“How? If you’re blackmailing someone?”
Frank finally threw up his hands. “I give.”
“You said the wire transfer could be traced by the sender.”
“So?”
“So, what about the other way? Receiver back up the line?”
“Goddamned stupid.” Frank momentarily forgot his concussion and slapped his forehead. “Whitney put a tracer on the wire, going the other way. The person sending out the money thinks all along that they’re playing cat and mouse with Whitney. They’re the cat, he’s the mouse. He’s hiding, getting ready to run.”
“Only Luther didn’t mention the fact that he was into role reversal. That he was the cat and they were the mouse.”
“And that tracer would eventually lead right to the bad guys, probably no matter how many shields you put up, if they thought to put up any at all. Every wire in this country has to go through the Federal Reserve. You get the wire reference number from the Fed or the sending bank’s wire room, you got something to hang your hat on. Even if Whitney didn’t trace it back, the fact that he received the money, a certain amount, is damaging enough. If he could give that info to the cops with the name of the sender and they check it out...”
Jack finished the detective’s thought. “And suddenly the unbelievable becomes very believable. Wire transfers do not lie. Money was sent. If it was a lot of money like I’m sure it was here, then that cannot be explained away. That is pretty damn close to bull’s-eye evidence. He set them up with their own payoff.”
“I just thought of something else, Jack. If Whitney was building a case against these people, then he was eventually planning to go to the police. He was going to just walk in the door and deposit himself and his evidence.”
Jack nodded. “That’s why he needed me. Only they were quick enough to use Kate as a way to ensure his silence. Later they used a bullet to accomplish that.”
“So he was going to turn himself in.”
“Right.”
Frank rubbed his jaw. “You know what I’m thinking?”
Jack answered immediately. “He saw it coming.” The two men looked at each other.
Frank spoke first, the words came out low, almost hushed. “He knew Kate was a setup. And he went anyway. And I thought I was so fucking clever.”
“Probably figured it was the only way he’d ever get to see her again.”
“Shit. I know the guy stole for a living, but I gotta tell you, my respect for him grows by the second.”
“I know what you mean.”
Frank put the car back in gear and pulled off.
“Okay, again, where does all this conjecture leave us?”
Jack shook his head, lay back down. “I’m not sure.”
“I mean so long as we don’t have a clue as to who it is, I’m not sure what we can do.”
Jack exploded back up. “But we do have clues.” He sat back as though all his energy had suddenly evaporated after that one thrust. “I just can’t make any sense out of them.”
The men drove on in silence for a few minutes.
“Jack, I know this sounds funny coming from a policeman, but I think you might want to start considering getting the hell out of here. You got some bucks saved? Maybe you should retire early.”
“And what, leave Kate swinging in the wind? If we don’t nail these guys what is she looking at? Ten to fifteen as an accessory? I don’t think so, Seth, not in a million years. They can fry my ass before I let that happen.”
“You’re right. Sorry I brought it up.”
As Seth glanced in his mirror the car next to them tried to do a U-turn directly in front of them. Frank hit the brakes and his car spun sideways, crashing into the curb with a bone-crunching impact. The Kansas license plates on the vehicle that had nearly crashed into them quickly disappeared.
“Stupid tourists. Fucking bastards!” Frank gripped the steering wheel hard, his breath coming in gasps. The shoulder restraint had done its job, but it had dug deeply into his skin. His battered head pounded.
“Fucking bastard.” Frank yelled again to no one in particular. Then he remembered his passenger and looked anxiously in the back seat.
“Jack, Jack, you okay?”
Jack’s face was pressed up against the door glass. He was conscious; in fact, his eyes were staring at something with great intensity.
“Jack?” Frank undid his seat belt and gripped Jack by the shoulder. “You okay? Jack!”
Jack looked at Frank and then back out the window. Frank wondered if the impact had relieved his friend of his senses. He automatically searched Jack’s head for bruises until Jack’s hand stopped him and pointed out the window. Frank looked out.
Even his hardened nerves took a jolt. The rear view of the White House filled his entire line of vision.
Jack’s mind raced; images hurtled across like a video montage. The vision of the President pulling back from Jennifer Baldwin, complaining of tennis elbow. Only it had been inflicted with a certain letter opener that had started this whole crazy thing. The unusual interest taken by the President and the Secret Service in Christine Sullivan’s murder. Alan Richmond’s timely appearance at Luther’s arraignment. Led me right to him. That’s what the detective had said their videotaping citizen had reported. Led me right to him. It also explained killers who killed in the middle of an army of law enforcement officers and walked away. Who would stop a Secret Service agent protecting the President? No one. No wonder Luther felt no one would believe him. The President of the United States.
And there had been a significant event right before Luther had returned to the country. Alan Richmond had held a press conference where he had told the public how terrible he felt about the tragic murder of Christine Sullivan. He was probably fucking the man’s wife and somehow she had gotten killed and this slimeball was gaining political dollars showing what a sensitive and good friend he was; a man who would get tough on crime. It had been a tour de force performance. And that was truly what it had been. Nothing about it had been true. It had been broadcast to the world. What would Luther have thought, seeing that? Jack believed he knew. That was why Luther had come back. To settle the score.
All the pieces had been dangling inside Jack’s head just waiting for the right catalyst to come along.
Jack looked back once more at the catalyst.
Directly under the lamplight, Tim Collin again glanced down the street at the minor traffic mishap, but could make out no details in the oncoming swarm of car headlights. Next to him Bill Burton was also peering out. Collin shrugged, and then rolled the window back up on the black sedan. Burton threw his bubble light on top of the car, hit his siren, quickly drove the car through the rear White House gate and tore off in the direction of D.C. Superior Court in pursuit of Jack.
Jack looked at Seth Frank and smiled grimly as he reflected on the detective’s outburst. The same phrase had erupted from Luther’s mouth, right before his life had ended. Jack finally remembered where he had heard it before. The hurled newspaper at the jail. The smiling President on the front page.
Outside the courthouse, staring right at the man. Those same words had exploded out, with all the fury and venom the old man could muster.
“Fucking bastard,” Jack said.
Alan Richmond stood by the window and wondered if he was destined to be surrounded by incompetents. Gloria Russell sat dronelike in a chair across from him. He had bedded the woman a half-dozen times and now had completely lost interest. He would catapult her away when the time was right. His next administration would be comprised of a far more capable team. Underlings who would allow him to focus on his particular vision for the country. He had not sought the presidency to sweat the details.