Gospel (18 page)

‘My dear, do not misunderstand me, I am grateful for your dealing with Howard but you really have no experience in choosing . . .'

‘I will leave you,' she interrupted.

‘What?'

‘I'll leave you Stuart – now, on the eve of your trial. I will walk out saying I can no longer support you, which will speak reams to the press and the general public, don't you think?'

She paused, as if allowing this to sink in.

‘If you want me at your side while all your adulterous dirty laundry is aired in front of the masses, if you want me to show the world that I still believe in you, then you will leave the choice of attorney to me.'

He looked at her then and opened his mouth to respond, but for once she could see he could not think of anything ‘clever' to say.

‘It sickens me to do this, Stuart,' she went on. ‘For unlike you, I take no pleasure in manipulating people's insecurities. But you leave me no choice. I do not love you, Stuart. Perhaps I did once, but not anymore.
Most people grow together as they get to know each other, but for us that was the problem. I got to know you – too well. However,' she said, almost finished now, swallowing the lump in her throat, determined not to show any sign of weakness, ‘I do not believe you killed Tom Bradshaw for two very basic reasons – firstly you are not that stupid and secondly, despite your regular childish tantrums, I believe you actually liked the man.

‘I also believe that somewhere, deep down inside, there is a part of you, a humanitarian morsel, that actually enjoys the pure goodness of saving lives and I pray that that part of you is still intact somewhere, somehow . . .' She stopped there as if grieving for him, and all that his chosen profession was meant to represent. ‘That being the case,' she took a breath before going on, ‘I am willing to work at setting you free. You can be a heartless bastard, Stuart, but even you do not deserve to die for a crime you did not commit. I cannot live with you, but I could not live with that.

‘And so, I will play the loyal and devoted wife. But I will only stay “
in
” so that I can get “
out
”. I need closure Stuart – an end to this empty life of pretence. I will find an attorney who can prove your innocence – perhaps the
only
one who can save you and, then, I want a divorce. We gave it a good shot, Stuart, but in the end, it was never really meant to be.'

‘T
his is Mannix,' said Joe, who had been called out of a squad meeting to take what was described by the HQ operator as an urgent call from a Homicide Detective in LA.

‘Detective Mannix, my name is Sam Croker, LAPD Homicide.'

‘What can I do for you, Detective?'

Croker let out a sort of muffled laugh before going on. Truth was, he wasn't too sure what the hell the Boston Detective could do for him. He wasn't even sure why he had made the call in the first place.

‘Detective?' said Mannix, breaking the silence.

Croker had heard good things about this Mannix, and decided there was no other option but to play it straight – even if he came off sounding like a token whacko from California suffering from a combination of sunstroke and too many years on the Hollywood beat.

‘I don't know how else to ask this, Detective Mannix but . . . it's about Vice President Bradshaw. You're in charge of the investigation into his death, am I right?'

‘I'm working with the FBI on the case, Detective. But as far as they're concerned, they have their man. The investigation . . .'

‘I know,' said Croker, realising he wasn't making any sense. ‘I was just wondering if, during the course of your investigations, you came across . . .'

‘Go on, Detective,' said Joe.

‘Did you ever come across any references to the Bible – more specifically the four Gospels of the New Testament: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John?'

‘
What?
' said Joe.

‘I know this sounds ridiculous, Detective, and if you hang up thinkin' I'm a twenty-five year vet who needs to get his head examined then so be it. But well, I couldn't live with myself if I didn't at least . . .' Croker stopped before going on. ‘This could all be a crock of shit, but I got me a woman down here who, well, let's just say, she worried me enough to make this God-damned phone call embarrassing myself in front of a fellow cop who probably thinks I am a few bricks short of a load.'

‘You told anyone else about this, Detective?

‘No. I'm not even sure why I called you.'

Joe said nothing.

‘Mannix? You there?'

‘Today's Friday,' said Mannix.

‘Same goes here in California.'

‘It's hot there, right?'

‘Could fry an egg on the bonnet of my '96 Buick.'

‘You free for a drink tomorrow? Say, early evening? I could watch my kid play ball in the morning, catch the midday flight and be in LA in time for a few cold ones at the venue of your choice.'

Croker could not believe what he was hearing. Mannix wanted to talk, in private, which meant he didn't trust the open PD line. It also meant the Bible reference hit a nerve. Maybe Rita Walker was not so crazy after all.

‘Mal's Place. It's a small but friendly locals' bar and restaurant in West Hollywood. Corner of La Brea and Sunset. How's six sound to you?'

‘I can make six.'

Just as Detective Sam Croker was hanging up from his call to Boston, Nurse Amy Tavish was saving a life.

When she entered Mrs Walker's room to change her IV she literally disconnected the current feed just as the ‘cousin's' deadly white liquid was about to enter her veins. Sometimes life just came down to timing.

The ‘cousin' saw none of this, despite the fact he was a mere three feet
away from Nurse Amy at the time, hidden in the cramped ‘personals' cupboard next to the corner bathroom door. So when Amy left the room again, the ‘cousin' waited three more minutes before letting himself out of the cupboard, smiling at Walker's docile expression and making his escape via the south entrance of the hospital at the base of the overcrowded car park.

He knew the director would be pleased. For even though the syringe had not emptied, the dose administered would still be more than enough to render Rita Walker null and void in under one half hour. He was right . . . and he was wrong.

Sometimes life just came down to timing.

‘I
n the rules of rugby,' Jay Negley explained to Sara as they watched the all-important Boston College v Brown Summer Sevens semi-final from the sidelines, ‘if you are on the ground, you are not allowed to hold on to the ball. The main reason for this is to ensure a good flow of the game, but the other reason is actually much more important.'

‘Um . . . okay,' Sara replied, wishing Jay would do something to stem the blood which was still trickling from behind the bandage he had applied minutes earlier.

‘Possession is crucial,' Jay went on. ‘But self-preservation becomes even more so when you are about to be pounded by two opposing packs of heavy sweaty bodies, all kicking and clawing for that small piece of pig skin which happens to be clamped firmly between your arms. And while your hands are holding on to the ball, they are certainly in no position to protect your head. And when your head is unprotected, well,' he said pointing to his own battered forehead, ‘the aforementioned rule starts to make a whole lot more sense.'

‘I think I get it,' Sara smiled, looking out towards the game from which Negley had just been sent off for ‘injury time'. ‘But then why would David be doing
that
?' she pointed.

‘What?' asked Negley, squinting against the sun and scraping some of the now-drying blood from his right eye.

‘Because he's a right show off,' smiled Negley again. ‘He's trying to impress you, Sara. And he's gonna get himself killed in the process.'

Negley was right.

Unfortunately for David, on this balmy Saturday afternoon, reason flew out the window to make way for ‘gallantry' in the form of a realisation that the opposition's line was a mere three feet from his nose. If only his team mates could force the ruck a few feet forward, then he could simply reach out and place the ball over the line, score a five-point lead for BC and have them facing off against Harvard in the late afternoon grand final. The fact that he would also impress his girlfriend, who would no doubt be in awe of his skill and courage, was just an advantageous by-product of his outstanding show of audacity.

But he was down, and rules were rules. Good intentions, bad results.

The ref saw it all and called him for holding on to the ball. The penalty went to Brown who kicked for touch, sending the ball sailing deep into BC's half and giving the opposition a line-out from heaven, just before half-time in the hotly contested 14 minute game.

‘Geez, DC, what were you thinking?' said Tony Bishop, pulling his friend to his feet.

‘Don't think I was,' said David, accepting a water bottle from the water boy and squirting it over his head.

‘You're a mess,' grinned his friend as they headed up the field for the last play before half-time.

David realised the water had washed pink down his face and settled into the neck of his yellow and maroon jersey. He looked up to see Sara, surrounded by Negley, Arthur and Nora, watching from the sidelines. And despite the new throb of pain, could not help but smile.

‘We have them on the ropes, Tony,' he said.

‘It's twelve eight their way, you idiot.'

‘I know, but there's a whole other seven minutes to go.'

And he was right. Eight minutes later the Boston College home team took the game from Brown University 18–12, David Cavanaugh scoring the last try of the game from forty yards out.

‘That was . . .' ventured Sara, her yellow sun dress pressed flat against her long tanned legs in the afternoon summer breeze.

‘Rugby at its finest,' finished Arthur, patting David on the back and turning to shake Tony Bishop by the hand.

‘Thanks, Arthur,' said Bishop.

David, now clutching Sara's free hand, looked over her shoulder to see Nora who wore a yellow and maroon scarf around her long straight neck despite the ninety degree heat.

‘What did you think, Nora?' he couldn't resist.

‘I think it is lucky Mr Bishop was around to make sure you survived the final half unscathed,' she smiled. ‘But that being said, that last try was certainly something.'

Just then David looked at Tony to see his eyes drift over their shoulders towards the other end of the field. He knew that ‘look' – the one Tony always got when a beautiful woman entered his field of vision – but then noticed his brow furrow, with a hint of recognition and, perhaps, concern.

David turned around and sure enough he saw the pretty girl, more than pretty in fact, her long dark hair tied back in a ponytail, a Boston Red Sox baseball cap pulled down low over her narrow, olive-skinned face, her fitted, worn jeans with holes at the knees and her tight white t-shirt sitting just above her waistline revealing a taut, tanned midriff over a scuffed brown leather belt. No doubt about it, this girl was striking and she was walking towards them with a confidence of familiarity.

Tony must know her
, he thought. But then he realised there was something about her stride that was familiar, and when she removed her cap and looked towards him, his breath caught in his throat and he instinctively squeezed Sara's hand as if making sure she was real and the vision before him was some kind of time-warped illusion.

‘Hello, David,' she said as she reached the group.

‘Karin,' was all he could manage.

And then there was silence, a long, awkward silence as Karin looked at Sara.

‘Hello Tony, Jay . . . long time . . .'

‘Hey Karin. How goes it?' managed Tony.

‘Not so well, as you might have guessed,' she answered with a half smile.

More silence as she looked at David again, as if willing him to say something.

‘Ah, Karin, this is Sara, my girlfriend Sara,' stating it to make it real. ‘And this is my boss Arthur Wright and our office manager Nora Kelly. Sara, Arthur, Nora, this is Karin Montgomery.'

‘Pleased to meet you,' said Nora.

‘Likewise,' said Karin quickly, and David remembered her tendency to appear dismissive as she rushed conversations in an inherent need to get to the point.

‘David, I need to speak with you,' she said. ‘Preferably in private.'

Sara instinctively let go of David's hand – a symbolic gesture telling him it was okay to go, to hear what she had to say.

‘We're back on in five. We're playing Harvard in the final.'

‘I know. You guys were pretty impressive.' She smiled and David noticed Negley and Tony were smiling too. ‘How about a quick drink, at Bristow's? Around six, my shout.'

David said nothing, simply because he had no idea what to say.

‘That should work fine, David,' said Sara. ‘We can meet you afterwards. It'll give these guys a chance to shower and . . .'

‘I want to shout these boys a beer,' interrupted Arthur. ‘So why don't we all agree to meet back at my place at eight. Give you two a chance to catch up.'

‘Thanks, Mr Wright,' said Karin. ‘I'll have him back to you by eight,' she smiled. ‘I promise.'

Karin put the baseball cap back on her head and placed a hand on David's shoulder before saying ‘Thanks,' and turning to leave.

He felt her touch burn into him, pull at his insides until the sound of the hooter calling for the start of the final game against Harvard jerked him back to reality.

‘Sara . . . I . . .'

‘It's okay,' she smiled, but he was sure he sensed a slight note of hesitancy in her voice. ‘You go kick some Harvard ass.'