“Thank goodness,” muttered Jacklin to himself. He sat forward, hands on his desk, cigar clamped firmly in his mouth. He was too caught up to light it.
“We’ll begin with the air force,” said the spokesman, a navy commander. “Lockheed Martin Aeronautics is being awarded a $77,490,000 contract modification for U.S. Air Force economic order quantity funding…”
“We don’t have to worry about this one,” said Jacklin to one and all. “Airplanes are a nasty business. No margins whatsoever.”
Glancing out the window, his eye landed on the dome of the U.S. Capitol building, far across the Potomac. He thought about Senator Hugh Fitzgerald and the $6.5-billion appropriations bill. He thought about the effect the new contracts would have on his companies. Like manna from the heavens.
The appropriations hearings should be well over by now, and Fitzgerald at home in his beautifully decorated Georgetown townhouse, knocking back some of that single-barrel Tennessee bourbon he liked so much. Thirty years in the Capital had polished the former Vermont college professor’s tastes. Along with his bourbon, old Hugh enjoyed handmade suits, a chauffeur-driven car, and a full-time Guatemalan maid, with whom, Jacklin had discovered, he was carrying on a torrid affair. (The pictures were revolting.) Keeping up that lifestyle while providing for his family back in Burlington wasn’t easy on a senator’s salary of $158,100. Jacklin had done some checking into his finances. He had not found any secret contributions from lobbyists, no shadowy honorariums for speeches he never gave, no numbered accounts in Zurich. Fitzgerald was clean. He was, however, up to his eyeballs in debt. Jacklin returned his gaze to the television.
“And now we’ll turn to the navy,” said the Pentagon spokesman.
“This is us,” said Jacklin.
“Hoo-yah,” added General Lamar King.
“A $275,000,000 firm-fixed-price contract for the U.S. Navy’s Missiles and Fire Control Command Systems is being awarded to…”
Jacklin scooted to the edge of his seat. “Dynamic Systems Control,” he whispered, fists balled and held to his chest. “Lord, let us have that one.”
“… Everett Electrical Systems of Redondo Beach, California.”
Jacklin banged his hand on the table. “There’s three more to come,” he said. “Never say die!”
The spokesman went on: “A $443,500,000 indefinite delivery/indefinite quantity contract to provide seven MPN-14K radar approach control systems, installation, flight check…”
“Triton Aerospace…”
“Leading Edge Industries, Radar Division, Van Nuys, California.”
“Horseshit!” shouted Jacklin, out of his seat now, brushing past the model of the battleship Maine, pacing the office. He hit the call button on his desk. “Juan,” he said into the speakerphone. “Get me a double scotch. Lamar, what’ll you have?”
“Bourbon.”
“A sherry,” said Hank Baker.
“Sherry, my ass,” protested Jacklin. “Have a man’s drink!”
“Make it a bourbon, then,” Baker said uncertainly. “Um… Wild Turkey.”
LaWanda Makepeace started to say Coke, but caught the blistering look thrown in her direction by Jacklin. “Give me a Tom Collins, honey. If we’re starting this early, I might as well do it right.”
“Two more,” said Jacklin, waving his cigar at the television. “They can’t shut us out altogether.”
Five minutes later, it was done. The final two contracts had been awarded to companies that did not belong to Jefferson’s portfolio.
There was a knock at the door. Juan, the Filipino mess steward, entered the room. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Just put the drinks down, Juan. We can serve ourselves.”
Juan set his sterling-silver serving tray on the coffee table. With ceremony, he laid a napkin and then placed a crystal highball glass filled with ice and single-malt scotch on it.
“I said we can serve ourselves, you little brown monkey,” shouted Jacklin.
“Yessir,” said Juan, an uncomfortable smile on his face.
“You blind as well as deaf? Light this fuckin’ cigar!”
Juan produced a Zippo lighter. “Very good, sir.”
Jacklin knocked back half his tumbler and rubbed his temples. Losing contracts was getting to be an all-too-familiar experience. He was going to have one helluva job figuring out how to spin this shitty news to his guests tonight. There was only one way to salvage the party. Fitzgerald. He’d have to get Senator Hugh Fitzgerald to say he was recommending passage of the appropriations bill.
Jacklin strode back to his desk. He might need those pictures sooner than he thought.
50
Franciscus nudged the door to Vicki Vasquez’s office open with his foot and leaned his head inside. “You still here, Vick?” he called, struggling for a better hold on the moving box full of Theo Kovacs’s files.
“Still here,” came a voice from the filing cabinets.
“It’s me. I need a favor.”
“Coming.” Vicki Vasquez bustled in from the back room. Her jacket was buttoned. Her dark hair neatly combed. Franciscus noted that every PC in the office had been turned off; every desk immaculate. It was clear that she was in the closing phase of a well-executed campaign to get out of the office at quitting time. As she approached, she slipped her lipstick back into her purse. “Hey, Johnny, what you got there?” she asked.
“Somebody else’s junk,” he said.
“Need a hand?”
“No, thanks, I’ve got it.” Franciscus set the box down on the corner of the nearest desk. “I need a favor, Vick. Shouldn’t take long.”
Vicki Vasquez planted her hands on her hips. “I’ve got tickets to the theater. A date, even.”
“It’ll just take a minute.”
“A minute?” She checked her watch and took a tentative step toward the door. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow? You need me here at seven, I’ll be here at seven. Say the word. Just not tonight.”
Franciscus smiled apologetically. “I need an address on a retired cop out of Albany. Find out where they’re sending his pension.”
“A pension?” she asked.
Franciscus nodded. “A pension. That’s it. Then you’re free to go.”
“Does it have anything to do with the fugitive you turned up earlier? Bobby Stillman?”
“It does. I’m counting three homicides hanging on what you find out.”
At once, Vicki put down her purse and took a seat at the nearest terminal. “What’s the name?” she asked as she powered up the computer.
“Guilfoyle, Detective Francois J. Retired in 1980.” Guilfoyle might take his name off a case file, but Franciscus was willing to wager he wouldn’t skip out on his pension. It was congenitally impossible for a cop to turn down a government paycheck.
Vicki glanced over her shoulder at him. “It’ll take a few minutes. I’ve got to call downtown and put in an expedited request. Might be a little late in the day.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed.” He hefted the moving box. “You gonna make your play?”
“We’ll see.”
“I owe you,” said Franciscus. With over fifty thousand employees, the New York City Police Department was like an army. Only two of nine employees actually wore uniforms and carried a gun. The other seven ran the bureaucracy that supported them in the field. At the door, he turned around. “Hey, Vick?”
“Yeah?”
“He a nice guy?”
“All right.”
“Got a name?”
“Same one his mother gave him.”
“So… you like him?”
Vicki Vasquez put her hands on her hips and sighed in exasperation. “Go away and let me work.”
Franciscus carted the moving box across the hall and set it on his desk. The squad room was empty, which was the natural state of things. Detectives earned their living on the street, not watching The View. A sheaf of papers stuck out from beneath the box. The top form was titled “Disability Claim for…” The lieutenant had stuck a note on top with the name and number of a cardiologist. Franciscus slipped the papers out from beneath the box and shoved them into his desk drawer. Craning his neck, he scoped out the hall. The lieutenant’s office was dark. He checked the clock. Five-oh-five. It wasn’t the first time Franciscus was late with paperwork.