"But everything I heard today-absolutely everything-was guesswork. I'm afraid that until the investigation makes further progress, it's probably a waste of your time to go through it all."
"Humor me," Carmichael said.
"Of course." Swallowing, he began his report. "The prevailing theory is that the assassinations were not by a terrorist group, or ideologically based at all. The best lead remains the mark on the shooter's neck. They think-"
"I know all that," Carmichael cut in, annoyed at hearing what she could get on the evening news. "Tell me something new."
"Yes, my apologies," Peckham said. "There were a few new developments reported. Solicitor General McKenna identified two cases of interest."
Carmichael listened intently as Peckham explained the delay theory that McKenna had presented about the Hassan and Nevel Industries cases. The cases sounded familiar, but she couldn't recall many specifics about either.
"Anything else?" she said, sounding unimpressed.
Peckham hesitated.
He took a deep breath. "There was a discussion of Chief Justice Kincaid's widow." Peckham wiped his brow with his hand. It was common knowledge in the small town community at the high court that Carmichael and Kincaid were close friends. They had been law partners decades ago, and Kincaid had pushed for her nomination to the court. The two had breakfast regularly together in the court cafeteria. They even jointly managed the office football pool-a tidbit that had received some interest in the legal press before Black Wednesday, back when such light gossip dominated reports about the court.
Carmichael felt her heart sink at the mention of Liddy Kincaid.
"It was leaked to the press today, so you may have seen reports already."
"No," she replied in the most neutral tone she could muster. "What are they saying?"
"There were large cash withdrawals from Mrs. Kincaid's accounts in the weeks before Black Wednesday. And she refuses to say what she did with the money. She's hired counsel and refuses to speak with the commission. Apparently, Chief Justice Kincaid had seen a lawyer about a divorce a few weeks before he was killed."
Carmichael felt sick to her stomach, but she kept her composure. She thought of Chief Justice Kincaid: his rugged masculinity, his gruff wit and droll stories, his kind heart. What with his unusual background of having been a professional football player and then a law professor, the legal press had adopted a description of him that originated with the late Justice Byron White: "He's both Clark Kent and Superman."
Carmichael's affair with Kincaid had been as unexpected as it was exhilarating. Liddy Kincaid had been acting erratically, threatening both her and Chief Justice Kincaid when he raised the issue of divorce.
She loved him, and he was gone. And she could tell no one.
Chinatown, Washington, D.C.
cKenna had run several blocks, into a Chinatown alley strewn with broken bottles and Mandarin newspapers. He leaned back against a brick wall, panting, his mind racing, and pulled out his BlackBerry and speed-dialed Kate. She caught it on the first ring.
"Someone stabbed him," McKenna said, still gasping for air.
"Stabbed? Stabbed who? Jefferson, where are you? Are you okay?" Kate asked in rapid succession.
"I think he's dead ..."
"Slow down. Who's dead?"
"Griffin Nash. I don't know what's happening."
"Listen to me, Jefferson," Kate said sternly. "Where are you right now?"
"Chinatown."
"Okay. I want you to listen and do what I tell you. Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"I want you to get in a cab and go to one-two-two Thirtieth Street. Can you remember that? One-two-two Thirtieth, in Georgetown."
He didn't answer.
"Say the address, Jefferson."
"One-two-two Thirtieth, Georgetown."
"It's my brother's place. He's out of town until tomorrow.lhere's a key under the flowerpot near the door."
When he didn't respond right away, Kate repeated, "Did you hear me? The key is under the flowerpot. Think geraniums."
"Yes.
"Humor me," Carmichael said.
"Of course." Swallowing, he began his report. "The prevailing theory is that the assassinations were not by a terrorist group, or ideologically based at all. The best lead remains the mark on the shooter's neck. They think-"
"I know all that," Carmichael cut in, annoyed at hearing what she could get on the evening news. "Tell me something new."
"Yes, my apologies," Peckham said. "There were a few new developments reported. Solicitor General McKenna identified two cases of interest."
Carmichael listened intently as Peckham explained the delay theory that McKenna had presented about the Hassan and Nevel Industries cases. The cases sounded familiar, but she couldn't recall many specifics about either.
"Anything else?" she said, sounding unimpressed.
Peckham hesitated.
He took a deep breath. "There was a discussion of Chief Justice Kincaid's widow." Peckham wiped his brow with his hand. It was common knowledge in the small town community at the high court that Carmichael and Kincaid were close friends. They had been law partners decades ago, and Kincaid had pushed for her nomination to the court. The two had breakfast regularly together in the court cafeteria. They even jointly managed the office football pool-a tidbit that had received some interest in the legal press before Black Wednesday, back when such light gossip dominated reports about the court.
Carmichael felt her heart sink at the mention of Liddy Kincaid.
"It was leaked to the press today, so you may have seen reports already."
"No," she replied in the most neutral tone she could muster. "What are they saying?"
"There were large cash withdrawals from Mrs. Kincaid's accounts in the weeks before Black Wednesday. And she refuses to say what she did with the money. She's hired counsel and refuses to speak with the commission. Apparently, Chief Justice Kincaid had seen a lawyer about a divorce a few weeks before he was killed."
Carmichael felt sick to her stomach, but she kept her composure. She thought of Chief Justice Kincaid: his rugged masculinity, his gruff wit and droll stories, his kind heart. What with his unusual background of having been a professional football player and then a law professor, the legal press had adopted a description of him that originated with the late Justice Byron White: "He's both Clark Kent and Superman."
Carmichael's affair with Kincaid had been as unexpected as it was exhilarating. Liddy Kincaid had been acting erratically, threatening both her and Chief Justice Kincaid when he raised the issue of divorce.
She loved him, and he was gone. And she could tell no one.
Chinatown, Washington, D.C.
cKenna had run several blocks, into a Chinatown alley strewn with broken bottles and Mandarin newspapers. He leaned back against a brick wall, panting, his mind racing, and pulled out his BlackBerry and speed-dialed Kate. She caught it on the first ring.
"Someone stabbed him," McKenna said, still gasping for air.
"Stabbed? Stabbed who? Jefferson, where are you? Are you okay?" Kate asked in rapid succession.
"I think he's dead ..."
"Slow down. Who's dead?"
"Griffin Nash. I don't know what's happening."
"Listen to me, Jefferson," Kate said sternly. "Where are you right now?"
"Chinatown."
"Okay. I want you to listen and do what I tell you. Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"I want you to get in a cab and go to one-two-two Thirtieth Street. Can you remember that? One-two-two Thirtieth, in Georgetown."
He didn't answer.
"Say the address, Jefferson."
"One-two-two Thirtieth, Georgetown."
"It's my brother's place. He's out of town until tomorrow.lhere's a key under the flowerpot near the door."
When he didn't respond right away, Kate repeated, "Did you hear me? The key is under the flowerpot. Think geraniums."
"Yes.
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