Dead End (17 page)

‘I suppose so.'

‘Don't gloat,' advised Jackson. ‘You won but Rebecca's dead.'

‘You think I need reminding?'

‘And be careful as you go,' continued the lawyer, ignoring the retort. ‘We just humiliated a whole police department who've now been put under investigation themselves and stand a good chance of being humiliated a lot more. The officer who catches you drunk at the wheel or even parking illegally goes straight on to the roll of honour, with extra laurel leaves.'

‘I don't drive drunk but I hear what you're saying.'

They were overwhelmed by the waiting media on the courtroom steps and this time Jackson shuffled back into second place. Responding to the questions he could select from the babble, Parnell said he was glad the matter was now in the hands of the FBI and looked forward to an early arrest of the people who'd murdered Rebecca and tried to incriminate him. He had no idea how the AF209 flight number came to be in Rebecca Lang's purse, but part of her job at Dubette had been to liaise with their overseas subsidiaries, and he believed that was the connection. He would, of course, cooperate in every way demanded by the FBI. He had not yet decided whether to sue Metro DC police. It had been a frightening experience, made the more horrifying by Rebecca's death. He hesitated at a repeated, once-ignored question before saying that he had hoped to marry Rebecca and that he was devastated by her killing. He was anxious to return to his job and his department as soon as possible. It was too early for them to expect that he or those working with him would have made any genetic breakthroughs. Of course they were hopeful, expectant even. He couldn't give any details of what the results might be. Parnell was grateful for Jackson's pressure at his elbow, moving forward to the lawyer's waiting car, shaking his head against any more questions.

Inside the vehicle, Jackson said: ‘Where do you want to go?'

He didn't know, Parnell thought. It was a brief but unsettling moment of mental blankness. Hurriedly, recovering, he said: ‘The nearest Hertz rental outlet. I've got some catching up to do.'

As he drove, Jackson said: ‘You've got all my numbers. We'll obviously need to keep in touch. Don't forget what I said about watching your back.'

‘I won't.' How absurd, unreal, to be seriously getting – and intending to take – a warning like that in the supposed land of freedom and law!

‘Any time, day or night.'

‘I've got it.'

Parnell hesitated at hiring another Toyota but irritably dismissed the hesitation. It was the car with which he was most familiar and which it therefore made sense for him to drive. On his way back to the apartment, he remembered the gaping-mouthed answering machine and stopped for a replacement recording loop. He approached Washington Circle cautiously, unwilling to face another media gauntlet, relieved that there wasn't one. Inside the apartment he reloaded the machine and remained reflectively by the telephone. It was already four thirty and it would probably take him an hour to get to McLean as the rush hour built up. There was no ongoing work he could usefully do until the following day – maybe not even then – so it was pointless contemplating the 17 mile journey. And he hadn't been talking about Dubette when he'd told the lawyer he had a lot of catching up to do.

It was Dubette he called, though, smiling at Kathy Richardson's immediate concern when she recognized his voice, before he'd said who he was. He assured her he was fine, that everything was fine, and got himself transferred to Beverley Jackson.

She said at once: ‘We've been hearing a lot on the radio.'

‘I'm OK. I only wish Rebecca was.'

‘They're talking murder on the radio …'

‘That's what it's being investigated as. Thanks for what you did, getting Barry. He's a hell of a lawyer. I didn't know, not when I called.'

‘Anything more I can do?' asked the woman.

‘Get me put over to Dwight Newton. I'll be in tomorrow morning.'

‘Sure you're OK?' persisted Beverley.

No, thought Parnell, I'm not sure at all. He said: ‘I told you, I'm fine. Spread the word I'll be in first thing tomorrow.'

Newton's secretary said the vice president wasn't there and wouldn't be in until the following afternoon. She'd mark his diary for Parnell to be his first appointment, and was glad things had worked out as well as she understood they had, but it was awful about Rebecca.

The urgent introductory music to Live at 5 was playing when Parnell switched on the television to be confronted by his own oddly averted face, a blown-up still photograph. When the voice-over commentary referred to murder, his picture was replaced by one of Rebecca Lang, which he guessed to be a Dubette's personnel file print. She looked startled almost, nervous of the camera. What about his appearance! Parnell hadn't been conscious of television cameras inside the court, which he thought he would have been. Judge Wilson's concluding speech was given in full, with Parnell half in shot, and he was curious at his own subdued appearance, which persisted outside with the impromptu press conference. Into his mind came the brief blankness in Jackson's car, and Parnell acknowledged that how he looked on film was how he'd felt, frightened, needing someone else's support. Which was as much a surprise as his earlier self-acknowledgement of being frightened, because Parnell had always been sure he could climb the highest mountain and swim the widest oceans all by himself: he wasn't used to – and most certainly didn't like – the obvious loss of the confidence he'd always known and taken for granted. Barbara Spacey, Dubette's chain-smoking psychologist, would doubtless argue it was nothing about which to be ashamed or discomfited. But he was. The segment ended still on the courthouse steps, with a reporter restating the FBI's official confirmation that they were conducting their enquiry as a murder investigation. The reporter also recounted the official refusal of Metro DC police to respond to the judge's criticism of its competence, over shots of Peter Bellamy and Helen Montgomery hurriedly leaving the rear of their headquarters building, Bellamy holding his hat to shield his face.

‘You're all over the papers. And on television. And you look awful!' said his mother.

‘I was afraid I would be.'

‘What the hell's …?'

‘It's OK,' stopped Parnell, not wanting another familiar phrase. ‘I've been cleared by the court of being in any way connected with Rebecca's death. Someone tried to set me up.'

‘What about terrorism?' demanded the woman, in England.

‘It's an FBI investigation now.'

‘Why should anyone want to set you up?
Who
would want to set you up?'

‘I don't know. No one knows, not yet.'

‘Who's Rebecca Lang?'

‘A girl I've been seeing.'

‘They're saying you were going to get married!'

‘We were moving in together.'

‘I think I should come out.'

‘No,' refused Parnell. ‘There's no need. I'm all right now. I've got a good lawyer.'

‘Was this girl murdered?'

‘We think so.'

‘And they tried to get you accused of it?'

‘Yes.'

‘Get the hell out of there! Come home.'

‘I certainly can't – won't – do that. The FBI want me here.'

‘You sure you're not in any danger?'

No, thought Parnell, who hadn't been able to think what sort of situation he was in. ‘Absolutely positive.'

‘Keep in touch. I'll start rearranging my diary, just in case.'

‘I don't want you to come over.'

‘Because you think there
is
danger?'

‘Because I don't want you to get caught up in the nonsense of it.'

‘We'll see.'

‘I'll keep in touch. I promise.'

‘You'd better.'

Parnell timed his leaving the apartment to arrive in Wisconsin Avenue at the moment the restaurant opened, not thinking until he was passing the Four Seasons hotel, actually into Georgetown, that in the circumstances it might be shut. Having got that close, he continued anyway, the blackness of the restaurant the moment he turned up from M Street answering the unasked question. Parnell accepted that the lights at the rear could be part of a burglary precaution but ignored the closed sign and repeatedly sounded the bell, as well as knocking against the glass and rattling the door, encouraged by what he thought to be a sound from within. Finally a door opened at the back and an accented voice shouted that they were closed and couldn't he read, before Rebecca's uncle looked out and saw him. For the first few seconds Parnell believed Giorgio Falcone was still going to turn him away. Instead the man finally picked his way through the already-laid tables, opened the door and pulled Parnell in, arms around his shoulders, mumbling words Parnell couldn't understand. From the way he was shaking, Parnell realized the older man was crying.

Parnell was led back into the kitchen, where the chef he'd only ever known as Ciro and an assistant he'd never met, both dressed for work, were sitting at a table on which were already stacked three dirty plates next to a pot of remaining spaghetti. There was also one empty wine bottle and another half full.

Falcone wiped his eyes, unembarrassed, and said something in Italian and the two men stood, awkwardly, to offer their hands, which Parnell shook, self-consciously. Just as awkwardly, the chef said: ‘We saw you on television. You cried.'

‘Almost,' admitted Parnell, wishing as he spoke that he hadn't qualified it.

The other man pulled another chair up for Parnell. All three waited until he sat down before sitting themselves.

Falcone said: ‘Who did it?'

‘No one knows, not yet,' said Parnell.

‘They'll get him though? Catch the pig-fucker?'

Parnell hesitated, deciding against saying he didn't know. Instead he said: ‘Yes, they'll get him.'

‘You know what happened?'

‘Only what the police who arrested me told me.'

‘Pig-fuckers too,' said Ciro. ‘Have you eaten?'

He hadn't, not since the soft-shelled crabs, Parnell remembered. ‘I'm not hungry.' It didn't seem right to eat – to want to eat, although he suddenly accepted that he did desperately.

Unasked, the other man poured Parnell a glass of Chianti.

‘What did they tell you?' asked Falcone.

Parnell hesitated, looking at the red-eyed man. ‘There's a canyon, a gorge, in Rock Creek Park. Rebecca's car was hit, forced over a protective barrier.'

Falcone's throat began to work but he swallowed against more tears. ‘Would she have …?'

‘No,' stopped Parnell. ‘No, I don't think so.' He didn't know if she would have suffered from her injuries before dying, he realized.

The chef muttered something in Italian and crossed himself.

Falcone said: ‘Why did they accuse you?'

‘They thought they had evidence, but they were wrong.' Parnell sipped his wine, aware of the hollowness of his echoing stomach.

‘On television,' stumbled Falcone. ‘They said on television that you and Rebecca were going to marry?'

And celebrate here last night, remembered Parnell. ‘We only decided at the weekend.'

‘You would have been good together,' decided the uncle. ‘You would have had my blessing.' He straightened, finishing the wine between them and nodding to the chef's assistant to open another bottle. ‘The funeral is Friday.'

That could be the needed excuse for his visit, Parnell decided. ‘When we were talking at the weekend, Rebecca told me she had a previous fiancé?'

Falcone frowned. ‘A long time ago.'

‘About two years, I thought she said?'

The man shrugged. ‘Maybe. It broke up.'

‘But they came here together?'

‘I guess.'

‘Do you remember his name? Where he lived?'

Falcone made an uncertain movement again. ‘Washington somewhere, I guess.'

‘What about a name?'

There was a further, dismissive shrug, the older man's mouth pulled down doubtfully. ‘I don't remember. Alan, perhaps. I think it was Alan but I'm not sure. Why?'

‘I thought it might be right to invite him to the funeral,' said Parnell.

‘That's kind,' said the restaurant owner.

‘But I don't have a name. Or an address.' pressed Parnell.

Falcone shook his head. ‘I'm sorry.'

It had always been an outside chance, Parnell accepted. ‘If you remember …? Find something …?'

Giorgio frowned, curious for the first time. ‘Sure.'

‘The FBI are investigating,' Parnell hurried on.

‘They said, on television.'

‘They might want to talk to you.'

‘What about?'

‘Rebecca. They'll want to know about Rebecca.'

‘Everyone loved her,' insisted the chef.

‘Why did they do it?' demanded Falcone, thick-voiced again. ‘I want them caught! I want them dead!'

What did he want? Parnell wondered. To know
why
! he answered himself.

Fourteen

B
y Edward C. Grant's edict, this New York encounter wasn't at the corporate building but at an hotel, the Plaza on Central Park South, overlooking the park. It was booked from a reservations agency in an assumed name and paid for in advance, in cash. Dwight Newton was given the suite number by telephone, Grant's cellphone to his cellphone, not through the hotel switchboard or traceably dialled. Surprisingly there was coffee on a separating table when Newton arrived. Grant waited expectantly for the vice president to pour. As he did, Newton said: ‘The FBI are investigating.'

‘I saw the newscasts, read the newspapers,' said Grant, totally controlled, even-voiced.

‘What are we going to do?' Grant had to be nervous to have arranged the meeting like this, like something out of a movie.