Notorious (22 page)

A
tari Briggs was in
his suite in the Drayton Hotel working with his fashion stylist on his trial wardrobe when his bodyguard buzzed to say that his lawyer would like an audience with him.

“Sure, let him in. I always got time for my lawyer,” Atari said.

“He has a guy with him I don't like the looks of,” the bodyguard said, speaking quietly.

“What's the dude's name?”

“Alexei Grinkov.”

“Yeah, Alexei can come, too, but he's strapping for sure. Check him everywhere. He carries a lot of weird Bruce Lee–type shit, not just heaters.”

The stylist was kneeling at his feet, adjusting the cuff on his trousers. She was a petite bleached blonde in tight jeans and platform shoes, more accustomed to styling starlets and designing handbags. But she'd learned to be flexible when opportunity knocked, and dressing Atari Briggs for his trial was a publicity boondoggle to rival any other.

“This one is perfect for opening statements,” she said. “It has
a solid banker vibe to it, yet with an edge that says hip-hop. But if you're not satisfied, Brioni sent over some gorgeous things—”

Atari pulled his money clip out and peeled off a few bills.

“Baby, go get yourself a cappuccino for a while, would you? I got some business to transact.”

The stylist, who was used to being treated like a diva rather than a servant, turned crimson and opened her mouth to tell Atari where he could put his money. But the next minute, the double doors swung inward to reveal one of the enormous business-suited bodyguards from the hallway, and beside him, Evan Diamond and Diamond's driver. Alexei Grinkov was as big as the bodyguard but scarier to look at. It was plain to see from his smashed-in face that he'd survived a thousand blows. The coldness of his eyes suggested that he'd given worse than he'd gotten, which meant all those other guys must be—
dead
. After one look at Grinkov, the stylist plucked the money from Atari's hand and beat a hasty retreat.

“Owen, stay,” Atari instructed the bodyguard, who took up a position by the door.

Briggs, Diamond, and Grinkov sat down around the coffee table on massive leather sofas. Briggs poured them each a scotch from a decanter.

“To your health,” Diamond said, taking his glass and raising it to Atari.

“What's the word?” Atari asked. His face was impassive, his tone impatient.

“Alexei was out there over the weekend. He did what needed to be done to get the Mexicans off our backs. So we're in good shape, except for one small problem. My source in the U.S. Attorney's Office tells me DEA is close on Bo's heels. They're not letting up.”

“We knew that. Bo already moved the stash, so why is this a problem?”

“They figured out he moved it,
and
they're looking for the new
stash,
and
they're still looking to pop him. That's why. Some people might consider going after that girl in the USAO who's driving the investigation, Melanie Vargas. But that's very risky. It would be an amateurish move. Especially since the case agent got taken out, it would rain a shit storm down on us.”

“Even if that wasn't us?” Atari searched Diamond's face with narrowed eyes, trying to figure out how much he knew that he wasn't letting on.

“It heats us up anyway. The best option is for Bo to drop from sight for a few weeks. Just till after your trial is done. From what I understand, the only reason they want him is to flip him on you. Once you're acquitted at trial, you're bulletproof because of double jeopardy, so they won't need him anymore. Then we're out of the woods, see?”

“Isn't double jeopardy just for what I'm charged with now? They could still come after him to get me on some other shit that ain't charged in this case.”

“What are you, a lawyer now?” Diamond said.

“I'm just saying, I don't see where it helps for him to take himself out of play at this exact moment. Whack the bitch instead. This is a
sensitive
moment. I want to be in regular contact with him to monitor business during the critical phase, you feel me? Now is not a good time for him to drop from sight.”

“Atari, leave this to me, and focus on what you're good at, okay? Are you working out enough? Do you need a facial? Because I want you to look good for the cameras. I've got something up my sleeve, I promise. This trial is when we take the Atari Briggs legend to the next level.”

A
t five-thirty the following
afternoon, a bitter March wind was rattling the window's in Susan Charlton's corner office. The shadows were growing long, but encroaching gloom fit the mood of the occupants so well that neither of them moved to turn on the light. Susan sat in her swivel chair, tugging anxiously at her short red hair. Melanie sat in a guest chair, staring at the papers spread across Susan's desk, kneading her aching forehead with her fingertips.

“I'm having trouble understanding what this means,” she said. “I'm just…I think I'm so depressed about Papo that I can't think straight.”

“If it's not leaping out at you, then maybe I'm wrong. I
want
to be wrong.”

“Unfortunately, if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that you're not wrong.”

“You don't think I'm being paranoid? Too many years in this goddamn job can make you paranoid.”

“No,” Melanie said, shaking her head, “you're not paranoid. Somebody falsified one of these subpoena responses, Susan. No ques
tion in my mind, you're right about that. I've looked at this pile,” she said, laying her hand on a stack on the left side of Susan's desk, “and I've looked at this pile,” she said of the stack on the right, “and I've compared them, and they're different. At least half the phone numbers called are different, even though the two piles are for the same phones and the same time period.”

“But how can that be?” Susan asked.

“Take me through it again, exactly what happened.”

“Okay, you and I had a conversation a day or two ago where you told me about the surveillance photo of that redheaded guy who met with Vegas Bo, right?”

“Right. He's critical. He may be involved in Papo's death.”

“Unfortunately, we haven't been able to ID him yet. But in that conversation, we said maybe he was part of the defense team, and that we should go after Evan Diamond's phone records.”

“Yes. I remember.”

“I had you on the speakerphone. Jennifer was sitting right where you're sitting now. I assigned that task to her. After we hung up, I gave her a complete tutorial on what to do, because, since Evan's a lawyer on a pending case, we need approval from the front office and also from Main Justice down in Washington to subpoena his phone records. She took notes. There's no way she didn't know how to go about it, because I told her myself. As far as she told me, she was pursuing that paperwork.”

“Okay.”

“Meanwhile, we heard about Papo.
Everybody
heard about Papo, including the FBI. It turned out Rick Lynch and his team had pulled Diamond's phone records a while back, right after the bombing.”

Melanie nodded, remembering how she'd asked Dan O'Reilly to ask his boss to take a closer look at Evan Diamond.

“Well, Diamond's phone records show numerous calls to various cell phones and landlines in the Las Vegas area in the past three weeks.”

“Huh.”

“Interesting, right? Rick Lynch gave me this pile,” Susan said, pointing to the one on the left, “and told me that I—or somebody at DEA—should look at the phone numbers Diamond was talking to in Vegas to see if they could come up with any suspects in Papo's murder.”

“Okay. What about the other pile?”

“An hour ago, Jennifer walked into my office and handed me this second pile. I believe her exact words were, ‘I've got Mr. Diamond's phone records for you.'”

Melanie frowned. “Seems kind of quick, doesn't it?”

“Exactly! I said, ‘Jeez, kid, you're a red tape wiz.' I mean, never in the history of mankind had anybody, to my knowledge, gotten such quick turnaround on any Main Justice paperwork.”

“What did she say?”

“She didn't really
say
anything, but she looked kind of funny. I noticed it at the time. She looked uncomfortable. And of course, once I discovered that the records Jennifer gave me were so different from the ones I got from the FBI, I called down to Washington.”

“You called Main Justice?”

“Yes. I spoke to the chief of the section that reviews requests to obtain defense lawyers' telephone records. He told me that Jennifer had never applied to them for permission.”

“She never contacted them?”

“No,” Susan said. “I don't know how or where she got these phone records, but it wasn't by following procedure.”

“Couldn't she have gone straight to the phone company? Maybe somebody there screwed up, and gave her the phone records without the required approval from the Justice Department.”

“No. I checked that, and they hadn't received any request from Jennifer, either, with or without the approval. I'm stumped about where she got them, but as for what the records say…In each pile,
we have records for Evan Diamond's cell phone, records for his home phone, and records for his office phone. I've compared the two piles and verified that we're talking about the same phone numbers and the same time period, which is the last three weeks. And when you go page by page, the call details are just…well, they're just completely different, Mel. Different numbers for the outgoing calls. Different numbers for the incoming calls. Different times of day. Just,
different
.”

“Some are the same, though,” Melanie said, squinting at the pages.

“Yes, some are the same. Like, Evan's cell phone calls his home phone. A call like that might appear identical in both sets, but the calls before and after it are altered.”

“His cell calling his home shows up in both piles?”

“Yes.”

“Susan, that's significant.”

“Why is that significant?”

“Because that's a completely innocent call. He calls home to ask his wife if he should stop for a carton of milk. Nobody could draw any sort of incriminating inference from a man calling his own house.”

Susan went white. “You're saying maybe it was only incriminating calls that were altered. Innocent calls were left alone.”

“Yes. Isn't that what you were thinking?”

“No. God, no. I feel sick.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking this was a case of neglect. We get those every once in a while. There was an AUSA when I was in General Crimes, went through a divorce, had some mental problems. He got behind on his cases, and instead of asking for help, he started doing some messed-up shit to cover up. My boss found out one day because a defense lawyer came to her and complained that his client had been in jail for eight months without an indictment ever being issued.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah. Like, unlawful detention, gulag-type shit.”

“What happened?”

“That was the tip of the iceberg. There was a huge mess to clean up. But he was allowed to resign voluntarily and it was all hushed up.”

“That's sick.”

“That's life in the big city, babe. How much do you wanna bet that whatever shit's going on here'll get hushed up by the front office, too. Anyway, I was thinking that Jennifer couldn't hack the paperwork on these phone records. She was too scared to tell me, so she phonied them up and hoped I wouldn't know the difference. What you're suggesting is much worse.”

“Maybe we're jumping to conclusions,” Melanie said. “Maybe there's an innocent explanation. I can't for the life of me comprehend why Jennifer Lamont would falsify records to cover for Evan Diamond.”

“She's sleeping with him, that's why.”

“Do you know that for a fact?”

“No, but why else would she cover for him?”

“Isn't that kind of circular thinking?”

“I have her personnel folder here. I was going through it when you walked in.”

Susan's phone rang. As she reached for it with one hand, she thrust the green manila folder at Melanie with the other.

“Take a look. You'll see what I mean,” she said, and her expression spoke volumes about the horrors within.

Melanie opened the folder. Anybody's background check is bound to rattle a few skeletons. The process is too damn thorough. But Jennifer Lamont's file revealed things so hair-raising that Melanie would never have suspected them in a thousand years. The seemingly polished Jennifer hailed from a backwater town in rural Tennessee. Her
mother had worked intermittently at menial jobs, and for much of Jennifer's early life, her father was in jail. Unfortunately for her, when she was seven, he got out. After that, the file was thick with police reports of domestic disturbances at the Lamont house. When Jennifer was ten, her three-year-old brother went missing, and the police were called. Both parents claimed the child had a tendency to run off, but a search party soon discovered the little boy's battered corpse in a shallow grave in the woods behind their trailer. His skull had been crushed with a blunt object, and the autopsy revealed the multiple healed fractures that spoke eloquently of recurring abuse.

Jennifer was sent to foster care and never saw any of her family again. She bounced around for a couple of years, changing foster homes and schools several times. At one point, a placement was terminated because the caseworker suspected that Jennifer was being molested by somebody in the household, although Jennifer herself denied it. At age twelve, she was finally placed with a childless couple in Chattanooga who seemed to give her love and attention. They sent her to a Catholic high school, where her teachers took an interest in her, and Jennifer blossomed. She made straight A's, became the captain of the debate team and treasurer of the student council, and got into Yale. Despite all the upheaval in her early life, Jennifer's background check showed no counseling or psychotherapy. Ironically, the lack of therapy on her record was read as lack of trouble, and probably helped her get clearance.

Susan hung up the phone. “Well?”

“Harrowing stuff,” Melanie said, “but it says nothing about whether she's sleeping with Diamond, and nothing about whether she falsified his phone records.”

“Well, how do you propose—”

“Wait a minute, I just thought of something completely obvious that we haven't done yet,” Melanie exclaimed, flipping open the
personnel file. “Okay, this is Jennifer's home number, so remember it. 718–555–6239.”

“Got it.”

“What did I say—6239?” she asked.

“Yes,” Susan said.

Melanie picked up the pile of phone records Rick Lynch had provided and began scanning them, moving her finger over the entries as her eyes ran down each page.

“That's it,” she said, smacking the papers with the back of her hand. “They're talking to each other. A lot.”