David Baldacci - True Blue

“My father was a prosecutor, but he really wanted to be on the other side. So Mason Perry it was. But I go by Mace, not Mason. In fact, I had it legally changed.”

“What does your father think of that?”

“I don’t know. He was murdered when I was a kid.”

“I’m sorry, Mace. Didn’t know.”

“No reason for you to.”

“But weren’t you in-”

“I just got out.”

“Okay.” He put his hands in his pockets and looked awkwardly around while Mace fiddled with the straps on her helmet.

“For what it’s worth, I think you got a raw deal,” he finally said.

“Thanks. For what it’s worth, I think you’re telling the truth.”

“You know, the only reason I believe in reincarnation is because of Mona Danforth.”

“What do you mean?” she said curiously.

“How else can you explain Joseph Stalin coming back as a girl?”

Mace grinned. “You had run-ins with her as a CJA?”

“I wasn’t important enough to actually warrant the lady confronting me head-on. But her lieutenants ground my face into the legal dirt on more than one occasion. And the stories about her around PD are legendary.”

“You up for lunch? We can take turns devising torture methods to use on Mona.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Ben’s Chili Bowl. I’ve been dreaming about Benny’s half-smokes for two years.” She slid off the passenger seat cover. “Hop on.”

“I don’t have a helmet.”

“Then don’t hit your head if you fall off. Pretty sure my insurance lapsed.”

The Ducati sped off a few seconds later.

SO YOU just got out and you’re messing around with a homicide?” They were sitting at the crowded counter in the legendary Ben’s Chili Bowl next to the Lincoln Theater on U Street. Roy bit into his chili dog and licked the mustard off one finger.

“I’m not messing with anything. Just getting acclimated to the outside world.”

Mace slowly inserted her half-smoke in her mouth before chewing it up and tonguing her lips. She slid a handful of chili-cheese fries into a pool of ketchup and stuffed them all in her mouth.

The deeply contented look on her face made Roy grin. “You want a cigarette?”

“Maybe.”

“Prison food really does suck, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does.”

“I still can’t figure who’d want to hurt Diane.”

“Did you really know her all that well?”

“Worked with her for about two years.”

“That doesn’t mean you know her. Ever been to her home?”

“Twice. Once for an office party about three months ago and another time before I joined the firm. She was in charge of associate recruitment.”

“Was it a tough pitch?”

“Not really. Lot more money than I’m worth.”

“But you’re on the billable hours treadmill.”

“It’s not like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I work full days. But at Shilling we don’t have to keep track of billable hours.”

“I thought that’s how lawyers made their money. Like in the Grisham novels.”

Roy shook his head. “We work off retainers. Deep-pocketed, sophisticated clients prefer it that way. We know what the workload looks like and they know what their nut is and they pay it. The firm divvies up the spoils and rewards people for the work they do and the business they bring in. No surprises. And a lot more efficient than sucking clients dry.”

“But what if something unusual came up off the retainer radar?”

“We write the agreements to take that into account. Then we get paid more.”

“Litigation or deals?”

“Deals. Litigation we hand off to other firms, but retain oversight responsibility.”

“So how much do you make?”

“That’s private.”

“Well, if it were public I wouldn’t have to ask you.”

“Like I said, more than I’m worth.”

“My father said that the law was a noble profession.”

“It can be, just not for everyone.”

“Yeah, I didn’t believe him either.”

She finished the rest of her half-smoke in one bite.

Later, as they walked out, he said, “So what are you going to do now?”

“Tonight, I’ve actually got an appointment about a job.”

“Doing what?”

“Research assistant.”

“I don’t see you in a lab wearing a white coat with eyeglasses on a chain.”

“Not that kind. The professor is doing research on urban issues. Apparently in parts of the city I know, or at least knew pretty thoroughly.”

“The crime-ridden ones?”

“Bingo.”

“Who’s the professor?”

“Abraham Altman.”

“Bill Altman’s dad?”

“Who’s Bill Altman?”

“He worked at PD when I was a CJA. He’s older than me, about forty-five. Good lawyer. He’s one of the noble profession guys.”

“I don’t know if they’re related.”

“Abe’s a professor at Georgetown and is out-the-butt wealthy.”

“Then it is the same guy. My sister told me he was like billionaire rich, but hadn’t worked for it.”

“That’s right. So you know him?”

“I helped him out once.”

“But you didn’t know he was rich?”

“That didn’t factor into what I was helping him with. So how did he get his money?”

“Abe’s parents lived in Omaha across the street from a young guy who was starting up his own investment firm. They put all their money with the man.”

“Omaha? You don’t mean?”

“Yep. The Oracle of Omaha, Warren Buffett. Apparently Abe’s parents kept investing with him and the earnings compounded until they were one of the largest shareholders of Berkshire Hathaway. When they died decades later I think it totaled well over a billion dollars even after the tax bite. And it all went to Abe; he was an only child.”

“And here I was wondering how a college professor could afford me.”

“Just tell him you want six figures, full health, paid vacation, and a 401(k) with an employer match. He probably won’t blink an eye.”

“How about you tell him for me?”

“What?”

“You can be my negotiator.”

“You want me to come with you to see Altman?”

“Yeah, I’ll pick you up at six-thirty from your office.”

“I wasn’t going back to my office.”

“Then I’ll pick you up at your house.”

“Condo. And do you always work this fast?”

“I have ever since I lost two years of my life.”

THE D.C. Police Department finally had a first-rate facility to conduct forensic testing, the most important of which was the postmortem. Beth Perry, accompanied by two homicide detectives working the case, walked into the six-floor building located at the intersection of 4th and School streets in Ward Six. In addition to the OCME, or Office of Chief Medical Examiner, the building also housed offices for the Metropolitan Police Department and the Department of Health.

A few minutes later Beth stood next to the chief medical examiner. Lowell Cassell was a small, thin man with a short graying beard and wire-rimmed glasses. Except for the tattoo of a fish on the back of his hand, from his days in the Navy as a submariner, and a small scar from a knife wound on his right cheek suffered when on liberty in Japan while drunk in the Navy, he would’ve looked like a typical member of a college faculty.

The body of Diane Tolliver lay on a metal table in front of them. Beth and the detectives were here to get at least two answers: cause and time of death. The ME took off his glasses, wiped his eyes, and put the spectacles back on. “Fast-tracked the postmortem as you requested.”

“Thanks, Doc. What do you have for me?”