Supreme Justice (20 page)

Ginny’s office was three doors down from the fire stairs in a row of broom-closet-size spaces that were reserved for new associates. By seven thirty, an eerie silence had replaced the hum of activity that filled the floor during working hours. The only sound Ginny heard was made by a vacuum cleaner on the far side of the building. There were usually a few of her fellow wage slaves toiling away in the evening, but the last person to leave had said good-bye at seven fifteen.

Ginny concentrated on a memo Stewart had written justifying waterboarding and other interrogation techniques that sounded vaguely similar to stuff she read about when she was studying the Spanish Inquisition. She had to admit that the assignment was interesting, even if Stewart’s positions were appalling. She shuddered when she thought that the woman who’d written these tracts might soon be sitting on the Supreme Court, and she felt a twinge of conscience about the part she was playing, no matter how small, in seeing that she got there.

The hum from the vacuum cleaner grew louder, and Ginny stood up to shut her door. When she looked down the aisle she saw a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a baseball cap and the uniform of the cleaning crew slowly maneuver the machine in and out of a group of cubicles used by the secretarial staff. Most of the cleaning crew was Hispanic, and the man’s blond hair and Nordic features surprised Ginny. She stared for a moment, then shut her door.

Ginny made some notes on a legal pad. She paused to think about a way to spin the conclusion of Stewart’s memo so the nominee wouldn’t sound like a cross between Hannibal Lecter and Torquemada and was suddenly aware that the vacuum cleaner sounded like it was right outside her door.

When The Swede arrived at the fire exit, he left the vacuum cleaner running to cover the sound of his approach and pulled his Glock out of his coveralls. Masterson had called him that afternoon and told him that one of the firm’s associates had seen Ginny Striker using a cell phone to take pictures of the contents of a file in the drawer marked “Ta–Tm.” He believed it was the TA Enterprises file. Masterson wanted the cell phone, he wanted the names of anyone who had seen the pictures, and he wanted Striker neutralized.

“Drop the gun,” Dana Cutler commanded from the entrance of the secretarial cubicle in which she’d been hiding since six that evening.

Most people would freeze in this situation, but Bergstrom reacted instinctively and sprayed shots in Dana’s direction as he powered backward through the fire door. Dana threw herself to the floor and barely avoided the bullets that flew by her. She was starting to look up when she heard the steel door slam shut. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of following Bergstrom. Then Ginny’s door opened and Striker stepped into the hall to see what had made the dull cracks she’d heard over the whine of the vacuum cleaner.

“Get back,” Dana shouted, even though she was pretty certain they were safe. Ginny backed into her office and closed the door, and Dana scouted the area around Ginny’s office before knocking.

“What happened?” Ginny asked.

“The cleaner was getting ready to kill you. I had the drop on him, but he surprised me and got away.”

“Were those shots I heard?”

Dana nodded.

Ginny stepped back and sank onto a chair. Her breathing was shallow.

“Don’t worry. You’re safe,” Dana assured her.

“For now. And what about Brad?”

“I have someone watching your apartment. I’ll have Brad ask Justice Moss to authorize police protection until we’re certain you’re both safe.”

“And when will that be?” Ginny asked.

Dana wished she knew.

“Did you get an early parole, or did Spartacus lead a second slave revolt?” Brad joked when Ginny and Dana arrived at the apartment at eight thirty. But his smile disappeared rapidly when he saw the frightened look on Ginny’s face and Dana’s grim countenance.

“What happened?” he asked.

“A man tried to kill Ginny, and we think Dennis Masterson sent him.”

“Did you call the police?” Brad asked as he crossed to his fiancée.

“No,” Dana answered. “This is something we should talk to Keith about.”

“Why did someone try to kill you?” Brad asked.

“Let me sit down,” Ginny answered. “I have something to show you.”

She sat on the couch, and Brad sat next to her. Ginny opened her cell phone and showed him the photos she’d taken of the TA Enterprises file.

Brad gawked. “Where did you get this?”

“The firm keeps old, closed files in the subbasement of our building.”

“More important, why did you go looking for this file?”

Ginny colored. “When you called Dana in the middle of the night, I eavesdropped on your conversation. You talked about being stymied without proof that Millard Price was connected to TA Enterprises, and it dawned on me that there might be a file in the office.”

“And Masterson found out you’d been rooting around in the files?”

“He must have if he sent someone after her,” Dana said.

“At least you know that Price set up the company,” Ginny said.

“That information is not worth your life,” Brad said.

“If you give these pictures to Justice Moss or the FBI, Masterson won’t have a reason to go after me anymore,” Ginny said.

“I’m not so certain. A prosecutor would need you to lay a foundation for the admission of the pictures at a trial. You’re the only one who knows where you found them, and I’ll bet that file has ceased to exist.”

“I know one thing for certain,” Dana said. “From this point on, you two are through with anything to do with the
Woodruff
case and Millard Price. There is no upside to your continued involvement, and as we learned tonight, there could be a very big downside.”

“Justice Moss is in Texas giving a speech,” Brad said. “She’ll be back in two days. When she returns, I’ll brief her about the pictures and what Dana learned in Oregon. Then I’ll tell her to turn the information over to the FBI. What are you going to do, Dana?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, but Dana knew damn well what she was going to do. The man who tried to kill Ginny tonight had threatened her and the man she loved. She was not going to sit around and wait for Bergstrom or Masterson to make the next move. She was going to track down Bergstrom and make certain the people she cared about were safe.

A shell company with offices in Dubai rented Dennis Masterson’s penthouse under the name Ivan Karpinsky. Masterson used the penthouse for sexual encounters with women other than his wife and for clandestine meetings. When Masterson responded to his doorbell, he found Millard Price standing on his welcome mat wearing a heavy black overcoat with the collar turned up and a fedora with the brim pulled low. The hat served the dual purpose of a disguise and protection from the heavy rain that was inundating the metropolitan area.

“You look like a private eye, Millie,” Masterson joked, using the nickname Price had acquired at Dartmouth, where the effeminate moniker was the exact opposite of his violent play on the football field.

“There’s nothing funny about this situation, Dennis,” Price said as he brushed by his bemused friend.

“Let me fix you a drink,” Masterson said while Price was tossing his hat, scarf, and overcoat onto a chair.

“Scotch. The good stuff. You owe me.”

“Calm down,” Masterson said as he stepped behind his wet bar. “The file is gone.” He didn’t tell his friend about the attempt to make the person who’d photographed it vanish too. Price was squeamish, and the less he knew, the better off everyone was. “What I’d like to know is why there was a file in the first place.”

“It was an oversight. And you were never very clear about why I was incorporating the damn company. If I’d known . . .”

Masterson handed his friend a glass three-quarters full of twenty-five-year-old single-malt liquor.

“I told you it was covert. If it was even remotely legit, I wouldn’t have needed you to incorporate the company. In any event, there’s no harm done.”

Price gulped down a quarter of the scotch. “She’s Miller’s girlfriend, Dennis. Why is Miller’s girlfriend looking into the company that purchased the
China Sea
? Felicia’s got to be behind this.”

“Moss is unquestionably the problem,” Masterson said quietly.

“You
cannot
go after her again,” Price said emphatically. “I can’t believe you tried to kill her.”

“You’ll be singing a different tune if cert is granted and every investigative reporter in the country starts looking into the
China Sea
.”

“She’s a justice of the United States Supreme Court.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Promise me there will be no more violence.”

“I won’t lie to you, Millie. We go back too far. I am not going to let that case destroy my life, or yours. Did you know that Dana Cutler has been nosing around in Oregon?”

“The investigator who helped bring down Farrington?”

Masterson nodded. “Our mole in the Court bugged Moss’s chambers, and I’ve had someone on Miller since Moss told him to look into the case. He met with Cutler, and a few days later she flew to Oregon.”

“Did she find anything?”

“She must have figured out your connection with the case if Ginny Striker was looking for the TA Enterprises file.”

“What are you going to do now?” Price asked.

“I’m going to devote my efforts to putting Audrey on the Court so we can bury that damn case forever and never again have to think about that fucking ship.”

Following Dennis Masterson was the only way Dana could think of to find The Swede or Thomas Bergstrom or whoever the fuck he really was, so she staked out his law offices. Masterson was driven to and from work in black chauffeured town cars outfitted with tinted windows. A major problem was presented by the fact that Rankin Lusk contracted with a company that had a fleet of identical cars. Anyone at Rankin Lusk who wanted to use the service got into the town car in the parking garage in the basement of the building. Since Dana did not have X-ray vision, she would have no way of knowing which car Masterson was using, but she solved this problem by bribing one of the garage attendants, who called her with the information minutes before one of the town cars pulled out of the underground garage.

The heavy rain played havoc with visibility and helped disguise the fact that Dana was tailing the limo. When the car stopped in front of a high-rise apartment building, Dana parked across the street and watched the driver escort Masterson to the front door while shielding him from the downpour with a large black umbrella. Dana knew where Masterson lived and she knew this apartment house wasn’t it. Since she had no plan, she decided to stay in her parking space and see if anyone interesting turned up. She wasn’t disappointed.

Forty minutes after Masterson was dropped off, Millard Price arrived in another town car. Dana didn’t make him at first, but the justice took off his hat to shake off the rain when he got under the overhang that protected the front door.

Price came out an hour later and got into his waiting car. Dana didn’t see any reason to follow him so she stayed put. She was glad she did. Thirty minutes after Price left, Thomas Bergstrom entered the building. Half an hour later, he, too, drove away. Dana followed The Swede across the state line into Virginia. If she expected Masterson’s strongman to live someplace exotic like a houseboat or gated mansion, she was disappointed. Bergstrom lived in an upper-middle-class housing development in a house designed to look like it should have been in a New England village. Dana concentrated her binoculars on the front window and saw Bergstrom embrace an attractive brunette, who had gotten off her living room couch when the garage door opened. Dana panned across the front of the house and saw a tricycle and a soccer ball on the front porch.

Thomas Bergstrom seemed to live a modern-day version of
The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet
, only Ozzie never threatened Dana’s friends. If Ozzie had done that, there would have been a good chance that Ricky and David would have grown up without a dad.

When Brad arrived at his office the next morning, Harriet Lezak was already toiling away at her computer. She stopped working when Brad walked in.

“Can we talk?” Harriet asked. She sounded worried.

“Sure, about what?”

Harriet shut the door. “I’ve been going back and forth with myself all week, and I’ve decided that I have to tell somebody.”

Brad had no idea what Harriet was talking about.

“You know I went out for a run the evening Justice Moss was attacked?”

Brad nodded.

“I came back just before the assault. I was probably taking a shower when it happened. But I didn’t know a thing about it because it was in the garage. As soon as I was dressed, I went to see Kyle Peterson, one of Justice Price’s clerks. Do you know him?”

“We’ve met. He’s on loan from Rankin Lusk, where Ginny works.”

“Price circulated an opinion, and Justice Moss wanted my take on it. I came across a problem with one of the footnotes. Kyle worked on the draft, so I went to see if he was still in. The door to his office was closed, but I was absorbed with the legal issue and I was distracted, so I opened it without knocking. Kyle was seated at his desk and he was bent over, stuffing something into his attaché case. He was shocked to see me. Not surprised—shocked. He stared at me for a second. Then he pushed the attaché under his desk.”

“What did Kyle put in the attaché?”

“I can’t be one hundred percent certain. That’s why I didn’t talk to anyone immediately. But it’s been eating at me. I mean, what if I kept my mouth shut and something else happened?”

“What was it, Harriet?”

Lezak looked at Brad. She was usually opinionated and very sure of herself, and he was not used to her being uncertain.

“I think it was a black ski mask.”

“A ski mask?” Brad repeated dully.

“You can see why I waited. It made no impression on me at the time, because I didn’t know about the attack. A few days after the attack, I heard that the person who tried to kill Justice Moss wore a black ski mask.”

Brad remembered that Millard Price had brought Peterson to the Court after one of his clerks had an accident. Was the “accident” planned so Price could insert an assassin into his staff?

“How certain are you about this?” Brad asked.

“I just saw it for a second.”

“Why are you talking to me? Why haven’t you gone to the police or the FBI?”

“You have experience with stuff like this, and you saw the attacker. Before I tell anyone, I want to know if you think he could have been Kyle. If I accuse him and I’m wrong, his career could be ruined.”

Brad closed his eyes and tried to remember the fight in the garage. Did Kyle resemble the killer?

“Kyle has an athletic build and so did the assailant,” Brad said, “but I only saw the man for a few moments. At the beginning, I was above him on the ramp. Then I was on the floor looking up. Then he had me from behind. Then I was on the floor again. None of those positions make it easy to gauge the assailant’s height. And everything happened so quickly.”

“Damn. I was hoping you’d be sure.”

“I can’t be.”

“What should I do?”

“I think you should tell what you told me to my friends from the FBI.”

Justice Moss was in Texas giving a speech, so Brad met Maggie and Keith in her chambers. Keith could tell Brad was nervous.

“What’s up?” Keith asked as soon as Brad shut the door.

“I share an office with Harriet Lezak, another law clerk. She just told me something she saw shortly after Justice Moss was attacked. It might give you the break you need to solve the case.”

“If that’s true, why do you look so uncomfortable?” Keith asked.

Brad hesitated. “There are some things that have happened that I can’t tell you about right now.”

Keith looked confused. “Do you know something that makes you question what this witness is going to tell us?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. I just can’t talk about it for reasons I can’t explain, but I’m hoping that will change soon. In the meantime, listen to what Harriet has to say. She may be able to tell you who attacked Justice Moss. If her information pans out, I may be able to tell you why she was attacked.”

As soon as they finished questioning Harriet, Keith Evans and Maggie Sparks walked over to the office Kyle Peterson shared with Wilhelmina Horst. When Maggie knocked on the doorjamb, Horst looked up from the case she was reading.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Is this Kyle Peterson’s office?” Maggie asked.

“Yes.”

“Is he around?”

“No, he hasn’t come in yet.”

Keith looked at his watch. “Does he usually come in after ten, Ms. . . . ?”

Horst looked back and forth between the agents. “Who are you?” she asked suspiciously.

Maggie flashed her identification. “Maggie Sparks and Keith Evans. We’re special agents with the FBI,” she said with what she hoped was a disarming smile. “And you are?”

“Willie Horst. I clerk for Justice Price too.”

“So, Ms. Horst, is Mr. Peterson usually here by ten?”

“Yeah. He’s usually in before I get here.”

Sparks frowned. “Do you have his cell or home phone and his address?”

“What’s this about?” Willie asked.

“We needed to ask him some routine questions about the attack on Justice Moss,” Keith answered.

“Well, I can’t just give out that information, even if you are with the FBI. You need to talk to the Clerk’s office or someone on our police force.”

“You’re right,” Maggie said. “By the way, were you in the building when Justice Moss was attacked?”

“I already talked about this to one of our police officers. They’ll have a report.”

“I’m sure they do. But while we’re here . . .”

“I was working out in the gym.”

“Do you know where Mr. Peterson was?”

“No.”

“Did anyone see you while you were working out?”

“Do you mean, do I have an alibi witness? No. And I’ve already told all this to the police.”

“We appreciate that, Ms. Horst,” Maggie said. “We’ll follow your suggestion and get Mr. Peterson’s address from the Clerk. And we’d appreciate it if you didn’t call him to say we’re on our way.”

An hour after securing a search warrant, Keith Evans and Maggie Sparks parked outside Kyle Peterson’s apartment building and waited for backup. The attorney lived in a new condominium complex a few miles over the state line in Bethesda, Maryland. A Starbucks, a sushi restaurant, and other establishments catering to young professionals stood on either side of the entrance. When the backup arrived, Sparks went inside and flashed her ID at the security guard. After getting a master key, Evans, Sparks, and four more armed agents rode the elevator to the eighth floor.

“Mr. Peterson,” Evans called out after pressing the doorbell twice. When there was still no response, Evans nodded at Sparks, who inserted the key and eased open the door.

Guns drawn, the agents stepped cautiously into a spacious living room with sliding glass doors that opened onto a narrow balcony and found themselves surrounded by chaos. Bookshelves had been overturned, their contents strewn across the floor. A glass coffee table had been turned on its side, and a lamp, its bulb still glowing, lay on a faux Persian rug. In the kitchen, cabinet doors had been flung open, and cookware and shards of glass covered the floor.

“This does not look good,” Evans muttered.

“You think?” Sparks whispered back.

The agents spread out and edged toward a narrow hall. At the end was a closed door. Evans took a deep breath and pushed it inward. The bedroom was a wreck. Closets and drawers were open and clothes littered the room.

“Fuck,” Evans said as he holstered his gun. The curse had been elicited by the nude body sprawled across the black silk sheets on Kyle Peterson’s bed. Duct tape sealed his mouth, and Peterson’s hands had been cuffed behind him, causing his back to arch. The law clerk’s body was disfigured by burn marks and razor cuts.

“Keith!”

Evans turned and saw an agent pointing at something in Peterson’s closet. He and Sparks walked over and looked down at a stack of racist propaganda: newsletters from white-supremacist groups mixed with neo-Nazi literature and anti-Semitic tracts.

“Pardon the pun,” Evans said, “but it looks like our boy was a closet racist.”

“What’s that?” Maggie asked as she pointed toward a black mound stuffed into a corner of the closet.

Keith prodded it with his toe, and a black turtleneck flopped over, exposing a black ski mask and black slacks.

“It looks like Lezak did see Peterson stuff a ski mask into his attaché,” Maggie said. “Do you think his buddies decided they couldn’t trust him when he muffed the hit on Moss?”

“That’s one theory,” Evans answered.

“What’s another?” Sparks asked.

“I don’t really have one, but Brad seems to. It’s useless to press him. I know he’ll tell us what he knows when he’s ready. Right now, let’s ask Justice Price about his law clerk.”

“Ridiculous!” Millard Price said. “Kyle wasn’t a racist.”

“There’s a lot of evidence to the contrary in his apartment.”

“Then someone planted it. Do some police work. Check into his history. I’ve known him for years, and I’ve never seen him do anything or heard him utter a word that would make me believe he is—was—a bigot.”

Price shook his head. He appeared to be genuinely shaken by the news that his clerk had been murdered.

“We will follow up, Justice Price, but we have a witness who saw Mr. Peterson stuffing a ski mask into his attaché case right after Justice Moss was attacked, and we found the ski mask and clothing that matches the clothes the assailant wore in Mr. Peterson’s apartment.”

“I just can’t believe it.”

“It would explain how the killer disappeared,” Maggie Sparks said. “All Peterson had to do was strip off his clothes in an area that wasn’t covered by a surveillance camera, return to his office, and leave the Court as he would normally.”

“Have you reviewed the tapes to see if that’s what happened?” Price asked.

“We have someone on it right now.”

“I’m betting you won’t find any incriminating evidence on the tapes. This is a setup.”

“So you never saw anything that would lead you to believe that Kyle Peterson would do something like this?” Maggie asked.

“That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

“I understand your reaction,” Keith said. “When you work with someone every day, and you think you know him, and something like this happens, it can be very disconcerting. We get the same reaction from the neighbors of serial killers.”

“It’s inconceivable to me that Kyle was a racist, let alone a killer,” Price insisted.

“I hope there’s another explanation,” Keith said. “We certainly won’t stop investigating. Thank you for taking the time to talk to us.”

“Of course.”

“If you do think of something, please call,” Maggie said as she handed the judge her card.

As soon as the door closed behind the agents, Price closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of his chair. Dennis was behind this. He was sure of it. That poor young man. Kyle was a decent, hardworking sort. He didn’t deserve this.

Price leaned forward and put his head in his hands. Was Kyle murdered by the person who tried to kill Felicia Moss? Price was overwhelmed with guilt because he was responsible for getting Masterson’s assassin a job at the Court. Dennis had told him he needed someone to keep an eye on the case. He’d never said anything about the law clerk being a trained killer. If he’d only refused, Price thought. There probably weren’t enough votes to grant cert in
Woodruff
. And what if the case did get a hearing? Was it worth killing people to keep the
China Sea
operation hidden?

Price ran a hand down the side of his face. He didn’t know what to do. Maybe the killing was over. Maybe this insanity would stop if the FBI decided that Kyle was the person who tried to kill Felicia. If Audrey Stewart became a member of the Court, the
Woodruff
case would die, and everything would be OK. That was a hope he had to hang onto.