'Sure, that's no problem. What time have you set?'
'One o'clock, sharp, sir. Your flight from Montana is due in to Buffalo at eleven forty-five, but I left you a little leeway. Mr Wylie said he'd provide some lunch on board. There wil be a fax for you at the airport showing the route to his mooring.
'I fixed the meeting through Mrs Thorpe, Mr Wylie's personal secretary; she also worked directly for Mr Grace when he was at the law firm. I asked her if she recognised the names Bartholomew Wilkins or Sander Garrett. She didn't, sir, but she has undertaken to check through his personal files… they're still held at the firm's offices… to see if either name comes up, but she wasn't hopeful. She's very efficient, sir; I don't expect results.'
'No; and neither do I, but I'm not beyond the age where I can take pleasure from a surprise, so let's just wait to see what she finds. While she's doing that, Troy, I want you to book yourself on a flight to Chicago on Monday. I want you to interview Mr Arthur Wilkins; he's the son of Bart Wilkins and he succeeded him as senior partner in the family law firm, Wilkins, Schwartz, Wilkins and Fellini.
'I want you to find out what he knows about his father's business and political life and about what he's been doing since he retired.'
'Yes, sir.' Kosinski seemed to hesitate. 'Eh, sir,' he continued, tentatively, 'about the weekend?'
'You done al you can there?' asked Doherty.
'Yes, sir, I believe so.'
'Then go home to New York, son. Just keep your cellphone switched on, so that Special Agent Brand or I, or your area SAIC can reach you.'
'I wil, sir. Thank you, sir.'
The Deputy Director ended the cal, shaking his head. 'These young guys,' he murmured to Skinner. 'I love 'em. They come out of the Academy these days trained as wel as the guys in special forces, and as committed. I worry about my country sometimes, then I think fifteen years down the road, to a time when the director and I are gone and goodhearted boys like Brand and Kosinski are running the show.'
The big Scot shrugged. 'You may not be too good at running elections… I like the old-fashioned way, where voters put a cross on a piece of paper and they're al counted by real people… but usual y you wind up with the right guys at the top.'
Doherty held up a hand, index finger pointing in the air. 'Ah, but now we live in an age when the outcome can depend in part at least on how funny the candidates are on fucking television chat shows. Now it real y has started to get dangerous. Now if the wrong guys had the power…'
'In that case, my friend, it is al the more important that you and your director get hold of the young guys like Troy and Zak, and the young girls too, and teach them the things they haven't learned at the Academy.
Teach them your values, and teach them that patriotism real y can be the last refuge of the scoundrel.'
'We haven't got all that many years left to do it,' said Doherty, lighting a cigarette.
'Fewer, if you keep doing that.'
The American smiled. 'Christ, you're getting to be a zealot yourself on that subject.'
'No one has so many friends that he can afford to lose a single one to those things.'
'Blah!' Doherty exclaimed, but he dropped his Marlboro, crushed it under his foot and kicked it into the gutter.
Skinner looked back up Bart and RoseAnne Wilkins' driveway. 'So what do we do now?' he asked. 'We're done here, I reckon, and our return flight isn't until half seven tomorrow.'
'Ah hell, we'll see the sights of Helena, eat some prime beef and try to drink the Napa Valley dry. But first, let's see if the other young soldier's getting better treatment in Vegas than he was when we spoke last.' He dial ed Brand's number.
Skinner watched as his friend spoke to the Special Agent. His expression was serious, matter-of-fact, as he listened, until all at once it broke into a wide grin. 'You say?' he exclaimed. 'Kid, you've made my day. Thanks, I'l see you Monday, back in Buffalo. Meantime, if you want to spend the weekend in Vegas continuing your investigation, that's al right with me… just don't let me see any roulette chips on your expenses claim.'
He pushed the 'end' button and put the cellphone back in his pocket.
'Well?' Skinner demanded. W 'You're going to love this, pal,' said Doherty. 'Superintendent Barbara Weston will not, but you will. The guy who iced Sander Garrett stole his Cubans, Bob. He took his Goddamned cigars!'
33
Mario McGuire, clad in a white scene-of-crime suit, looked at the sheet in the corner of the room and shivered at the recent memory of what lay under it. To escape it as much as anything else, he rose from his seat by the wide window and walked through to the apartment's main bedroom.
His aunt lay on her bed, fully dressed; she was staring at the ceiling.
He sat beside her and took her hand. 'How you doing, Sophia?' She turned her head to look at him; her eyes were rimmed all round with red, made al the more vivid by the paleness of her face.
'Mario…' It was a whisper and it was all she could say.
'Yeah, yeah.' He stroked her arm, doing his best to soothe her. 'Listen,' he said, his voice not much louder than hers, 'the doctor wil be here soon. She'l give you a shot, and then I want you to go with Maggie, back to our place. She's downstairs in a patrol car. You can't stay here.'
She frowned, her eyes almost crossing as she tried to focus on him.
She raised herself off the pillow, bracing her weight on an elbow. 'But will the police not want to talk to me?'
'Yes, we wil, but no one's going to do that until you're fit and ready for it; and the guy who'l decide that is me. You're my auntie and no one's going to impose on you.'
'But who's going to tell the girls? Who's going to tell Nana? Who's going to tell your mother?'
'I'll do al that, don't you worry.'
She nodded, and lay back on the pillow once more, staring upwards again. 'Why, son, why?' she murmured. 'Why would anyone…'
He had no answer for her, not so soon. He was about to tell her as much, when the silence of the big flat was shattered by a scream. He jumped up from the bed, his foot slipping for a second on the plush carpet, and headed back to the great open-plan living room, almost at a run.
His cousin Paula was standing, with the sheet in her hands, staring down at her father's body. She was wearing a designer trouser suit, and most of her long dark-skinned back was bare as he looked at her.' Jesus!' he gasped, crossing the room to her side in four long strides, as Detective Superintendent Jay, drawn by the commotion, emerged from the kitchen.
'Greg!' McGuire roared at him. 'Are your people asleep out there?'
He turned her round forcibly, twisting her away from the sight on the floor. 'Who let you in here?' he asked.
'A guy outside tried to stop me,' she hissed, 'but I kicked him on the knee and came in anyway. Mario, what is this? What's happened?'
She wriggled in his grasp; she was big and, in her heels, almost as tal as he was, but stil he was much too strong for her.
'We're way short of being able to answer al of that,' he said, quietly,
'but your father's been shot, and he's dead. Aunt Sophia found him when she came in from the theatre; she and my mum took Nana Viareggio to the show at the Kings.' He paused, letting it sink in. 'What brought you here at this time of night?' he asked her.
'I was out for a meal at the Malmaison; when I was leaving I looked across the water and saw the ambulance outside the building. Then when I got here, I saw Maggie sitting in a patrol car. Oh, Mario
…' Finally, Paula's hard outer casing seemed to crack. She laid her forehead on his shoulder and cried like a baby. He released his grip on her, and enfolded her in his arms, hugging her to him; as he did so, something came to him, a fragment of memory from a very drunken night many years before.