Gospel (12 page)

‘Thought you could use a history lesson. According to the brochure this trip offers a “fun and informative look at Boston's many historic and contemporary landmarks”.'

‘I can hardly contain myself,' said David. ‘Forty-five minutes of unlimited, thought-provoking adventure.'

The banter was lip service and David knew it. Joe needed some privacy. Somewhere they could blend into a crowd and not be overheard. Something was up.

At 10.08am the ferry pulled away from historic Long Wharf – formally known as Boston Pier where America's first merchants built brick warehouses for incoming sailing ships filled with reserves for the new American colonies. Before long it was manipulating a 360 degree turn heading out into the Harbour, a manoeuvre that provided spectacular views of the adjacent New England Aquarium and the city skyline beyond.

‘This far enough away for you?' asked David at last.

‘Don't know if we
can
get far enough away from this one.'

‘
We?
Joe, what's this all about?'

Joe began, starting back at 30 April, the night of Tom Bradshaw's death, and the subsequent shut down of information from the FBI. He told him about McKay's clever re-creation of Bradshaw's suite, and the conundrum of the undisturbed bed linen and linear arrangement of bedside table contents. He explained how he had confronted Ramirez and King about the missing Bible and how Ramirez had responded with threats and intimidation. And then he told him about the arrest that had just taken place in DC – and the inevitable consequences that were set to follow.

‘I don't believe this,' said David.

‘It's happening, man, whether we like it or not. The FBI are claiming an iron clad case – but somehow, it just doesn't . . .'

‘So that's why you brought me out here? To warn me my past is about to become national fodder? That's nice of you, Joe, but something tells me there's more to it than that.'

Joe said nothing.

‘This cruise – all the cloak and dagger stuff,' David went on. ‘For starters, if the FBI say they have a rock solid case against the guy then why not believe them? That's their job, you know, identifying and arresting national villains.' David did not mean to sound sarcastic – nor predisposed to Montgomery's guilt – but he realised it came out that way and took a breath before going on.

‘But this isn't just about Montgomery, is it? You've got that damned feeling again – the one where things don't sit right. You're planning something, aren't you, Joe? And something tells me I'm not gonna like it.'

Mannix looked up, squinting against the rising sun, the seagulls soaring overhead, the smell of salt fresh and clean. The ferry was now well clear of the Harbour foreshore, the loudspeaker commentary highlighting various points of interest on the striking Boston skyline.

‘We're heading out to the islands,' said Joe, speaking of the thirty or so small Harbour islands left by a retreating glacier some 12,000 years ago. ‘The last time Marie and I brought the kids out here, there were some harp seals riding the backwash of the ferry's pump engines. It was pretty amazing. They were . . .'

‘Quit stalling, Joe,' said David, sensing this wasn't easy for his detective
friend. The truth was, Mannix had been more than a friend to David over the years. He had stopped him from making some pretty serious mistakes – acting before he thought things through – and he owed him. No matter what.

‘You got something you wanna ask me? You need my help? Jesus, you've saved my ass more than a few times, Joe, the least I can do is hear what you've got to say. Come on, what is it?'

Joe turned to his friend and removed his sunglasses, looking directly at him. ‘Ramirez said something to me yesterday, amongst all of his FBI bullshit and macho theatrics. He said any clandestine queries I make could well come back to bite me, especially if it came down to my word against his. I got the feeling he knew I wasn't satisfied with his version of events,' Joe went on. ‘And that maybe I'd be stupid enough to pursue it – separately, as apart from the official FBI investigation.'

‘Hold on a minute,' said David, realising what his friend was asking. ‘You want me to help you. You want to run a covert investigation into the death of the late Vice President and you want me as back-up?'

‘You're a lawyer. You'd be witness to all stages of the investigation. There is no way Ramirez could dispute any findings I made as long as I had you as a legal witness.'

‘Witness or fellow investigator?'

‘Well . . .'

‘That's what I thought.'

‘Look, David, I've got McKay and Leigh on board, and they're good detectives – smart, loyal, dedicated. But they're cops, so they're tarred with the same brush as I am. I need someone neutral, someone with nothing to gain and you . . . Well, let's just say that under the circumstances, you're perfect.'

David knew what Mannix was suggesting. No one in their right mind would believe David would be voluntarily involved in an investigation that challenged the guilt of his ex-wife's husband – the same man who stole her from him in the first place. Unless, of course, there was something untoward going on, something illegal – motivated more by politics than by justice, and if that was the case, then . . .'

‘Jesus, Joe,' he said at last, just as the overhead tour guide announced their arrival at the Boston Harbour Islands National Park.

‘I'm not saying Montgomery didn't do it. But first degree? Punishable by death? They're gunning for him, David.'

‘You really think there's something going on?'

‘Yes.'

‘And that somehow this Ramirez is involved?'

‘Yes. And maybe others, with more to gain.'

David's thoughts went to his recent conversation with Tony Bishop. But this was crazy. There is no way someone would . . .

‘There's one other thing,' said Joe, interrupting his thoughts.

‘Why am I not surprised?'

‘If you agree to do this, we cannot tell anyone of your involvement. I trust Leo King but he's still a Federal agent and I don't want to compromise his loyalties. But you also can't tell the people you work with – Arthur, Nora and now . . .'

‘Sara. You're asking me to keep secrets from my girlfriend?'

‘Not secrets, just information relating to a confidential investigation.'

‘Confidential or illegal?'

Joe said nothing. Just shrugged.

They listened to the announcer a little longer, pointing out Bumpkin and Grape Islands, World's End and coincidentally a southern knoll named Sarah Island.

‘Okay,' said David at last. ‘I'll do this on one condition.'

‘Name it.'

‘I'll help you, Joe. I'll be your witness – investigator – whatever you want to call it. But I won't help
him
. I won't bust my gut proving Professor Stuart Montgomery is innocent. Do you understand?'

‘Yes,' said Joe. ‘And thanks.'

C
lick.

Snap.

Like a rabbit in a trap.

Karin Montgomery obeyed the flashing red light above her and fastened her seat belt. She was on a United Airlines commercial flight from Ronald Reagan to Logan – first class, no less. She was sandwiched between two straight-backed FBI agents who called her Ma'am and ate everything on the in-flight service menu including the ice-cream sundaes with choice of topping which came from the children's menu.

Her husband was three rows in front. Centre seat, just like hers. She was not tall but could see high enough to tell he had also finished his lunch of hot green peppers with goat cheese and basil filling, salmon and sea bass with zucchini saffron sauce and warm bread and butter pudding. She believed she saw him perusing the wine list until Assistant Director Ramirez snatched it from his hand and ordered him a water instead. She knew what he was thinking, it was all part of his little game and the wine, a 1996 Merlot, was definitely worth a try.

His calm demeanour did not surprise her. On the contrary, her husband was acting as he always did; taking control of the situation, manipulating it to his benefit. Unlike her, he did not feel trapped.
Offended – certainly, inconvenienced – yes, but not trapped.

The seat belt sign turned to off and Karin immediately released the clasp. She needed to get to the washrooms, splash water on her face. She knew what she had to do. She had a role to play and at this point had accepted her position. Her husband had taught her the art of controlling emotion and she would portray the most appropriate of facades – loyal, stoic, supportive – at least for now. She dreaded returning to Boston, and not just because of Stuart and his alleged part in this godforsaken mess. What really made her sick to her stomach was the cowardly way she had abandoned her previous life over ten years ago. But then, she had done what she had done and she had had to live with her actions and the knowledge of what it must have done to
him
every day since.

She excused herself, squeezed past the tall blond agent who stood to let her through and walked towards the front of the plane, avoiding eye contact with her husband. Not that it mattered. She noticed on her return that he was sleeping or at least resting; his eyes closed, his earphones more than likely set on some European symphony from another more civilised time. She glanced across the aisle at her husband's attorney, Howard Chilton-Smith, who was enjoying a large glass of the Merlot while absorbing some thick file of black type which no doubt told him everything and nothing all at the same time. She reached her seat, the blond agent standing again to let her pass, and retrieved her sunglasses from her handbag, placing them on her eyes in anticipation.

Half an hour later the red light came on again and she felt the slight lurch of the plane indicating they were starting their descent into Boston. She took a deep breath and felt her body shudder as the air left her lungs in a series of short, sharp, panicked vibrations.

Click.

Snap.

Like a rabbit in a trap.

‘Well, that's irony for you,' said Special Agent Leo King as he muted the small television which sat at a tilt on top of Joe Mannix's gun-metal grey filing cabinet. ‘There were more media at the airport today than there were in April when the Vice President arrived. Seems his killer has a higher Q factor than the great man himself. Go figure.'

‘Actually,' said Detective Frank McKay, pinching and lifting the poly-cotton material of his worn grey suit pants just above the knee before settling himself on the grey vinyl couch at the corner of his boss' office, ‘the Q score system is somewhat obsolete. It was developed in 1963 and these days marketing companies have more efficient ways of ranking the popularity of celebrities, brands, TV programs, politicians . . .'

‘Well, it made no difference,' said Detective Susan Leigh, obviously determined to cut her partner short before he embarrassed himself – and her by association. ‘They got all of ten seconds of footage. I must say, Agent King, the FBI did a great job on security. The transfer was flawless.'

That Susan, thought Mannix, always managing to find a way to work in an appropriately subtle compliment. And she was right. The minute Montgomery's plane arrived at Logan's Terminal C, the FBI – backed by a team of Federal police and several units of local uniforms – practically carried the Professor and his wife through a series of secured corridors to a waiting sedan inside an adjacent private hangar. Even the best media shots were limited to the back of Montgomery's silver-speckled head and the form that was his attractive younger wife, all long dark hair and large ‘Jackie O' sunglasses.

‘So, Simba,' said Mannix, taking a seat on the edge of his desk. ‘You said you were gonna dazzle us with this so-called “
evidence
”. And for your sakes, given the media carnival from hell is now up and running with a vengeance, I hope it's strong enough to nail Montgomery to the wall.'

‘Okay, first up, my friend, there is no “
your sakes
”,' said King. ‘You have to start thinking inclusively. You guys are a key part in all this.'

Mannix did not glance towards the chair in the corner where Susan Leigh had taken a seat, but he knew she was smiling. He could feel it.

‘At face value your doubts are totally understandable,' said King, standing from the small couch he was sharing with McKay to pace towards the front of the now crowded office. ‘Hell, when Ramirez first told me I was gobsmacked – big, rich Professor; smart, beautiful wife; positive profile – too much to lose, right? But the evidence is overwhelming. We've got the burden of proof, sure, but this is one of those sweet cases where the proof is no burden. On the contrary, it's a gift. I'd stake my life on it.'

‘Well, not
yours
,' said McKay, adding a third sugar to his creamy
concoction of coffee. ‘
His
actually, as in Montgomery's. His life is at stake – death penalty and all. Obviously.'

Mannix saw Leo throw him a sideways glance as if to say: ‘Is this guy for real?' to which Mannix just nodded and said, ‘All right Simba, enough of the sales pitch. Let's have it. What have you got?'

The answer was, a lot.

King began by briefing the three Detectives on the workings of Congress and more specifically on the Congressional Appropriations process. He explained how each February, when the President submits his annual budget to Congress, the House and Senate Appropriation Committees hold full committee and subcommittee hearings on the sections of the budget under their jurisdiction. The subcommittees – thirteen in all – make recommendations on budget allocations within their specific areas including Justice and State, Defence, Foreign Operations, Homeland Security, Transport, Health and Human Services and so on.

King described it like a huge pie that gets carved up and allocated to the various departments – and then each piece is carved up yet again as subgroups and administrations fight for the biggest bite of the allocated Departmental slice.