Robert Andrews - A Murder of Justice

“And you killed Pencil’s woman when she came in on you tossing the house,” Jose said.

“Looking for this.” Frank touched the Eject button and held up the cassette.

Atkins stared at it, then into Frank’s eyes.

A chance to top off a career as more than a midlevel agent. Years of watching others catch the brass ring. And then the chance to take out Juan Brooks. To get your portrait in the director’s corridor. What would have happened, Brian Atkins, if you hadn’t taken the deal?

Atkins finally spoke. “We’ve been in this business a long time, the three of us,” he said, talking like he’d just joined two friends at a bar.

“Yes,” Frank said, “yes, we have.”

“They want us to clean the sewers for them.” Atkins spoke with a mix of sadness and resentment. “And we do. We go about it the best way we know how. We make a profession of it… cleaning the sewers. And sometimes… sometimes in the sewers one finds a diamond in the shit.”

Slowly Atkins got to his feet. Silently, he held his hands out. Frank locked on the cuffs.

“You’re going to have to make a helluva case,” Atkins said in an almost jovial, professional manner.

“I think we have enough, don’t you?” Frank was working to be equally professional about it.

“You got most of it down,” Atkins admitted.

“Most?”

Atkins grinned as if enjoying a private joke. He shook his head. “Most,” he repeated, adding, “except… I didn’t shoot Skeeter.”

With difficulty, Frederick Rhinelander managed a welcoming smile. “Mayor Tompkins!”

Tompkins nodded curtly and, without invitation, took his seat in one of the chairs facing Rhinelander’s desk. Tompkins held a leather portfolio in his lap.

Rhinelander looked past the mayor to Marge, who was leaving. Rhinelander wanted her to turn so he could send the private eye-signal to extract him after a minute or two. But she closed the door behind herself without a backward glance.

The unhappy congressman turned his attention to Tompkins. He cleared his throat. “The trial… a shock… Brian Atkins.” Rhinelander shook his head and got a profoundly perplexed look. “Who would have thought?”

Tompkins didn’t answer right away, and his silence and stony gaze intensified Rhinelander’s sense of dread.

“Who would have thought?” Rhinelander repeated.

“You should have thought, Mr. Chairman.” Tompkins’s tone was that of a priest administering last rites.

Rhinelander’s mouth worked silently through several cycles. “Should have thought what?” he finally managed.

“Oh,” Tompkins said, “you should have come out with the truth.”

Rhinelander stared speechlessly.

“You see,” Tompkins continued, “Kevin Gentry was working for you when he began investigating Skeeter Hodges’s operation.”

“But,” Rhinelander protested, “I didn’t know everything Gentry was doing.”

“You knew he had recruited an informant inside Skeeter’s organization, and you knew he was paying that informant.”

“No!” Rhinelander’s voice rose.

“Yes.” Tompkins said quietly. He reached inside his portfolio for a sheaf of papers, which he tossed onto Rhinelander’s desk. “Photocopies of payment authorizations. A hundred and twenty thousand dollars in subcommittee payments to Martin Osmond.”

Rhinelander made no move toward the papers, yet eyed them as if a snake had suddenly materialized on his desk.

“You’ll find your signature on each payment authorization.”

Rhinelander started to say something, but Tompkins held up a restraining hand. “The original authorizations have fingerprints on them… yours.”

Struggling for composure, Rhinelander went on the offensive. “So I signed them. So Gentry was conducting an investigation. So what?”

“So, I suspect that if an energetic investigator followed the trail far enough, he would find that you told Brian Atkins about Gentry’s recruitment. And from there Atkins told Skeeter Hodges, and that in turn led to the murders of Gentry and Osmond.”

“No one is going to investigate a congressional committee,” Rhinelander said weakly.

“And the sun won’t rise tomorrow.” Tompkins laughed derisively. “Wake up, Mr. Chairman. Never underestimate the lure of a Pulitzer Prize. The newspapers in this town have brought down bigger men than you.”

Rhinelander was breathing deeply, and his face had taken on a sallow bluish tint.

“And don’t think other congressional committees wouldn’t hesitate to get some prime TV time,” Tompkins continued. “Such as the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, chaired by Senator Daniel Dugan Patterson. Coincidentally, I had breakfast with him this morning. He asked me to remind you of his deepest regard for Kevin Gentry.”

Rhinelander sat motionless, drained of resistance. “What do you want, Tompkins?”

“I want your resignation from Congress.”

Incredulity, then fear flashed across Rhinelander’s face.

“A deal!” he said, with a burst of desperation-fueled energy. Words came in a tumbling frenzy as he upended the pork barrel. “You want the education plus-up? The new sewage plant? Bond guarantees for building those clinics? Shelters for…”

Tompkins stood and looked down on Rhinelander with contempt.

“No deal, Rhinelander. I want you out of my town.”

Jose pushed open the door to the office, Frank close behind.

Feet on Frank’s desk, Leon Janowitz sat cocked back in Frank’s chair. With an easy motion, he threw. The third dart marked a solid single eighteen.

Janowitz turned and grinned. He held up his prosthetic throwing hand and wriggled the lifelike fingers.

“The Bionic Darter.”

He tilted forward and stood up. “Welcome back. I hear you two got Atkins a permanent room in the gray-bar hotel.”

Jose shut the door. “You’re supposed to be on convalescent leave.”

“That was a helluva trial. I had to come in and welcome the conquering heroes.”

Frank hung up his jacket and loosened his tie. “We’d still be working it if it weren’t for you.”

Janowitz smiled modestly. “Luck.”

“Plans?”

“The mayor offered to put in a word or two up in New York. One of the investment firms that handles the District pension plan.”

“That’s good of him.”

“The least he could do,” Janowitz bantered. “After he shot my chance to go to work for Frederick Rhinelander.”

“So it’s the Big Apple,” Jose said.

“No. I turned him down.”

“Oh?” Frank asked.

“Turned him down on the New York thing,” Janowitz amended. “Asked him if he could use a one-armed detective.”

“What’d he say?” Jose asked.

“Said I’d have to talk with you guys… said that you’ll be doing the hiring.”

The phone rang before either Jose or Frank could follow up.

Janowitz answered, listened, eyeing Jose, then Frank. He stood straighter. “They’re both here, sir… Who?… Where?… Yes, sir, I’ll tell them.”

Janowitz hung up. “Your dad,” he said to Jose. “Said he’s at Virginia Osmond’s. Says you and Frank get over.”

A somber Titus Phelps answered the door.

“Back here.” And he led Frank and Jose to Virginia Osmond’s bedroom.

A fleshy, medicinal odor filled the small room. Eyes closed, Virginia Osmond lay under a patterned quilt. The months had ravaged her: her hands had wasted away to bony claws, and a green undertone dimmed her rich brown skin. A middle-aged nurse who’d been sitting bedside got up when the three men entered, and left after patting Osmond’s cheek.

Photographs in silver and gold frames stood on a night table. A high school graduation picture of Martin Osmond in cap and gown. A fading studio portrait of a handsome man in uniform, who Frank assumed had been Virginia Osmond’s husband. A picture of a younger Osmond with a still-younger woman standing on the steps of the Bayless Place house. The younger woman held a baby.