Gospel (11 page)

David on the other hand had grown up in Newark, the middle of three kids in a blue collar, Irish-American clan – his school teacher mom Patty a green-eyed, gentle, fair-haired optimist, and his late father Sean, a dark-haired, dark-eyed container ship worker.

David drew inspiration from them both; his mother's positive encouragement and his father's strength and determination – the one comfort in his father's passing almost six years ago being the knowledge he would always live on in his older brother Sean Jnr who was all dark, gruff and serious.

His sister Lisa was the other extreme, all wind-blown dark hair and bright green eyes and enough energy to light up a city. She had followed David to Boston, studying nursing at BC before taking up a job at Massachusetts General's busy ER department.

‘A penny for . . .' said Sara, breaking his train of thought.

‘I was just thinking about Lisa and how she . . . well, you know . . . she's a good kid.'

‘She is,' said Sara. ‘You may be the big brother, but I get the feeling she spends a lot of her time looking out for you.'

And she did. In fact it was Lisa who helped him pick up the pieces after Karin had left him all those years ago. She would turn up each night with pizza and sodas and make him greasy breakfasts on the all too frequent morning-afters during his phase of alcohol-induced pain relief. She helped him with all the practical stuff like selling the house in Fenway, and moving him temporarily into her much loved bungalow in Southie. And
while part of him suspected she felt ‘responsible' for introducing him to Karin in the first place, he knew her actions had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with understanding. After all, when Karin walked out on their marriage, she also walked out on her friendship with Lisa – and neither of them had spoken to her since.

‘David,' said Sara at last. ‘Are you okay? I mean, you seem a little preoccupied and seriously, if you think my working with you will be too much then I . . .'

‘What?' he said realising she had misinterpreted his quiet contemplation. ‘No, it's gonna be great. There is no way it will be too much. In fact . . . ,' all these thoughts of home and family had finally given David the courage to raise the other issue he wanted to broach tonight. He wanted to ask Sara to move in with him.

‘David,' she said, reaching across the table, placing her long slender hands on top of his own. ‘I want to ask you something. We're going to be working together, right? Long hours, weekends at the office . . .'

‘Right,' said David, knowing where this was going. It was Sara who was thinking the long days at work could be over-exposure. She had no intention of putting up with him 24/7 and who could blame her?

‘And your place is a five-minute walk to the office. So I figure if you get that extra twenty minutes to sleep in, then so should I.'

‘What?' he said, not believing what he was hearing.

‘I want to move in with you, David, if that's okay.' She looked at him then, her pale aqua eyes full of uncertainty, anticipation.

‘Okay?' he said, a smile of relief spreading across his face. ‘It's . . . it's . . .' He leaned across the table to kiss her only to be interrupted by the ring of his cell.

‘Damn,' he said, pulling it out of his pocket to check the number. It was Joe Mannix.

‘Hey Joe,' he said, as he answered and smiled at Sara.

‘Hey. We need to talk,' said Mannix.

‘What is it?'

‘Not on the phone. I need to see you. Tonight.'

‘Come on, Joe. Sara and I are at dinner, she's agreed to join the firm and . . .'

‘Oh, that's great,' Joe said, at the same time sensing that given what
was about to go down in DC, it may not end up being so great after all. ‘Tomorrow then, but it has to be early. Meet me at Long Wharf, 8am.'

‘Long Wharf? Why in the hell would I . . . ? Anyway, I can't do eight. I have an early meeting with a client and it'll probably go for . . .'

‘Ten then. No later. I'll see you there.' And then Mannix hung up.

David shut off his cell, having no idea what to make of his detective friend's request. He looked across at Sara and decided now was not the time to dwell on the short but confusing exchange. After all, Sara was moving in with him and the overwhelming happiness somehow made him feel invincible.

W
ashington Memorial Hospital Cardiac Unit medical secretary Coral Kapetas was a very loyal employee and passionately protective of the man she was proud to call ‘boss'. Of course, there were those at the hospital who assumed it was more than that, and in truth, it had been . . . although briefly. Secretly she enjoyed the lingering looks of suspicion, the whispers that asked ‘Are they or aren't they? Was she or wasn't she?
'
Well, she had been and now she wasn't, but if asked, she probably would again.

Still, she had understood when the Professor had needed to end their little tryst and admired him for what he referred to as his ‘determination to fight the power of their mutual attraction out of respect for their brilliant working relationship and his desire to keep Coral as a dear, dear friend for life'.

A true gentleman was Stuart Montgomery, and let anyone suggest otherwise. That was probably why these two heinous excuses for public servants had infuriated her so much. These agents with their short hair and manicured nails and egos so huge they thought themselves beyond any semblance of decorum. She hated the dark one, Ramirez, the most, for he was arrogant and abrupt and downright disrespectful. This was the third time in the past month that they had interrupted the Professor
during his private patient clinics. On the previous two occasions they had demanded Coral buzz the good Professor in the middle of a consultation, which was bad enough. But this time they did not even acknowledge her presence, just stormed on in like a pair of hard-nosed militants on a mission.

This could not be good, thought Coral, as Ramirez entered the Professor's room without knocking, kicking the back of the door to prevent Coral from following, and pulling out his badge as if it gave him the power to intrude on whoever he pleased, whenever he chose to do so.

‘Professor Stuart Ignatius Montgomery,' she heard Ramirez say as the door eased back on its air-controlled hinges. ‘You are under arrest for the murder of Thomas Wills Bradshaw. You have the right to remain silent . . .'

‘Oh dear,' said Coral, turning to look at the three stunned patients who had discarded their surprisingly current waiting room magazines for the real life drama occurring before them.

‘Oh dear.'

Joe Mannix was sitting in front of the forty-two-inch TV in their small but comfortable West Roxbury living room watching a re-run of a recent Red Sox victory.

It was the usual morning chaos: bowls of Cheerios, half-drunk glasses of milk, backpacks, baseball bats and uncombed hair.

His three oldest boys – Joe Jnr, Stephen and Gabriel – were attending a week long baseball camp and wanted their dad to watch an old play they were practising, before their mom dragged them out of the house and into the family SUV.

‘Oh man, Ortiz rocks,' said Joe Jnr, the oldest at twelve, and with a career in baseball set firmly in his sights.

‘Yeah, he rocks,' repeated Michael, the youngest at five.

‘You don't even know what “rocks” means, geek,' accused eight-year-old Gabriel.

‘Yes I do,' said Michael. ‘It means he's cool.'

‘Yes it does, Mike,' said Joe, swallowing a laugh. ‘Leave your brother alone, Gabe, or you can rock all the way to the kitchen to help mom clean up.'

‘Ten minutes, boys,' called Marie Mannix from the kitchen as if on cue.

Joe heard the phone ring and Marie pick it up.

‘It's Special Agent King,' said Marie, poking her head around the living room annexe. Joe looked up at his wife, her dark blonde hair, blue eyes and rich olive skin still glowing with a youthfulness those of Northern Italian descent seemed blessed with.

‘I'll take it in the kitchen,' said Joe, not wanting to interrupt the boys' game and sure he would never be able to hear King over the din in any case.

‘They're arresting him as we speak,' said Leo, as soon as Joe took the phone.

‘What's the official charge?'

‘First degree.'

‘What?'
Joe said, loud enough for Marie to look up from the dishwasher. ‘I thought you were talking supply which means manslaughter or at best murder two. Now you're talking first degree?' Joe shook his head.

‘He didn't just supply the dose that killed the Vice President, Joe.'

‘You think you can prove his intent to kill? This is a stretch, even for you over-zealous bastards.'

‘No it's not, Joe. This was no mistake. You have no idea. We opened a can of worms when we started looking at this guy. We started out with manslaughter but now our investigations are suggesting premeditation.'

‘For premeditation you need motive.'

‘We have means and opportunity and we're working on motive. Look Joe, this guy is ambitious. He's smart, powerful. You saw the tape. He stole in and out of that suite like a thief with a dirty secret. Federal Law Title 18 USC Section 1111, defines murder as any unlawful killing of a human being with malice aforethought, and that includes murders perpetrated by poison. He knew Bradshaw was an addict. He knew the drugs were pure and in every likelihood, would result in his death. The fact the victim was the Vice President means we cross-reference 1111 with 1751 . . .'

‘
Assassination?
'

‘You got it.'

‘The death penalty.'

‘In one.'

Joe could not believe what he was hearing. He trusted King's motives were genuine but he also knew an arrest such as this, months before the Federal election, would certainly give the Latham administration a serious injection of public support. Latham's numbers had continued to dive over the past month despite the President's repeated insistence he would maintain his late deputy's war on drugs. A month is a long time in politics and Joe could be wrong, but it seemed to him like the President needed a stooge – and maybe Montgomery was the most convenient option.

‘Don't tell me, Ramirez is the one driving this?' asked Joe.

‘I know what you think about him, Joe, and most of the time I'd tend to agree, but he's an experienced agent . . .'

‘. . . who'll be pushing shit up hill to make this one stick,' Joe finished. ‘I can't believe he got an indictment in the first place. All I can say is, thank God assassinations are Washington's concern, because here in Boston it just wouldn't fly.'

‘Ah, but that's my other piece of news, Joe. It would and it will.'

Joe said nothing to this, and as much as his silence was a response in disbelief, he also knew a lack of reaction always forced the other party to provide as much information as possible. It never failed.

‘The President wants this tried in Boston, in the US District Court of Massachusetts,' said King. ‘Now, I know you're thinking it's not his call, and you're right. But it does make sense, Joe. He was killed in Boston and we have a legal requirement to satisfy venue.' (Joe noticed King was already saying ‘
was killed'
rather than ‘
died
', the lay of the land was shifting, if it had not already.) ‘So like it or not, the ball is back in our court. What is it they say? “Be careful what you wish for?”.'

Still nothing. Joe was going to make him sweat.

‘Look,' said King. ‘The VP was a man of the people who pushed to consolidate the power of local anti-drug authorities. His wife, his mother-in-law, President Latham, they all feel this is the way it should be done. Like you said, you wanted into this party . . .'

‘Party yes,' said Joe, finally breaking his silence, ‘politically motivated, vote collecting, public opinion manipulating circus no.'

‘Don't shoot the messenger, Joe. Besides, I'd thought you'd be pleased. It gives us back some control. Anyway, Ramirez and gang are flying into Logan with the prisoner tomorrow. He'll be arraigned some time this
week. A Department of Justice Trial Attorney will prosecute, but the Judge will be local.'

‘Who's representing Montgomery?'

‘Some English guy with three names. He's a member of several State and Federal bars. In other words, have money and power will travel.'

‘You'll never win this,' said Mannix.

‘There is no “
you
”, Joe, it is now officially “
we
”. I have told Ramirez I want you on our team and he didn't exactly say no. Besides, do you think the big shots in DC would do this if they weren't sure of a conviction? Power to the people, Joe. Montgomery is going down, and when I show you the evidence, I think you'll agree.'

Joe paused before responding.

‘You're gonna enjoy this, aren't you, Simba? Playing the game on your home turf, your own personal chance to show Ramirez how the Boston boys kick ass?'

‘You betcha,' said King. ‘So shoot me.'

‘No thanks, the Sox are on TV. I got better things to do.'

‘So go back to your family, we can catch up tomorrow. Once Montgomery is in custody at Suffolk County I'll swing by HQ and run you through what we've got. We're releasing a statement this afternoon so be prepared for the usual carry on . . . Joe, you still there?'

‘I'm here.'

‘All right, then do me one more favour and cut this silence crap, will you? I know what you're doing and it pisses me off.'

‘It works,' said Mannix.

‘I noticed.'

‘Y
ou cannot be serious,' said David as he boarded one of Boston Harbour Cruises' familiar ferries at popular Long Wharf. ‘You didn't tell me I'd need my camera, Joe.'