The Jury Master (33 page)

“Did he say where he’d been?”

Peak looked up, as if the question were somehow inappropriate. “Where he’d been?”

“The family’s curious. We understand he left his office around three-thirty that afternoon, but nobody heard from him.”

Peak nodded to the file. Sloane opened it. Inside was a log of what appeared to be telephone numbers.

“Joe called me from a bar in Georgetown on his cell phone. I had his telephone records pulled for that day.” Sloane opened the file and considered the records. He noticed a number that kept repeating, presumably the woman’s. Peak cleared his throat, changing gears again. “He apparently went to her house as well.” He pointed to the pages. “Those records have been requested by the Justice Department, Jon. If they get them, they will follow up, and the documents will become fair game to the press.”

Sloane put the log of phone calls back in the file. He knew the follow-up was to ask about handling the telephone records, but that wasn’t what he was interested in. “Where did he go? When Joe left you that night, did he say where he was going?”

Peak put up his hands. “He said he was going home. That’s the hardest part about this. He said he was going home to set things right. I don’t know where he went. I assume he went to McLean. If I’d known he had a gun . . . Joe never carried a gun; never in all the years I knew him did he carry a gun.” Peak rubbed the back of his neck and stretched the muscles as he spoke. “I’m very sorry to break this kind of news to you, Jon, very sorry.”

“I’m sure this has been very difficult for you. I appreciate your honesty. The family appreciates your honesty. It answers a lot of questions.” Only it didn’t.

The voice in Sloane’s head was now screaming at him to leave, but still he pressed.

“So how will this be handled?”

“The Department of Justice will hold a press conference late this afternoon. I wanted to get the family’s approval,” Peak said.

“Approval?”

Peak retrieved another document from his desk and handed it to Sloane. It was a prepared statement, innocuous. They would sanitize the autopsy just as they’d sanitized Joe’s office. The Department of Justice would conclude that Joe Branick took his own life.

The medical examiner has concluded that the powder marks on the decedent’s hand and temple are consistent with a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

“It’s conclusive,” Peak said. “The rest is . . . well, unnecessary.” He leaned forward. “The Justice Department will report that it found no evidence of foul play. It will make no reference to alcohol or other things irrelevant to the cause of death. The autopsy will be limited to the facts, the consistency between the powder marks and the weapon proving a self-inflicted wound. After the announcement, the Justice Department will close its investigation and this file.”

Sloane put the statement in the file with the other documents. And there you had it, neat and clean, just like Joe Branick’s office. It was just the type of information a family would not want to be made public, the type of information to make them go away quietly, and the Justice Department would help usher them on their way.

Tom Molia was about to get another bad lunch left on his desk.

And even if everything Robert Peak had just told Sloane was an elaborate lie intended to do just that—to get the family to end its inquiry into Joe Branick’s death—Sloane could think of no way to disprove it. The autopsy report would be limited to the cause of death, the office had been sanitized, and Peak intimated that the telephone records and suicide note would be expunged. The only witness was a call girl who had little credibility but apparently a nuclear arsenal capable of blowing a lot of prominent men out of their comfortable homes—if Sloane could even find her. At the moment he did not even know her name. Peak had not mentioned it, and he couldn’t ask without it appearing suspicious. He—

The telephone records!

He looked down at the file. He had her telephone number.

The door to the office opened. Peak turned to acknowledge the woman in the blue suit with the brooch.

“I’m sorry, Mr. President. You have your cabinet meeting.”

Peak looked at his watch, stood, and walked the woman back to the door. “Please tell them I’m on my way.”

Sloane opened the file and quickly removed the sheet of telephone numbers. Could he memorize it? Ordinarily he could, but with everything happening, he didn’t trust that to be the case, and he couldn’t take that chance. With one eye focused on Peak, he folded the sheet and casually slipped it in the inside pocket of his jacket. It felt like a lead anvil.

Peak turned. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

Sloane casually removed his hand from his jacket pocket and stood. “I understand. You’ve been more than generous with your time, thank you.” He handed Peak the file.

A corner of a sheet of paper had slid out.

Peak opened the file.

Sloane’s heart skipped a beat. He put out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. President, for everything.”

Peak straightened the pages, seemed to briefly consider them, then closed the file and put it on his desk. He walked Sloane toward the exit, shaking his hand. “I intend to make Joe’s funeral.”

“The family will appreciate it,” he said.

His internal alarm was now shouting at him.
Shut up and walk out. Do not ask any more questions.

But this was his chance, maybe his last chance. He couldn’t just let it pass.

No. Get out. It’s time to leave.

“That reminds me. We’re trying to reach some people, friends and coworkers of Joe’s. We were going through his things and, well, we’d like to get in touch with as many people as possible.”

“How can I help?”

“We’re looking for his work colleagues. For instance, Katherine recalled that Joe had an acquaintance, a black man he worked with.”

Peak’s eyes flickered, an almost imperceptible crack in the persona he had maintained throughout their meeting. He seemed to stall. “A black man, I’m sorry . . .”

“Apparently difficult to miss: very big, tall, well muscled. Katherine remembered him well, but not his name. She believed he and Joe worked together some time ago, but said they had been in recent contact.”

Peak ran a hand across his mouth, but Sloane could not tell if it was acknowledgment or concern. “Do you know what about?”

“No.” He had a hunch and decided to play it. “Just that Katherine indicated they worked for you. I know we’re not supposed to know certain things, but—”

Peak nodded. “That’s all right . . . I believe I know to whom Katherine might be referring, though that goes back many years . . . thirty years.”

“You knew this man?”

“If it’s the man I think she’s referring to. His name was Charles Jenkins.”

Bingo. Sloane had a name. “Charles Jenkins,” he repeated.

“Yes, but I’m afraid Katherine must have been mistaken, Jon.”

“Mistaken?”

“About the two of them being in recent contact.”

“Really? Why is that?” Sloane asked, feeling suddenly deflated.

“Because Charles Jenkins did work for me. It was in the early seventies in Mexico City. Shortly after he started, however, we noticed some peculiar behavior, some problems.”

“Problems?”

“Charles Jenkins was a Vietnam veteran, Jon . . . and, well, there are a lot of things that happened over there that we are not very proud of. Apparently he’d experienced some things that had a deep emotional impact on him. He became delusional and began to have a problem distinguishing present reality from what he had been through during the war. It began to weigh on him.”

“I see. Do you know what happened to him?”

“Ultimately he was allowed to leave the agency.”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I heard some years back that he had died. I’m surprised Joe wouldn’t have known that and advised Katherine.”

“Well, thank you, anyway,” Sloane said.

He turned to leave when the door pushed open suddenly, nearly hitting him. Behind it, White House Chief of Staff Parker Madsen stepped in.

57

T
OM MOLIA CONFIRMED
dinner at six o’clock sharp, promised Maggie he wouldn’t be late, and scribbled a note on the palm of his hand to remind himself to pick up another gallon of milk.

“Milk, okay—”

“And a loaf of bread.”

“Loaf of bread,” he said, writing “bread” on his palm. “Got it. Okay, bye—”

“And you might want to get a few more potatoes.”

“Tomatoes.”

“Potatoes.”

He changed the “T” to a “P.” “Potatoes, right.”

“And a new car.”

“New—”

“Good-bye,” Maggie said, hanging up first, as she always did when she knew he was rushing her off the phone.

Molia disconnected the call and immediately redialed Marty Banto’s direct line.

“It’s about fucking time.”

“Nice mouth, Banto; you kiss your kids with that mouth?”

“What, you been watching
The Sopranos
while I’ve been waiting here half an hour?”

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch; you’ll be out of there in two minutes.”

“No rush.”

Molia laughed. “Let me guess: Matthew is spending the night at a friend’s house, and Emily and Jeannie went shopping.”

“Fuck you,” Banto said. “You’ve been talking to Maggie. Matthew’s spending the night at your house, and Jeannie called Maggie to go with them.”

“I’m a genius, Banto. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Jeannie not wearing a bra.”

“I wish. They’re shopping for Emily.”

“Emily? She’s just a kid.”

“She’s thirteen, Mole.”

“Damn. Where does the time go, Banto?”

“I don’t know, Mole. I’m too busy wiping your ass to find out.”

“How’s Franklin?”

“Raising the dead. Lazarus just walked by my desk.”

“How’d he look?”

“Better than you’re going to look if you don’t call in and pacify him.”

“He’ll get over it. Deep down, he loves me.”

“At least someone does.”

“Maggie’s cooking a pot roast. Come for dinner. I think the Orioles are probably on the tube. You can spend some quality time with your family.”

Banto laughed. “You’re such an asshole.”

“We’re eating at six, sharp. Don’t be late. You know Maggie. Hell hath no fury like my wife with an overcooked pot roast. So what do you got for me?”

“Military service records have a match for a John Blair.”

“No kidding. So I’m not a genius.”

“Except
that
John Blair spelled his name with an ‘h’ and died in World War One.”

“Probably
not
the same guy,” Molia said.

“Not unless Franklin raised him from the dead, too, but I don’t think so.”

“You got more?”

“Don’t I always? The Massachusetts State Bar has a listing for a Blair, but it’s Aileen Branick Blair with a spouse named Jonathan, no ‘h.’”

“Bingo.”

“But he ain’t licensed to practice law.”

“No?”

“No. So I pulled up a photo from the Massachusetts DMV. It’s close, scary close, from the brief glimpse I got around Baldy’s fat head of the guy sitting in the lobby this morning, but I’d say it’s likely not him. We’re not playing horseshoes, are we?”

“No, we are not.”

“So there’s that, and the fact that the rental agreement in the glove compartment of the car in the parking lot says the car was rented to a guy named David Sloane.”

“You broke into the car?”

“Hey, I’m in a hurry here. Besides, it’s a rental. What’s the worst that can happen? He loses his deposit. Since he paid cash, I’d guess he can afford it.”

“Who pays cash for a rental car?”

“Somebody who doesn’t want to use his credit cards. It gets a whole lot more interesting from there, Mole. The guy’s packing a Colt forty-five and more ammo than a bank robber. I ran a check. There is no gun registered to a David Sloane.”

“Any criminal history?”

“Nothing in D.C. or California. National will take a while, but my buddy over at the FBI promised a—”

“California? Why’d you run him in California?”

“Because I did a DMV search, and this David Sloane is from a place called Pacifica. Apparently it’s on the coast near San Francisco. He’s one of you cherry-ass California assholes, Mole.”

“Banto, I take back all the bad things I’ve said about you.”

“Can’t be half as bad as what I think about you.”

“See you at six. And put a lock on that new bra. There are kids out there just like you and I used to be.”

“I’m not worried. Emily and I have an agreement. She’s not dating until she’s married.”

58

P
ARKER MADSEN STEPPED
into the Oval Office, a folded newspaper under his arm. “Mr. President, I’m sorry to interrupt.” Though he spoke to Peak, his attention shifted to Sloane, who sensed the situation getting bad, fast.

“I know, Parker. I’m on my way.”

“Sir— ”

“We were just finishing up, Parker. Jon, this is Parker Madsen, my chief of staff.”

Sloane shook Madsen’s hand and felt a sudden surge of energy, as if he’d stuck a fork in a light socket. He fought the urge to pull his hand back. The bulb flashed, followed by the clap of thunder. Sloane struggled against the descent into the darkness, a man digging in his heels as he slid feetfirst down a hill. He focused on Madsen’s eyes—dark, lifeless spheres without pupil or iris.

Peak pulled open the door.

Sloane pulled back his hand. The descent stopped.

He stepped into the hall, forcing himself to look away from Madsen. The woman waited patiently.

“Sheila, please see that Mr. Blair is escorted to a staff car and driven wherever he needs to go.”

Madsen again interrupted. “Mr. President—”

“I’ll be right along, Parker.”

Peak gripped Sloane’s hand. “I only wish we could have met under better circumstances, Jon.”

“Maybe someday.” Sloane felt light-headed and nauseated. As if being pulled by an invisible force, a compulsion, he looked again at Madsen. Again the light flashed, this time bringing only darkness. Sloane shook free, smiled wanly, and followed the woman down the hall, feeling as if he had a rope tied around his waist, certain he’d be yanked and dragged back at any moment. He passed the Roosevelt Room, now nearly full, and followed the woman outside. They crossed the asphalt toward the West Gate. The tension on the rope became tighter with each step, but he maintained a casual pace, keeping stride with the woman’s high-heeled steps. At the gate he thanked her. Then he stepped through it, though not before looking back over his shoulder.