like some crack dealer.
He slid into his tiny Smart car and started the noiseless engine. It was the smallest car on the road; the wingspan of his arms was longer than its width. The car was perfect for parking in tight spots no one else could squeeze into. Vale always felt superior to the gas-guzzling monsters circling the blocks, looking for somewhere to park. He was smarter than they were.
He was smarter than most people. That, he knew, was what had held back his career. At his age, he should be a chief of staff. But he couldn’t put up with others’ mediocrity, so he had a reputation of being hard to get along with. He felt a nagging disappointment that his career had stalled out.
Vale would cooperate with the police investigation, though not for the reasons Congressman Lionel wanted. He didn’t care whether the Congressman was reelected. He wasn’t going to be a good soldier, like Potter, keeping the Congressman’s dirty secrets. The police were going to find someone to blame that girl’s death on, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Brett Vale.
He would give the police exactly what they were looking for. Everything about Emmett Lionel’s relationship with that girl. That whore.
12
W hile they’d been meeting with Caroline’s mother, Vanetta had turned the conference room next to Jack’s office into a “war room.” The police paperwork and Davenport’s binder of motions were neatly stacked on the conference table. One of the library’s unrestricted computers had been rolled into one corner, and a TV tuned to the local news sat in another. Vanetta had even put a box of Jack’s favorite snack—peanut-butter crackers—on the credenza.
Anna thought back nostalgically to the war room she’d shared with Jack during the D’marco Davis case. It was during the hours spent together in that room that she’d fallen in love with him.
Jack thanked Vanetta, who beamed at him. Anna shared her own secretary with six other AUSAs; the poor woman was stretched thin. Junior prosecutors like Anna did their own copying, faxing, mailing, phones, and scheduling. As Homicide chief, Jack got a secretary to himself. But Vanetta’s thoughtful preparations weren’t just a result of Jack’s seniority, they were also a sign of how much she liked him.
On the table was a faxed report from the Medical Examiner. Anna skimmed it. It had the results of a sex kit. No vaginal injuries—typical in most sex assaults. Although juries, conditioned by shows like CSI , expected such injuries, they were rare in anatomy that could stretch to fit a baby. Negative for semen, too. That meant the sexual assault hadn’t been completed, or the man had worn a condom. Anna passed the report around to Jack and Samantha, who nodded with disappointment at the lack of DNA.
Jack turned off the TV and sat at the head of the conference table. Anna and Sam sat on either side of him.
“We have to find out everything there is to know about Caroline McBride, the Congressman, and his staff,” he said. “Anna, start bydrafting some subpoenas. Caroline’s phone records, student records, credit reports—those’ll lead us to her banks and credit cards. Find out what kind of money she had and where it was coming from.”
Anna nodded and jotted the to-do list on her legal pad. When she looked up, she noticed a piece of lint on Jack’s lapel. She reached to pluck it off, then felt self-conscious about making such a personal gesture. She turned the movement into what she hoped was a convincing stretch. But Jack had noticed her intention; he looked down and plucked the lint off himself. Samantha’s eyes flicked curiously between Anna and Jack. Anna cursed the agent’s sharp eyes and her own mistake. Their secret was going to be harder to hide than she’d anticipated.
“I’ll have my analysts examine whatever records you get,” Sam said to Jack. “And I can run everyone through ChoicePoint, NCIC, and our internal databases.”
“Great,”
He slid into his tiny Smart car and started the noiseless engine. It was the smallest car on the road; the wingspan of his arms was longer than its width. The car was perfect for parking in tight spots no one else could squeeze into. Vale always felt superior to the gas-guzzling monsters circling the blocks, looking for somewhere to park. He was smarter than they were.
He was smarter than most people. That, he knew, was what had held back his career. At his age, he should be a chief of staff. But he couldn’t put up with others’ mediocrity, so he had a reputation of being hard to get along with. He felt a nagging disappointment that his career had stalled out.
Vale would cooperate with the police investigation, though not for the reasons Congressman Lionel wanted. He didn’t care whether the Congressman was reelected. He wasn’t going to be a good soldier, like Potter, keeping the Congressman’s dirty secrets. The police were going to find someone to blame that girl’s death on, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Brett Vale.
He would give the police exactly what they were looking for. Everything about Emmett Lionel’s relationship with that girl. That whore.
12
W hile they’d been meeting with Caroline’s mother, Vanetta had turned the conference room next to Jack’s office into a “war room.” The police paperwork and Davenport’s binder of motions were neatly stacked on the conference table. One of the library’s unrestricted computers had been rolled into one corner, and a TV tuned to the local news sat in another. Vanetta had even put a box of Jack’s favorite snack—peanut-butter crackers—on the credenza.
Anna thought back nostalgically to the war room she’d shared with Jack during the D’marco Davis case. It was during the hours spent together in that room that she’d fallen in love with him.
Jack thanked Vanetta, who beamed at him. Anna shared her own secretary with six other AUSAs; the poor woman was stretched thin. Junior prosecutors like Anna did their own copying, faxing, mailing, phones, and scheduling. As Homicide chief, Jack got a secretary to himself. But Vanetta’s thoughtful preparations weren’t just a result of Jack’s seniority, they were also a sign of how much she liked him.
On the table was a faxed report from the Medical Examiner. Anna skimmed it. It had the results of a sex kit. No vaginal injuries—typical in most sex assaults. Although juries, conditioned by shows like CSI , expected such injuries, they were rare in anatomy that could stretch to fit a baby. Negative for semen, too. That meant the sexual assault hadn’t been completed, or the man had worn a condom. Anna passed the report around to Jack and Samantha, who nodded with disappointment at the lack of DNA.
Jack turned off the TV and sat at the head of the conference table. Anna and Sam sat on either side of him.
“We have to find out everything there is to know about Caroline McBride, the Congressman, and his staff,” he said. “Anna, start bydrafting some subpoenas. Caroline’s phone records, student records, credit reports—those’ll lead us to her banks and credit cards. Find out what kind of money she had and where it was coming from.”
Anna nodded and jotted the to-do list on her legal pad. When she looked up, she noticed a piece of lint on Jack’s lapel. She reached to pluck it off, then felt self-conscious about making such a personal gesture. She turned the movement into what she hoped was a convincing stretch. But Jack had noticed her intention; he looked down and plucked the lint off himself. Samantha’s eyes flicked curiously between Anna and Jack. Anna cursed the agent’s sharp eyes and her own mistake. Their secret was going to be harder to hide than she’d anticipated.
“I’ll have my analysts examine whatever records you get,” Sam said to Jack. “And I can run everyone through ChoicePoint, NCIC, and our internal databases.”
“Great,”
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