Jack’s eyes shot open.
Unless that person were a cop. His immediate thought hit him hard in the chest.
Seth Frank.
He dismissed it quickly. There was no motive there, not a scintilla of motive. For the life of him he couldn’t imagine the detective and Christine Sullivan in any type of tryst and that’s what this boiled down to, didn’t it? Sullivan’s lover had killed her and Luther had seen the whole thing. It couldn’t be Seth Frank. He hoped to God it wasn’t Seth Frank because he was counting on the man to get him out of this mess. But what if tomorrow morning Jack would be delivering the very thing Frank had been desperately searching for? He could have dropped it, left the room, Luther comes out of his hiding place, picks it up and flees. It was possible. And the place sanitized so clean a pro had to be behind it. A pro. An experienced homicide detective who knew exactly how to cleanse a crime scene.
Jack shook his head. No! Dammit no! He had to believe in something, someone. It had to be something else. Someone else. It had to be. He was just tired. His attempts at deduction were becoming ludicrous. Seth Frank was no murderer.
He closed his eyes again. For now he believed he was safe. A few minutes later he fell into an uneasy sleep.
The morning was refreshingly cold, the close, trapped air expunged by the storm of the night before.
Jack was already up; he had slept in his clothes and they looked it. He washed his face in the small bathroom, smoothed down his hair, cut the light off and went back into the bedroom. He sat on the bed and looked at his watch. Frank would not be in yet, but it wouldn’t be long now. He pulled the box from under the bed, laid it beside him. It felt like a time bomb next to him.
He flicked on the small color TV that sat in the corner of the room. The early-morning local news was on. The perky blonde, no doubt aided by substantial amounts of caffeine as she waited for her break into prime time, was recounting the top stories.
Jack expected to see the litany of various world trouble spots. The Middle East was good for at least a minute each morning. Maybe Southern California had had another quake. The President fighting the Congress.
But there was only one top story this morning. Jack leaned forward as a place he knew very well flashed across the screen.
Patton, Shaw & Lord. The lobby of PS&L. What was the woman saying? People dead? Sandy Lord murdered? Gunned down in his office? Jack leaped across the room and turned up the volume. He watched with increasing astonishment as twin gurneys were wheeled out of the building. A picture of Lord flashed into the upper-right-hand corner of the TV screen. His distinguished career was briefly recounted. But he was dead, unmistakably dead. In his office, someone had shot him.
Jack fell back on the bed. Sandy had been there last night? But who was the other person? The other one under that sheet? He didn’t know. Couldn’t know that. But he believed he knew what had happened. The man after him, the man with the gun. Lord must have run into him, somehow. They were after Jack and Lord had walked right into it.
He turned off the TV and went back into the bathroom and ran cold water over his face. His hands shook, his throat had dried up. He could not believe that this had all happened. So quickly. It had not been his fault, but Jack could not help feeling enormously guilty for his partner’s death. Guilty, like Kate had felt. It was a crushing emotion.
He grabbed the phone and dialed.
Seth Frank had been at his office for an hour already. A contact from D.C. Homicide had tipped him to the twin slayings at the law firm. Frank had no idea if they were connected to Sullivan. But there was a common denominator. A common denominator that had given him a throbbing headache and it was barely seven in the morning.
His direct line rang. He picked it up, his eyebrows arched in semidisbelief.
“Jack, where the hell are you?”
There was a hard edge in the detective’s tone that Jack had not expected to hear.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Jack, do you know what’s happened?”
“I just saw it on the news. I was there last night, Seth. They were after me; I don’t know exactly how but Sandy must’ve walked into it and they killed him.”
“Who? Who killed him?”
“I don’t know! I was at the office, I heard a noise. The next thing I know I’m being chased through the building by someone with a gun and I barely get out of there with my head intact. Do the police have any leads?”
Frank took a deep breath. The story sounded so fantastic. He believed in Jack, trusted him. But who could be absolutely certain about anyone these days?
“Seth? Seth?”
Frank bit on his nail, thinking furiously. Depending on what he did next one of two totally different events would take place. He momentarily thought of Kate Whitney. The trap he had laid for her and her father. He had still not gotten over that. He might be a cop, but he had been a human being long before that. He trusted he still had some decent human qualities left.
“Jack, the police do have one lead, a real good lead in fact.”
“Okay, what is it?”
Frank paused, then said, “It’s you, Jack. You’re the lead. You’re the guy the entire District police force is combing the city for right this very minute.”
The phone slowly slid down from Jack’s hand. The blood seemed to have ceased flowing through his body.
“Jack? Jack, goddammit talk to me.” The words of the detective did not register.
Jack looked out the window. Out there were people who wanted to kill him and people who wanted to arrest him for murder.
“Jack!”
Finally, with an effort, Jack spoke. “I didn’t kill anybody, Seth.”
The words were spoken as though they were spilling down a drain, about to be washed away.
Frank heard what he desperately wanted to hear. It wasn’t the words — guilty people almost always lied — it was the tone with which they were spoken. Despair, disbelief, horror all rolled into one.
“I believe you, Jack,” Frank said quietly.
“What the hell’s going on, Seth?”
“From what I’ve been told the cops have you on tape going into the garage at around midnight. Apparently Lord and a ladyfriend of his were there before you.”
“I never saw them.”
“Well, I’m not sure that you necessarily would have.” He shook his head and continued. “Seems they were found not completely clothed, especially the woman. I guess they had just finished doing it when they bought it.”
“Oh God!”
“And again they have you on the video blowing out of the garage apparently right after they were killed.”
“But what about the gun? Did they find the gun?”
“They did. In a trash Dumpster inside the garage.”
“And?”
“And your prints were on the gun, Jack. They were the only ones on the gun. After they saw you on the videotape, the D.C. cops accessed your fingerprints from the Virginia State Bar file. A nine-point hit I’m told.”
Jack slumped down in the chair.
“I never touched any gun, Seth. Somebody tried to kill me and I ran. I hit the guy, with a paperweight I pulled off my desk. That’s all I know.” He paused. “What do I do now?”
Frank knew that question was coming. In all honesty he wasn’t sure what to answer. Technically, the man he was speaking to was wanted for murder. As a law enforcement officer, his action should have been absolutely clear, only it wasn’t.
“Wherever you are I want you to stay put. I’m gonna check this out. But don’t, under any circumstances, go anywhere. Call me back in three hours. Okay?”