Дэвид Балдаччи - Absolute Power

“Maybe, maybe not.” Frank eyed the way she played with the chain. He wasn’t really there to gather information. He probably knew more about her father than she did. But he had to ease her into the trap. Because, as he thought about it, that’s what it was, a trap. For someone else. Besides, what did she care? It made his conscience feel better anyway, to think that she didn’t really care at all.

Frank continued. “But I’ll tell you some interesting coincidences. We have your father’s print on a cleaning van that we know was at the Sullivan place a short time before the murder. The fact that we know he was in the house, and in the very bedroom where the crime was committed, a short time before. We have two eyewitnesses to that. And the fact that he used an alias and a false address and Social Security number when applying for the job. And the fact that he seems to have disappeared.”

She looked at him. “He had priors. He probably didn’t use his real info because he didn’t think he’d get the job otherwise. You say he’s disappeared. Did you ever think he just may have taken a trip? Even ex-cons go on vacation.” Her instincts as a trial lawyer found her defending her father, an unbelievable thought. A sharp pain shot through her head. She rubbed at it distractedly.

“Another interesting discovery is that your father was good friends with Wanda Broome, Christine Sullivan’s personal maid and confidante. I checked. Your father and Wanda Broome had the same parole officer back in Philly. According to certain sources, they’ve apparently kept in touch all these years. My bet is Wanda knew about the safe in the bedroom.”

“So?”

“So I talked with Wanda Broome. It was obvious she knew more about the matter than she was letting on.”

“So why aren’t you talking to her instead of sitting here with me? Maybe she committed the crime herself.”

“She was out of the country at the time, a hundred witnesses to that effect.” Frank took a moment to clear his throat. “And I can’t talk to her anymore because she committed suicide. Left behind a note that said she was sorry.”

Kate stood up and looked blankly out the window. Bands of cold seemed to close around her.

Frank waited for some minutes, staring at her, wondering how she must feel, listening to the growing evidence against the man who had helped create her and then apparently abandoned her. Was there love left there? The detective hoped not. At least his professional side did. As a father of three, he wondered if that feeling could ever really be killed, despite the worst.

“Ms. Whitney, are you all right?”

Kate slowly turned away from the window. “Can we go out somewhere? I haven’t eaten for a while and there’s no food here.”

They ended up at the same place Jack and Luther had met. Frank started to devour his food, but Kate touched nothing.

He looked across at her plate. “You picked the place, I figured you must like the food. You know, nothing personal, but you could stand to put on some weight.”

Kate finally looked at him, a half-smile breaking through. “So you’re a health consultant on the side?”

“I’ve got three daughters. My oldest is sixteen going on forty and she swears she’s obese. I mean she probably goes one-ten and she’s almost as tall as me. If she didn’t have such rosy cheeks, I’d think she was anorexic. And my wife, Jesus, she’s always on some diet or another. I mean, I think she looks great, but there must be some perfect shape out there that every woman strives for.”

“Every woman except me.”

“Eat your food. That’s what I tell my daughters every day. Eat. ”

Kate picked up her fork and managed to consume half her meal. As she sipped her tea and Frank fingered a big trough of coffee, they both settled themselves in as the discussion wound its way back to Luther Whitney.

“If you think you have enough to pick him up, why don’t you?”

Frank shook his head, put down his coffee. “You were at his house. He’s been gone for a while. Probably blew out right after it happened.”

“ If he did it. Your party bag is all circumstantial. That doesn’t come close to being beyond a reasonable doubt, Lieutenant.”

“Can I play straight with you, Kate? Can I call you Kate, by the way?”

She nodded.

Frank put his elbows on the table, stared across at her. “All bullshit outside, why do you find it so hard to believe that your old man popped this woman? He’s been convicted of three prior felonies. The guy’s apparently lived on the edge his whole life. He’s been questioned in about a dozen other burglaries, but they couldn’t pin anything on him. He’s a career crim. You know the animal. Human life doesn’t mean shit to them.”

Kate finished sipping her tea before answering. A career criminal? Of course her father was that. She had no doubt he had continued to commit crimes all these years. It was in his damn blood apparently. Like a coke addict. Incurable.

“He doesn’t kill people,” she said quietly. “He may steal from them, but he’s never hurt anyone. It’s not the way he does things.”

What had Jack said specifically? Her father was scared. Terrified so badly he was sick to his stomach. The police had never scared her father. But if he had killed the woman? Perhaps just a reflex, the gun fired and the bullet ended Christine Sullivan’s life. All that would have transpired in a matter of seconds. No time to think. Just to act. To prevent him from going to prison for good. It was all possible. If her father had killed the woman, he would be scared, he would be terrified, he would be sick.

Through all the pain, the most vivid memories she held of her father was his gentleness. His big hands encircling hers. He was quiet to the point of rudeness with most people. But with her he talked. To her, not above her, or below her as most adults managed to do. He would speak to her about things a little girl was interested in. Flowers and birds and the way the sky changed color all of a sudden. And about dresses and hair ribbons and wobbly teeth that she constantly fiddled with. They were brief but sincere moments, between a father and daughter, smashed between the sudden violence of convictions, of prison. But as she had grown up those talks somehow became gibberish, as the occupation of the man behind the funny faces and the big but gentle fingers came to dominate her life, her perspective of Luther Whitney.

How could she say that this man could not kill?

Frank watched the eyes as they blinked rapidly. There was a crack there. He could feel it.

Frank fingered his spoon as he scooped more sugar into his coffee. “So you’re saying it’s inconceivable that your father killed this woman? I thought you said the two of you hadn’t really kept in touch?”

Kate jolted back from her musings. “I’m not saying it’s inconceivable. I’m just saying...” She was really blowing this. She had interviewed hundreds of witnesses and she couldn’t remember one who had performed as badly as she was right now.

She hurriedly rummaged through her purse for her pack of Benson & Hedges. The sight of the cigarette made Frank reach for his pack of Juicy Fruit.

She blew the smoke away from him, eyed the gum. “Trying to quit too?” A flicker of amusement crossed her face.

“Trying and failing. You were saying?”

She slowly exhaled the smoke, willed her nerves to cease their cartwheels. “Like I told you, I haven’t seen my father in years. We aren’t close. It’s possible that he could have killed the woman. Anything’s possible. But that doesn’t work in court. Evidence works in court. Period.”

“And we’re attempting to build a case against him.”