Washington Deceased (19 page)

“Well,” Grissom said. “That part certainly worked out, didn't it?”

“The best laid plans, etc. These particular plans went seriously off the rails, I suspect, because someone in the New Orleans syndicate had made a substantial and as yet not repaid loan to a construction company still owned by Stepanski and his brother. I don't know for sure what happened. My guess is this: Gunderson, suspecting what was afoot, bought the paper from whichever of his colleagues held it; he then let Stepanski know that if Stepanski got rid of Martinelli, all would be forgiven as far as the loan was concerned. Events suggest that that was enough for Stepanski.”

“Even if it weren't enough, Stepanski had another motive,” Desmond Gardner said quietly.

“What's that?” Stevens asked.

“Stepanski's other brother died of AIDS. That was the start of the spiral that ended up landing Stepanski in here and getting his company in hock to the mob in the first place. Martinelli was a queenmaker, as the allusion to Squires' motive a while back indicated.”

“What are you talking about?” Smith asked.

“I caught Martinelli shortly before he was killed essentially threatening to rape Squires,” Gardner explained. “Stepanski knew about everything that went on in here. I believe he would've killed Martinelli for the sheer pleasure of watching him die.”

“That much accepted,” Michaelson said, “the rest follows fairly easily. The gun and bullets were never inside the Honor Cottage. They were smuggled to a spot outside where Stepanski could retrieve them and use them. He did. I don't know if you can prove it, but I'm confident that that's the way it happened.”

“But Stepanski was taking one hell of a chance,” Grissom said. “At any moment while he was setting things up someone could have flipped on the monitor for that camera and caught him. For that matter, if that monitor had been flipped on during your guided tour ten minutes before it was, the alarm would have sounded ten minutes earlier and Stepanski would've been caught red-handed in the middle of his cover up.”

“He certainly was taking a chance,” Michaelson agreed. “But he had a lot to gain. Even if he's caught, as long as he doesn't betray Gunderson, his brother will be off the hook, with a life to lead and a business to run.”

“Besides,” said Billikin, who found the discussion had veered in a direction he knew something about, “what real choice did he have? If he didn't find some way to take care of the mob loan, the most he could possibly hope for once he got out of prison would be a chance for him and his kid brother to work the debt off as crack mules until they were both either dead or locked up for forty years.”

“If you ask Stepanski,” Desmond Gardner said, “I expect he'll tell you it was a good trade.”

“I'll tell you what other choice he had,” Grissom barked. “Go ahead and whack Martinelli exactly the way he did it, except shoot the camera first and skip the mirror and the tarp and all the other French pastry. What'd he gain from this elaborate charade you're talking about?”

“An alibi,” Michaelson said. “He turned the strengths of the security system against that very system. He set the murder up to look as if it had to have been committed by someone inside the cottage, when Stepanski was indisputably outside the cottage. Whoever was blamed for the killing, Stepanski quite reasonably hoped that he'd be cleared.”

“You're saying that to give himself a hope of being cleared of murder, he did a whole series of things that incredibly increased the chance that he'd be spotted doing something that would get him convicted of murder,” Grissom said skeptically.

“He increased that chance marginally, not incredibly,” Michaelson said. “Once he had adjusted the Supply Room camera lens to a tight focus on the mirror, the actually incriminating conduct that that camera could record would be limited to a relatively short time period. There are 112 cameras around this facility, most with a higher viewing priority than the six here in Honor Cottage B-4. There are six monitors in the Administration Building. The odds against Stepanski being spotted on one of those monitors were therefore greater than eighteen to one—not bad, when what's at stake is the chance to lead a decent life once he gets out.”

“But the odds against him being spotted on the monitor in Officer Smith's quarters here in the Honor Cottage were only six to one,” Billikin said.

“I'm afraid they were somewhat longer,” Michaelson said. “You see, Officer Smith is a very conscientious and systematic operative. Stepanski knew for certain that at the time he had in mind for the murder Officer Smith would be making his rounds, and not monitoring the six B-4 cameras.”

“All right, all right,” Grissom said. “Let's say I buy all that. What's the link between Martinelli's killing and this Cox character who apparently did such a number on the young lady here last night?”

“You'll recall that that was my second point,” Michaelson said. “Having established that former Senator Gardner wasn't the killer, I hope I've persuaded you to devote the resources allocated to this case to finding out precisely what that link is. All I can do is guess.”

“Try a guess on me,” Grissom said.

Michaelson glanced at his watch. It was 1:32 and, in any event, Grissom's comment made it clear that Cox had already begun making interesting noises to the government.

“Fair enough,” Michaelson said. “Cox kept track of questionable activities by members of Congress, including former Senator Gardner. Let's assume charitably that at first he did this merely as a form of employment insurance. Gunderson had compromised Senator Gardner. Therefore, Cox knew about Gunderson and perhaps even had tried to peddle to Gunderson information about other members of Congress.”

“It sounds like a good guess so far. Keep going.”

“Okay. Now, let's say you're Gunderson and you need someone to manipulate a sugar quota so that you can take advantage of an intriguing entrepreneurial opportunity. There aren't any members of Congress for sale to you, especially after Senator Gardner's unfortunate experience, so your best choice is to suborn a staffer of either one of the relevant committees or one of the members of those committees. Fortunately, based on your recent experience, you know at least one appropriately placed staffer who's eminently subornable.”

“Cox,” Grissom said.

“Exactly. In case you need something extra to make him see things your way, you inquire about him among your colleagues in organized crime in the Washington area and learn that he has a sexual taste that he wouldn't care to have revealed to all of the insiders in this gossip-happy, scandal-loving city—something risible involving spurs, leather boots, gauntlets and that type of thing. You make him aware of this knowledge and you have him where you want him.”

“You certainly have,” Billikin agreed.

“Martinelli of course knows about this as well as Gunderson. A photograph that he retained suggesting possession of that knowledge was found in his room after his murder,” Michaelson said.

“Why did he hang onto that?”

“I'm speculating,” Michaelson said, “but I'd say he hung onto it in case he needed to make another deal. I suspect he would've thought that it's the kind of thing he'd rather have than not have.”

“That seems plausible,” Billikin commented. “So you're saying that Gunderson used Cox to manipulate the sugar quota allocations so that Cuba could very slightly reduce the cost to the Soviets of propping up the Cuban economy by selling sugar to the United States.”

“I was asked to guess,” Michaelson remarked, “and that's my guess. The object being, of course, not to save a relatively small amount of money for the Soviet Union but to gain a relatively large amount of money for the underworld entrepreneurs involved. Those involved weren't selling out their country, they were duping that country's bureaucracy. The bureaucrats regard the latter as an infinitely greater sin—almost as grave as publicly revealing the fact that they have been duped.”

Chapter Twenty-three

“There's media here,” the intense young man whispered ungrammatically but accurately to the equally intense, slightly older woman standing in between him and Michaelson.

“What'd you expect?” the woman responded, talking as if she hoped to make the words come out without actually moving her lips.

The young man was from the lowest level of the White House staff above speech writers. The young woman was from the Public Affairs Office of the United States Department of Justice.

“There's not going to be any trouble with this is there?” the young man asked Michaelson.

“He knows what the deal is, right?” the young woman asked.

“There isn't any
deal
,” the young man hissed.

“Former Senator Gardner understands the situation,” Michaelson said placidly. “I understand the situation. Wendy Gardner understands the situation. We have each given our word and we will each keep our word. No leaks to the press about the sugar business, no attempt to revive former Senator Gardner's elective career, and if anyone asks us neither promise made on the strength of any assurance of action by the executive branch.”

“I'm still shaky about that last part,” the young man said to the young woman. “About him not running for public office, I mean. I'm not even sure that's constitutional. I can just see him going into court a couple of years from now and rubbing some judge's nose in the First Amendment.”

“I reviewed the research myself,” the young woman said. “The power specified in Article II, section 2, paragraph 1 of the Constitution is derived directly from the analogous power of English kings. The legal maxim governing their power was ‘
non sub homine sed sub Deo et lege:
Let the King be under no man but under God and the Law.' ”

“That sort of begs the question then, doesn't it?” the young man asked.

“Take my word for it. We're okay.”

“I still….”

“Quiet. Here they come.”

Senator Desmond Gardner, wearing a navy blue suit and tie, smiling and looking fit, stepped through the door of the Guard House at Fritchieburg onto the parking lot. Wendy Gardner walked just behind him and to his left, beside her mother. Warden Stevens trailed them slightly. After they were all well into the parking lot, Stevens circled around to come abreast of Gardner. Everyone took this as a signal to stop. Stevens held out his hand.

“Good luck,” he said. “I hope I never see you again, at least in a professional capacity.”

“Thank you,” Gardner said as he shook the warden's hand. “You won't.”

Stevens turned on his heel and strode back toward the Guard House. The Gardners started forward again, walking toward a white stretch limousine that Marjorie Randolph had hired for the occasion. Two casually dressed people with taperecorders—what the intense young man had referred to as the media—hurried up to the trio.

“Senator Gardner, how does it feel to be leaving prison?”

“Very good.”

“Is it true that the pardon is conditioned on your never seeking elective office again?”

“I will not under any circumstances run for any office at any level. That's my personal choice and irrevocable decision. How that fits in with what the legal papers say is a question I'm not qualified to answer.” All spoken with a knowing smile and a philosophical expression. He was still a consummate master of the art.

“What will you be doing now?”

“Trying to make it up to my family and community for letting them down the way I did.”

“The pardon message talked about ‘extraordinary services to the cause of law and justice.' What's that a reference to?”

“That's between me and the President. If you folks'll excuse me, I know you've got deadlines and this big car here's costing someone a lot of money every minute we stand around talking.”

Gardner ducked into the car behind his wife and daughter. The chauffeur closed the door behind them. Marjorie had been waiting in the car, and Michaelson had taken advantage of the impromptu press conference to slip inobtrusively in the other side.

“Baloney sandwiches and beer tonight?” Michaelson asked Marjorie.

“Not tonight. Tonight calls for something a bit more celebratory. Pizza and red wine, I think.”

“Marjorie, you have yourself a date.”

The limousine maneuvered smoothly through the gate, negotiated the speed bumps and found the open highway. Gardner, beaming, settled back in the thickly cushioned seat.

“Richard, thank you for everything.”

“My pleasure.”

He clapped his hands together.

“Now, young lady,” he said to Wendy, “we need to have a talk.”

“About what?”

“About census tracts.”

“What about them?”

“They show that average household income was barely stable and trending downward in Henry Simmons' district, which happens to be where you officially live.”

“Who's Henry Simmons?”

“He's your state legislator. More important, he's a politician whose base is changing and who isn't paying any attention to it. He's the political equivalent of a Potemkin Village. Election after next he'll be eminently beatable, as long as someone who knows what they're doing runs against him.”

“But dad, you promised that you….”

“Who said anything about me? I'm talking about you.”

“Dad, don't be ridiculous. I'm nineteen years old.”

“The perfect age to become recording secretary of the 23rd District Party Club.”

“I'm not even a member.”

“Yes you are. I paid your dues myself.”

“But I don't know anyone in that club.”

“I know plenty of people in it.”

“Dad….”

“Don't get me wrong. You'll have to work hard. You'll have to pay your dues, and I don't mean with money. But it'll be worth it. Simmons is getting a pass next year, and four years after that he'll be ripe for the plucking. You'll be twenty-four and your last name'll be Gardner. It'll be perfect. He's vulnerable on abortion and gun control.”

“I'm not going to cut and trim on abortion, dad. I feel too strongly about it.”

“That's okay,” Gardner chuckled. “Gun control should be plenty, all by itself.”

Wendy turned away from her father and looked out the window. She smiled and then started to giggle. She lowered her head, held it in her hands, and shook for a moment with silent, helpless laughter. Then she raised her head and looked back at her father.

“You don't have any strong moral objection to making the appropriate noises about gun control, do you?” Gardner asked.

“Well,” Wendy said, shrugging and smiling thoughtfully, “everything's relative, isn't it?”