Shakedown (15 page)

She nuzzled his shoulder. "I love to hear you say that, John. I love you too."

"I wish you weren't a judge," he said.

"I guess it would make our relationship much simpler."

"Maybe we should stop worrying about what other people think," Novak said. He released her gently, stood up, moved to the window, stared out. She followed him. He turned to her, and for a moment they just stood there looking at each other. It was still in the room; the only sound was of the traffic outside.

"I've been single for the last twelve years," he said. "My marriage lasted less than a year. I never tried to make it work, because I was an FBI hotshot and marriage was at the bottom of my list of priorities. I've changed over the years. I'm arresting the same people over and over again ... for the same crimes. I guess what I'm saying is that I'm ready to..."

She touched her hand to his lips. "I've dreamed of being with you, too."

He took her hand away. "Then what are we waiting for?" he said.

She turned away from him. "We need more time with each other before we make any decisions."

"It's not that."

"I don't want us to end up hurting each other," she said.

"It's not that either," he said. "You're caught up in what other people think. You're worried that if we were married you'd have to drag a low-ranking FBI drone with you to dinner parties. 'And our guests tonight are her honor judge Lorraine Traynor and her GS-13 husband, who is neither a legal eagle, nor a casino executive, nor some asshole who happened to be born rich."'

"I'm sorry to hear that's what you think of our relationship," Lorraine Traynor said. She turned to face him. Their eyes met.

She had looked at him like that the first day he had testified in her court, and the time he had seen her sitting alone in a restaurant near the courthouse a few weeks later and asked if he could join her. He found himself breaking into a wry grin. She smiled.

Novak took a few steps to the door.

"Are you going?"

With his eyes on hers, he turned the latch, locked the door.

Lorraine Traynor removed her thick eyeglasses. "You're crazy," she said in a conspiratorial tone.

Novak removed his gun and handcuffs, set them on the sofa, moved across the room to her, took her in his arms. As his lips sought hers, he reached under her skirt and maneuvered his hand under her panties. Gently he massaged her. She moaned softly and spread her legs a little. As she began to clutch him tightly, he felt wetness, readiness between her legs.

"No," she whispered.

"Yes."

"I'm not going to do it here," she said.

As she tried to push him away, he dropped with her to the plush carpet. His tongue found her neck.

"You're such a pervert," she said breathlessly.

Soon, Lorraine Traynor tugged on his belt, pulled down his trousers, freed him. He rolled onto his back, lifted her violently onto him. She caught her breath and closed her eyes. She dug her nails into his forearms as he plunged into her with measured strokes, the way he knew she liked it.

She began to breathe faster.

To keep the reception clerk outside the door from wondering what was going on, they covered each other's mouth as they experienced simultaneous orgasm. Then she leaned down, rested her head on his chest, hugged him tightly.

"Don't ever do this again. I mean it," she said.

"Sorry."

She hugged him tighter.

TWENTY-FOUR

After a few minutes, they got up from the carpet and cleaned up in the bathroom which adjoined the chambers.

Novak put his gun and holster back on as Lorraine Traynor combed her hair at the mirror.

"Are you coming over Sunday?" she said. "I thought we could barbecue."

"Wouldn't miss it."

"Bring steaks."

"Yes, your honor," he said on his way out the door.

On Sunday morning, Novak rose early. He drove to the Strike Force office and let himself in. He strolled through the office to make sure no one was there. At a wall of filing cabinets, he unlocked a file drawer labeled "Parisi Organization -Closed Cases." He pulled out every file in the drawer and stacked them on his desk. He sat down, picked up one of the files, thumbed pages. Having reviewed it thoroughly, he set it aside. From the top desk drawer he took out a tablet and made brief notes.

During the next several hours, he did the same with every file he had removed from the drawer. By three o'clock he had completed his notes:

He tore the sheet from the yellow pad, shoved it into his pocket. Novak returned the files to the filing cabinet. He checked his wristwatch. He was almost late to meet Lorraine.

On the patio of Lorraine Traynor's home, Novak dropped thick steaks on the barbecue grill. They sizzled. He picked up his third beer, took a sip.

Lorraine, who was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a halter top, sat at a redwood picnic table reading the notes he'd made at the office. Finally she handed them back to him.

"Okay. Now I know that every case against Parisi and his organization has resulted in a zero. Not one of his people has gone to jail."

"What do you make of it?" he said.

"Organized-crime cases are difficult to prosecute," she said. "Parisi has himself insulated so that no one can give direct testimony against him."

"I read every file," Novak said. "Parisi lucked out in every investigation. Either a witness backed out of testifying, or the evidence was tainted. Technicalities."

"Prosecutors make mistakes. Investigators make mistakes. People are incompetent. Incompetency is the motto of the federal government," she said.

She stood up, moved close to him, took the beer from his hand, sipped. "I thought you weren't going to take all of this so seriously anymore."

"I persuaded Bruno Santoro to talk," Novak said. "I gave him my word of honor that he would be protected. That's probably what he was thinking the moment his car blew up and he became human pizza. My promise. That makes it personal."

Novak took the meat off the grill and put it on the picnic table, which Lorraine had set with a white tablecloth and napkins. They gorged on steak, baked potatoes and salad.

"I talked to the Attorney General," Lorraine said. "I made up a reason to call, then got around to the Santoro bombing. I think he sensed I had an ulterior motive for calling, so I just came out with it. I told him that the investigators on the case should be allowed to continue."

"How did he respond?"

"He told me he knows that Elliot is a bureaucratic climber and is trying to show off by offering to take over the case. And he's going to leave you and Haynes on it."

"Thanks, Lorraine. I really appreciate-"

"Eat your steak and shut up."

After dinner he helped her carry the dishes into the kitchen and put things away. "You've been preoccupied all evening, Agent Novak," Lorraine said as she closed the door to the dishwasher and turned it on.

"Sorry. I guess I haven't been very good company."

"I didn't mean that."

"I want to solve this case more than I've ever wanted anything else."

"Men are never satisfied. They always want to solve one more case, make one more big deal, build one more bridge."

"This isn't like pinching one more car thief"

"If Parisi disappeared tomorrow, someone else just like him would take his place."

"Maybe," Novak said. "But nevertheless this one is between him and me."

She took him by the hand. "You'll make the case," she said. They kissed passionately. He picked her up, carried her to the living-room sofa. There in the semidarkness, they undressed each other. Then they made love for a long time. Afterward, they lay in each other's arms, breathing heavily. Novak was exhausted.

Lorraine rolled over onto her back. In the dim light she looked mysterious. Dark eyes, lips, nipples.

He kissed her again.

"Please be careful," she whispered.

"I will. It would help if you could set a high bail on Monica Brown."

"Since I was a youngster my goal in life was to become a federal judge-a fair and honest judge like my father was. I scraped and scratched to make it. Now, for me to be anything other than fair and impartial in any case would be something I couldn't live with, no matter what the personal consequences."

"I'm not asking you to break any rules. The bail can be legally justified. Trust me."

She nuzzled his neck. "I'll see what I can do," she said sleepily. "I want you to stay the night. I want to be with you."

"Okay." He put his arms around her.

They woke up the next morning on the living-room floor.

Eddie Sands and Monica sat at a table near the stage of the Tiffany Showroom, a cavernous theater restaurant in the Tropicana Hotel. On the stage, a spotlight shone on a young hatchet-faced comedian attired in Italian-cut casual clothing.

"You know how you open the refrigerator and stare in looking for something to eat? Like what could change?" he said. There were a few scattered laughs. "You know how you always get a headache after watching an aspirin commercial?" Light chuckles.

"Who said this jerk was supposed to be funny?" Sands said.

"This is yuppie humor. Everything relates to television," Monica said. She gave him a playful pinch on the cheek. "You have no imagination."

"In the joint I used to imagine jumping your thighs," he whispered.

Monica leaned close, kissed him tenderly. She returned her attention to the stage.

The comedian continued. "You know the commercial with the walking raisins?"

Sands finished a drink. "This guy had to know somebody."

"That's the way it works in this town. Juice talks."

"That's the way it works everywhere. Money. The green shit. Gold. That's power."

"Sometimes you sound so cold."

After the show Sands and Monica wandered through the busy Tropicana Casino. They stopped at a crap table and Sands rolled a few numbers.

They were slightly tipsy going home. The car radio was tuned to a Las Vegas talk show whose host was interviewing Mr. Enterprise, Harry Desmond, about his plans for purchasing the Desert Inn and building a convention center on its golf course. Desmond, who had a resonant Clark Gable voice, spoke confidently.

"My experience as a member of the Federal Reserve Board taught me that in this day and age the development of new jobs and capital is the responsibility of men like myself One day I just realized that entrepreneurship was really where the buck stopped. Risk-taking was what started Las Vegas."

"I understand you are considering entering the entertainment field, also," the host said.

"When I complete the Las Vegas projects I intend to make an offer to purchase one of the major movie studios. I'm going to see to it that more good old-fashioned family-style entertainment gets on the air. You see, I'm a risk-taker and a family man ... and damn proud of being both."

"There's some reason why Tony wants me to shake down Desmond," Sands said. "The Desmond play has been there all this time, and all of a sudden he wants to give it to
me
, knowing that I get half. Doesn't make sense.

"Maybe he looks at you as the expert at shakedowns. He wants it done right."

"That's what he said," Sands mused.

Monica touched his thigh. "I don't want you to do anything dangerous, Eddie."

"Desmond is a tempting play. I could go back to him more than once."

"Why is Tony stalling on paying you for the chips?"

"I don't like it either," Sands said. "He has the juice to dump the chips for face value anytime he wants to."

"Of course, everybody stalls when it comes to money.

Sands slowed down with the traffic. "I was a cop for a lot of years, hon. I learned that most things in life are exactly what they appear to be. That's the difference between me and the suckers that send you their money."

"You mean you see things clearer."

"I mean I know the difference between chicken salad and chicken shit."

She laughed softly. "My suckers are all so greedy. I play to the greed." She covered her mouth as she yawned and laid her head on his shoulder. There was nothing but the sound of tires on pavement. "Sometimes I get tired... tired of everything. Like maybe there's some other way."

"You've had too much wine," Sands said as he pulled up to a stoplight near the Thunderbird Casino. The casino's facade, a million-watt display in the shape of a huge silver bird, flashed intermittent daylight. The signal light changed. He drove on.

"Sometimes I think I'd like to get out of this town," she said. "We could move away."

"What would we do?"

"I could sell real estate in L.A. My clients would be Arab sheiks, rich Jews. There are million-dollar deals done every day in Malibu, Beverly Hills."