Blood of Angels (27 page)

 

WE STAND IN THE PRIVATE HALLWAY
, outside the press room, the stunned reporters scrambling for the paperwork being handed out. Rayburn shakes Paul's hand. “You realize you're never going to have to buy another beer in your life, don't you?”

Paul grins. “I can live with that.”

I look back up at the monitor; most of the reporters are milling around, flipping through Paul's documentation. A few are already heading for the rear doors. Rayburn starts to lead us back to the underground parking, but a figure on the monitor catches my eye, and I stop. A man in a well-tailored suit is pressing against the flow of people, coming into the room as others exit. I can't see his face clearly, but he's definitely agitated. He rips a press release off the table and stands reading it, his head down. The farther he goes, the more upset he becomes; by the bottom of the first page, his hands are trembling.

My colleagues are already at the door at the other end of the hall. “Thomas!” Paul calls out. “You coming?”

“I'll catch up.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I'm right behind you.” Paul shrugs and steps through the door. I stare back up at the monitor, trying to see the man's face. He's about five-foot ten, and his black hair is cut well but fairly long, down over his ears. He's angrily flipping through the press release, manhandling the pages. I squint at the monitor.
His arms. Are those welts?
The image of Indy clawing for his life while someone presses him underwater flashes through my mind. The man lifts his head, unaware he is staring directly into the camera. It takes me a second to recognize him; the street clothes are gone, replaced by a properly cut suit; the hair is well trimmed, and the beard and mustache have vanished. There's a two count, and by the time I realize I'm looking straight at Charles Bridges, he's dropped the papers onto the floor and is striding back out into the hall.

I pull open the door and head toward Bridges. The second I appear, a dozen reporters who are still in the hall converge on me and start hurling questions. I try to push through them, but it's hard going. The closer I get to the front, the bigger the crowd becomes, and there's already a crush of people filling up the exit. I finally break out of the front of the hall and see Bridges is about thirty-five yards away, halfway down the concrete steps to the street. If I can get a clear shot, I can reach him in less than ten seconds. Suddenly, I feel a large hand on my shoulder, spinning me around in the opposite direction. It's a reporter, and standing next to him are Wilson Owens's brother, mother, and half sister. The mother hurls herself on me, her big, sloppy tears in the air and on my face, her hands pummeling my chest. “You're a liar!” she howls. “You lied about my boy! Wilson didn't hurt nobody, and you tellin' lies about him!” The reporter stands a couple of feet away, grinning fiercely. I try to restrain the woman, but within seconds I'm encircled by reporters and cameramen. The mother of the man I sent to the death chamber hammers away on my body for twenty agonizing seconds, until at last she grinds to a halt, her fists pressed into my chest. She collapses against me and grips me, holding me so tight I can barely breathe. The crowd around us falls silent, the only sound the merciless singing of camera shutters.

Gently, I disengage from the woman. She looks up into my face with regret as deep as an ocean, a regret that goes back to her own childhood and the freight-train path of her life. Her boy was lost; for a brief, shining moment, he had come back to her. And now I have stolen him from her again.

Bridges has finally become aware of the commotion behind him. Fifty yards off he turns back and looks; our eyes meet, and he spins away and starts off in a run. Beyond him are a maze of alleys and buildings, each of which he knows like the back of his hand. I don't bother calling 911. Somewhere deep in my gut, I know that Charles Bridges will never be caught hiding in a stairwell by some patrolman. Until he chooses to show himself again, Charles Bridges is gone.

THE
UNOFFICIAL
“Paul Landmeyer Saved Our Asses” party—precursor by only a few hours to the
official
Carl Becker retirement party—has already started by the time I arrive back at 222 West. Rayburn insisted that Paul go back to the office and even dragged Carl back with him. In the main conference room there is now an informal receiving line as the staff heaps affirmation on Paul, mixed with undisguised disdain for Buchanan and his crowd. The rest of the day is going to be spectacularly unproductive, followed tonight by what promises to be an equally spectacular debauch.

In the midst of a chorus of backslapping and “hell-yeahs,” I manage to get Rayburn back in his office for a talk. He follows me in, grinning like a kid at Christmas. “Good people in this office, Thomas. They stuck together through this.”

“Charles Bridges was at the press conference, David.”

He looks at me skeptically. “The hell he was. The cops are out looking for him, and he walks right into the New Justice Building?”

“The cops are looking for a homeless guy with beard, mustache, and a smell that knocks you down. Bridges looked like a banker. Shaved, nice haircut, suit, and tie.”

“You're serious.”

I nod. “I should have figured it. Watching us go down would be important to him. It's everything he's worked for. The point is, I don't think anything about Charles Bridges is what it seems. And as of now, there's no current description of him. It even took me a while to recognize him, and I sent him to jail.”

Rayburn grimaces. “He's going to be pissed about what happened.”

“Bridges killed his parole officer over an inadvertent insult, David. And Paul just seriously ruined his day.”

Rayburn nods thoughtfully. “I'll ask the sheriff's department to put a plainclothes officer on Paul, another on his house.”

I nod. “We have to tell him about it, David. He's got a family.”

 

I WATCH PHILIP BUCHANAN
'
S
press conference alone, in the small conference room. The professor looks satisfyingly rattled, a brave face in shit circumstances. His position undermined, he dissolves into a standard, antiprosecutor rant. Buchanan demands that his experts have the chance to examine the evidence, which Paul will scrupulously provide. And knowing Paul, that work will be found to be impeccable. In the end, Buchanan will claim that pesticide in the gunstock of the murder weapon isn't ironclad proof one way or another. Paul's opinion is good enough for me, and more important, it will be good enough for the people of Tennessee. The truth of this case will, for people like Buchanan, always be in doubt. But it is certain that the people of Tennessee don't want to believe that their representatives in the justice system have killed the wrong man. In the face of such dubious testimony, to accuse them, they will dismiss the claims of Kwame Jamal Hale. This is not the case that brings down a DA's office. We will not carry that cross.

I flip off the TV and call Josh Ritchie, who answers on the second ring. “It's Thomas, Josh. I haven't heard back from you on Bridges.”

“Yeah, well, that's its own story. I got nothin' against street work, but shit, dude.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means your boy's social circle ain't exactly at the governor's mansion. But I got a line on him. You were wrong about him going down to the tracks to buy dope, by the way.”

“I saw him head down there with my own eyes.”

“He goes down there, all right. To sell, not to buy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, and it was like pulling teeth. Nobody wants to say shit about your boy Bridges. But he's got a nice little business going on downtown.”

“Who's his supplier?”

“That's where I hit a wall. I've pretty much decided he must be doing his own cooking.”

“Then he has to have space somewhere,” I say. “He'd need a house, an apartment, something. A place for a stove, some storage, and doors that lock.”

“Yeah, but nobody has a clue where he lives. Don't even ask me where I went trying to find out.”

“Thanks, Josh. I owe you.”

“That you do, amigo.”

 

THE REST OF THE STAFF
, untroubled by concerns about the plans of Charles Bridges, convene early and enthusiastically that evening at the Saucer for Carl's official retirement party. And although the Department of Homeland Security has specifically requested that the personnel of the Justice Department maintain constant vigilance, many of them are on their way to a night they won't remember very clearly. This is not merely a party to send off Carl. This is an exorcism of the demons Philip Buchanan and Kwame Jamal Hale. The staff drinks like people who, on the eve of their own executions, received a last-minute reprieve.

Nevertheless, Carl remains the titular star of the evening, and the law enforcement community has come out in force to honor him. The entire bar has been reserved, and the place is crammed with at least two hundred well-wishers, ranging from police detectives to defense lawyers to Justice Building staffers. Carl stands smiling thoughtfully at the front of the crowd, his shirt disheveled, his tie seriously askew. Cigar smoke wafts above his head, the liquor is flowing freely, and for now, all is well.

Someone calls Carl's name, and he breaks from his reverie. The DA hands him something—it's yet another plaque—and he smiles, tolerating it all under the salutary influence of several fine Pilsners. There is muted applause, and he looks down and reads out loud the inscription of the plaque:
In Gratitude for Meritorious Government Service.
There are the obligatory calls for a speech, little yips like the barking of dogs. Carl bows with the cautious, overstated grace of the inebriated. “What to say, on the occasion of my sudden irrelevance?” he asks. There are boos and catcalls, and Carl states in a loud voice that he is proud to have served with such a goddamn fine bunch of lawyers. There's a satisfying round of applause, but I can see something's still bothering him. His face clears suddenly, and he turns to Rayburn and says, “Except for you, obviously. But it's not your fault you have to get elected every two years.”

Rayburn flushes bright red, which brightens Carl's expression considerably. Carl peers out at the crowd, and he finds me standing several rows back. “I would also like to say that the best thing about retiring is that I will no longer have to carry on my back the highly overrated Mr. Thomas Dennehy. If not for him, I would be a Supreme Court justice. At least.” There's genuine laughter at that, including from me.

“Thank you, Carl, thank you very much,” Rayburn says, moving Carl firmly back toward his seat. Carl starts to protest, but the DA's hand is in his back, and between that and the alcohol, he finds himself trickling toward a waiting, enveloping crowd of well-wishers. I walk up to my friend and put my arm around him.

“That was beautiful,” I say, smiling. “Pure poetry. The crack about Rayburn was fatally true.”

“Yeah, and the one about you was pure bullshit,” Carl says, smiling unsteadily but sincerely. “Thank God you'll still be here after I'm gone, so the place doesn't fall apart.”

“I take it you'll be slipping away as inconspicuously as possible?”

Carl presses his finger to his nose. “A disappearing act,” he says, smiling. “Look for me, and I won't be there.”

Something in his expression gives me pause.
Good Lord. He means permanently.
“You mean you're not coming back?”

Carl looks wistfully around. “This is it, Thomas. The last night.”

“You can't give up the Saucer, Carl. It's un-American.”

“And run into you, and Rayburn, and everybody else? Have you all look over at me with pity? No, thanks.”

“Admiration, you mean.”

He smiles. “I'm moving to Seanachie's for the duration. Only Irish beer. Less complicated. In fact, I think I'll start tonight.”

“Want some company?”

He shakes his head. “God, no. I'm not ready for that talk.”

Right. The talk about how the hell this friendship is going to work, now that only one of us is left in the fight.
“I'll call you,” I say.

“Sure.” He turns away, and I watch him enveloped by a crowd of backslappers. Carl soaks it all in; then he melts away down a hall, turning back at the doorway. He looks at the crowd a long moment, and he's gone. The party continues at full speed without the guest of honor, people anxious to let off steam. I stay for twenty minutes or so, but my heart's not in it. By the time there are rumblings about moving the party to another club, I slip silently away. I walk out of the party and into the warm air of a late August night.

Seanachie's is four blocks away and the opposite direction from my car. I head toward it anyway. I don't want the night to end, because it means Carl is really gone. I get to the pub and look in the street-side window; Carl is there, at the bar, a drink before him. He's alone, staring straight ahead. I don't go inside, because I don't have the right. Carl isn't just saying good-bye to me and the staff; he's saying good-bye to his life. Over the next few hours and beers he's going to take leave of his knight's roundtable, the place where his victories were celebrated and his defeats lamented. After tonight, he will have no reason to return.

I circle back to the parking lot and head toward the truck. I put my hand on the truck, turn, and call out into the dark. “Come on out, dammit.” Silence. “Come on, I know you're back there. I'm not in the mood to play any games.” There's a rustle of movement, and a man steps out from behind a nearby car. “Who the hell are you, and where on earth did you learn to tail a person so badly?”

The man walks out under a streetlight. “Officer Nielsen, sir,” he says. “The police academy on Lebanon Road.”

I sigh. “Rayburn sent you, didn't he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go home, Nielsen. I'm fine.”

“I can't actually do that, sir.”

“So you propose to follow me all the way home to Franklin?”

“Those are my orders, sir.”

“And then?”

“I work third shift, sir. I'll be outside in the car until seven this morning.”

I shake my head.
Rayburn and his family.
I unlock the truck, get in, and pull out toward home. The cop jogs to an unmarked Crown Vic and fires it up. I drive home, the officer fifty yards behind the entire way. I pull into the garage, and the officer stops at the end of the block and parks. I strip off my clothes, climb in bed, and fall asleep the second my head hits the pillow.

 

THE DREAM BEGINS
like before. It's of Rebecca and water, and the beach in Florida. But this time, Jazz is with us, and we're a family again. Jazz looks about four, and she's riding on Bec's shoulders. She's laughing, her hair dripping with salt water. Bec splashes water up onto her, and she whoops and waves her arms in the sun. But this time, it's not the sea that carries them away from me. Instead, Bec simply turns her back to the shore and walks toward the horizon. I scream my lungs out, but they keep getting smaller and smaller. I call out a final time, but the small point they have become vanishes into the glare of the water.

Sometime deep in the night—when dreams are black nothingness—I hear what I think is the alarm, ringing harsh and close to my ear. It stops and starts again, and I realize it's the phone. I reach groggily over and knock the receiver out of its cradle, fumbling for it in the dark. I pull the phone to my mouth and mumble, “Dennehy.”

“It's David.”

I sit up; my bedside clock shows 4:05 a.m. “Yeah, I'm here. Talk to me.” There's no answer; I hear noise in the background, like Rayburn is in a crowd.

“It's Carl. Something happened to him.”

I jerk awake. “What about him?”

“We don't know what happened exactly.”

“What are you talking about, David? What's happened to Carl?”

“He's gone, Thomas. He's dead.” He chokes back a sob. “Somebody stuck a knife into him. You got to get down here, Thomas.”

My chest constricts. “Where are you?”

“Broadway and Sixth, downtown. Paul Landmeyer has a small army down here, taking it apart, brick by brick.” He chokes back another sob. “It's my fault. I put protection on Paul and you. I didn't even think about Carl.”

“Hang on, David. I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

I pull on jeans and a shirt, push my feet into shoes, feeling a horrible buzzing in my ears. I go to the bathroom, thinking I'll throw up. I don't, but I'm unsteady for a while, my balance just out of reach. I fall back down onto the bed, holding my sides, feeling like I can't breathe. I stand back up and force myself to walk toward the bedroom door. Halfway out of the bedroom, I stop. I walk to the nightstand, pull out the Rock Island .45, and hold it quietly in my hand. I take a breath and move toward the garage.

I hit the garage door opener, and the cop car pulls up beside the driveway, his window down. “I heard on the radio. You rolling?”

“Yeah.” I shove the gun into the glove box. I pull out and drive through empty streets, the cop tailing me. When I turn onto Broadway, I see a police barricade blocking the street.

An officer walks over hurriedly, then recognizes me. “Sorry,” he says, giving way. “Go on in.”

Powerful portable lights are set up on stands, their electrical lines trailing to a van. Yellow police tape secures a large area. Two men in white Tyvek suits are bent over at the waist, examining something on the sidewalk.

Rayburn picks me out. “Jesus, Thomas,” he says, walking toward me. He opens his arms, and we embrace. “I've got twenty cops looking for Bridges.”

“Where's Carl, David?”

“In the alley, around the corner. A patrol officer found him. His billfold and watch are missing.” I start toward the location, and Rayburn grabs my arm. “Not yet. Let Paul do his job.”