The Last Justice (31 page)

McKenna explained that when he was a judge, one of Nevel's subsidiaries had a class action case pending before him-a bet-thecompany case. Before he was nominated for solicitor general, he had directed his law clerk, Parker Sinclair, to draft a decision granting class certification-an event that would likely send the company's stock into freefall. Before finalizing the decision, McKenna was nominated SG, and Colin was diagnosed soon thereafter. Nash swooped in. McKenna recalled Parker Sinclair's face when he directed him to redraft the opinion, but at the time, he didn't think Sinclair knew why he had done so.

"I think Nash knew he was going to be pushed out of the White House, so he wanted to use his position one last time to help Nevel. I think he originally planned on using the SG appointment to influence me, but he later found something more foolproof: my son. I never took any money, but I changed the decision in return for Nash using his connections to get Colin into a clinical trial."

Kate didn't speak. She stood and walked up the stairs to an office where she would sleep for the night. McKenna didn't try and stop her. And he didn't try and get her to talk with him about it. He knew there was nothing left to say.

Long Island, New York

hase Assad knocked softly on the door of the modest home covered in blue vinyl siding. After catching the earliest shuttle, he had driven straight to Long Island, not stopping at his apartment. He had been to Milstein's father's house only a couple of times before, but he remembered the way. He knocked again.

"Chase?"

He turned around and saw Milstein. She had on jogging clothes and an iPod strapped to her arm and was catching her breath. Eyes red and no makeup, she looked tired.

"I told you not to come," she said. "I won't be able to live with myself if being here makes you miss out on the biggest career opportunity of your life. I'm okay-really."

Assad gave her a long embrace as her eyes filled with tears. "Let's go inside," she said, wiping her eyes. "It's freezing out here."

Inside, Assad sat on a stool in the kitchen as Milstein pulled a bottle of water from the lime green refrigerator. "Need any help with the arrangements?" he asked.

"'here's not really much to arrange," she said. "We have a family gathering next week. He wanted to be cremated, so that's what I've asked them to do. He wants the ashes sprinkled at Niagara Falls."

"Niagara Falls?" Assad said.

Milstein walked out of the room and came back with a framed photo and handed it to Assad. It was a picture of her smiling father and her very pregnant mother standing by the falls.

"I used to gaze at that picture when I was a little girl and wonder what my father was like before she left."

"Is there anything I can do?" Assad asked.

"No, I'm okay. I just need something to take my mind off things. I'd actually rather be back at work-at least I'd be busy. Mind if I go take a shower? I'm sweaty."

"No, of course not."

Assad was surprised when, a few minutes later, Milstein came into the kitchen, hair damp, dressed in the business attire she had worn in D.C. when she rushed to the hospital. Plucking the keys to Assad's car from the kitchen counter, she went to the door, then stopped.

"You coming?"

By the time he had put on his coat and gotten out the door, Milstein was pulling out of the driveway. She stopped beside him.

"Where are you going?" he asked, getting in the passenger side.

"Read this," she said, and handed him the newspaper story on the couple missing from the Poospatuck Reservation. "There's a connection with the mark on the assassin's neck."

Assad frowned. "Hold on, Em," he said. "Why don't we call Frank? I don't think it's a good idea for you to-"

"You met my dad," Milstein interrupted. "Do you think he'd want me moping around his house?"

"Em, I don't think it's a good idea."

"Please," she said.

Her eyes were fixed firmly on the road ahead of her, but he could see them welling with tears. She needed this. Reluctantly he said, "Well, where do you want to go, and how's it relate to the investigation?"

Fifteen minutes later, they started seeing road signs to the reservation.

"I think this is it," Milstein said, pulling into the gravel lot of a smoke shop. The newspaper article concerning the disappearances had said the owner of the store was a friend of the missing woman.

As they approached the storefront, two young men with long, straight black hair passed by them and got in a pickup truck in the lot. Neither made eye contact.

The inside of the store was clean and displayed an array of art and handicrafts amid the shelves packed full of cigarettes. A man with long gray hair smiled at them from behind the counter.

"Hello," Milstein said.

The man nodded in response.

"My name's Detective Milstein, and this is my partner, Detective Assad. We're with the NYPD and wondered if you had a moment to discuss Bobby Ray Cherry and Britney Goodhart?"

"I've already spoken with the tribe's liaison and with the Suffolk County cops," the man said.

"We understand," Milstein said. "We just have a couple questions if you have a moment. It would really help."

"If it'll help find Britney, okay." Two customers entered the store and the man nodded hello again.

"I understand that you're a friend of Ms. Goodhart?" Milstein asked.

"Yes. It's a small reservation."

"What about Mr. Cherry?"

"Know him, too. Wish I didn't, though."

"Not a big fan of Mr. Cherry?"

"You could say that."

"Why's that?"

"Bobby Ray's a menace. Everyone knows he sold more meth than cigarettes out of his smoke shop. Last year, a young guy opened a store near Bobby Ray's shop and the guy disappeared a week later. We all know Bobby Ray had something to do with it. I'm sure that if something's happened to Britney, it's his fault."

"Do you think something's happened to Ms. Goodhart?"

"I hope not, but I heard there was lots of blood at Bobby Ray's place. And she's missing."

"Do you know anyone who'd want to hurt her?"

"Other than Bobby Ray, no one would hurt that gentle soul."

"Why would Bobby Ray want to hurt her? I thought they were together."

"They were, but a guy like that doesn't need a reason to hurt needs to get liquored up or high."

"What can you tell us about Ms. Goodhart?" Milstein asked. "Is she a member of the tribe?"

"No, she's Seneca, but we took her in as one of our own," he said, ringing up a customer's seven cartons of cigarettes. "She's lived here for a long time. About a year ago, Bobby Ray started hanging around-I think they met at the club where she dances."

"Where's that?"

"A few miles from here."

"Do you know where she lives? Where she's from?"

"Her parents left her young. Don't know much else, other than that she's had it rough."

"Do you know where she lives?"

"Yes," the man said without elaborating.

"Would you mind giving us the address?"

He began scribbling on the back of a sales flyer. "An address won't help you, and your satellite contraptions won't either." He handed Milstein a map to Britney's home, but did not let go of the paper until she looked back up at his eyes. "Please find her," he said.

Several dirt roads later, Milstein pulled the car into a small trailer park. The moment they stopped, two big Rottweilers rushed up to the vehicle, barking, scratching at the passenger doors and windows, and showing their teeth. Neither Assad nor Milstein dared get out. A short woman with very large breasts heaving under a white T-shirt came out of a trailer holding a shotgun. Assad held up his badge to the windshield. A layer of Rottweiler drool blurred the passenger window. The woman rested the shotgun against the trailer and approached the dogs. She grabbed one, then the other, roughly by the collars and yanked them to the trailer, pushing them inside and shutting the door.

When they were confident that the dogs were secure, Milstein and Assad got out of the car. The sound of wind chimes in a nearby tree filled the air.

"Sorry about that," the woman said. "I been a bit jumpy lately. You here about Britney?" She hugged herself against the cold, standing near the car.

"Yes," Assad said. "Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

"Sure."

"Would you like to grab a coat first or go inside?" he asked.

"I'm fine."

"I'm Detective Assad, and this is my partner, Detective Milstein."

"I'm Crystal, though my friends call me Tiny."

"Nice to meet you, Tiny," Assad said. "I know you've already been asked some of these questions, so forgive me. But I want to talk with you a little more about Britney."

"Okay."

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"As I told the other cops, I saw her the night she disappeared. We dance at the same club. She finished her set before me. Usually waits around until closing and we ride home together. Last anyone else saw her was when she went outside for a smoke. I first thought Bobby Ray came to give her a ride home, since he did that sometimes. But everybody's saying they found blood at Bobby Ray's store. And Britney would of never left for good without saying good-bye-she and me been through a lot together. She was like a big sister to me. She wouldn't go without me, and she wouldn't go without taking her stuff."

"None of her things were missing?"

"Nope. That's why I knew something was wrong. Her clothes are all still there. And she's sentimental." Tiny turned from the car and pointed at the trailer. "Got a box full of letters and pictures she treats like the Hope Diamond in there-she wouldn't never leave without

"Before she disappeared, did she say she was scared or that anyone was bothering her?"

"I don't think so. Usual creeps at the club, but nothing serious."

"Did she happen to say anything about the Black Wednesday investigation?"

"You mean them judges who got shot?"Tiny said, looking puzzled.

"Yes."

"She didn't say nothin' about that."

"Do you know if she and Mr. Cherry were having problems?"

"They always had problems, but usually nothing physical. She could handle that little weasel."

"Did she-"

"Wait a minute,"Tiny interrupted. Hand on chin, she said, "Come to think of it, there was somethin' had to do with them judges."

"What was that?" Milstein asked.

"Well, a few days ago we were watchin'the news and there was a story about the judges and that they were lookin'for a man with some mark on his neck. It seemed to bug her."

"How so?"

"Just not herself-a little quiet, bothered somehow. I figured it was 'cause it just reminded her of her foster brother."

"Why would a news report about a mark on the assassin's neck remind her of her foster brother?"

"She once told me that when she was in foster care, the boys there used to rape her and do other horrible things to her. She said she hated tattoos because it reminded her of one of the boys. He had tattoos and used to brand himself with hot metal. He even burned his initials into her back. I just assumed the story creeped her out. You don't forget when someone burns you like that. At the club she wouldn't even talk to men with a lot of tattoos if she didn't have to."