Дэвид Балдаччи - Absolute Power

There were many facts that he was sifting through, and his mind worked rapidly. A CAT scan done at his last physical evidenced a brain with the youth and vigor of a twenty-year-old. And that splendid mind was now working toward the few undeniable facts that were leading its owner to a conclusion that would amaze even him.

He picked up the phone on his desk and looked around the highly polished cherry paneling of his study as he dialed the number.

In a moment he had been put through to Seth Frank. Unimpressed with the man early on, Sullivan had grudgingly given him his due with the arrest of Luther Whitney. But now?

“Yes sir, Mr. Sullivan, what can I do for you?”

Sullivan cleared his throat. His voice had a humble note to it that was as far from his customary tone as was possible. Even Frank picked up on it.

“I had a question regarding the information I had given you earlier about Christy, um, Christine’s sudden departure on the way to the airport for our trip to the estate in Barbados.”

Frank sat up in his chair. “Did you remember something else?”

“Actually I wanted to verify whether I had given you any reason for her not going on the trip.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Well, I suppose my age is catching up with me. My bones aren’t the only thing deteriorating I’m afraid, though I don’t care to admit it to myself much less anyone else, Lieutenant. More to the point I thought I had told you she had taken ill and had to return home. I mean I thought that’s what I had told you in any event.”

Seth took a moment to pull his file, although he was certain of the answer. “You said she didn’t give a reason, Mr. Sullivan. Just said she wasn’t going, and you didn’t push it.”

“Ah. Well I guess that settles that. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Frank stood up. One hand lifted a cup of coffee and then put it back down. “Wait a minute, Mr. Sullivan. Why would you think you had told me that your wife was sick? Was she sick?”

Sullivan paused before answering. “Actually no, Lieutenant Frank. She was remarkably healthy. To answer your question, I believe I thought I had told you differently because, to tell you the truth, aside from my occasional memory lapses, I think I’ve spent these last two months trying to convince myself that Christine staying behind was for some reason. Any reason, I guess.”

“Sir?”

“To, in my own mind, justify what happened to her. To not let it be just a damn coincidence. I don’t believe in fate, Lieutenant. For me, everything has a purpose. I suppose I wanted to convince myself that Christine’s staying behind did too.”

“Oh.”

“I apologize if an old man’s foolishness has caused you any unnecessary perplexity.”

“Not at all, Mr. Sullivan.”

When Frank hung up the phone he ended up staring at the wall for a good five minutes. Now what the hell had all that been about?

Following up on Bill Burton’s suggestion, Frank had made discreet inquiries into Sullivan having possibly hired a contract killer to make sure his wife’s presumed killer never stood trial. Those inquiries were going slow; one had to tread cautiously in these types of waters. Frank had a career to think about, a family to support, and men like Walter Sullivan had an army of very influential friends in government who could make the detective’s professional life miserable.

The day after the slug had ended Luther Whitney’s life, Seth Frank had made immediate inquiries as to Sullivan’s whereabouts at the time although Frank was under no delusions that the old man had pulled the trigger on the cannon that had propelled Luther Whitney into the hereafter. But murder for hire was a particularly wicked deed, and although perhaps the detective could understand the billionaire’s motivation, the fact was he had probably gunned down the wrong guy. This latest conversation with Sullivan left him with even more questions and no new answers.

Seth Frank sat down and wondered briefly if this nightmare of a case would ever leave his watch.

A half hour later Sullivan placed a call to a local television station of which he happened to own a controlling interest. His request was simple and to the point. In an hour a package was delivered to his front door. After one of the staff handed him the square box he ushered her out, shut and locked the door to the room he was in, and pressed a small lever on a portion of the wall. The small panel slid down silently, revealing a very sophisticated audiocassette tape deck. Behind most of this wall rested a cutting-edge home theater system that Christine Sullivan had seen in a magazine one day and simply had to have, although her tastes in video entertainment ventured from pornography to soap opera, neither of which in any way taxed the electronic muscle of this monolithic system.

Sullivan carefully unwrapped the audiocassette and placed it inside the tape deck; the door automatically closed and the tape began to play. Sullivan listened for a few moments. When he heard the words, no emotion was revealed on his intricate features. He had expected to hear what he had. He had outright lied to the detective. His memory was excellent. If only his sight were half as good. For he had indeed been a blind idiot to this reality. The emotion that finally penetrated the inscrutable line of his mouth and the deep gray of his introspective eyes was anger. Anger like he had not felt in a long time. Not even at Christy’s death. A fury that would only be relieved through action. And Sullivan firmly believed that your first salvo should be your last because that meant that either you got them, or they got you, and he was not in the habit of losing.

The funeral was conducted in humble surroundings and with only three people other than the priest in attendance. It had taken the utmost secrecy to avoid the obvious assaults by the armies of journalists. Luther’s casket was closed. The remains of violent trauma to the head was not the lasting impression loved ones typically wanted to carry away with them.

Neither the background of the deceased nor the means of his demise mattered the slightest to the man of God, and the service was appropriately reverent. The drive to the nearby cemetery was short as was the procession. Jack and Kate drove over together; behind them was Seth Frank. He had sat in the back of the church, awkward and uncomfortable. Jack had shaken his hand; Kate had refused to acknowledge him.

Jack leaned against his car and watched Kate as she sat in the fold-up metal chair next to the earthen pit that had just accepted her father. Jack looked around. This cemetery was not home to grandiose monuments of tribute. It was rare to see a grave marker sticking up, most were the in-the-dirt variety; a dark rectangle with its owner’s name, dates of entry and exit from the living. A few said “in loving memory,” most ventured no parting remarks.

Jack looked back at Kate and he saw Seth Frank start toward her, then the detective apparently thought better of his decision and made his way quietly over to the Lexus.

Frank took off his sunglasses. “Nice service.”

Jack shrugged. “Nothing’s really nice about getting killed.” Though miles away from Kate’s position on the issue, he had not entirely forgiven Frank for allowing Luther Whitney to die like that.

Frank fell silent, studied the finish on the sedan, drew out a cigarette, then changed his mind. He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared off.

He had attended Luther Whitney’s autopsy. The transient cavitation had been immense. The shock waves had dissipated radially out from the bullet track to such an extent that fully half the man’s brain had literally disintegrated. And it was no small wonder. The slug they’d dug out of the seat of the police van was an eye-popper. A .460 Magnum round. The Medical Examiner had told Frank that type of ammo was often used for sports hunting, big game in particular. And it was no wonder, since the round had slammed into Whitney with stopping power equal to over eight thousand pounds of energy. It was like someone had dropped a plane on the poor guy. Big game hunting. Frank shook his head wearily. And it had happened on his watch, right in front of him in fact. He would never forget that.