The Advocate's Daughter (30 page)

“High-level officials are often given an option to have a GPS chip implanted under their skin in case of abduction. It's not invasive, and is activated only in extreme emergencies.”

“Who would know about that?”

“Only Carr and his police detail.” Pacini turned back to the young agent. “His detail, weren't they with him when he left work?”

“No, apparently he rarely uses them. His wife said that Carr isn't usually recognized, and he thinks the security detail only draws attention to him. His wife said they typically use the detail only for the justice's public appearances, and on those occasions the detail picks him up at the house.”

Pacini looked at Sean as if to confirm.

Sean nodded, “That's pretty common for the justices. Most don't want to have officers hovering around.”

Pacini peered inside at Carr's wife. She smiled at something one of the agents said. “She doesn't look too worried.”

The agent shrugged. “She said she and Carr have been separated for about a year. They have an agreement that she'd attend events with him until they finalized the split and went public. In the past few months he's been slipping away; she presumed he was seeing someone. But his security detail got concerned because it was unlike him to miss a speaking event. And his GPS isn't giving a signal…”

Inside the house one of the agents stood abruptly, talking on his phone. The young agent at the door pressed a finger on his earpiece.

“What's going on?” Pacini said.

“They found the justice's car. It's at Union Station.”

 

CHAPTER 79

Light poured out from under the triumphal arches at Union Station and the moon washed a pale glow over the long white granite façade. Pacini and Sean steered around the grand front of the building to the entrance of the parking garage, a drab seven-tiered structure filled with thousands of vehicles. They bounced over the speed bumps and spiraled to the top floor where two agents maintained a perimeter. The car came to a quick stop and Pacini jumped out.

Sean followed after him and watched Pacini speak to an agent. Several other agents hovered around a silver BMW sedan. The top floor of the garage wasn't covered, and stars twinkled in the cloudless sky. Sean breathed in the nighttime air. Police Chief Martinez, who'd interrupted Sean's confrontation with Justice Carr, stalked over to Pacini and pulled him aside. He had a concerned look on his face and he kept glancing over at Sean. Pacini was shaking his head and then came back over.

“The chief wondered where you were tonight,” he said.

Sean nodded. It was understandable given Sean's encounter with Justice Carr. It didn't take a seasoned cop to know that the guy last seen in a hostile argument with the missing person was a good place to start the investigation.

“I said you had the misfortune of being with me,” Pacini said. “Either way, stay close.”

“Is that his car?” Sean asked, pointing to the BMW.

“Yeah. They want to get some techs here before we search.”

“May I?” Sean said, cocking his head toward the vehicle.

“You can look, just do not, under any circumstances, touch.”

Sean stepped closer to the BMW, Pacini at his side. The trunk was open, but the interior of the car remained locked. The cops probably didn't want to wait to open the trunk in case Justice Carr was inside. Sean crouched and looked intently inside the luxury sedan. He felt an ache at the sight of a pendant and chain that sat on top of a piece of paper on the passenger seat.

“Frank, I think that's Abby's necklace.” Sean reached for the door handle, but Pacini caught him by the wrist.

“We need to wait, Sean.”

Sean paced the garage, his thoughts a jumble, as Pacini and the agents made small talk. Martinez continued to flick hard gazes in Sean's direction.

Finally the crime scene techs arrived, and the lead tech snapped on latex gloves as she spoke to the police chief. She then unlocked the car's doors with a key fob, possibly a spare provided by Justice Carr's wife. The tech leaned inside the vehicle, not touching any part of the interior, and eased back out. In her right hand was a pair of what looked like large tweezers. Clamped in them was a piece of paper. She put the paper in a clear plastic bag. She performed the same maneuver with the necklace.

Holding the corner of the bag, the tech brought it to Police Chief Martinez. He signaled for Pacini to come over and Sean followed after. The chief held the plastic bag by the corner up at eye level. In sloppy handwriting were three sentences:

Forgive me for what I've done.

I loved Abby.

It was an accident.

The note was spattered with tiny speckles of what looked like blood.

 

CHAPTER 80

One month later

Late July in Washington was swamp hot, and Sean began to sweat the moment he stepped out of his front door. The air was filled with the sounds of summer. A lawn mower buzzed in the distance, kids playing outside. Standing on the porch, Sean pulled at the collar of his dress shirt to air himself out. Even with no tie, the suit was steaming. He adjusted the strap on the briefcase slung over his shoulder.

Ryan and Jack were in the front yard tossing a football. Jack launched the ball awkwardly to his big brother, but it fell short, and Ryan had to stumble forward to catch it. Ryan still wasn't himself. He was quieter and had been moping around, so it felt good to see him outside, playing with his little brother.

“Nice catch,” Sean said. Ryan tossed the ball to Sean, who caught it one-handed. “You boys are up early.”

“Mom was tired of us sleeping in,” Ryan said.

“Go long,” Sean said, cocking the ball back in his arm. Jack ran and spread open his arms, eyes shut, as the ball flew over his head and bounced about the yard.

“Daddy, Daddy,” Jack said.

“Yes, sir,” Sean said as he skipped down the front steps.

“Wanna hear a joke?”

“Of course.”

“What did the beaver say when he ran into the wall?”

“What?”

“Daaamn.”

Sean forced a laugh and walked the brick path to his SUV, parked curbside. As Sean opened the front gate, a dark sedan pulled up. Sean's body tensed at the sight of the man who climbed out of the vehicle. Sean turned to his sons.

“Why don't you boys go inside.”

Ryan's face was tight. Anxious. He seemed to understand immediately and launched Jack over his shoulder and carried him inside.

On the street, now leaning on the hood of the SUV, was Detective Whiteside, the Montgomery County homicide detective working the Billy Brice, aka Chipotle Man, case.

Sean decided not to engage. No upside to it.

“Do you mind getting off my car?” he said. The vehicle tweeted when the doors unlocked. The detective didn't budge.

“I'd like to have a short word with you, Mr. Serrat, if you would?”

“If this is about your wild theories, I have nothing to say to you.”

The detective frowned and then said, “How's the nomination going?” It was an awkward change of subject. Or was it an implied threat? Sean's nomination to replace Justice Carr was front-page news. The media was lapping up the poetic justice of it all: a member of the Supreme Court missing and accused of murdering a young woman, the victim's father nominated to replace him. You couldn't make this shit up.

“The nomination is going fine,” Sean said. “I'm actually late for a meeting, so if you don't mind…”

Whiteside stepped away from the SUV. Sean opened the rear door and threw his briefcase inside. He walked around to the driver side and swung open the door.

“You're not helping him, you know,” the detective said.

Sean stopped before getting into the SUV. “Helping who?”

“Your son,” the detective said. “It's going to haunt him for the rest of his life if you just pretend it didn't happen. He's going to go through life thinking he's a killer.”

Better that than the alternative.
“Let me worry about my son, okay?”

“I believe it was self-defense. Or he was defending you. He's a young man and no one has an interest in locking him up.”

“You seem to have an interest in making allegations that could hurt my son more than anything he's ever done. I've told you, if you have questions, talk to my lawyer.” Sean stared him down. “If you want to make a name for yourself, you're going to have to find another case.”

“Oh, I already know that, Mr. Serrat.”

At this Sean paused.

The detective added, “It seems the State's Attorney has decided to close the Billy Brice case. Funny, right as he's about to seek support in his campaign for governor, he and my boss decide for the first time that closure rates don't matter. They weren't too subtle about what would happen to my job, either.”

“Just as well, detective, you were wasting your time.”

Whiteside shook his head:
You know better.

“So you came here just to tell me that?”

“No, I came here to see if you'd do what's right for your son. Come clean, get him some help, tell the truth. Stomping on someone's throat is not something that's easy to forget.”

The last part hovered in the humid air. Sean examined Whiteside, caught off guard by the comment. “His throat? I thought it was a blow to the head? The news said…”

Now the detective's eyes narrowed and he looked at Sean as if he suddenly had doubts himself. “Someone clocked Billy Brice, but that's not what killed him. We withheld the full cause of death from the media. It helps weed out the nut jobs. Brice died of a crushed larynx.”

The detective's words cut loose a ten-thousand-pound weight anchored to Sean's neck since that night on the football field. Ryan hadn't killed Billy Brice. Someone must have stomped Brice while he was out cold on the field. Who? Probably the only other person there that night. The person who'd tromped through the trees to find the steel rod containing Ryan's prints. The person who'd taken the photos of Ryan. Sebastian Finkle. But why? Just to get some dirt on the Serrats? Or maybe Brice had seen Finkle following Sean, and the man didn't want any witnesses. Sean thought back to the day he'd hidden in Finkle's closet.
No violence this time,
the senator had said to his lover. Whatever the reason, all that mattered was that Ryan had not delivered the fatal blow.

The detective kept talking, but Sean didn't hear any of it. He just slipped into the SUV and pulled from the curb. In the rearview mirror he saw the detective, hands on his hips, watching him drive away.

 

CHAPTER 81

Sean coasted down Rock Creek Parkway to the final murder board the administration had scheduled to help him prepare for his Supreme Court confirmation hearing next week. The air-conditioner blew cold in his face, but he still felt warm and flushed. He was driving on autopilot, a muddle of thoughts still vaulting about in his brain.

Sean and Emily had a deal with the Devil. The Serrats would stay quiet about Mason James, and James would stay quiet about the Serrats, including that spring night on the football field of Bethesda–Chevy Chase High School. The deal with James wasn't easy. By keeping James's secrets, Sean had to watch in horror as the Senate confirmed James's nomination to the high court and he became Chief Justice James. Not since Justice James McReynolds, a dreadful man and a proud anti-Semite who would get up and leave when a Jewish justice entered the room, had a more despicable human graced a black robe at the Supreme Court. Soon, Sean would have to see Chief Justice James on a regular basis. They would be brethren.

Sean and Emily had considered going to Detective Whiteside, having Sean turn himself in. On Cecilia's advice, they'd even hired the best criminal defense lawyer in the country—none other than Blake Hellstrom—to guide them through the morass. And Sean had told Hellstrom everything. Even seen-it-all Hellstrom was taken aback. He was looking into whether and how Sean could make retribution for Japan. He never said so, but Sean assumed that Hellstrom also was trying to make sure the allegations about Japan would never come to light. But the main reason they'd hired Hellstrom was to see what could be done about Ryan because they all believed Ryan had delivered the fatal hit to Billy Brice. Hellstrom thought there would be a strong case for self-defense or defense of another. But coming forward about Brice—even if no criminal charges were ever filed against Ryan or Sean—would mean an investigation, one that could consume Ryan's high school years. And the media attention alone could forever eviscerate any hope of a normal childhood for Ryan or Jack. When Sean had asked Hellstrom what he should do, the lawyer had said, “Look at the fish,” and pointed to a speckled brown trout mounted on Hellstrom's office wall. Under the fish's open mouth an inscription:
IF I'D JUST KEPT MY MOUTH SHUT, I WOULDN'T BE HERE
.

But if Ryan hadn't delivered the fatal blow to Billy Brice, didn't that change the equation? Sean wasn't sure. He needed to call Hellstrom. But first, there was someone else he needed to call.

 

CHAPTER 82

Sean wiped a tear from his cheek as he listened to Ryan's sobs from the SUV's overhead speakers.

“Are you sure it wasn't me?” his son said.

“It wasn't you. And it wasn't me. Someone wanted us to believe you did it.”

“So, can we go to the police and tell them now?” Ryan asked. “Can we tell the truth?”

Sean swallowed. “Mom and I need to discuss what to do.”

“Does she know? She didn't say anything…”

“She doesn't know. I just found out.”

Ryan's voice broke, “Can I be the one who tells Mom?”

“Of course you can.” Sean's eyes filled with more tears. The burden his sweet-hearted son had carried, yet fought so hard to conceal because he didn't want to pile on to the family's grief and worry, was lifted.