stayed safely behind the lines. And now he was criticizing. Like the veteran Secret Service agent had really enjoyed seeing two more innocent people die.

“I do congratulate you on that part. It showed quick thinking. However, I don’t believe we can rely on that as a long-term solution. If the police do take Graham into custody he’ll certainly produce the letter opener, if he has it.”

“But I bought us some time.”

The President stood up, grabbed Burton’s thick shoulders. “And in that time I know you will locate Jack Graham and persuade him that taking any action detrimental to our interests would not be in his best interests.”

“Do you want me to tell him that before or after I put a bullet in his brain?”

The President smiled grimly. “I’ll leave that to your professional judgment.” He turned to his desk.

Burton stared at the President’s back. For one instant Burton visualized pumping a round from his weapon into the base of the President’s neck. Just end the bullshit right here and now. If anyone ever deserved it this guy did.

“Any idea where he might be, Burton?”

Burton shook his head. “No, but I’ve got a pretty reliable source.” Burton didn’t mention Jack’s phone call to Seth Frank that morning. Sooner or later Jack would reveal his location to the detective. And then Burton would make his move.

Burton took a deep breath. If you loved a pressure-filled challenge it didn’t get much better than this. It was the ninth inning, the home team was up by one, there were two outs, one runner on, and a full count on the bruiser at the plate. Could Burton close it out or would they all watch as the white orb disappeared into the stands?

As Burton walked out the door, more than a small part of him hoped it was the latter.

*   *   *

S
ETH
F
RANK
WAS WAITING AT HIS DESK, STARING AT THE
clock. As the second hand swept past the twelve the phone rang.

Jack sat in the phone booth. He thanked God it was as cold as it was outside. The heavy, hooded parka he had bought that morning fit right in with the bundled-up mass of humanity. And still he had the overwhelming impression that everyone seemed to be looking at him.

Frank picked up on the background noise. “Where the hell are you? I told you not to leave wherever you were staying.”

Jack didn’t respond right away.

“Jack?”

“Look, Seth, I’m not real good at being a sitting duck. And I’m not in a position where I can afford to completely rely on anyone. Understood?”

Frank started to make a protest, but then leaned back in his chair. The guy was right, flat-out right.

“Fair enough. Would you like to hear how they set you up?”

“I’m listening.”

“You had a glass on your desk. Apparently you were drinking something. You remember that?”

“Yeah, Coke, so what?”

“So whoever was after you ran into Lord and the woman like you said and they had to be popped. You got away. They knew the garage video would have you leaving right about the time of the deaths. They lifted your prints off the glass and transferred them to the gun.”

“You can do that?”

“You bet your ass, if you know what you’re doing and you’ve got the right equipment, which they probably found in the supply room at your firm. If we had the glass we could show it was a forgery. Just as one person’s prints are unique from another person’s, your print on the gun couldn’t match in every detail the print on the glass. Amount of pressure applied and so on.”

“Do the D.C. cops buy that explanation?”

Frank almost laughed. “I wouldn’t be counting on that, Jack. I really wouldn’t. All they want to do is bring you in. They’ll let other people worry about everything else.”

“Great. So now what?”

“First things first. Why were they after you in the first place?”

Jack almost slapped himself. He looked down at the box.

“I got a special delivery from someone. Edwina Broome. It’s something I think you’ll get a real kick out of seeing.”

Seth stood up, almost wishing he could reach through the phone and snatch it. “What is it?”

Jack told him.

Blood and prints. Simon would have a field day. “I can meet you anywhere, anytime.”

Jack thought rapidly. Ironically, public places seemed to be more dangerous than private ones. “How about the Farragut West Metro station, 18th Street exit, around eleven tonight?”

Frank jotted the information down. “I’ll be there.”

Jack hung up the phone. He would be at the Metro station before the appointed time. Just in case. If he saw anything remotely suspicious he was going underground as far as he could. He checked his money. The dollars were dwindling. And his credit cards were out for now. He would risk hitting several ATM machines. That would net him a few hundred. That should be enough, for a while.

He exited the phone booth, checked the crowd. It was the typical hurried pace of Union Station. No one appeared the least bit interested in him. Jack jerked slightly. Coming his way were a pair of D.C. police officers. Jack stepped back into the phone booth until they passed.

He bought some burgers and fries at the food court and then grabbed a cab. Munching down while the cab took him through the city, Jack had a moment to reflect on his options. Once he got the letter opener to Frank would his troubles really end? Presumably the prints and blood would match up with the person in the Sullivan house that night. But then Jack’s defense counsel mentality took over. And that mind-set told him there were clear, almost insurmountable obstacles in the path of such a pristine resolution.

First, the physical evidence may well be inconclusive. There may be no match because the person’s DNA and prints may not be on file anywhere. Jack again remembered the look on Luther’s face that night on the Mall. It was somebody important, somebody people knew. And that was another obstacle. If you made accusations against a person like that, you better make damn sure you could back it up or else your case would never see the light of day.

Second, they were looking at a mammoth chain-of-custody problem. Could they even prove the letter opener came from Sullivan’s home? Sullivan was dead; the staff might not know for certain. Christine Sullivan had presumably handled it. Perhaps her killer had possessed it for a short period of time. Luther had kept it for a couple of months. Now Jack had it and would, hopefully, soon be passing it on to Seth Frank. It finally struck Jack.

The letter opener’s evidentiary value was zilch. Even if they could find a match, a competent defense counsel would shred its admissibility. Hell, they probably wouldn’t even get an indictment based on it. Tainted evidence was no evidence at all.

He stopped eating and lay back in the grimy vinyl seat.

But come on! They had tried to get it back! They had killed to get it back. They were prepared to kill Jack to take possession of what he had. It must be important to them, deadly important. So regardless of its legal efficacy, it had value. And something valuable could be exploited. Maybe he had a chance.

*   *   *

I
T WAS TEN O’CLOCK WHEN
J
ACK HIT THE ESCALATOR HEADING
down into the Farragut West Metro station. Part of the orange and blue lines on the Washington Metrorail system, Farragut West was a very busy station during the day due to its close proximity to the downtown business area with its myriad law and accounting firms, trade associations and corporate offices. At ten o’clock in the evening, however, it was pretty much deserted.

Jack stepped off the escalator and surveyed the area. The underground Metro stations of the system were really huge tunnels with vaulted honeycombed ceilings and floors consisting of six-sided brick. A broad corridor lined with cigarette advertisements on one side and automated ticket machines on the other culminated in a kiosk that sat in the center of the aisle with the turnstiles flanking it on either side. A huge Metro map with its multicolored rail lines, and travel time and pricing information, stood against one wall next to the dual phone booths.

One bored Metro employee leaned back in his chair in the glass-enclosed kiosk. Jack looked around and eyed the clock atop the kiosk. Then he looked back toward the escalator and froze. Coming down the escalator was a police officer. Jack willed himself to turn as casually as possible and he passed along the wall until he reached the phone booth. He flattened himself against the back of the booth, hidden behind its barrier. He caught his breath and risked peering out. The officer approached the ticket machines, nodded to the Metro guy in the kiosk and looked around the perimeter of the station entrance. Jack drew back. He would wait. The guy would move on shortly; he had to.

Time passed. A loud voice interrupted Jack’s thoughts. He looked out. Coming down the escalator was a man, obviously homeless. His clothing was in tatters, a thick bundled blanket slung over one shoulder. His beard and hair were matted and unkempt. His face weather-beaten and strained. It was cold outside. The warmth of the Metro stations was always a welcome haven for the homeless until they got run out. The iron gates at the top of the escalators were to keep just such people out.

Jack looked around. The police officer had disappeared. Perhaps to check out the train platforms, shoot the breeze with the kiosk guy. Jack looked in that direction. That man too had vanished.

Jack looked back at the homeless man, who was now crumpled in one corner, inventorying his meager belongings, rubbing ungloved hands back and forth, trying to work circulation into limbs stretched to their breaking point.

A pang of guilt hit Jack. The gauntlet of such people downtown was staggering. A generous person could empty their entire pockets in the span of one city block. Jack had done that, more than once.

He checked the area one more time. No one. Another train would not arrive for about fifteen minutes. He stepped out of the booth and looked directly across at the man. He didn’t seem to see Jack; his attention was focused on his own little world far away from normal reality. But then Jack thought, his own reality was no longer normal, if it ever had been. Both he and the pathetic mass across from him were involved in their own peculiar struggles. And death could claim either of them, at any time. Except that Jack’s demise would probably be somewhat more violent, somewhat more sudden. But maybe that was preferable to the lingering death awaiting the other.

He shook his head clear. Thoughts like that were doing him no good. If he were going to survive this he had to remain focused, he had to believe he would outlast the forces marshaled against him.

Jack started forward and then stopped. His blood pressure almost doubled; the sudden metabolic change he was experiencing left him light-headed.

The homeless man was wearing new shoes. Soft-soled, brown leathers, which probably cost over a hundred and fifty bucks. They were revealed from out of the mass of filthy clothing like a shiny blue diamond on a bed of white sand.

And now the man was looking up at him. The eyes locked on Jack’s face. They were familiar. Beneath the depths of wrinkles, filthy hair and wind-burnt cheeks, he had seen those eyes before; he was sure of it. The man was now rising off the floor. He seemed to have much more energy than when he first staggered in.

Jack frantically looked around. The place was as empty as a tomb. His tomb. He looked back. The man had already started toward him. Jack backed up, clutching the box to his chest. He thought back to his narrow escape in the elevator. The gun. He would see that gun appearing soon. It would be pointed right at him.

Jack backed down the tunnel toward the kiosk. The man’s hand was going underneath his coat, a torn and beaten behemoth that spilled its woolen guts with every step. Jack looked around. He heard approaching footsteps. He looked back at the man, deciding whether he should make a run for the train or not. Then he came into sight.

Jack almost screamed in relief.

The police officer rounded the corner. Jack ran to him, pointing back down the tunnel at the homeless man who now stood stock-still, in the middle of the corridor.

“That man; he’s not a homeless person. He’s an imposter.” The chance of him being recognized by the cop had crossed Jack’s mind although the young cop’s features didn’t betray any such realization.