The Last Justice (32 page)

"Did you ever see the brand marks on her back?"

"Yeah, I covered'em with makeup before she danced."

"You said she had the foster brother's initials. What were they?" Milstein asked, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as she could.

"It was `T-B."'

"You sure it wasn't `C-B'?"

"Positive." She said his name was Terry or Travis or something. It was definitely `T-B.' I know, I covered'em up with makeup four times a week."

"Did she say where she was in foster care?"

"She got bounced around. I think the last place she was before she ran away was in Brooklyn. She didn't like to talk about it."

"Would you mind if we looked through her things?" Assad said, pointing with his chin at the trailer.

"I guess that'd be okay,"Tiny said, walking them up to the door.

"Uh, could you lock the dogs up first?" Assad asked.

Tiny smiled, "They're all bark-they see I like you, they'll be fine."

Assad and Milstein looked at each other.

"After you," Milstein said, stepping aside for her partner.

He walked in, and the bigger of the Rottweilers approached.

"It's okay, Pooky,"Tiny said.

Pooky poked his snout into Assad's crotch, then nuzzled Milstein's hand and walked away. Tiny grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to the door, and the other dog followed him outside. She then escorted Assad and Milstein to the far left side of the trailer.

There was a small wooden dresser with a mirror hung over it, and on top of the dresser was a radio. About two feet from the dresser was a small single bed.

"This was her room," Tiny said. "Mine's on the other side of the trailer."

"You mentioned she had a box of personal items you thought she would have taken with her?" Assad asked.

"Yeah. When she didn't come home, I looked for the box. It's hidden under there." She pointed to the dresser.

As Assad reached beneath the dresser and pulled out a metal tin, Milstein was examining a crinkled photo of a man, a woman, and a young girl in Native American dress, taped on the mirror.

"That's her folks," Tiny said. "Her dad died when she was in middle school. Mom went a little nuts after that, which is how she ended up in foster care."

Assad looked through the papers in the box.

"What is it?" Milstein asked.

"Looks like little girl stuff." Lifting out a spiral notebook covered with hearts, he opened it to the first page, written in bubbly cursive.

"It's talking about a middle school dance," he said. Lying beneath the diary were some worn school pictures of two girls about thirteen years old.

"It was her life before they left her," Milstein said. "A time she didn't want to forget."

At the bottom of the box was a letter addressed to Britney. Milstein took it out of the envelope, postmarked years ago. She read the letter. "It's from an alcohol rehab center," she said. "Her mother passed away there .. . doesn't say how."

"Anything in the box about her foster brother or where she was in foster care?"

After rifling through the few remaining scraps and wallet-size photos, Milstein said, "Nothing on him, but I think we may know how to find out." She held up the envelope from the rehab center. The address was in Brooklyn.

Supreme Court Building, Washington,

o one seemed to notice Kate as she headed up the damp steps to the Supreme Court Building's oval plaza. She and McKenna had spoken little that morning. McKenna had told her that he'd contacted a friend on the commission and advised that he was releasing his "hostage" this morning in the front of the Supreme Court. He told her to wait at the top of the marble stairs in front of the Court's massive bronze front doors. Agents would be coming for her.

Kate knew that no one would believe the farce that she had been his hostage, but she did not fight with him. Frankly, she was relieved. She had left the Supreme Court Historical Society in cold silence. She did not believe McKenna had any role in Black Wednesday, but he had lied to her. And those lies would likely ruin both of them.

When she reached the top of the steps under the monumental portico, she sat down on the wet marble and waited. Within minutes, several police cars with sirens blazing pulled in front of the Supreme Court Building. It was over.

McKenna could hear the commotion as he walked to Union Station. He planned to turn himself in later today to give Kate some plausible distance from him.

Feeling the vibration in his pocket, he fished out Aiden's cell phone.

"This is Mako Messengers," a South Asian-accented voice said. "You called about tracking a package?"

"Yes," McKenna said, feeling a surge of excitement. He had given up and had almost forgotten that the messenger service owed him a call.

"We got hold of the bike messenger from our D.C. office. He swears he delivered the package. He said he remembers because it was an unusual delivery."

"Where did he deliver it? What was unusual?" McKenna asked.

"He said the package was originally going to the Justice Department building, but someone called in a delivery change at the last minute."

"Where?" McKenna repeated impatiently.

"He delivered the package to a plot at Arlington National Cemetery. It was his first time there, and it was hard to find the grave, so he remem-"

McKenna hung up the phone and quickly dialed Aiden Porter's home number. When Aiden didn't answer, he left a voice mail. He then sprinted toward Union Station. He needed to catch the subway to Arlington.

Lemp foster home, Brooklyn, New York

he house was surrounded by a chain-link fence and had a rusted children's slide sitting askew in the corner of the yard. The drive from Mastic to Brooklyn had taken well over an hour. Milstein knocked on the door, and a listless teenage girl wearing a leather jacket and lots of black eyeliner greeted them.

"Are your parents home?" Milstein asked the girl as three little kids in worn, grimy clothes ran screeching past the porch. One threw a shoe at the two fleeing him.

"Parents?" the girl said. "Right." Swinging the door wide, she walked past them on her way out.

Even from the entryway, the house smelled like a dirty cat litter box. Two more grubby kids came bouncing down the stairs as the detectives peered in.

"Shouldn't these kids be in school?" Milstein said, looking at her watch.

Assad waved at one of the kids, a round-faced boy who shuffled to the door. "Is your mommy or daddy home?"

The boy pointed up the stairs. "I think that counts as inviting us in,"Assad said as he barged in and trotted up the stairs with Milstein on his heels.

In the first room at the top of the stairs, the smell was even stronger.

"Dear God," Milstein said. She called the precinct on her cell phone and told one of the detectives to contact Children's Services.

Approaching one of the three rickety cribs that filled the room, Assad picked up a staring baby with a full diaper. The child seemed lethargic. None of the three babies made a peep. It was as if they had given up on crying.

Assad laid the baby gently back down in the crib and walked resolutely down the hallway. Milstein followed closely behind. Each room was crowded with mattresses, and some had kids of varying ages sleeping or moping about. At the end of the hall was a closed bedroom door. Assad pushed it open. He and Milstein nearly gagged at the smell. The floor was covered with garbage and what looked like dog or cat feces. Flies buzzed around empty fast food containers filled with rotting food remnants and cigarette butts. An obese woman who looked to be in her late fifties lay alone sprawled on the bed. Her head raised at the noise, then dropped right back down. An empty pint bottle lay next to her.

Assad shook the woman, and her eyes opened.

"Who are you?" she said in a gravelly voice.

"We're with the police," Assad said.

The woman sat up quickly, grabbing her head in pain. "Officers, I-"

"What's your name?" Assad demanded.

"I had a headache and just needed a little nap," she said.

"I said, what's your name?"

"Beulah Lemp."

Assad turned her around and cuffed her. "Get up," he said. "You're under arrest."

"What for?"

"For being mother of the year."

As the woman cursed and then started to blubber, Assad felt Milstein's hand on his arm. "You need to calm down," she said.

"I am calm," he growled back.

"No, you're not, and it's not going to help. Why don't you go check on the babies until Children's Services gets here? Call and see if we can get the records from the foster care office. Let me deal with her."

Assad started to speak, then stopped himself and left the room.

"You'll have to forgive my partner," Milstein said. "He's just having a bad day." She took out the newspaper with Britney Goodhart's picture on it.

"He don't understand," Beulah sniffed. "I'm doin' the best I can. State hardly gives me nothin.' It's hard since my husband died. This was his business."

Milstein nodded understandingly. "Look, we're not here about the kids or any of this," she said, uncuffing the woman. "We just need to know if you recognize this woman. Her name is Britney Goodhart. Did she ever stay here?"