Move to Strike (30 page)

‘It wasn't my gun, Mr Rigotti, and I know this because
Ben Hur
has been in Kenya with me for the past fortnight. Took out an elephant with one fell swoop, he did, nailed the bastard right between the eyes.

‘Anyway,' Nagle went on when Rigotti failed to find the words to respond, ‘Mr Blackmore made a very rare mistake, Mr Rigotti, and I am sorry if his information has caused you any inconvenience.'

‘Not at all,' Rigotti replied.

‘It was nice talking to you,' Nagle said then.

And Rigotti hung up the phone.

‘Shit,' he said to himself, at almost the exact same second Joe Mannix was uttering the identical expletive barely two miles across town. ‘Time to ruin Cavanaugh and Mannix's week,' he added as he picked up the receiver, not realising that the week for both of them had sucked big time – and things would only get worse.

‘Mannix?' asked the voice, an old familiar grunt.

‘Hey, Starkey,' said Joe, recognising the retired cop's mumble. ‘How goes it? They still got you guarding the masses at Boston Municipal?'

George Starkey was Joe's captain when he first started on the force, one of the toughest but fairest cops Joe had ever had the pleasure to work with.
He was now a part-time security guard at Boston Municipal Court, his retirement fund eaten up by his kids' college fees, his dependency on cigarettes and alcohol, and his weekly sojourn to the track at Suffolk Downs.

‘Just like they still got you chasing dead bodies,' replied Starkey with a cough.

The widowed Starkey was lonely, Joe knew as much, which is why, no matter how busy he was, Joe always took the time to shoot the breeze when Starkey called to share or collect a bit of ‘gossip from the beat'.

‘Nothing much to report today, George, except for the fact that Frank McKay seems to have taken up origami. He's sitting in front of me right now, folding up the paper in my outbox into the shape of a Goddamned crane.'

‘Frank's a faggot,' said Starkey.

‘I'll make sure I pass that piece of information on to his wife.'

And then, after a pause . . .

‘You working the Logan thing?' asked Starkey.

Joe's eyes flashed at McKay's. ‘Yeah, I always pull the short straws, you know that, George.'

‘Then maybe you'd like to know the TV show pony just got spirited in through a side entrance for a private hearing before a judge.'

‘What court?' asked Joe.

‘Civil,' replied Starkey.

‘At whose request?'

‘The show pony's.'

‘You sure it's him?' Starkey had a tendency to ‘speculate' and ‘embellish' when it came to ‘seeing' or ‘hearing' about the goings on of some of the court's more famous visitors, and Joe was concerned this might be one of Starkey's well-meaning exaggerations.

‘I'd know that smarmy mug anywhere.'

Joe paused. ‘What's he up to, Starkey?'

‘Don't know as yet.'

‘He got a lawyer with him?'

‘One of them fancy rich ones with the perfect faces and the shiny shoes.'

‘But not Cavanaugh,' said Joe.

‘Since when did Cavanaugh qualify for any of the above?'

Starkey had a point.

‘Keep your ear to the ground, Starkey.'

‘As far as my fucked up lumbar will allow. Tell Frank to go fuck himself.' It was a term of endearment.

‘I am sure he sends the same greeting back.'

And Starkey laughed – a low, gritty grumble, before hanging up the phone.

‘D
id you tell him?' asked Nora, after knocking quietly on Sara's office door. It was Thursday afternoon and David was down at Plymouth with Arthur, the pair of them determined to keep as much contact with J.T. Logan as possible now that his father was making use of his daily visitor's access and maintaining his control.

‘No,' said Sara, signalling for Nora to come in.

Yesterday afternoon, after a persistent Logan had pulled himself away from his adoring fans to find Sara just outside a Quincy Marketplace ladies' room, he had insisted on walking the ashen-faced Sara back to her office. And Nora had met them at the door, taking Sara's cold and clammy hand, Sara insisting she was fine, a melodramatic Logan arguing she was anything but . . .

‘The girl should not be working so hard,' he had said to Nora as she led Sara to the reception area sofa. ‘As much as I admire Cavanaugh's dedication to my son, I do hope he is also finding the time to look after his pregnant partner!'

Nora had pursed her lips in annoyance, assuring Logan that Sara was in good hands and apologising for not showing him out. And then Sara had told her all that Logan had shared – about David and Amanda Carmichael and what he saw at the St Valentine's Day Law Society ball. Nora
had listened quietly, caringly, her heart going out to the puffy-faced young woman before her, the ‘child' she thought of as her own.

‘I couldn't do it, Nora,' said Sara, easing closer to Nora on the small fabric-covered office sofa. ‘I went to tell him last night but he was so distracted. I guess he'd had a bad afternoon – the visit to the ME's Office, my pathetic attempt to milk information from Logan setting us ten paces back.

‘I trust him, Nora – I do. And I know that Jeffrey Logan was just trying to bait me. But somehow, the way that he said it, the way that he described David and that woman, I . . .' Nora saw the tear start to trail down Sara's smooth left cheek. ‘I let him get to me.'

‘Oh my dear, that's only natural. You've had so much on your plate of late.'

‘No,' interrupted Sara. ‘I know what you are going to say, Nora – that I am pregnant and pregnant women have a tendency to be overly emotional.' She took a breath. ‘But my pregnancy shouldn't have any bearing on the way that I do my job. I am worried that I've been letting David down. I've been tired and my back has been driving me crazy and . . . maybe I am not at the top of my game right now, just when David needs me to be.'

‘Absolute rubbish, lass,' said Nora, taking Sara's hand and cupping it in her own. ‘You
are
pregnant, Sara, so the tiredness is to be expected, but your mind is as sharp as ever. You should not be so hard on yourself. David thinks the world of you – personally and professionally.'

‘Then why has he been so . . . withdrawn?'

Nora shook her head. She had noticed it too. ‘You should have told him what Doctor Logan said, dear – and that you were not feeling well.'

‘Nora, I screwed up big time. David already has me wrapped in cotton wool. I need him to know I can pull my weight on this one.'

But Nora was not convinced. This case was having an adverse effect on both Sara and David – and she could not help but think it was only going to get worse. David's behaviour yesterday afternoon was nothing short of extraordinary – storming in, listening to Sara, explaining he had some work to do before rushing to his office and
shutting the door
. David never shut his door, and Nora suspected Doctor Jeffrey Logan was at the source of both her young attorneys' distress that afternoon, neither of them wishing to discuss the matter with the other.

‘Listen, lass,' said Nora, turning to face Sara. ‘I am the first one to chastise young David when he steps out of line – and his behaviour yesterday afternoon was certainly a little . . . intense.' It was the only word she could think of. ‘And as much as we all want to win this for the young boy, in the end, we also have to understand that we have our own lives to lead – and in a manner we see fit, not in the way some two-bit excuse for a psychologist suggests one way or the other.

‘The man is a liar, Sara. A criminal. But he is also very cunning, shrewd – a fox. He was playing with you yesterday, Sara, and as much as his words cut to the quick, you have to realise that they are grounded in malice and coated in deceit.'

Sara looked at her, her pale blue eyes glistening as she swallowed back the tears.

‘David loves you, dear. That much I know – and while you have made him the happiest man alive, your child is going to bring untold joys to you both.'

Sara nodded. ‘I know,' she said, pulling Nora into an embrace. ‘I love you, Nora.'

‘And I love you too, dear,' said Nora after a pause. ‘Everything is going to be fine. Just you wait and see.'

C
aroline Croft was in her office when the call came – drinking a double shot, half decaf, skinny latte.

It was early, her shoes were off, her stockinged feet stretched out in front of her as she read over her questions – and tweaked them, just a little. Despite Katherine de Castro's concessions, the woman had still managed to voice her concern that the wording of each query had to be just so. She claimed she was worried that any mispronouncement might come back to bite J.T. in court, but Caroline knew it was more a case of de Castro being unable to ‘let the fuck go'. Legal schmeagle! There was no way that Caroline Croft, news magazine front woman extraordinaire, was going to forego drama for legalese, sub fucking judice or not.

‘Yes,' she said, reaching across her glass-topped desk to punch the speaker button on her private line. Not many people had her direct extension and the few who did knew her well enough to accept that when she was working, she did not appreciate being interrupted.

‘Ms Croft,' said the smooth female voice on the other end of the line. ‘This is Amanda Carmichael.'

Caroline immediately sat up in her high-back, distressed leather, ergonomic chair.

‘Ms Carmichael,' she returned, the honey now dripping from every syllable. ‘Thank you for returning my calls.'

Caroline wasn't stupid – while she had spent the past week trying to get the defence on the line, she had also been calling the stunning ADA several times a day. She had a talent for playing one off against the other, and knew that ingratiating yourself with both teams was key to getting at least one, perhaps even both, to agree to using
Newsline
as their preferred conduit to the masses.

‘Are you still interested in an exclusive on the J.T. Logan case?' asked Carmichael, getting straight to the point.

‘Of course,' said Croft, her heart now leaping in anticipation of the possibility of a double coup.

‘You said in your messages that you and Stephanie Tyler were friends,' said Carmichael.

‘Why yes, we were very close,' lied Caroline. ‘Her death is a tragedy for many. To those in the legal profession, to the family members not involved in her death – and, dare I be selfish enough to say it, to myself personally, for I lost a beloved confidante on the night that she died, Ms Carmichael, and I miss her dearly.'
God, I am good
, she thought.

‘Then you will appreciate my determination to get to the bottom of her murder.'

‘Certainly,' responded Caroline.

‘I must warn you from the outset that the information I have will not be popular,' continued Carmichael. ‘And before we speak I need your assurance that you will not be influenced by the concerns of the network which airs your program – the same network that broadcasts
The Doctor Jeff Show
.'

Jesus
, thought Croft,
this woman has balls
. She was liking Carmichael more by the minute.

‘Ms Carmichael,' she began, ‘
Newsline
may be broadcast on CBC but I can assure you we are a totally independent news magazine program dedicated to exposing the truth.'

‘And benefiting from the ratings that accompany it,' said Carmichael.

‘Just as your reputation benefits from the pursuit of justice on behalf of the Commonwealth,' countered Croft, and she could have sworn she heard Carmichael release the slightest of laughs in agreement.

‘Tonight then,' said Carmichael. ‘My office at seven.'

‘I am afraid that is impossible,' said Croft.

‘I do not understand,' said Carmichael.

‘Tonight will be too late.'

‘I am sorry, Ms Croft. But if you are seriously interested in . . .'

‘It is almost 8.30am,' said Croft. ‘I will be at your office in one hour.'

‘I am afraid I have a very busy morning, Ms Croft,' countered Carmichael, perhaps a little miffed at Caroline's desire to assert her authority over the conversation and the instructions Carmichael had delivered.

‘I apologise for the rush, Ms Carmichael, but believe me, if you allow me the opportunity to explain, I think you will understand that speed is of the essence. For calling me this morning was an incredible stroke of luck on your part.'

But Carmichael was not convinced. ‘I am not one for playing games, Ms Croft. So unless you are willing to elaborate on any information you possess that would be of use to the District Attorney's Office, I would suggest this can wait until this evening when . . .'

‘I have spent much of the past two days with Jeffrey Logan,' said Croft – and there it was, that wonderful pause that signified a shift in control.

‘I see,' said Carmichael after a time. ‘Then perhaps I can see my way to clearing my schedule – as long as you believe that what you have to share is worth my rearranging my day.'

‘Oh, you have no idea, Ms Carmichael,' said Croft. ‘You have absolutely no idea.'

When Stephanie Logan was a young mother – running a small private practice from home, catering to the needs of her two children, and playing the discreet, supportive wife to a famous husband who had mastered the art of wearing two faces many years ago, she used to like to play ‘what if'.

‘
What if
,' she would begin – and her children would follow with a scenario.

‘I was a trapeze artist at the circus
.' Chelsea would giggle.

‘
Or an astronaut on the moon
,' a five-year-old J.T. would scream with delight.