Gospel (42 page)

‘Sure, Dick,' said Joe, offering his hand as if being introduced to the CIA Director for the very first time. ‘This isn't over, in fact far from it. We have new information, witnesses like Nancy Doyle, and proof from inside the FBI that Ramirez is illegally manipulating the investigation into Tom Bradshaw's death.

‘We have David Cavanaugh running Montgomery's defence, and Special Agent Leo King – who is one of
us
by the way – running interference with Ramirez. More importantly, we have a theory that this thing is bigger than just the money –
much
bigger, making the consequences of our giving up now too devastating to contemplate. This isn't the end, Dick, it's just the beginning. But we can't do this without your help.'

Ryan squinted, considering them again, before taking a long pull of his icy cold coke and turning to Mannix. ‘Okay, I'm in, but I hope you guys . . . all of you,' he said, looking at Frank who now had his embroidered burgundy cardigan slung neatly over his right shoulder, ‘realise what you are getting yourselves into.

‘You don't know Ramirez like I do, and if this John is Ramirez's superior,
which I believe to be the case, well . . .' Ryan stopped there, as if realising if this was to continue he would have to tell them everything. ‘The truth is, I have my suspicions about this John. I don't think he is who he seems to be. And I'm afraid if I'm right we are truly up against it because yesterday I was told . . .'

He was interrupted by the ring of his cell phone. He handed his coke to Frank before fishing the phone from his top right hand shirt pocket and stealing a glance at the incoming number. Registering its significance, he put the phone to his ear. ‘Ryan.'

The one-way conversation took all of ten seconds before Ryan hung up and turned to them with a new layer of concern on his face. ‘That was a friend. He just picked up a report on the DC police wires. I told him to call me immediately if the name came up in any reports.'

‘What is it?' said Joe.

‘It's Travis Toovey – or rather our Mark. He was just found by his housekeeper hanging three feet from his bedroom floor. The DC police are calling it accidental death by auto-erotic asphyxiation.'

‘Jesus,' said Mannix. ‘They're killing their own.'

‘And then there were two,' said Frank.

I
t was early, but the sun was already squeezing through the cracks of his venetians as if trying to force its way into their universe – this small but incredibly peaceful place where time was, at least for now, standing still. David rearranged the pillows so that he could manoeuvre his elbow up from underneath him – so that he might sit up a little and savour this moment. She was still asleep, her body smooth, lean and exposed, the covers long ago disregarded in the heat of their lovemaking.

His mind was lost in one long, euphoric haze of physical exhaustion – the memory of her breath over his body, of his hands through her hair, of her lips finding his and of that final moment when they both collapsed together, shaking with pleasure and falling into each other's arms as if this was where they were destined to be. A perfect fit, despite the pressures of the world around them.

He knew it was a reaction – a physical, passionate, manic, mind-numbing reaction to Montgomery, or more specifically to Karin. It was their way of reaffirming their own private world, of proving to each other that none of it really mattered so long as they knew what they had was separate, unaffected. And it
was
, he told himself, hoping beyond all hope that he was right.

Her body reacted the second the phone began to ring. Millions of tiny
bumps rising instantly over her perfect mocha skin – as if in protest or shock or anger at being roused from the peaceful state of stillness. They were the kind of bumps you get when you are cold or surprised . . . or scared. And as that final thought raced quickly through his brain, he sat up, grappling for the phone, needing the unwelcome shrill to stop.

He knew it might be Mannix, who had left the single two-word message – ‘
hold tight
' – on his answering machine yesterday morning and had not made contact since. But a part of him, most of him in that moment, prayed the caller, whoever it was, was not the bearer of news which would banish their recent bliss with all the grace of a train wreck passing through hell.

Unfortunately today, his prayers were not to be answered.

‘Yeah,' he said into the phone, picking it up from its night stand and taking it into the living room.

‘It's me, Marc,' said the
Boston Tribune
Deputy Editor. ‘I know it's early but I'm ringing to apologise ahead of time, to give you a heads up and an opportunity to kick my ass before you even know why you are gonna wanna kick my ass big time soon.'

‘Marc,' said David, checking his watch. ‘It's 6am. I know you newspaper types are nocturnal but this is crazy. Why would I wanna kick . . .' And then it hit him. ‘Ah shit, Rigotti, it's about the case, isn't it? The prosecution gave you something – something bad – for us I mean. And you ran with it – today. Am I right?' David's mind was racing. ‘What is it Marc? What the hell is going on?'

‘I'm afraid you're right, man,' said Rigotti. ‘But the lack of warning wasn't my doing. This one came straight from Trial Attorney Adams and the FBI, and part of the deal was . . . well, let's just say we wouldn't have got the story if I hadda called you for comment.'

‘They say that? Because if they did I'll . . .'

‘Not in so many words. But you know how it works.'

And he did.

‘So how bad is it?' David was starting to panic, the peace of his bedroom now ten feet and a million miles away.

‘Bad. Worse than bad – I mean from your client's point of view. It proves predetermination, David; a basic out and out testimonial that Montgomery planned to top Bradshaw.'

‘Says who?'

‘Says your
client
, the Professor himself. He's crucified himself with his own hand, David. He's guilty. He killed Bradshaw, and judging by our meeting with Adams and Ramirez last night, these guys are out for blood. This may be none of my business, man, but given I am never one to mind my own business in any case, my advice to you is to pack this one in before the bullets start blazing and you and your career get caught in the cross-fire. I'm serious, David, these guys are scary. Get out, while you still got time.'

Department of Justice Trial Attorney Promises Montgomery ‘Date With The Devil'

Exclusive by Deputy Editor Marc Rigotti

WASHINGTON DC: In a major coup for the Department of Justice, the FBI have recovered a letter from accused murderer Professor Stuart Montgomery to the late Vice President Thomas Wills Bradshaw forewarning the Vice President of his demise if he did not promote the prominent cardiac surgeon to the post of US Surgeon General
.

The letter, written only two weeks prior to the Vice President's death on 30 April, outlined Montgomery's fury at being ‘overlooked' for the post and threatened ‘serious repercussions' if the Vice President continued to ‘undermine' his ‘personal and professional' advancement
.

While the
Tribune
was not given full access to the letter, written in a hand confirmed by FBI experts as being that of Professor Montgomery, Department of Justice Trial Attorney and Prosecutor in the Montgomery case, Mr Charles Adams, did provide the
Tribune
with short phrases and a partial extract as follows
:

‘
And so enough. I am tired of your political posturing. For years I have supported you on both a personal and professional level – only to find I am now dismissed, banished, for reasons of petty immaturity. The Douglas woman was a mere distraction and of no consequence to our joint agenda to lead this country into a new era of better health for all Americans. I am a patient and steadfast friend, Tom, but perhaps it is time that I reassess my loyalties. Do not underestimate my influence. Our government is under siege to improve health conditions for all Americans (both those drug addicted and the great majority that are not!), and I am your key to victory in that arena. Finally, I end by saying that I am
deeply saddened that you, of all people, have forgotten how to forgive. My indiscretion was poorly timed – granted, but your entire career has been built on forgiveness and the power of the American people to embrace it. You expect clemency but fail to reciprocate. Hypocrisy at its best! We have known each other a long time, you and I – so let's not beat around the bush. You have felt the breath of death – so close during those times of addiction, so I know you are familiar with the chill of the ultimate defeat. I am not a man to be trifled with. Your moral posturing will not go unaddressed. If you think this is a threat, then you are right. Continue on this path of self-serving morality and you may well find it is your career which shall be put to bed – indefinitely.'

‘God,' said Sara, leaning against him as they sat at his kitchen table poring over the story that effectively shot their case to hell. ‘That letter, it . . . it does sound like him, David. I mean, I know we think . . . we
know
, he is innocent, but those words, they are
him.'

David said nothing, just took a deep breath, the musky scent of her soon-to-be-washed skin now a painful reminder of how they ‘were' just moments ago.

‘David,' she looked at him. ‘What are we going to do?'

And then it came to him. They had made a mistake. In all their determination to avoid a skirmish they had made it easy for the prosecution to paint them and their client as cowards and liars. They had spent the past four days avoiding the press, moving about incognito, planning secret meetings, avoiding front entrances and any sign of ‘involvement'. It was his fault. Truth be told he
was
ashamed to be associated with this case – with this man and all that he represented. But that was not good enough. Montgomery was his client. If they wanted a fight then they were going to get one. He picked up the phone.

‘Who are you calling?' asked Sara.

‘Judge Donovan.'

‘
What!
Are you mad? It's 6.30am, David. Our case just got a major kick in the butt and you wanna piss off the Judge by getting him out of bed at this ungodly hour? For what?'

But it was too late. David was already onto the Federal Court switch saying there was an ‘emergency' and demanding they patch him through to District Judge Patrick Donovan at home.

‘Who is this?' answered Donovan.

‘I'm sorry to wake you, Judge. This is . . .'

‘Cavanaugh,' said Donovan. ‘You didn't wake me. I can thank my God-damned stereo-playing neighbour for that little pleasure. I have the
Tribune
in front of me and truth be told I was half expecting your call. Just wasn't sure you had the balls to risk imitating the alarm clock of a cantankerous Judge who likes his sleep – which obviously you do.'

‘Then forgive me, Judge, but if you have the paper in front of you, you know the prosecution are guilty of a blatant disrespect to the hallowed rules of discovery. The disclosure of this alleged piece of evidence to the press prior to it being made available to yourself and to the defence is a . . .'

‘Blatant disrespect. Yes, son, I agree. You wanna go kick their asses?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Not as much as I do right now, Mr Cavanaugh. It's definitely a morning for ass kicking – just ask my neighbour. I'll see you and your client in my chambers at ten and don't worry, Adams and his FBI flunky will be there too if they know what's good for them.'

‘Thanks, Judge.'

‘Don't thank me, son. This isn't a favour; it's a matter of law. And if you ever call my house before eight in the morning again, I'll have you arrested.'

‘F
irst up, this is a damned fine place to work,' Sara overheard the large, older prison guard say to the younger, slimmer version of himself. ‘Perfect for your first posting. They used to call this place the most expensive hotel in the city – 453 “rooms” at $120,000 a piece – at least that's what it cost the good taxpayers of Massachusetts back in 1991. Of course, impressive as it is,' the older guard went on, his feet clicking on the polished granite floor as he gestured at the high-ceilinged open space around them, ‘our guests aren't exactly lining up to get into this lobby.' He smiled. ‘If you know what I mean.'

And the rookie prison guard obviously did – as did Sara, taking in the ‘lobby' of the huge red brick construction that was Nashua Street Suffolk County Jail in Boston's Old West End.

‘How many does it hold, boss?' she heard the younger man ask.

‘Around 700 detainees,' said his superior. ‘Most of them pre-trial. The building stretches two acres along the Charles River, giving our temporary residents some of the most striking views in the city, all the way from Charlestown to Breed's Hill. It gives new meaning to the old adage ‘
room with a view
', don't you think?' asked the older guard with a smile, to which junior replied with a stifled cough.

Sara was nervous. She was waiting for David who had gone upstairs
with Karin to retrieve Montgomery from his holding cell. As she stood just inside the main glass doors of SCJ, for some reason the prison guard's banter made her recall some history class trivia about the battle of Breed's Hill where the first blood of the American Revolution was spilt.

Who was it?
she tried to remember in an attempt to distract herself.
Some General
. . .
General Putnam
,
that was it!
. . .
Who ordered his troops not to fire on the British until they could see the whites of their eyes
.