Дэвид Балдаччи - Absolute Power

“You have no tangible physical evidence tying him to the actual crime scene? No prints? No witnesses? Nothing like that?”

Frank hesitated, then decided to answer. “No.”

“Have you been able to trace any of the stuff from the burglary to him?”

“Nothing’s turned up.”

“Ballistics?”

“Negative. One unusable slug and no gun.”

Kate sat back in her chair, more comfortable as the conversation centered on a legal analysis of the case.

“That’s all you’ve got?” Her eyes squinted at him.

He hesitated again, then shrugged. “That’s it.”

“Then you got nothing, Detective. Nothing!”

“I’ve got my instincts and my instincts tell me Luther Whitney was in the house that night and he was in that bedroom. Where he is now is what I want to know.”

“I can’t help you there. That’s the same thing I told your buddy the other night.”

“But you did go to his house that night. Why?”

Kate shrugged. She was determined not to mention her conversation with Jack. Was she withholding evidence? Maybe.

“I don’t know.” That, in part, was true.

“You strike me, Kate, as someone who always knows why she does something.”

Jack’s face flashed across her mind. She angrily pushed it out. “You’d be surprised, Lieutenant.”

Frank ceremoniously closed his notebook and hunched forward.

“I really need your help.”

“For what?”

“This is off the record, unofficial, whatever you want to call it. I’m more interested in results than in legal niceties.”

“Funny thing to tell a state prosecutor.”

“I’m not saying I don’t play by the rules.” Frank finally caved in and pulled out his cigarettes. “All I’m saying is I go for the point of least resistance when I can get it. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“My information is that while you may not be wild about your father, he is still out there pining for you.”

“Who told you that?”

“Jesus I’m a detective. True or not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Godammit, Kate, don’t play fucking games with me. True or not?”

She angrily stabbed out her cigarette. “True! Satisfied?”

“Not yet, but I’m getting there. I’ve got a plan to flush him out, and I’m looking for you to help me.”

“I don’t see that I’m in any position to help you.” Kate knew what was coming next. She could see it in Frank’s eyes.

It took him ten minutes to lay out his plan. She refused three times. A half hour later they were still sitting at the table.

Frank leaned back in his chair and then abruptly lurched forward. “Look, Kate, if you don’t do it, then we don’t have a chance in hell of laying our hands on him. If it’s like you say and we don’t have a case, he goes free. But if he did do it, and we can prove it, then you’ve got to be the last goddamned person in the world that should tell me he should get away with it. Now, if you think I’m wrong about that, I’ll drive you back to your place and forget I ever saw you, and your old man can go right on stealing... and maybe killing.” He stared directly at her.

Her mouth opened but no words came out. Her eyes drifted over his shoulder where a misty image from the past beckoned to her, but then suddenly faded away.

At almost thirty years of age Kate Whitney was far removed from the toddler who giggled as her father twirled her through the air, or the little girl who divulged important secrets to her father she would tell no other. She was all grown up, a mature adult, out on her own for a long time now. On top of that she was an officer of the court, a state prosecutor sworn to uphold the law and the Constitution of the Commonwealth of Virginia. It was her job to ensure that persons who broke those laws were appropriately punished regardless of who they were and regardless of to whom they were related.

And then another image invaded her mind. Her mother watching the door, waiting for him to come home. Wondering if he were okay. Visiting him in prison, making up lists of things to talk to him about, making Kate dress up for those encounters, getting all excited as his release date came closer. As if he were some goddamned hero out saving the world instead of a thief. Jack’s words came back to her, biting hard. He had called her entire life a lie. He expected her to have sympathy for a man who had abandoned her. As if Luther Whitney had been wronged instead of Kate. Well, Jack could go straight to hell. She thanked God she had decided against marrying him. A man who could say those awful things to her did not deserve her. But Luther Whitney deserved everything coming to him. Maybe he hadn’t killed that woman. But maybe he had. It wasn’t her job to make that decision. It was her job to make sure that decision had an opportunity to be made by men and women in a jury box. Her father belonged in prison anyway. At least there he could hurt no one else. There he could ruin no more lives.

And it was with that last thought that she agreed to help deliver her father into the hands of the police.

Frank felt a twinge of guilt as they got up to leave. He had not been entirely truthful with Kate Whitney. In fact, he had downright lied to her about the most critical piece of the case other than the million-dollar question of where Luther Whitney happened to be. He wasn’t pleased with himself right now. Law enforcement people had to occasionally lie, just like everybody else. It didn’t make it any easier to swallow, especially considering the recipient was someone the detective had instantly respected and now heavily pitied.

Kate had placed the call that night; Frank had wanted to waste no time. The voice on the machine stunned her; it was the first time in years she had heard those tones. Calm, efficient, measured like the practiced stride of an infantryman. She actually began to tremble as the tone sounded and it took all her will to summon the simple words that were designed to trap him. She kept reminding herself how cunning he could be. She wanted to see him, wanted to talk to him. As soon as possible. She wondered if the wily old mind would smell a trap, and then she recalled their last face-to-face meeting, and she realized that he would never see it coming. He would never attribute deceit to the little girl who confided in him her most precious information. Even she had to give him that.

It was barely an hour later when the phone rang. As she reached out for it, she wished to God she had never agreed to Frank’s request. Sitting in a restaurant hatching a plan to catch a suspected murderer was quite different from actually participating in a charade designed solely to deliver your father to the authorities.

“Katie.” She sensed the slight break in the voice. A tinge of disbelief blended in.

“Hello, Dad.” She was grateful that the words had come out on their own. At that moment she seemed incapable of articulating the simplest thought.

Her apartment was not good. He could understand that. Too close, too personal. His place, she knew, would be unworkable for obvious reasons. They could meet on neutral grounds, he suggested. Of course they could. She wanted to talk, he certainly wanted to listen. Desperately wanted to listen.

A time was reached, tomorrow, four o’clock, at a small café near her office. At that time of day it would be empty, quiet; they could take their time. He would be there. She was sure nothing short of death would keep him away.

She hung up and called Frank. She gave him the time and the place. Listening to herself it finally dawned on her what she had just done. She could feel everything suddenly giving way and she could not stop it. She flung down the phone and burst into tears; so hard did her body convulse that she slumped to the floor, every muscle twitching, her moans filling the tiny apartment like helium into a balloon; it all threatened to violently explode.