Bolden froze.
Wolf stood three feet away, holding a silenced pistol. “Don’t even think about it,” he said.
57
“Wolf’s got him,” said Guilfoyle, striding up to James Jacklin outside his office.
“Well, hallelujah. I thought I’d never see the day. Where’d they nab him?”
Guilfoyle took Jacklin to one side. “In Mickey Schiff’s office.”
“What the hell was he doing there?”
“Looking into the financial affairs of some of our counselors.”
“He’s one resourceful individual. I’ll give him that much.”
“Does it surprise you?” Guilfoyle monitored Jacklin’s expression. As ever, it was impossible to read anything in the man’s features except scorn and a general frustration that the world didn’t run quite the way he’d like it to.
The office was quiet for a Wednesday evening. The entire staff had received invitations to the dinner. Most of the executives were either at Jacklin’s home or on their way. A few stragglers hurried up and down the hallways, throwing on their dinner jackets, spending a last moment adjusting their ties.
“Have you talked to Schiff?” asked Jacklin.
“Voice mail. But I plan on speaking with him as soon as he arrives. Bolden had these documents with him.”
Jacklin accepted the sheaf of papers that had been faxed to D.C. for Guilfoyle’s inspection. “Busy bee, isn’t he? Most people would have done the smart thing and run for the hills.” He thumbed through the copies, frowning when he came across the LexisNexis reports listing Schiff as a director of Defense Associates. “These reports were printed this afternoon. Who does he have on the inside?”
“His secretary helped him. Her name is Althea Jackson. We can assume she’s conversant with the material.”
“Married?”
“Single. One boy. Twelve years old.”
“Dammit,” said Jacklin. He shook his head and sighed. “See that the boy’s well taken care of. Set up a scholarship or something. Remind me to give St. Paul’s a call. I know the rector. They’re good about taking needy cases.”
Guilfoyle nodded. “I spoke with Marty Kravitz. He swore that Bolden impersonated one of HW’s senior executives when ordering the reports. Apparently, Bolden strong-armed him into handing over the information. I think we can count on Kravitz keeping his mouth shut. If Prell tattled every time they found something incriminating, they wouldn’t have any customers left.”
“All right then, get Bolden down here. I want to talk to him face-to-face.”
“He’s on his way.” Guilfoyle stepped closer to Jacklin. “Got a minute?”
“I’ve got the limo waiting downstairs. I can give you a lift.”
“It won’t take long.” Guilfoyle took Jacklin by the arm and guided him into the confines of his office. “There’s something you need to know. Something about Albany.”
Jacklin folded his arms, giving Guilfoyle his undivided attention. “What about Albany?”
“A detective in New York ran latents of your thumb and index finger through the NCIC’s database and got a match.”
“Where the hell did he get copies of my fingerprints?”
“I don’t know, but we have to assume the worst.”
“And that is?”
“The prints came from the gun used to kill David Bernstein.”
“How is that possible? I thought the matter was cleared up a long time ago.”
“I never found the prints. It bothered me at the time, but without Kovacs there wasn’t a reason to be concerned. The problem was localized and contained. Twenty-five years, J. J. Really, I’m as shocked as you.”
“That I very much doubt,” said Jacklin. When he spoke next his voice was quiet as a rattlesnake’s whisper. “It was our bargain. You cleaned up that mess in exchange for a cozy job with Jefferson. I had thought it a fair one at the time. I’m no longer so sure.” Jacklin stepped toward the model of the battleship Maine. “Who ran the prints?” he asked.
“Detective John Franciscus. He’s the same one who questioned Bolden last night.”
“What makes him so damned curious?”
“Just a good cop, I guess. We’ve tracked him to a flight to D.C.”
“He’s coming here? Wonderful. Maybe we should leave an invitation to the gala at the airport for him.”
“Hold on, J. J. I’m as upset about this as you.”
“You?” Jacklin shook a finger at him. “You cold-blooded bastard. You haven’t got a feeling inside you. What do you know about being upset?”
Guilfoyle felt part of him lock up. He knew as much about emotions as anyone. He knew how destructive they were. How they controlled you. How once you gave in to them, you were powerless. He said, “We had a man at LaGuardia keeping an eye out for Bolden. He was able to get on board the plane with Franciscus.”
“What are you waiting for, then?” asked Jacklin.
“He’s a police officer.”
“So? It didn’t stop you before. Those fingerprints can put both of us away.”
“First, they need a witness to place you at the scene.”
“They have one,” Jacklin flared. “Bobby Stillman. Those fingerprints are her ticket to freedom.”
58
The Scanlon operative lay on his side panting.
“Not bad,” said Bobby Stillman. “I didn’t expect money to buy that kind of loyalty.” She dropped to a knee and put a hand under the man’s shoulder. “Get up.”
When he didn’t move, she yanked him to his feet. His face was red from where she’d slapped him, but other than that he was no worse for wear. Still, she couldn’t help but notice that her friends were eyeing her differently.
She was a mean bitch. Count on it.
“So, you really don’t know what Crown is?” she asked.
The man shook his head.
“Then you won’t mind if I try one last way of finding out?” Bobby Stillman pulled a carpet layer’s X-Acto knife out of her pocket. She pushed the blade out slowly. Click. Click. Click. Millimeter by millimeter the steel snout emerged, until the razor-sharp triangle had grown to the size of a thumbnail. She laid the blade against his cheek.
A calm had come over her. After all the yelling, cajoling, browbeating, and finally striking her mute captive, she had made a dangerous peace with herself. All along she’d wondered how far she would go; what she would do if, ultimately, he refused to talk.
She stared into the man’s eyes. She was sure she saw his willful self staring back. Never for a moment had she believed that he didn’t know. J. J. had always said that it was important to trust your men, to give them the truth and let them come to grips with it. And so, she decided that there weren’t any rules. Screw the Geneva Convention and the Marquess of Queensberry. This wasn’t a war or a boxing match. She’d been living outside the bounds of the civilized world for so long that she was surprised she hadn’t come to the conclusion earlier. God knows, Jacklin had. He was always willing to subordinate everything to the result. The end was all. The means meant nothing.
Bobby Stillman placed her lips next to the man’s ear. “You will tell me,” she said.
For the first time, she read fear in his eyes, as if he had finally taken a test of her mettle.
J. J. would be proud of me, she thought, and the idea made her terribly sad.
It had been a hot day. A hot day after many other hot days. Everyone’s nerves were shot. People had worn through their good cheer. It was only July, but summer had gone on for a week too long already. Bobby came home to finish packing. She carried a grocery bag full of things they couldn’t find when they left. Skippy peanut butter, granola bars, and a new pair of Superman pajamas for Jacky Jo. The flight for Buenos Aires left at eleven out of JFK. They would disappear for a year, longer if it suited them. She found David speaking with Jacklin in the front hall.