Stanford’s eyes became dark. “You can’t prove any of this.”
“You might be surprised.”
“And suppose it’s true. What’s the charge going to be? Overzealous performance of my job? They’ll probably give me a good-conduct medal.”
“There’s more. There was a reason Lombardi was so scared, so convinced the FBI was closing in on him. Someone was blackmailing him.”
“And I suppose you’re going to blame that on me, too?”
Ben pushed another document across the table. “We subpoenaed the MUD phone records for Lombardi’s apartment. It appears someone from your office called him twice the night he died. Shortly after the last phone call, he killed himself.”
Stanford’s upper lip curled. “That doesn’t prove anything,” he snapped.
“It doesn’t have to. Lombardi explains it all in his suicide note. During the first phone call the blackmailer told him the FBI had all the evidence they needed, and that he’d be locked away in prison till he was an old man if he didn’t come across with half a million bucks. Problem was, Lombardi didn’t have that much money; in fact, he didn’t have a tenth that much money, and he was heavily in debt to DeCarlo. Too many generous contributions from the boss at usurious interest rates.
“During the second phone call, the blackmailer pushed even harder; he said if Lombardi couldn’t pay, he’d have to provide him with information, which of course was what the blackmailer really wanted all along. He demanded evidence linking DeCarlo to the drug cartel, not realizing Lombardi was even more afraid of DeCarlo than he was of prison. No wonder Lombardi seemed tense the last day of the Simmons trial—his entire world was crumbling all around him. He was trapped, poor schmuck. He had a choice between his two worst fears, prison or DeCarlo, and he saw no escape. So he killed himself.”
“I don’t have to listen to this work of fiction,” Stanford said.
“It wasn’t a coincidence that the blackmailer called that night. He wanted to get to Lombardi before he was taken into custody, before he was surrounded by lawyers and judges or eliminated by a DeCarlo hit man. It was the blackmailer’s last chance to extort information.”
“I ‘m leaving.” Stanford pushed himself out of his chair.
“I think you’d better stay,” Ben said. “You see, Lombardi killed himself, but before he did, he told someone he was being blackmailed. His associate—Lennie.”
“So?”
“After Lennie read about Lombardi’s death in the newspapers, he realized he had some hot information on his hands. He didn’t know who the blackmailer was, but he knew his identity could be traced through the phone records for Lombardi’s apartment. So he used his information in the natural way—for Lennie. He tried to sell it. Unfortunately, he tried to sell it to the FBI, which unbeknownst to him was the home of the blackmailer himself.”
Stanford’s eyes narrowed. He eased himself back into his chair, not saying a word.
“When you found out Lennie was offering information about Lombardi’s death, you knew you had to shut him up but quick. Problem was, you didn’t know where he was.” Ben’s voice softened. “But you eventually found him. By listening in on my phone conversation with him. And then you went to his motel room and killed him. Of course, you shot him four times in the head, just to confuse things and to cast additional suspicion on Christina.”
“Do you have any idea what you’re accusing me of?” Stanford said. “Do you have any idea what this…crap could do to my career? And you haven’t even got any proof!”
“Wrong,” Ben said. “Lombardi identified you in his suicide note. By name.”
It started before Ben knew what was happening. Stanford threw himself across the table. He hit Ben mid-chest, tipping him backward. His chair crashed down on the floor, dropping Ben and Stanford with a thud.
Ben felt the impact of Stanford’s elbows jabbing into his ribs. He tried to pull away, but Stanford was squarely on top of him. Stanford raised his fist and brought it down hard. It caught Ben on the side of his face, jarring his teeth together, making him bite his tongue. A sickening queasiness spread through his body.
Stanford raised his fist again. Before he connected, Ben shoved him backward as hard as he could. Stanford teetered, just enough to allow Ben to squirm out from under him. Ben rolled under the table and scrambled out the other side. Stanford leaped over the table and positioned himself between Ben and the door, blocking his exit.
“Help!” Ben shouted. “Somebody get in here!”
Stanford smiled malevolently. “That’s the down side of working after hours. You’re on your own, Kincaid.”
Ben grabbed a chair and held it between them like a lion tamer.
“That’s pathetic,” Stanford said. He jabbed his thumb against his chest. “I’m FBI, man. I’m a trained killer. Do you really think you’re going to stop me with a chair?”
He knocked the chair away with a single swipe of his arm. Ben’s wrists twisted painfully; he had to drop it. As soon as the chair fell, Stanford tackled him, knocking him to the floor. In the space of a second, Ben tried to remember something Christina had told him once: use your hands to break the fall, roll on your arms, don’t hurt your back. He tried to cushion his fall, but after he landed, Stanford fell on of him, crushing the breath from his lungs. He felt sick, disoriented; his vision was obscured by flashing white lights.
For a moment, the pressure eased. Ben gasped, trying to catch his breath. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his side. He opened his eyes, tried to focus. Stanford was standing over him, kicking him in the ribs.
“Take this, you sorry bleeding-heart sack of shit. Christ, even Lennie put up more of a fight.” He pulled his boot back and kicked Ben again, this time even harder.
Ben cried out in pain. He felt something inside his chest snap. His ribs felt as if they were on fire.
He clutched his side, but it didn’t help. He was breathing rapidly; he couldn’t catch his breath. He could taste blood trickling into his mouth. Another moment passed, then he felt the boot slam into his ribs again, in the same soft spot as before.
Ben screamed in agony. The pain was excruciating, blinding. He tried to move, to think, to do something—but he couldn’t. He was absolutely helpless. Tears flooded his eyes. He saw a blurred image of Stanford, pulling his foot back for another killing blow.
Then he heard a blessed sound outside the door. “What the hell?”
It was Mike. Ben had a vague impression of Mike running down the hallway and throwing himself against Stanford. They began to struggle.
Ben clenched his teeth and tried to push himself up. He pressed against Mike’s desk, pulling himself up the side by inches.
Stanford and Mike rolled on the floor, exchanging blows. Ben saw several sharp punches fall into Mike’s stomach, then several more into Mike’s jaw. Mike pushed Stanford back, and they both went careening into the wooden coat rack. The rack tumbled over, spilling Mike’s suit jacket, his overcoat…and his gun holster, gun intact.
Stanford and Mike both saw it at the same time. Mike reached out, but Stanford jabbed him in the solar plexus. Mike winced, retracted involuntarily. Stanford got the gun.
Stanford pulled himself onto his knees, pointing the gun at Mike’s heart. “Thought you could take me, huh?” Stanford said, breathing heavily. “Thought you were going to nail me to your self-righteous cross. Well, think again.” He stretched out his arm and aimed. Mike closed his eyes.