Robert Andrews - A Murder of Justice

Janowitz picked up a second dart, studied the tip, lofted it experimentally, then looked at Frank. “Suppose they tumbled to Gentry’s source?”

“And if they did,” Frank came back, “what do you think they’d do about the source?”

Janowitz threw the dart, whipping it hard. A double twenty.

Jose got up from behind his desk and turned to the whiteboard behind him. From a beer mug he selected a red felt-tip marker. “A little profiling exercise,” he announced.

He drew a round bullet on the board. “Okay,” he asked Janowitz, “the ideal source… first attribute?”

Janowitz didn’t hesitate. “Proximity. He’s gotta be close to Skeeter and Pencil.”

Jose jotted “Prox” by the first bullet. “Why ‘he’?” he said.

“These guys don’t buy PC. It’s a boys-only club.”

A second bullet, and “Male” next to that.

“Age?”

“Within several years of Skeeter and Pencil.”

Jose entered “Mid-30s” against a third bullet.

“Fourth bullet’s this,” Janowitz said. “A longtime buddy. Somebody they’d trust. Been through the mill with them.”

Jose capped the marker and ran his eyes down the board. Then he asked, “And how’d they tumble to the source?”

“Probably caught him in the act. Maybe meeting with Gentry, being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“So they’d milk him for what he had.” Frank picked up the lead. “Then what?”

“They’d pop him,” Janowitz replied. “Look, guys,” he said, “you tiptoed me through the tulips like a rookie. Where’s this finger exercise heading?”

“Glad you asked, Leon,” Frank said.

From a cabinet, Jose produced Eleanor’s printout and handed the thick sheaf to Janowitz. “Given that profile, you might want to start here.”

Janowitz got a put-upon expression as he took the printout. “So we find the needle in this haystack… then what? I mean, shit, we aren’t going to be bringing Skeeter and Pencil into court.”

“If we have to close the Gentry case administratively, we want it solid. Nobody’s going to buy the fluff they did first time around.”

“And then there’s the matter of Skeeter, Pencil, and Pencil’s woman,” Jose said. “Somebody might just be around who did them.”

“And maybe a Colombian connection?” Janowitz ventured. “Skeeter and Pencil made one bad deal too many? Or the cartels found a better outlet somewhere else?”

Frank gave Janowitz a sunny smile. “Like Hoser said, Leon, this is a great town for questions. Now we need to work out a few answers.”

Janowitz hoisted the printout. “Take this back to my cubicle?”

“Yeah. By the way, how’s your audit turning out?”

“Slow. Library of Congress archives just found the subcommittee’s bank records and Gentry’s personal files. I probably got a stack thicker than this”-he waggled the printout-“waiting for me. I’ll run a quick scan tonight.”

“Don’t get wrapped up in too much night work,” Jose said. “Department’s cutting down overtime.”

Janowitz grinned. “Mrs. Janowitz and I got some night work planned, and I won’t put in for overtime.”

Janowitz left.

Jose shook his head wonderingly at the closed door. “Kid sees the world through his dick,” he said.

“Probably better than some other ways of looking at it,” Frank said, beginning his end-of-the-day desk-clearing routine.

Having woken early, Frank took a longer run: down Thirtieth to the river, then up the river path. Four miles past Fletcher’s Boat House, he reversed course. Back home, Monty waited for breakfast. That taken care of, Frank showered, twisting and stretching under the needle spray, first hot, then cold, then hot again.

Finished shaving, he inspected his face. The eyes still clear, the gray still holding at the temples. The slightest ropiness along the jawline, the hint of puffiness beneath the eyes. Good for another day.

A stand-up breakfast at the kitchen counter: coffee made a bit stronger than usual, bran flakes with blueberries and skim milk. He opened the Post. The sad-sack Wizards had just hired Doug Collins, Michael Jordan’s former coach with the Bulls. Collins and Jordan, reunited to re-create the old Chicago magic in Washington. Frank shook his head.

Second acts in American lives.

His eyes drifted to the masthead. Somewhat surprised, he found it was already Friday.

Two weeks since Bayless Place? Two… weeks?

Searching his closet, he found a favorite suit, a J. Press spring-weight navy wool that had the feel of cashmere. The phone interrupted him as he picked through his ties.

“Frank? This’s Leon.” Janowitz had an upbeat of excitement in his voice.

“You’re up early.”

“Yeah. I was driving in, thought you might still be home. Mind if I drop by?”

“Got some coffee left.”

“I don’t know if I can handle that. Be there in five.”

Seated at the breakfast room table, Janowitz pulled out a folder, opened it, and handed Frank a booking mug shot.

“Who’s this?”

“Likely prospect for Gentry’s source.”

A good-looking African-American kid stared back at Frank. Strong mouth and jaw, but a hint of fear in the dark almond eyes.

“Martin Moses Osmond.” Frank read off the sign the kid was holding.

“Eleanor’s pulling his file out of inactive storage,” Janowitz said, “but here’s what I could get from the abstracts: born ’sixty-eight. Conviction grand theft auto, ’eighty-six. Three other guys tried for the same offense.” Janowitz paused for effect. “James ‘Skeeter’ Hodges-”

“Tobias ‘Pencil’ Crawfurd and Zelmer Austin,” Frank finished.

Janowitz nodded. Rapping the printout for emphasis, he went on. “All four together at Lorton. That’s where Skeeter made the connections that got him in tight with Juan Brooks. Skeeter, Pencil, Austin, and Osmond got out the same time, and got a franchise from Brooks. Osmond was picked up later, two charges possession intent to sell. Beat both. His P.O. noted that he warned Osmond about continued association with Skeeter and Pencil.”

“The P.O.,” Frank asked, “was…?”

“Arch Sterling.”

Frank knew Sterling. Too many parole officers got co-opted by what the PC establishment now called “clients.” Sterling still thought of them as parolees.

“What else makes Osmond a likely?” he asked Janowitz.

“Had access, had a history with Skeeter and Pencil. Didn’t quite fit one element of the profile, though.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s dead, but it wasn’t ruled homicide. His grandmother found him in his car. M.E. ruled it a heroin overdose. Interesting timing, though.”

“Oh?”

“Died Monday night twenty-two February ’ ninety-nine… about two hours after somebody popped Kevin Gentry.” Janowitz sat quietly, watching Frank take that in.

Frank registered Janowitz’s expectant look. “You’ve got more, don’t you?”

Janowitz gave a low whistle. “I’m not going to play poker with you.”

“You’re an easy read. You wouldn’t be here if the profile was all you had. And besides, you got your hand ready to pull another rabbit out of your L. L. Bean bag.”

Grinning, Janowitz thrust his hand into the briefcase and came out with a yellow ledger sheet penciled with notations.

“I worked through the subcommittee’s administrative expenditures-a real rat’s nest. Anyway, starting in June ’ninety-eight, Rhinelander authorized Gentry to set up an account, something called ‘Hearing Research and Analysis.’ A lot of money went in, but no details of disbursements; no vouchers, no receipts. No documentation of any kind. Rhinelander closed out the account on twenty-four February ’ninety-nine-two days after Gentry bought the farm. No funds returned. Money disappeared.”