The Missing Piece (39 page)

The man stuttered. Foxx opened his jacket and pressed his court officer's shield to the man's face.

“Gary Martin?” he repeated.

“Yes, yes. The client is he.”

Foxx tried the door. Locked.

A crack sounded inside. Foxx knew that crack well. It was the report of a gun, not just any gun, but a gun of a certain caliber. He knew that report from the shooting range where regulations required him to requalify every year. It came from a Glock 9mm, a court officer's service piece.

“You got tools?” he said. “Crowbar? Tire iron?”

“Tire iron in the back,” said the man.

Foxx shoved his phone at him.

“Call 911. Give this address and say ‘shots fired.'”

He ran down the steps, lifted the rear gate of the van, found a tire iron on a heap of oily rags. As he wedged the iron between the door and the jamb, the man said, “Shots fired,” into the phone.

And then another shot crackled inside.

*   *   *

Linda and Bernadette cowered on the floor behind the counter. They could hear Gary grunting, panting, his belt buckle scraping the floor as he dragged himself toward the kitchen.

“We gotta do something,” said Linda.

“Someone's at the door,” said Bernadette.

“Yeah, lotta good that does us.”

“They musta heard the shots. They must be calling the cops.”

“We can't assume that,” said Linda. “They could be running away, too.”

Gary fired again. This time a hole opened in the ceiling near the back door. Shattered plaster rained down.

“Dammit,” said Linda.

They were safe here, but only for the moment. Gary was crawling into the kitchen now. His grunting was louder and his belt buckle made a different scraping sound on the tiles. He couldn't lift himself up and over the counter. But he knew where they were, and they knew that once he reached the end of the counter he'd have them trapped.

“How many shots do you think he has?” whispered Bernadette.

“I don't know. You were the gun expert.”

“Long time ago. Court officer guns used to have clips of nine. That's all I remember.”

“We don't know if it's a court officer's gun,” said Linda.

Someone started banging on the front door.

“They're back,” said Bernadette.

The banging sounded like metal on wood. But unless it was a firefighter with an ax, Linda knew that the door would hold much too long.

“He's going to crawl around and corner us,” said Bernadette. “We should wait till he gets close, then jump over the counter and run.”

“We'll have no cover,” said Linda.

“We'll be behind him. He'll need to turn himself to get a shot at us. We can run upstairs.”

Bernadette rose on her knees as if to peek over the counter. Gary fired at the same time. A spotlight exploded, bits of broken glass and plastic fell on them.

Scratch that plan, thought Linda. She took a deep breath. Gary's belt buckle scraped again on the tiles. He was directly on the other side of the counter, about six feet from the end. If he could put a slug in the ceiling above them, he could turn himself enough to squeeze off a couple of good ones as they ran down the hallway.

The front door would hold. Gary would reach the end of the counter. They needed to end this themselves. There was no other way.

Linda slid across the kitchen, reached up to the counter, and fell back to the floor. One hand pressed against a sudden pain in her belly, the other held a carving knife. She slid back to Bernadette, expecting another shot but hearing only another scrape of belt buckle on tile.

“Are you okay?” said Bernadette.

“I'm fine.”

“You're not fine. You were holding your belly.”

“I'm fine. It's just a twinge. I've had enough of this shit. I'm ending this. I'm going over the top and onto his back.”

“No, you're not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm doing it.”

“But this is all about me. Something I did or said to him without knowing.”

“That doesn't matter right now,” said Bernadette. “I'm doing it. You're not well and you have a baby to carry.”

She lifted her pinkie. Linda stared for a moment, then locked her pinkie around it.

They pulled apart. Bernadette kicked off her pumps, shed her jacket. She took the carving knife from Linda, held it first as a sword and then as a dagger before going back to holding it as a sword.

Behind them, Gary's belt buckle scraped again. At least he's on his stomach right now, thought Linda.

Bernadette went into a crouch.

Good luck,
mouthed Linda.

See you in a minute,
Bernadette mouthed back.

She pushed herself up and over the top.

*   *   *

Gary was tiring fast. Even with many months of constant exercise devoted to keeping his arms and upper body strong, he still hadn't exerted himself like he had this morning. But he was near the end. The end of the counter. The end of everything.

The old firing range mantra came to mind as he pulled himself another few inches forward. Two in the head and two in the body. He didn't need so many shots. He needed only three. One for his girlfriend, one for his girlfriend's friend, and then one for himself.

In between pulls, he could hear them on the other side. Talking about him. Plotting. He rolled onto his left side so he could look up at the counter. They could jump over and run down the hallway. He needed to be ready for that.

He rolled onto his stomach, measured the distance to the end of the counter. One pull, maybe two, and he'd be within reach of the end. He'd stay on his left side from that point on, hook his left hand on the corner of the counter, keep his right hand on the gun.

He needed only one more pull to reach the end. But as he rolled onto his left side, something dark fluttered above him. Something large, falling.

The girlfriend's friend.

He saw a glint, felt his cheek rip. The girlfriend's friend had a knife in her hand. Her first swipe had cut his cheek, and now she straddled his hips, her shoulders twisting as she coiled for a second swipe. He pushed himself up, rocking her backward enough that the knife flashed passed, missing his face. She regained her balance and pushed forward while swiping at him again with a backhand. He caught her wrist and slammed it against the counter. Once, twice, and the knife fell from her hand. Blood ran from a slit below his eye, gathered in his mustache, and seeped into his mouth. He pressed the gun to her forehead.

*   *   *

Linda heard things go wrong: Gary's triumphant grunt, Bernadette's terrified cry. She jumped up, grabbed the closest thing to a weapon, and vaulted over the counter.

She landed on Gary's chest, knocking him back to the floor and pinning his arm beneath her. She struck him on the head. The gun went off, and she struck him a second time.

“Linda!” cried Bernadette.

“No,” she said.

“Linda!”

“No, no, no,” she said, pounding Gary each time, feeling his skull soften with each blow until Foxx pried the missing piece from her hand.

Foxx pulled her to her feet, and she collapsed against him. She sobbed into his chest until a pain stabbed her belly and her breath caught in her throat.

“Sit me down,” she said. “Gently.”

Foxx guided her around the counter and eased her onto the floor. Bernadette, her slacks soaked with the blood from Gary's gut wound, knelt beside Linda and stroked her hair. Linda closed her eyes and hugged her belly, then flinched at another stab of pain.

“No way,” she said. “Not this time.”

 

CHAPTER 43

The August term of court is the quiet time of year at 60 Centre Street. Trial lawyers take vacation. Judges take vacation. The courtrooms stay locked and dark. Those who do work try to accomplish what cannot be accomplished during the rest of the year. This year, the librarian started a top-to-bottom cleaning of the dusty, overburdened library stacks. Jessima helped.

The work was arduous, unstacking and dusting every book on every shelf, dusting the shelf, and then restacking the books. During the week before Labor Day, the most quiet week of the quiet term, Jessima reached the mezzanine level. As she unstacked a set of digests, she heard something slip down behind the small wooden bookcase. She looked into the thin space and spotted a motion folder.

Jessima knew the folder was important and wondered why it was hidden behind the bookcase. It was the kind of find she would have reported to Damien. But she hadn't seen Damien in almost a year. For all she knew, he was dead.

Jessima needed to do something with the folder. The librarian didn't want it, so she walked half the hexagon until she reached the fifth-floor security desk. She handed it to the officer.

“Thanks,” said Foxx.

*   *   *

“I won't deny I was angry with her,” said Mark Garber. He and Foxx were walking along the outside of City Hall Park. Tour buses idled, their fumes thickening the unseasonably hot air. Sweat darkened patches of Mark's new uniform, the red smock issued by the office supply store where he now worked.

“But I'm not angry with her,” he continued. “Yeah, she let me go. But she was the only person during my whole time at Sixty who I can honestly say was up front with me.”

Mark admitted everything, not that Foxx needed the admission. He just wanted to confirm the timing.

“That's it down to the minute,” said Mark. “I don't think I'll ever forget.”

They got as far as the corner of Chambers Street before it was time to part ways. Farther up Centre Street, the facade of the courthouse angled into Foley Square.

“This is as close as I've gotten since I left,” said Mark.

The basement of the mission was not a flophouse. It had cots, but only for the half dozen souls who worked there regularly. Ronan Hannigan was gone. After he lost his case and then the appeal, he went off looking for other windmills to tilt and other unfortunates to shepherd.

Damien Wheatley lay on one of the cots. His chest was sunken, and his ribs looked like church pews beneath his T-shirt. Foxx nudged the cot with his knee, and Damien sat up. With his dreadlocks gone, his face looked gaunt, his cheek scar more prominent.

Foxx sat on the adjoining cot.

“You met Judge Johnstone in the coffee shop that morning, right?”

Damien nodded, and Foxx moved on to more important matters.

*   *   *

Linda dangled a tiny plush pony in front of Emily. The baby, who everyone agreed had her mother's bright eyes and her father's black hair, swiped a dimpled hand at the pony and smiled.

Foxx knocked on the open door. Chambers had a much different decor now, with a bassinet and a changing table replacing one of the sofas in Linda's private office. A template for the modern judge, she had announced the day the furniture arrived, studiously not modifying
judge
with
female
or
divorced
.

“Order to show cause,” said Foxx. He handed the folder across the desk.

“Braman again?” said Linda.

“Read it this time,” said Foxx.

“Bossy, huh? Bernadette's rubbing off on you.”

Foxx said nothing.

Linda sat down to read the order and Braman's supporting affirmation. Foxx dangled the pony. Emily cooed.

“I suppose if Braman can't find his client I'll allow him to withdraw from the case. Gives me the rest of the day off and another month before the trial.” Linda stroked her initials on the signature line. “Do you think Leinster is hiding?”

“I think he's dead,” said Foxx.

He made photocopies of the order, then went down to the robing room. He peeked into the lavatory, then called the court clerk on the intercom and asked to see the lawyers. A moment later, Braman, Pinter, and Cokeley filed in.

“The judge signed the order to show cause and stayed the trial,” said Foxx. He handed a copy to each of the lawyers.

“I don't plan to oppose,” said Pinter.

“Neither do I,” said Cokeley.

Professional courtesy at its finest, thought Foxx, as the three lawyers headed toward the courtroom door.

“Mr. Braman,” said Foxx. “I need a word.”

Braman waited until the courtroom door closed behind his adversaries.

“What can I do for you?” he said.

“For me, nothing,” said Foxx. “But there are a couple of people who need to speak to you.”

He whistled. Bev stepped out of the lavatory as a man came in the stage entrance. Bev looked neat and precise as ever in a business suit. The man wore a raincoat. Braman looked back and forth between the two, confused.

“Mr. Braman,” said Bev. “We have evidence to prove that last October you made an implied promise to Mark Garber that you would hire him if he gave an affidavit to support your motion to disqualify Judge Conover from the Roman silver trial.”

“Implied promise,” said Braman, laughing. “That's a good one.”

“It gets better,” said Bev. “You read the affidavit and thought it was too weak to convince Judge Conover to disqualify herself. But then, someone offered you personal information about the judge. She was pregnant, which presented you with the chance to scare her off the case. So you hired two goons to assault her. When that didn't work, you submitted the order to show cause. But Mark, who had second thoughts about selling out his judge, intercepted it.”

“This is absurd,” said Braman. “Who the hell are you?”

“The inspector general,” said Bev.

“You don't have any jurisdiction over me.”

“Maybe not,” said Bev. “But he does.”

The man in the raincoat opened his hand to show an NYPD detective's shield in his palm.

Braman bolted. He pushed through the door and into the courtroom, where a court officer blocked the narrow passage between the clerk's box and the rail. Braman bounced right off him.