Death's Last Run (37 page)

“We can't just hack, Clare. We'd need a warrant.”

“I'm only asking for a phone number. Forget I said anything else. I want to call these tech guys socially.”

Bert laughed. “Yeah, fine.”

MARTHA

Martha held her office door open for two uniformed
FBI
officers and a tall man in a gray suit. She motioned to some chairs, which they opted not to take. For lack of a better idea about where to place herself, she returned to her desk chair, opposite Ted.

The two uniformed officers — one male, one female, both around five-foot-six — stood on either side of the door, like the cement dogs she and Fraser once had at their country home. They had expressionless eyes, which Martha was used to now, with Secret Service following her all around.

The tall, sturdy man pulled up a seat beside Ted and said, “Edward Mitchell?” Martha was pretty sure this was Bert — she recognized his calm, low voice from the phone.

Ted twisted his neck to stare at Bert. “That's me.”

Martha inhaled slowly. This was real; this was happening.

“You're under arrest for solicitation of murder for the death of Alexandra Westlake.” Bert nodded toward the female officer.

In a rough, robotic voice, the uniformed woman recited the Miranda rights Martha had only heard on
TV
and in movies. Nothing else about this moment felt like television.

Ted's eyes shot wide open. “That makes no sense. Why would I want Sacha dead?”

“Do you understand your rights?” Bert asked Ted. “You can say whatever you like, but we can use it against you in court.”

“I understood the first time.” Ted thrust his chin forward. “And I'm not worried. I have a friend with the
NYPD
. Maybe we can call him, he can help sort this out.”

Bert chuckled like a patient grandfather. His graying hair made him look gentle, too. “This the same friend who introduced you to Inspector Norris?”

Ted's face whitened a shade or two.

“Same friend who paid high-tech geeks ten thousand dollars to hack the
FBI
computers, find the name of my undercover agent?”

Ted stayed quiet, and Martha focused on her breathing. She had a role to play, it was coming up, and she hoped like hell she didn't botch it.

“You don't wonder how we know this?” Bert's brow furrowed, like he was pretending to look puzzled.

“You don't know anything. Everything you've just said is a lie.”

“Hm.” Bert wrinkled his mouth. “Your friend on the Kearnes campaign, Lester Banks, has been brought in for questioning. Says he has nothing to do with this.”

“Oh, good. And you can trust him, because most murderers raise their hand and say
I did it
to the first cop who comes around asking.”

“So you think Les is a murderer?”

“No — in fact I thought you had your man. That bent cop in Whistler.”

“Stu Norris.” Bert nodded. “He's the reason I'm here, actually.”

“Really.” Ted smoothed his notepad on the large mahogany desk. He picked up a pen and tapped at the page, as if he were reading his notes.

“Yes. It was Norris who figured out you'd been framing the Kearnes campaign — that they, in fact, are free and clear of any wrongdoing.”

“Right,” Ted said, tapping his pen and looking at Martha, like they really should be getting back to work. “Like I said, it's good to trust a killer when they tell you something. They almost never lie.”

In a fluid, gentle movement, Bert reached forward and plucked the Mont Blanc from Ted's hand. He placed it in his jacket pocket.

“You can't steal my pen,” Ted said. “That cost more than you make in a week.”

“I doubt that,” Bert said, taking the pen out of his pocket and scrutinizing its matte black finish. “Nice, though.” He set it down on the desk, but out of Ted's reach. “Lester Banks is happy to testify about you borrowing his phone the other night.”

“Awesome. Throw me in jail for stealing minutes. Oh wait — he lent me his phone, so I guess even that's not a crime.”

“Your cop friend in Queens — he's been arrested. Asked for immunity right away. We gave it to him — he's talking pretty freely.”

Martha breathed. In, out. She could do this.

“Why would you arrest a lousy street cop?” Ted said. “What could he have to do with such a high-profile case?”

“He had friends in high places,” Bert said, “like the office of a future U.S. president.”

Ted's chest pushed forward. “I'm sorry if my buddy was involved in Sacha's death. He's been jealous of me ever since I got into Georgetown. I guess he thought I'd stay in Queens, maybe join a trade, keep playing ball with him forever. My strong recommendation is that you find a way to reverse his immunity.”

“Thanks for that,” Bert said. “Your recommendation means a lot to us.”

Ted's brow lowered as he studied Bert. “Are you
FBI
?”

Bert nodded.

“You'd do well to be less smug. Your organization has messed this case up massively.”

“Mistakes have been made,” Bert surprised Martha by saying. “But the biggest one by far was made by you.”

Ted laughed — nervously, like a schoolboy unsure if he'd been caught pulling the fire alarm.

“Something funny, Mr. Mitchell?”

“I'm curious what you see as my alleged huge m-mistake.” Ted's stutter on
mistake
was nearly imperceptible, but Martha was listening closely.

“Several wire transfers were made from the Westlake campaign's bank account to a numbered account in Switzerland. Seventy-five thousand dollars in total.”

“Are you saying there's corruption in the campaign? That surprises me — we have good people working for us — but it wouldn't be an American first.” Ted was smooth again, his polish back in place.

“On Saturday morning, this money was transferred out of Switzerland to an
HSBC
account in Argentina.”

“Your point?”

“
HSBC
doesn't allow numbered accounts,” Bert said. “The Argentina account had a name attached — Stuart Norris.”

“Stuart Norris . . .” Ted tapped a finger to his mouth. “Oh! The cop in Whistler. So he's your man. Convenient, since he's already arrested.”

“Yes. And he was paid by you.”

“That's ridiculous.” Ted met Martha's eye. She did her best to keep her return gaze steady. “Martha, can you tell them this is ridiculous? Even if the funds left our campaign, everyone with access to the bank account has a unique login
ID
. Are you saying whoever sent Norris the money used
my
ID
?”

“No, actually. You used Senator Westlake's password.”

“Come on. I tried to frame Martha for murder? Her campaign was everything to me. Still is — because I refuse to go down for this murder. And I refuse to allow her to be framed, too.” He turned to Martha again. “Don't worry — I'll grill every member of our campaign, figure out who could have used your password to try to throw you under the bus like this. If it's not the Kearnes campaign — which I still think is way more likely — it means we have a traitor in our midst.”

It was killing Martha, watching Ted. Washington put so much pressure on youth — to conform, to compete, to win. Would Ted have become a killer if he'd never worked in politics? Martha doubted that, highly.

Bert said, “When you made the money transfers, you used the computer in the senator's constituency office — which has timed security footage. The undercover you found and exposed to Whistler police — she's been up overnight figuring out your game.”

“Wow.” Ted's face was blank. “You guys need to go back to cop school, work on those deductive reasoning skills. I have some Sherlock Holmes books I can lend you, if you like. I read them as a child, of course, but they're probably around your level.”

Martha suppressed a laugh. Her part was coming soon, and she was nervous as hell.

“We're impressed, Ted. You successfully convinced Inspector Norris that he was working with the
DEA
.”

A slow grin spread across Ted's face.

“Is that funny?” Bert said.

“A little,” Ted said. “It's from left field, that's for sure.”

“You were smart. You had him convinced he needed to read and destroy all correspondence — emails, voice call logs from his cell phone. Of course, he did start saving things once he realized you weren't
DEA
. Plus, we went to the cell phone company and retrieved records, and of course we can retrieve deleted messages from his computer. But if everything had gone as planned — and it nearly did, until the senator here asked for further investigation — it would have worked. You would be walking free.”

Ted snorted. “Have you been listening to me at all? Or do you just have this predetermined notion of what happened, and you're sticking to it no matter what?”

“Will you stand up, please? We'd like to put you in handcuffs.”

“No, I won't stand up and be handcuffed. You can't treat me like a common criminal.”

The man in the suit frowned.

“Tell them, Martha. I'm like a son to you. I'm like Sacha — not a common criminal.”

Bert locked eyes with Martha, her cue to pick up as he'd coached her to.

“Ted, can I ask you something?” Martha's voice came out more softly than she'd realized it would. Which was a good thing — her true emotion was fiery rage.

Ted shrugged one skinny shoulder.

“Did you think killing Sacha — staging her suicide — would help my shot at the presidency?”

Martha watched Ted's jaw clench.

“You've always stunned me with your brightness. I just think — if we were in a moral vacuum — it was a really intelligent move. My popularity went through the roof.” Martha nearly choked on the words she'd been told to say. “We've had to build this campaign up from the ground three times now — it's been a roller coaster. The lows are my fault, and you've just kept on going, building me back up without complaining. I don't think I've ever worked with someone quite as smart as you, quite as devoted.”

Ted's mouth was doing funny things. The corners were jerking involuntarily.

“But we're not in a moral vacuum. What you've done has made me very sad.” Martha spoke as if to a five-year-old child, as per Bert's instructions when it came to the emotional parts.

Ted's eyes went wide. Martha hoped she was getting through to him.

“They know you had Sacha killed,” Martha said gently. “It will be much easier for you if you come clean, let them help you.” Considering the times Ted had spoken about his own mother and about his replacing Sacha — the
FBI
believed this was part of his pathology — it seemed he had a true belief that he belonged in higher circumstances, that he should have been born to a more elite family. “Let
me
help you,” Martha finished.

And then Ted's face turned sour. He gave Martha the most disdainful look she'd ever seen — even more disdainful than Sacha arguing politics.

“Who the hell wants to help some dirty kid from Queens?” He was practically shouting. “Not you. You were just using me for my brain. Telling me, ‘Ted, go here. No Ted, we don't need you here — stay home with your computer and be my slave.' Who's looking out for me? Only me. Man, you're worse than my real mother. She never pretended she was anything but selfish.”

My real mother
. Martha realized that the
FBI
was right. She said, “The cleaner you are with us now, the better your chance for surviving the system. I'd be devastated to see you done in by the death penalty. It would be like losing both my children.” Martha choked back bile — playing into the alleged mental illness made her feel physically ill.

“Why would I care if they electrocute me? If I go down for this murder, my life is over anyway. I'll never be president. Hell, I'll never even be a lowly senator.”

Martha used the next line the
FBI
had fed her: “Ted, there are psychiatric facilities that can take care of you. They can help you sort this out, return to society afterward and thrive.”

“Why would you care?” Mixed with Ted's scorn, Martha thought she detected hope.

“Sometimes we do things that aren't really who we are — things we think we have to do because we're temporarily misguided, but when we come back to our senses, we're filled with regret.”
Things like raising your child with a string of nannies, saying no to the circus, to DisneyWorld — to almost every fun thing Sacha had suggested because it would have taken Martha's time away from her career.
“But if you want your life to have meaning — and I know that's what you want for yourself — you're
so
bright, you have so much to offer — then you have to take control now. Confess to what you did, and we'll get you psychological help.”

Ted shook his head a few times quickly. It was more a spasmodic movement than a deliberate negation of what Martha had said. “These men set you up; they've prepped you in advance,” Ted said, his tone even. “If you were learning about all this now — I killed your
daughter
, for Christ's sake — you'd be raging.”