Gospel (14 page)

‘Finally,' said King, interrupting his thoughts, and Joe knew Leo would be closing with a ‘clincher'. ‘We found something else – a piece of plastic so big.' King used his thumb and pointer finger to indicate a square about an inch long and half an inch wide. ‘It was the corner of a piece of packaging of a standard pharmaceutical cover for syringes.'

‘And let me guess,' said McKay. ‘This packaging is the same used for syringes at Montgomery's hospital.'

‘Yes, Frank, but it gets even better. The piece of plastic found under Bradshaw's bed contained a perfectly formed thumb print.'

‘Montgomery's,' said Susan.

‘In one,' said King, unable to contain his smile. ‘The man is guilty as hell, guys, and if we have anything to do with it, that is exactly where he is headed.'

The evidence was overwhelming, Joe had to agree. But it all seemed so neat, so precise, so convenient.

‘The pieces are falling into place all right,' said Joe at last. ‘But let me ask you this, Simba. Doesn't it worry you that they all fit so perfectly?'

‘What?' said King. ‘Jesus, Joe, what is it they say? “Don't look a gift horse in the mouth”. Montgomery is not as smart as he thinks, he made mistakes and now they're coming back to bite him. We just got lucky on this one. That's all.'

S
tuart Montgomery was cold. Freezing! It was indeed a myth, he knew, that those born in cooler climates became accustomed to the chill. Absolute rubbish.

The last time he could remember being this uncomfortable was when, at roughly age eight, the central heating in his parents' sixteenth-century eight-bedroom Richmond Estate went out with a groan. His mother had been furious, their staff humiliated at not being able to fix the problem and his father oblivious to the whole debacle given he was spending another night at their impeccably furnished South Kensington flat. Strange, he thought to himself. It had been years since he had thought of his father's infidelities and he had no idea why his highly intelligent brain had chosen tonight of all nights to recall it. ‘
It
' in any case had always been a non-issue – more a discreet state of affairs that was considered a ‘normal' part of upper class British society.

Montgomery lay back and closed his eyes, blocking out the overhanging shelf, jutting out from the concrete brick walls over his pathetically narrow cot, which was jammed into a corner of the triangular shaped cell. Everything in this ridiculously claustrophobic single cell was painted a blinding white, no doubt compensating for its tiny size. The elongated
window over a small laminated desk was covered by vertical blinds which gave the impression of, well . . . being behind bars.

At least I am alone
, he thought, choosing not to cover himself with the flimsy
white
, germ-infested excuse for a blanket, and rather focus on the fact that this ridiculous misunderstanding would soon be resolved. Chilton-Smith would see to it. Better still, he chose to anticipate the almighty apology he would demand from all and sundry as soon as his name was cleared.

His
name,
Professor Stuart Ignatius Montgomery –
the very fact it needed to be ‘cleared' was, well, unthinkable. He had never deviated from his life plan. He had attended the best boarding schools, graduated with distinctions, studied medicine at Oxford and, like his father before him, fulfilled and rather enjoyed all the required obligations that came with being a man of social, financial and intellectual standing.

True, the move to Washington had been slightly left of centre but leaving the motherland (on the Concorde no less!) to take up a much sought-after residency at Washington Memorial Hospital's specialist cardiac unit was a calculated (and indeed ultimately more fruitful) diversion on his ascension to greatness. He knew his brains and personality would count for much, but his mother and father were also proof that connection was the third key to success. In England being ‘connected' was all about the ‘gentry', but in the land of opportunity, the super power that was the US of A, it was all about politics.

Of course, some would say there was one deviation, one risqué decision which in retrospect may have seemed somewhat ‘out of character'. Choosing
her
!

The funny thing was, he did not even remember meeting her. He knew she had been his student, but at the time she was just another over-enthusiastic resident with a too-white coat and a standard issue clipboard. Looking back now he did recall her wearing glasses, which turned out to be fake – her attempt to look studious and ‘de-sex' herself in a highly competitive environment where fellow med students ate each other for breakfast.

He remembered a tangled bunch of long dark hair which she crammed into a makeshift ponytail at the back of her neck, and she had that deep olive skin and those curious dark eyes which made direct contact every
time she asked a question, which was often. But if he was asked to sum up his meagre recollections of the woman who would one day become his wife, he would have to admit she was somewhat annoying in an inquisitive, challenging sort of way. Not his type at all. And he most definitely had a ‘type'. In fact he had two – one that he dated and one that he fucked. Those in the first group were more often than not attractive and poised and educated and connected; those in the second were attractive and – how should he put it – skilled in the art of pleasure.

Like father, like son. Chip off the old block.

And so Karin Vasquez came as quite a shock. Certainly she was not the most obvious choice for the British whiz-kid who was doing transplants by twenty-six, made Professor less than a decade later and was being hailed by every VIP in town as the ‘
it
' man with the miracle hands and political nous to match. He may not have seen it at first, in fact it took him being introduced to her separately at a Department of Health and Human Services fundraising dinner (not realising she had been his student for the past twelve months) that truly opened his eyes to the possibility.

She had come with a young neurosurgeon who was coveting her like a prized cocker spaniel, realising that every man in the room was staring at ‘his' exotic dark beauty in the fitted red gown. But as soon as the boring buffoon left to get her a drink, the Professor asked about her specialty to which she had answered in mock British accent, ‘Daft English Professors with inexcusably poor memories.' And that was pretty much it.

Two hours later, after a rather heated conversation which covered everything from aortic aneurysms to hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, the Professor had to admit this girl was quite remarkable. She may not have been the expected, but that, as it turned out, was an advantage. For proud Latin-American Karin Vasquez ex-Cavanaugh, soon to be Montgomery, gave the Professor something he could not have attained without her. She gave him a connection to ‘
real
' America, the multi-cultural beast that formed the basis of the voting populace. She softened his pomposity, while still having the class of a perfect political partner. She was beautiful, smart, presentable and polite – and to top it all off, she was bloody good in bed. What man could ask for more?

‘Nothing,' he said aloud as if answering his own question – shocking himself once again back into a reality he had no intention of gratifying
with acknowledgement. ‘Enough,' he said then, as he forced Brahms' Double Concerto into his brain, allowing the violins to fill his ears, and the cellos to soothe his soul.

This would all be over soon, he told himself again. For he was who he was, and had done what he had done, and in the end, he hoped, the truth would set him free.

‘It fits,' said Joe Mannix, his tone defeated, his voice tired. ‘All the evidence points to Montgomery. King was right, David, they have a very strong case.'

It was late and Mannix had finally managed to catch David on his cell after an evening of leaving messages at his office.

‘I don't know what to say,' said David. ‘Part of me thinks I should console you. I know you hate being wrong, Joe, but if the guy killed Bradshaw he deserves everything he gets.'

‘Why do I get the feeling you're not disappointed?'

‘Because I'm not.'

‘Fair enough,' said Mannix.

‘I probably should never have asked you in the first place,' Joe went on. ‘This is too close to home. You must have been inundated with calls this afternoon.'

‘I wouldn't know. I've been at County all day with my client.'

‘The Bridge Club guy?'

‘Yeah. The Bridge Club guy.'

Sara and David had been working around the clock on their latest case, a voluntary manslaughter trial involving a mild-mannered seventy-two-year-old man named Hector Gabbit. Gabbit was wrongly accused of killing Alfred Mulch, the sixty-five-year-old president of his local bridge club. Gabbit's wife had been having an affair with the younger, more charismatic Mulch and DA Scaturro had nabbed Gabbit simply because he was the only one they could find with any semblance of a motive.

‘Another poor soul waiting to be saved by Crusader Cavanaugh,' said Joe.

‘At least this one's innocent.'

‘Yeah well,' said Joe. ‘Thanks anyway.'

‘Don't mention it. In fact, I'd be more than happy if I never heard the name Montgomery again.'

‘Well,
that
ain't gonna happen. But at least I can promise you won't be hearing it from me.'

L
APD Homicide Detective Sam Croker would never have known about Rita Walker if he hadn't decided on a late breakfast in the precinct canteen. He had worked another all-nighter, said goodbye to his partner Sanchez who was going home to her husband and two kids, finished writing up some reports and then swung by narcotics to say adios to an old friend who was retiring at the end of the week. Good for him.

He liked the all-nighters. They kept his mind off the fact that he slept alone and that his son Lucas had moved across the country after being accepted into Princeton's School of Architecture.

Croker was proud. But he was lonely. His wife had died of breast cancer two years ago and Croker, who was a shoo-in for promotion to Lieutenant, had decided against taking the exam, preferring the stimulation (distraction) of the homicide beat to the more sedentary confines of an office.

Nights were the hardest, and that's why he preferred to spend them at work. He found it easier to sleep during the day with the sun squeezing through the cracks of his old but clean venetians and the white noise of the freeway reminding him he was not alone in a city filled with busy people with places to go and people to see and little time to think about it.

‘Anyways,' said Detective Victor Martinez to his colleague Ray Grillo. Martinez and Grillo were sitting at the table next to Croker, Martinez's
voice carrying across the cheap but cheerful in-house canteen. ‘The woman is completely nuts. Totally loco. She's drivin' up there in the Hills, whacked out of her brain at seven o'clock in the morning and considerin' where her car ended up, she must have been takin' corners like Schumacher.'

‘Mac said they found the car up a tree,' said Grillo, chowing down on the $2.50 omelette on toast with a free side of fries smothered in ketchup.

‘I kid you not, it was
hangin
' there, almost vertical, nose down. The kid was killed instantly but the mom survived. Must have been the drugs, softened her up for the blow. Anyways, the paramedics get her out and she keeps calling her son Gavin, even though his ID says his name is Chase.'

‘Chase?'

‘Yeah, like from some B-grade soap opera. She keeps screaming, “They've killed Gavin. They've killed Gavin.” Until Weber tries to calm her down and she turns around and whacks her in the face. Knocks her out cold.'

‘Jesus,' said Grillo. ‘Weber is a big unit.'

‘You're telling me. So then she starts quoting from the Bible. Cursing like a sailor. She's talking all this crap about the Gospels and the Vice President.'

‘The dead one, Bradshaw?'

‘Yeah, claiming he was killed by the prophets or some shit. So I said, “I suppose you gonna tell us Jesus was driving your car,” and then she goes ballistic. Jumps me like a cougar, it took three uniforms to pull her off.'

‘Martinez,' Croker had left his seat and slid over to Martinez's table, bunking down next to Grillo and stealing a few soggy French fries from off his plate. ‘This nut case got a name?'

‘Yeah, her name was Walker, Rita Walker. Mad as a hatter.'

‘Sounds like it. Where is she now?'

‘LA Community. She was pretty banged up. They wanted to do a tox screen while she was still high. She was definitely loaded with some serious shit.'

‘The kid,' asked Croker. ‘Did he have brown hair, braces on his teeth, kinda porky?'

‘Yeah. You know this mob, Croker?'

‘Yeah, Martinez. I think I do.'

‘You want my advice, Sammy old boy? I'd steer clear of that whacko, she's trouble on a stick.'

‘You're probably right, Victor,' said Croker, knowing he wasn't going to get any sleep today. ‘You're probably right.'

And then there were three.

It was late. There was no clock on the familiar concrete walls. In fact there was nothing in the room bar the rectangular metal table and four complementary chairs, three of which refused to warm despite the efforts of the living, breathing bodies that occupied them.

Tick, tock, tick, tock . . . no clock. But Mark could have sworn he heard a ticking noise in the small, cold, sterile box. The noise, he now realised, was not a rhythmic click but an internal pulsation . . . the regular beat of his heart now echoing loudly in his ears.

Matthew would not sleep tonight. He had left Boston at midnight and would be back by 5am, ready for the morning's arraignment and the media frenzy that would follow. He sat across from Mark, with John taking the chairman's usual place at the head of the table, now opposite the empty grey chair that had once belonged to Luke.