The Last Justice (33 page)

Beulah looked at the picture for a moment. "I've taken care of a lot of kids over the years-memory's not so good anymore."

Milstein pulled out the picture that had been taped on the mirror at the trailer, depicting a younger Goodhart in a fringed brown suede skirt, smiling with her parents.

Beulah studied the picture. "Ah, the little Injun girl. I remember her," she said. "That was a long time ago. She was a runner."

"An athlete?"

"Couldn't keep her here. She kept running away."

"Do you have any records?" Milstein asked. "I'm trying to locate her and one of the other foster kids who may have stayed here during the time she was here."

"State keeps the records."

"Do you remember anything about her other than that she ran away?"

Beulah thought for a moment. "I reckon she said some of the boys were messing with her."

"their names?"

"Don't remember. There was of 'em meaner'n a snake. Liked to hurt the other kids. I had to get the cops to get em out of here."

"You don't remember their names?"

"I told you, I get lotsa kids," Beulah said, shaking her head.

"When she said the boys were messing with her, did you call the police or do anything?"

"I prob'ly did. I just don't remember."

"Do you remember if one of these boys had a tattoo or a mark on his neck?"

"Not that I remember."

"I need to know their names-anything that could help identify them. It's important. There could be some reward money in it for

"Like I said, state keeps the records. Maybe the local cops have something. They was always in some kind of trouble. Or maybe the school."

"What school?"

"Wilson High, down on McKinley Street." She pointed to the corner. "Take a left, four blocks up. All the older kids go there, at least till they quit or get kicked out or pregnant. The girl and them boys went there. Been years, though."

Twenty minutes later, a Children's Services case worker and a uniformed officer arrived. They approached Beulah, who asked them for a cigarette. The officer gave her the Miranda warning.

"You said you didn't need to do this," Beulah hissed.

"Guess I lied," Milstein said as she left the room.

j Edgar Hoover Building, Washington,

s Kate Porter at the field office yet?" Pacini said to a member of the commission task force who walked into the war room. "Is she talking?"

"I don't know, sir," the agent replied. "I was coming to report on another development."

"Which is ... ?"

"Douglas Pratt's talking."

"And?" Pacini said, visibly annoyed.

"Right-sorry, sir. It turns out that Pratt is Liddy Kincaid's grandnephew, her sister's grandkid. Chief Justice Kincaid helped get him the job at the Supreme Court."

"So that explains Pratt's calls to her and why the court hired a moron, but did he admit to working for the Hassans?"

"Kind of. He said he never met the brothers but was hired by Task Force Investigator Group to try and get the court to accept the Hassan appeal. He assumed TFI was working for the Hassans. As a backup plan, TFI had him plant the camera in Carmichael's chambers. The plan was to blackmail Justices Kincaid and Carmichael if needed. Pratt swears they ultimately decided that approaching the justices with the pictures was too risky."

"So why'd McKenna send us the photos? And what was with the disguise kit in his house?"

"Pratt says they didn't try and use the pictures with the justices, but that he and one of the TFI agents went rogue and decided to use them to squeeze Liddy Kincaid for some money. Says he wore the disguise occasionally when he met with TFI to avoid someone recognizing him from the court. He swears TFI never asked him for help with the assassinations-says he thinks they had nothing to do with it."

"And we're just supposed to believe him?"

"He's passed a polygraph. He's wetting his pants over being a suspect for Black Wednesday. Our profilers believe him."

Pacini sighed. "So we're back to nothing-is that what you're telling me?"

The agent swallowed. "I don't know that we're back to nothing. Maybe the Hassans still played a role, just not through Pratt."

Another FBI agent came in, out of breath.

"What is it?"

"We contacted the messenger service this morning about the package Parker Sinclair sent McKenna. They told us Sinclair had originally sent the package to McKenna's office at Justice but that Sinclair called at the last minute and changed the delivery site. He paid extra to have it delivered to Arlington National Cemetery."

"Arlington? Why the hell would he do that?"

"We don't know."

"So why are you rushing in here like it's some kind of emergency?"

"When we called, the messenger service said someone had already contacted them wanting the same information about the delivery."

"McKenna?"

"We don't know, but the messenger service spoke with the caller about a half hour ago."

Pacini grabbed his coat off the back of a chair. "Get a team to Arlington," he said. "Go!"

Wilson High School, Brooklyn, NY

ith its high-fenced perimeter and manned security gate, the place looked more like a prison than a high school. Assad stopped at the gate and held up his badge to the windshield. A man wearing an unbuttoned shirt with a private security logo on the sleeve waved them through with barely a glance.

At the front entrance of the tall rundown building, the guards let them walk around the metal detectors, as if police visits were routine. A guard pointed them toward the school's office.

Assad tried to open the glass door to the office, but it was locked. A woman's voice from a speaker said, "Can I help you?"

Through the window Assad could see a woman eyeing him from the reception desk. He held up his badge. "We're with the police. Can we speak with the principal?"

With an exasperated look, the woman pushed a button, and the door buzzed open. Before they reached the reception desk, Assad and Milstein were met by a tired-looking black man in his thirties. Milstein explained that they were here about an important investigation, and asked him about records on former students.

"Files that old aren't in the computer," the principal said. "They're in storage-it'd take a week or two to get them."

"Any other way we might try and find out anything about a former student?"

"You mean right now?"

Milstein nodded.

He thought for a moment. "Maybe yearbooks? The library should have a set going back thirty years." He escorted them to the moldysmelling basement of the school's library and then hurriedly left them when a voice bellowed from his walkie-talkie about a disturbance in a classroom.

"This isn't right," Assad said, looking about him at the cluttered, mildewed gloom. "Kids shouldn't have to be in a place like this."

Milstein gave him a gentle gaze. Eight years as a homicide cop, and he was still a prep school idealist at heart.

"This is a needle in a haystack," Assad grumped, handing her a stack of six yearbooks. "Don't you think going through foster care records will be faster?"

"They said it will take weeks to pull those files. And you know the foster system-do you really think they kept detailed records?"

Assad shot her a look.

"Chase, we're close to something here-I know it," Milstein said. "Britney Goodhart knew something. She was branded by a guy who had brands on his neck."

"Okay," Assad said, retreating. "Let's find the needle."

Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia

cKenna walked from the metro station up the steep incline to the graves of his wife and child. When Colin died, Isabel had decided that this was where he needed to be buried. Not because it was a famous burial site, but because she and Colin had spent many trips here visiting Grandpa's grave-Isabel's late father had been career military, and a Purple Heart recipient. McKenna momentarily imagined Isabel and Colin walking on the irregular granite paving stones, talking, holding hands. Isabel hadn't just wanted him buried here; she needed it. It took McKenna only a brief mention to the sympathetic attorney general, and somehow it was done, never mind that Colin didn't meet formal Arlington eligibility requirements. And when Isabel was killed, there was no question she would want to be near her little boy.