The news that Alex had surfaced again put Lloyd Connors into a state of sheer euphoria. His exhaustion was forgotten. With fiery zeal, he and his staff worked overnight on the indictment against Sergio Vitali. However, Alex’s murder charge had to be redacted for her to be a credible witness of the prosecution. But Oliver Skerritt’s testimony would prove Vitali’s guilt, along with St. John’s documents, and—last but not least—Nelson van Mieren’s confession that now had unexpected weight because Alex was alive. Alex had witnessed a hired assassin reporting the killing of David Zuckerman to Vitali. Vitali could not possibly wrench himself free from this accusation. It was six forty-five when Tate Jenkins stepped into Connors’s office accompanied by two men.
“Your time is almost up now, Connors,” the deputy director of the FBI said with a patronizing smile. “How far along are your people with the indictments?”
“Done,” the deputy US attorney replied. “We’re ready to go whenever you give the signal.”
Jenkins nodded in satisfaction.
“What does your plan look like?”
“We have signed confessions from fifty-three bribed individuals,” Connors explained. “There are eleven more people on the list we haven’t spoken to; Whitewater is dead, and Harding still refuses to cooperate. I plan on doing nothing.”
The smile vanished from Jenkins’s face.
“What do you mean?”
“After talking to Mr. Engels, I’ve decided to investigate this without going public,” Connors countered in a calm voice. “The Department of Justice shares my opinion that it’s better if we don’t raise too much dust. We’re going to offer a plea bargain to those willing to cooperate. They’ll avoid tax-evasion charges by paying the back taxes that they owe. We will refrain from prosecuting on criminal corruption charges as long as these men voluntarily resign from office and never run in the future.”
“But—” Jenkins’s jaw dropped in astonishment; he was struggling for words.
“Engels has spoken to the president’s advisor Jordy Rosenbaum,” the deputy US attorney continued, “and the president prefers this quiet solution to avoid an emotional public discussion.”
Jenkins was silent for a moment. Relief was clearly etched into his face. At that moment, Connors knew for sure that his instincts hadn’t failed him, and that Nick was right again. It was unbelievable. Jenkins was in league with Vitali.
“What about Vitali?” Jenkins actually asked.
“Nothing,” Connors said, shrugging his shoulders. “What can we do? Given the current evidence, we can’t prove anything. Until this woman reappears, I won’t even think about preparing indictments that would just be thrown out due to a lack of evidence.”
It was silent in the large office.
“Oh well.” Jenkins cleared his throat and then smiled. “It appears I’m no longer needed in New York. However, I want you to update me regularly about the progress in this case.”
“Of course.” Connors nodded. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Nick Kostidis stood at the frosted door of the private internal medicine ward on Goldwater Memorial Hospital’s third floor. He stared out the window. Ever since he’d found Alex in that sleazy dive, something had changed inside of him. The sight of her battered face, the fear and horror in her eyes, made him forget his own sorrow. Now, he felt a hot, raging fury, a wild thirst for revenge. His time of paralyzing numbness was over, and Nick knew with certainty that he wouldn’t allow Vitali to get away unscathed this time.
The sun pushed through the thick cloud cover and shone on the skyscrapers behind the United Nations. Somewhere over there, Vitali was sleeping calmly, thinking that Alex was dead. Just as dead as Mary and Christopher, Britney Edwards, David Zuckerman, Clarence Whitewater, and Zachary St. John. But he was mistaken. Alex was alive and would soon overcome her shock. And he—Nick Kostidis—would do everything in his power to support her in her testimony.
Nick’s eyes burned from exhaustion, but there was no time to sleep. Lloyd Connors and Gordon Engels had come to the hospital the very same night. They agreed to keep Alex’s reappearance hidden for the time being. Nick and Connors managed to convince Gordon Engels that Jenkins was no longer on their team, and Engels had called the president’s chief of staff and the attorney general—both of whom gave a green light to a strategy excluding the FBI from the investigation.
A few days earlier, Connors had hired a private detective to find the eyewitness to the murder Vitali had committed in 1963—at least according to van Mieren’s testimony.
“I don’t just want to throw Vitali into prison,” Connors had said. “I want him in the electric chair.” He was deeply shocked to see how brutally Vitali had treated Alex.
The frosted glass door opened, and Dr. Virginia Summer, senior physician of the internal medicine ward, stepped out. She balanced two paper cups of hot coffee. Nick had known Ginnie Summer for a long time. She’d been a friend of Mary’s, and her husband was a senior partner at a much-respected law firm. Nick had studied with him back in the day at NYU. “Hello, Ginnie,” Nick said. “How’s Alex?”
“As good as can be expected under the circumstances,” Dr. Summer said as she handed him one of the coffees. “She has broken ribs and severe contusions, but fortunately no life-threatening internal injuries. With a few days of rest and good medical attention, she’ll be over the physical part of this very soon.”
The doctor gave him a scrutinizing glance.
“And you?” she asked. “How are you?”
Nick looked at her; he shrugged his shoulders and stared out the window. The city that he had always loved, that he’d always fought and lived for, felt hostile all of a sudden. A sip of the hot, strong liquid revived his spirits.
“I’m doing pretty well,” he replied. “I’m slowly getting used to Mary not being there when I come home.”
He swallowed hard. Was it unfair to Mary that he had fallen in love with Alex? Would it have happened if she hadn’t lost her life?
“You look very tired,” Ginnie determined. “Go home and get some sleep. Ms. Sontheim is in good hands with us.”
“I know.” Nick smiled tiredly. “That’s why I brought her here.”
The doctor nodded.
“You seem to truly care for her,” she said. “Is it true what they say about her on TV?”
“No,” Nick said, shaking his head, “none of that is true.”
He sat down awkwardly on an orange plastic chair, and the doctor sat next to him.
“I’ve never before seen you so worried,” Ginnie said, “and so compassionate.”
Nick turned his head and looked at her in astonishment.
“You’ve changed,” the doctor said.
“Have I?”
“Yes,” she said. “Since I’ve known you—almost thirty-five years now—you’ve always been self-involved. Many ambitious men are selfish, but it was more than that in your case. I never envied Mary being married to you.”
Nick sighed.
“I admired you, regardless,” Ginnie continued. “You had a vision that you fought for with all your might. You always succeeded in inspiring people with your ideas. But sometimes you were downright self-righteous and inconsiderate.”
“I’ve realized that,” Nick admitted. “I was too uncompromising and made many mistakes.”
He turned the coffee cup in his hands.
“And now? Has something changed?” the doctor asked.
“Oh yes,” he said. “I’ve been punished severely for my arrogance, and I’ll have to live the rest of my life with the guilt of knowing that Mary and Chris died because of me.”