Absolute Power (60 page)

“Where’s Kate?” Jack lay in the back seat, a blanket over him.

“Right now she’s probably being read her rights. Then she’s gonna get booked on a slew of accessory charges for helping you.”

Jack sprung up. “We’ve gotta go back, Seth. I’ll turn myself in. They’ll let her go.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m not kidding, Seth.” Jack was halfway over the front seat.

“I’m not either, Jack. You go back and turn yourself in, that’ll do nothing to help Kate and it’ll snuff out what little shot you’ve got to get your life back to reality.”

“But Kate—”

“I’ll take care of Kate. I’ve already called a buddy at D.C. He’ll be waiting for her. He’s a good guy.”

Jack slumped back down. “Shit.”

Frank opened his window, reached out and flicked the bubble light off and tossed it on the seat beside him.

“What the hell happened?”

Frank looked in his rearview mirror. “I’m not sure. The best I can figure is that Kate picked up a tail somewhere. I was cruising the area. We were going to meet at the Convention Center after she made the drop with you. Heard over my police radio that you had been spotted. I followed the chase over the airwaves, tried to guess where you might go. Got lucky. When I saw you blow out of the alley, I couldn’t believe it. Damn near ran you down. How’s the body by the way?”

“Never better. I ought to do this crap once or twice a year just to keep me limber. Get ready for the Fleeing Felon Olympics.”

Frank chuckled. “You’re still alive and kicking, my friend. Count your blessings. So did you get any nice presents?”

Jack swore under his breath. He had been so busy running from the police that he had never even looked. He took out the packet.

“Got a light?”

Frank flicked on the dome light.

Jack flipped through the photographs.

Frank checked the mirror. “So what do we got?”

“Photos. Of the letter opener, knife, whatever the hell you want to call it.”

“Huh. Not surprising I guess. Can you make out anything?”

Jack looked closely in the poor light. “Not really. You guys must have some gadget that’ll do some good.”

Frank sighed. “I gotta be straight with you, Jack, unless there’s something else we don’t have much of a shot. Even if we can somehow pull something that looks like a print off there who’s to say where it came from? And you can’t do DNA testing on blood from a friggin’ photograph, at least not that I’m aware of.”

“I know that. I didn’t spend four years as a defense counsel picking my ass.”

Seth slowed the car down. They were on Pennsylvania Avenue and the traffic had grown heavier. “So what’s your idea then?”

Jack rubbed back his hair, dug his fingers into his leg until the pain in his knee subsided and then lay down on the seat. “Whoever’s behind all this wanted the letter opener back really bad. Enough to kill you, me, anybody else that got in the way. We’re talking paranoia at its peak.”

“Which fits in with our theory of some big shot with a lot to lose if this comes out. So? They got it back. Where does that leave us, Jack?”

“Luther didn’t make these photos just in case something happened to the original article.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He came back into the country, Seth, remember? We could never figure that one out.”

Frank stopped at a red light. He turned around in his seat.

“Right. He came back. You think you know why?”

Jack carefully sat up in the back seat, keeping his head below the window line. “I think so. Remember I told you that Luther wasn’t the kind of guy to let something like this lie. If he could he’d do something about it.”

“But he did leave the country. At first.”

“I know. Maybe that was his initial plan. Maybe that was his plan all along if the job had gone according to plan. But the fact is he came back. Something made him change his mind and he came back. And he had these photographs.” Jack spread them fanlike.

The light turned green and Frank started up again.

“I’m not getting this, Jack. If he wanted to nail the guy why not just send the stuff in to the police?”

“I think that was his plan, eventually. But he told Edwina Broome that if he told her who he had seen she wouldn’t have believed him. If even she, a close friend, wouldn’t have believed his story, considering he’d have to admit to burglary to convince someone, he probably thought that his credibility was zip.”

“Okay, so he has a credibility problem. Where do the photos come in?”

“Let’s say you’re doing a straight exchange. Cash for a certain item. What’s the hardest part?”

Frank’s reply was immediate. “The payoff. How to get your money without getting killed or caught. You can send instructions later on for the pickup of the item. It’s getting the money that’s tough. That’s why the number of kidnappings have plummeted.”

“So how would you do it?”

Frank thought for a moment. “Since we’re talking about the payoff coming from people who ain’t gonna bring in the police I’d go for speed. Take minimal personal risk, and give yourself time to run.”

“How would you do that?”

“EFT. Electronic fund transfer. A wire. I was involved in a bank embezzlement case when I was in New York. Guy did it all through the wire transfer department at his own bank. You wouldn’t believe the dollars that fly through those places on a daily basis. And you also wouldn’t believe how much stuff gets lost in the shuffle. A smart perp could take a little chunk here and there and by the time they caught it, he’d be long gone. You send your wire instructions. The money is sent out. Only takes a few minutes. Helluva lot better than rummaging through a Dumpster in a park where somebody can take a nice little bead on your head with a cannon.”

“But the sender can presumably trace the wire.”

“Sure. You have to identify the bank it’s going to. ABA routing number, you have to have an account at the bank. All that shit.”

“So, assuming the sender is sophisticated enough, they trace the wire. Then what?”

“Then they can follow the flow of money. They might be able to dig some info on the account. Although no one would be stupid enough to use their own name or Social Security number. Besides, a real smart guy like Whitney would probably have preset instructions in place. Once the funds hit the first bank, bam they get sent out to another place, and then another and another. At some point, the trail probably disappears. It’s instant money after all. Immediately available funds.”

“Fair enough. I’m betting Luther did something just like that.”

Frank carefully scratched around the edges of his bandage. His hat was pulled down tight and the whole thing was greatly uncomfortable. “But what I can’t figure is why do it at all. He didn’t need the money after the Sullivan hit. He could’ve just stayed disappeared. Let the whole thing blow over. After a while they figure he’s permanently retired. You don’t bother me, I don’t bother you.”

“You’re right. He could’ve done that. Retired. Given it up. But he came back, and more than that, he came back and apparently blackmailed whoever he saw kill Christine Sullivan. And if he presumably didn’t do it for money, then why?”

The detective thought for a moment. “To make ’em sweat. To let them know he was out there. With the evidence to destroy them.”

“But evidence he wasn’t sure was enough.”

“Because the perp was so respectable.”

“Right, so what would you do given those facts?”

Frank pulled to the curb and put the car in park. He turned around. “I’d try to get something else on them. That’s what I’d do.”

“How? If you’re blackmailing someone?”

Frank finally threw up his hands. “I give.”

“You said the wire transfer could be traced by the sender.”

“So?”

“So, what about the other way? Receiver back up the line?”

“Goddamned stupid.” Frank momentarily forgot his concussion and slapped his forehead. “Whitney put a tracer on the wire,
going the other way.
The person sending out the money thinks all along that they’re playing cat and mouse with Whitney. They’re the cat, he’s the mouse. He’s hiding, getting ready to run.”

“Only Luther didn’t mention the fact that he was into role reversal. That he was the cat and they were the mouse.”

“And that tracer would eventually lead right to the bad guys, probably no matter how many shields you put up, if they thought to put up any at all. Every wire in this country has to go through the Federal Reserve. You get the wire reference number from the Fed or the sending bank’s wire room, you got something to hang your hat on. Even if Whitney didn’t trace it back, the fact that he received the money, a certain amount, is damaging enough. If he could give that info to the cops with the name of the sender and they check it out . . .”

Jack finished the detective’s thought. “And suddenly the unbelievable becomes very believable. Wire transfers do not lie. Money was sent. If it was a lot of money like I’m sure it was here, then that cannot be explained away. That is pretty damn close to bull’s-eye evidence. He set them up with their own payoff.”

“I just thought of something else, Jack. If Whitney was building a case against these people, then he was eventually planning to go to the police. He was going to just walk in the door and deposit himself and his evidence.”

Jack nodded. “That’s why he needed me. Only they were quick enough to use Kate as a way to ensure his silence. Later they used a bullet to accomplish that.”

“So he was going to turn himself in.”

“Right.”

Frank rubbed his jaw. “You know what I’m thinking?”

Jack answered immediately. “He saw it coming.” The two men looked at each other.

Frank spoke first, the words came out low, almost hushed. “He knew Kate was a setup. And he went anyway. And I thought I was so fucking clever.”

“Probably figured it was the only way he’d ever get to see her again.”

“Shit. I know the guy stole for a living, but I gotta tell you, my respect for him grows by the second.”

“I know what you mean.”

Frank put the car back in gear and pulled off.

“Okay, again, where does all this conjecture leave us?”

Jack shook his head, lay back down. “I’m not sure.”

“I mean so long as we don’t have a clue as to who it is, I’m not sure what we can do.”

Jack exploded back up. “But we do have clues.” He sat back as though all his energy had suddenly evaporated after that one thrust. “I just can’t make any sense out of them.”

The men drove on in silence for a few minutes.

“Jack, I know this sounds funny coming from a policeman, but I think you might want to start considering getting the hell out of here. You got some bucks saved? Maybe
you
should retire early.”

“And what, leave Kate swinging in the wind? If we don’t nail these guys what is she looking at? Ten to fifteen as an accessory? I don’t think so, Seth, not in a million years. They can fry my ass before I let that happen.”

“You’re right. Sorry I brought it up.”

As Seth glanced in his mirror the car next to them tried to do a U-turn directly in front of them. Frank hit the brakes and his car spun sideways, crashing into the curb with a bone-crunching impact. The Kansas license plates on the vehicle that had nearly crashed into them quickly disappeared.

“Stupid tourists. Fucking bastards!” Frank gripped the steering wheel hard, his breath coming in gasps. The shoulder restraint had done its job, but it had dug deeply into his skin. His battered head pounded.

“Fucking bastard.”
Frank yelled again to no one in particular. Then he remembered his passenger and looked anxiously in the back seat.

“Jack, Jack, you okay?”

Jack’s face was pressed up against the door glass. He was conscious; in fact, his eyes were staring at something with great intensity.

“Jack?” Frank undid his seat belt and gripped Jack by the shoulder. “You okay?
Jack!”

Jack looked at Frank and then back out the window. Frank wondered if the impact had relieved his friend of his senses. He automatically searched Jack’s head for bruises until Jack’s hand stopped him and pointed out the window. Frank looked out.

Even his hardened nerves took a jolt. The rear view of the White House filled his entire line of vision.

Jack’s mind raced; images hurtled across like a video montage. The vision of the President pulling back from Jennifer Baldwin, complaining of tennis elbow. Only it had been inflicted with a certain letter opener that had started this whole crazy thing. The unusual interest taken by the President and the Secret Service in Christine Sullivan’s murder. Alan Richmond’s timely appearance at Luther’s arraignment. Led me right to him. That’s what the detective had said their videotaping citizen had reported. Led me right to him. It also explained killers who killed in the middle of an army of law enforcement officers and walked away. Who would stop a Secret Service agent protecting the President? No one. No wonder Luther felt no one would believe him. The President of the United States.

And there had been a significant event right before Luther had returned to the country. Alan Richmond had held a press conference where he had told the public how terrible he felt about the tragic murder of Christine Sullivan. He was probably fucking the man’s wife and somehow she had gotten killed and this slimeball was gaining political dollars showing what a sensitive and good friend he was; a man who would get tough on crime. It had been a tour de force performance. And that was truly what it had been. Nothing about it had been true. It had been broadcast to the world. What would Luther have thought, seeing that? Jack believed he knew. That was why Luther had come back. To settle the score.

All the pieces had been dangling inside Jack’s head just waiting for the right catalyst to come along.

Jack looked back once more at the catalyst.

Directly under the lamplight, Tim Collin again glanced down the street at the minor traffic mishap, but could make out no details in the oncoming swarm of car headlights. Next to him Bill Burton was also peering out. Collin shrugged, and then rolled the window back up on the black sedan. Burton threw his bubble light on top of the car, hit his siren, quickly drove the car through the rear White House gate and tore off in the direction of D.C. Superior Court in pursuit of Jack.