Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

The night had receded completely from his thoughts, and resurfaced only under the pressure of false accusations and the ordeal of the trial.

Brett’s last words were: “I couldn’t budge his story, Harry. Furlough papers, expense vouchers for gas and motels, they all checked out, dates, amounts, everything.”

“Where’s Taggart now?”

“I’m not sure. He left immediately after he testified.”

“Can you get Burt Wilger to call me here, Brett? Can you do that?”

“Yes, I’ll find him.”

“He can reach me in Dr. Kohl’s office or Jennifer Easton s room. She’s unconscious now, Brett, but she knows something, she tried to tell me. I want to give her that chance. Tell Shana, will you? How is she?”

“Sick of their lies, of listening to them. We all are, goddammit. But she’s okay, Harry. At least I think she is.”

“All right... well, tell Wilger to call me as soon as he can.”

Victoria Kim stood at a receptionist’s desk looking through her briefcase. She smiled impersonally at Selby. “Did the Cadle dossier help?”

“The health club in particular. Thanks.”

She nodded toward the inner office, where Senator Lester was pacing. “Selby,” Lester said, “what did the Easton girl tell you? What did she want to talk to you about?”

“She told me, Senator, that my brother is dead.”

“How? When did it happen?”

“She couldn’t say.”

“Understandable, her confusion, I mean. She’s sedated, must be in pain. But what else did she say?”

“Not much more than that, Senator.”

“According to the police,” Lester said, “she jumped from her terrace, or stumbled and fell. Kohl tells me her blood shows an alcohol content of .14. Did she say whether she was alone up there?”

“No.”

“Somebody could have been with her. The police checked the whole place, the lobby guards and so forth, but there’s a self-service elevator in the rear of the building that goes from the penthouse down to the garage.” Lester stopped pacing and stared at Selby. “You’re the only person she’s talked to, only person she would talk to. What’s your guess? Was it a suicide attempt, a drunken accident, or does someone want her dead?”

Selby said evenly, “She’s not a model, she’s not a photographer and she wasn’t a close friend of my brother’s. But she is Simon Correll’s mistress. You didn’t mention that when we were chatting on about jet lag and Deep Throat and my father’s diaries.”

Lester shrugged. “I could tell you I don’t know who the hell she is, but you wouldn’t believe that, of course.”

“Why should I?”

“Now, goddammit, Selby, hear me out.” Wrinkled grooves scored the sides of Lester’s mouth, adding to the appearance of tension. He was pacing again. “Order us up some coffee, okay, Vickie? I haven’t lied to you, Selby. I also haven’t told you everything. There’s a difference... all right, here’s how I got into the picture. The Harlequin investigation was dumped in my lap when Mark Rowan died. I was the senior member of the committee. I’d wanted to get my hands on those files for a long time. I’ve been on national television telling not very interested audiences that it’s in the national interest. Well, in a way, I suppose that’s an exaggeration. Unless you believe that oil and steel and billion-dollar lines of credit grow under cabbage leaves, you know that conglomerates are a fact of life. The Correll Group is no exception. Anyway, when they acquired Harlequin that became part of our files. The Correll buy-out of Harlequin was preceded by a fraudulent inflation of company s stock, a run-up accomplished by forged receipts from the Correll people for synthetics, epoxies, drilling components, other products delivered — but only on paper. Harlequin’s cash position escalated at a cyclical rate. George Thomson resigned and sold off his stock before the windfall. Six months later he bought back his company, with stock options, at an enormous profit. A six-month hiatus satisfied the Securities and Exchange Commission but it didn’t satisfy my committee. It was a transparent insider deal. We wanted to know why. I’m being as frank as I can, Selby,” the senator went on. “We’ve got a lot of links, but no chains. We do know now somebody didn’t want me to talk to your father. The Harlequin jet flew to Oakland, California, the day he was killed. Our people found that flight plan in company records. George Thomson and a Sergeant Ledge were the passengers on that flight. Our guess is they drove to Truckee for a meeting with Jonas Selby. Maybe Jarrell was on hand. We don t know that. Your father says he was expecting someone, it could have been George Thomson and Ledge. Maybe they shot and killed him. If they did, we haven’t been able to prove it.

“But our investigators saw the tip of one iceberg after another. More links, stretching from Van Pelt in Brussels to a Mies Kraager in South Africa. And some people in Britain and the Argentine.”

Vickie Kim brought in a tray of coffee and placed it on Kohl’s desk. “Black, Selby. Right?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“That’s all I’m authorized to tell you, Selby.” Lester accepted a cup from Vickie. “My people, my investigators, turned out to be on a collision course with an ongoing inquiry by the State Department. In certain instances, State takes precedence. That means I back off. The amount of money Simon Correll represents is like a whirlpool that can suck under legislative committees, even whole countries for that matter. State’s team is headed by an old hand named Ferdinand Bittermank, who’s got his own leads to Correll. And he’s a friend of Bishop Waring. But that aside... he’s asked me for just one thing out of this meeting, something only you can help with, Selby. Bittermank wants to know whether what happened to Easton was accidental or deliberate. Did she say anything? Suicide would be the preferable alternative to murder here...”

A phone rang in the reception room. Vickie came to the door. “It’s for you, Selby,” she said. “He wouldn’t give his name.”

Selby took the call on Kohl’s phone.

“Harry?” It was Burt Wilger. “What’s up?”

“Do you know where Derek Taggart is?”

“No, not right now.”

“Can you find him?”

“I heard at the Division he’s scheduled to fly out of Philadelphia on Lufthansa around two-thirty.”

Selby looked at his watch. Almost noon. “Can’t we stop him, Burt? If Taggart leaves today, it’s doubtful he’ll ever be brought back. He’s the linchpin of Thomson’s defense, right?”

“In a way, yes,” Wilger said. “Santos perjured himself on the time and the pick-up. Thomson’s mother supported those lies. But Ace Taggart explained away the fingerprints at the scene. And I don’t have to remind you they’ve got Goldie Boy in the wings, Harry. They’ll still want to discount Shana’s positive identification of Thomson.”

“Burt, given the risk Taggart’s taking, his whole career, doesn’t it make sense that he had to be shown exactly how Thomson can and will protect him?”

“I suppose...”

“But you can’t stop Taggart from leaving for Germany this afternoon?”

“You said that, I didn’t. I’ll be at the airport when he gets there, Harry. It’s a question of holding a suspect for interfering with an officer and resisting arrest. It’s also a question of me losing a pension. But don’t worry, Ace Taggart won’t be flying off to any Teutonic blow job, pal. I’ll be in touch.”

As Selby hung up, Dr. Kohl appeared in the doorway. “Miss Easton is conscious, and she’s asking for Mr. Selby. We don’t have much time, I’m afraid.”

In Superior Court Nine, Oliver Jessup sat in the witness chair, his strange, milky eyes focused on an invisible spot above Shana’s head. The preacher, also known as Goldie Boy, answered Davic’s questions in measured tones, but his controlled voice threatened to soar at any moment toward more accustomed evangelical notes. His impassive face, the blank eyes, the controlled voice, were like the steel buckle and canvas straps of a self-imposed straitjacket.