House Justice (50 page)

He would be released as soon as Bradford died, although the government hadn’t agreed to this yet. He hadn’t been convicted of a crime; he had been jailed for contempt, for refusing to tell the special prosecutor who had helped him at the NSA. The reality was, however, that, just like Charles Bradford, no one was quite sure what to do with him, and he’d made it clear to the prosecutor—and the president—that to do anything truly harmful could have grave consequences.

Dillon just
knew
too much. He knew too much about too many operations and about too many people. He and Claire had acquired enough information since 2002 to blackmail a large number of very influential politicians in Washington—Justice Thomas Antonelli and the president’s special prosecutor, unfortunately, being exceptions. He
also had in his possession, or so he told the prosecutor, a recording of the president having a very interesting phone conversation with a young woman in Miami. He pointed out to the president’s lawyer that with all the other problems the president currently had, he certainly didn’t need to go down the Bill Clinton trail.

But when Bradford died, he would ask, quite politely, to be released. After Bradford was dead—and after the new NSA director had completed his review to verify that the NSA was squeaky clean—there wasn’t much point in keeping Dillon in prison and risking his talking about what he knew. So he’d wait, and after Bradford’s funeral he would remind the special prosecutor it would be in everyone’s best interest if he were to be given a very quiet, under-the-table, presidential pardon for any crimes he
might
have committed and allowed simply to retire to Italy.

Why Italy he wasn’t really sure, but that’s where he had decided to build his villa. He could have stayed in the Untied States, but it seemed prudent to put some distance between himself and his homeland. He knew he’d enjoy the Italian climate, food, and wine; he might even be able to find a group of people who could actually play poker. But the truth was that he didn’t want to retire. He was afraid that his Italian villa would soon become just another prison and he’d be as bored there as he was now.

He missed the game so. The game the NSA played, the game he’d played all his life—the game he’d never play again.

DeMarco couldn’t figure out what to do with his cousin’s ashes.

After he finished testifying to the president’s special prosecutor about Charles Bradford and Dillon Crane, he called the young pastor at St. James, told him that Paul had a will in a safety deposit box
at his bank, the will left about four grand to the church—and if the padre wanted the money, it was
his
problem to figure out how to get it. The only remaining task he had on his plate related to his late cousin was dealing with his ashes—and he was stumped.

He finally called Mary Albertson, the lady who had worked so closely with Paul at the church. She told him there was a spot on the Potomac that Paul always spoke of, a peaceful place shaded by old trees where the river flowed rapidly over a number of large boulders. Mary said Paul used to go there quite often to relax and pray. When she volunteered to go there with him to hold a small service for Paul, DeMarco could have kissed her.

Mary recited a couple of psalms from memory and, as she did, DeMarco thought about his cousin—a quiet, pious man, who had the courage to do something so incredibly dangerous that it cost him his life. As DeMarco released Paul’s remains into the current, Mary Albertson sang “Amazing Grace.” She had a magnificent voice and almost moved DeMarco to tears.

The president’s prosecutor had scared the hell out of DeMarco. He said that if DeMarco lied to him, he was going to throw him in jail. He told him if ever spoke to anybody about Charles Bradford, Dillon Crane, or the true circumstances surrounding the deaths of David Hopper, John Levy, and Paul Russo, he would also throw him in jail. DeMarco didn’t know if the prosecutor actually had the authority to make good on these threats, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because (a) he was terrified of the prosecutor and (b) he had no desire to talk to anyone about what he knew. He couldn’t do his job for Mahoney if he was a celebrity witness—nor could he do his job if he was in jail.

Mahoney recovered completely from the infection that almost killed him. DeMarco was relieved by this but not surprised; he had always known John Mahoney couldn’t be killed by an army of tiny germs. Mahoney would meet his end one day with a massive heart
attack, or the husband of some young woman he was bedding would shoot him through the heart. DeMarco did end up telling Mahoney about Charles Bradford and Dillon Crane in spite of the prosecutor’s dire warnings. He did this because Mahoney found out through his vast network of informants that DeMarco had been to the Justice Department several times to meet with an unnamed prosecutor, and Mahoney was afraid DeMarco might be testifying against
him
. So to allay his boss’s concerns—and to keep his job—DeMarco eventually told Mahoney what had transpired while Mahoney had been in a coma.

Angela returned home from Afghanistan. She had lost weight and had deep circles under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept for a month. Worse than her appearance, though, she couldn’t sleep after she returned to Washington and eventually began to see a CIA psychiatrist twice a week. DeMarco had no idea what she had done for the CIA in Afghanistan or what she had experienced. All he knew was he hated her damn job but she refused to quit.

DeMarco couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be responsible for keeping terrorists from attacking the country with nuclear bombs or anthrax or God knows what. And that’s what people like Angela and Dillon Crane did. DeMarco didn’t like the fact that Dillon had manipulated him and forced him to participate in his plan to bring down Bradford, but he privately thought the country was less safe with Dillon gone. As for monitoring phone calls without warrants, well, he certainly didn’t want
his
calls monitored, but when it came to other people, maybe….

Oh, to hell with it. It was too complicated. He cast all thoughts of Dillon Crane out of his head, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, hit the ball with his pitching wedge—and it landed within ten feet of the cup. Yes! His game had improved dramatically in the last few weeks because half the time when he was supposed to be talking to
the president’s special prosecutor, he played golf instead. How was Mahoney supposed to know?

Mahoney didn’t have a satellite to keep tabs on him.

Alice walked into Dillon’s old office. There were no Picassos on the walls, no putter propped in the corner, no expensive topcoat hanging on the coat rack. The office was now as stark and functional as the person who occupied it.

“We picked up something important last night,” Alice said.

Smiling slightly, Claire repeated what Dillon had once said to her on a similar occasion. “I’m sure it’s important, Alice, or you wouldn’t be here. But is it interesting?”

A satellite orbits a blue planet, huge solar panels extended like wings.

A satellite orbits a blue planet, huge solar panels extended like wings.

Alpha, do you have Carrier
?
Negative. Monument blocking.
Bravo, do you have Carrier?
Roger that. I have him clear.
Very well. Stand by
.

Nothing more was recorded for eight minutes and forty-eight seconds. Time was irrelevant to the machines.

I think Messenger has arrived. Stand by
.

Confirmed. It’s Messenger. Messenger is approaching Carrier. Alpha, do you have Messenger
?

Roger that
.
Bravo, do you still have Carrier
?
Roger that
.
Very well. Stand by. Transport, move into position
.

Four point three seconds of silence followed.

Transport. Acknowledge
.

A second later:

Transport. Acknowledge
.

Four point nine seconds passed.

Alpha, do you have Messenger
?
Roger that
.
Bravo, do you have Carrier
?
Roger that
.
You have my green. I repeat. You have my green
.

Three heartbeats later:

Transport, Transport. Respond
.

There was no response.

I’ll transport in my vehicle. Maintain positions. Keep me advised
.

Nothing more was recorded for six minutes and sixteen seconds.

This is Alpha. Two males approaching from the north. I have them clear
.

Alpha, take no action. Do I have time to retrieve Carrier
?

Negative
.

Very well. Stand by
.

One minute and forty three seconds later:

This is Alpha. The two males have stopped. They may have sighted Carrier. They have sighted Carrier. They’re approaching Carrier. I have them clear
.

Alpha, take no action. Transport acknowledge
.

Two point four seconds of silence.

Return to jump-off. I repeat. Return to jump-off
.

After thirty-five minutes elapsed, a program dictated that the transmission was complete and the recording was compressed and sent in a single microsecond burst to a computer, where, in the space of nanoseconds, it was analyzed to determine if it met certain parameters. The computer concluded the recording did indeed meet those parameters, and at the speed of light it was routed through a fiberoptic cable and deposited in a server, where it would reside until a human being made a decision.

Jack Glazer was getting too old for this shit.

It was two in the morning, rain was drizzling down on his head because he’d forgotten to bring a hat, and he was drinking 7-Eleven coffee that had been burning in the pot for six hours before he’d poured the cup.

And there was a dead guy lying thirty yards from him.

“Has the ME been here?” he asked the kid, some newbie who’d been on the force maybe six months and looked about sixteen years old—but then all the new guys looked absurdly young to him. And naturally the kid was totally jacked up, this being the first homicide he’d ever caught.

“Been and gone,” the kid said. “Forensics sent one guy; he searched the vic, ID’d him from his wallet, and said he’d be back in a couple hours with his crew. They got another—”

“So who’s the victim?”

“The name on his driver’s license is Paul Russo. He was a nurse.”

“How do you know that?” Glazer asked.

“He had a card in his wallet, some kind of nurses’ association he belonged to. He also had the name of an emergency contact, some guy named—”

“Did you write down the contact’s name?” Glazer asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then you can give it to me later.”

“The thing is, sir, this guy has cash in his wallet and he still has his credit cards and his watch. So I don’t think we got a mugging here. I’m thinking drugs. I’m thinking this guy, this nurse, was pedaling shit. You know, Oxy, Vicodin, something, and he gets popped.”

“Could be,” Glazer said. “But now this is really important, uh …” Glazer squinted at the kid’s name tag. “Officer Hale. Where’s the body, Hale?”

Hale, of course, was confused by the question, because the body was clearly visible.

So Glazer clarified. “Hale, is the body in the park or out of the park?”

“Oh. Well, that’s kind of a tough call,” Hale said. “The head’s on the sidewalk but the feet are on the grass. I guess it’s kinda half in and half out.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right. So why don’t you grab his heels and pull him all the way into the park.”

The kid immediately went all big-eyed on Glazer.

“I’m kidding, Hale,” Glazer said, but he was thinking,
Shit. Why couldn’t the body have been in the park, or at least three-quarters in the park
?

Paul Russo had been shot near the Iwo Jima Memorial, and the memorial was located in a park operated by the National Parks Service. This meant the park was federal property—technically, not part of Arlington County and out of Jack Glazer’s jurisdiction. If the guy had been shot in the park, Glazer would have pawned the case off on the feds without hesitation. He was already dealing with three unsolved homicides and he didn’t need another.

“Where are the two witnesses?” Glazer said.

“In the back of my squad car.”

“Did they see anything?”

“No. They’re dishwashers. They work at a Chinese restaurant over in Rosslyn and were on their way home. All they saw was a body on the ground and called it in.”

Great
.

Glazer walked over to look at the body: a short-haired, slimly built man in his thirties with no distinguishing features. Just your average white guy. He was wearing a tan jacket over a green polo shirt, jeans, and running shoes. He was clean and healthy-looking—except for the small, red-black hole in his left temple.

Glazer noticed there was no exit wound from the bullet. This surprised him because it made him think that if Russo had been shot at close range, which he most likely was, the shooter might have used a .22 or .25—and that was unusual. Most folks who bought handguns these days, particularly men, didn’t normally buy small-caliber weapons. Everybody wanted hand cannons—big-bore automatics with sixteen-round magazines.

He took his flashlight and shined it around the area but didn’t see anything—no shell casings, no footprints, no dropped business cards from Murder, Inc. He looked again at the position of the body. Just like Hale had said: it was almost exactly half on the sidewalk—which Glazer was positive belonged to Arlington County—and half inside the park. Goddammit. It was going to be a real tussle to get the feds to take the case.