Gage looked over toward Viz and asked, “You think this and the recording is good enough for a murder conspiracy conviction?”
“People have gotten themselves into a bunk on death row for less,” Viz said. “But then again, I’m not a lawyer.”
Gage heard a car slow down in the slush behind them. Viz crossed the sidewalk to the curb and flashed his old DEA ID. The car sped away.
“Let me paint a picture,” Gage said. “You don’t need to say anything until I get to the end, and then you can fill in the blank.”
Strubb shrugged.
“You and some guys took Gilbert somewhere,” Gage said. “Gilbert has no way to fight back except by trying to threaten you. But what’s he got to threaten you with? “
Strubb turned his head toward Gage. “That’s not-“
Gage pushed his head back. “I told you it’s fill-in-the-blank, not question-and-answer.”
Strubb nodded.
“All Gilbert’s got to threaten you with is somebody bigger than him. Somebody he’d be terrified of if he was you.”
Strubb nodded again.
“So Gilbert says: You lay a hand on me and my boss is gonna hunt you down and blow your head off. And you ask: Who’s your boss? And Gilbert says…”
Gage twisted Strubb’s wrist and yanked up on his arm.
“Wycovsky. Shit, man. Ease up. He said the guy’s name was Wycovsky.”
Strubb pushed himself up on his toes to relieve the pressure on his wrist and elbow.
“I didn’t know who that was and I didn’t stay around to ask him neither. I swear.”
Gage eased up in the arm, then said. “Did you find out later? “
“Yeah. I went through Gilbert’s cell phone. Wycovsky’s at a law firm in the city. Him and another guy named Arndt.”
“That’s it?” Gage said. “He just threatened you with a lawyer?” Gage forced a laugh. “Like he was going to sue you?”
“Not Wycovsky, dumb ass. Whoever hired him. Gilbert said they had a lot of reach. World-fucking-wide. And no, he didn’t say who that was. I don’t think he even knew. People say shit when they’re scared.”
“Like you?”
“I’ve met tougher guys than you.” “I’m not surprised,” Gage said. “Where’s the phone now?”
“After I found out what those guys did to Gilbert, I tossed it in the Hudson.”
Gage released Strubb’s wrist and turned him around.
“I tell you what I’m going to do,” Gage said. “I’m releasing you on your good behavior. Kind of like on parole.” Gage smiled. “You know how that works. You behave and we’ve got no problem. You misbehave, and I’ll yank the leash and deliver you and the recording to Albany homicide.”
“What good behavior?”
“Keeping your mouth shut.” Gage looked hard at Strubb. “Can you do that?” Strubb shrugged.
Gage glanced at Viz. “I’ve got to get back to New York. Can you take him down to the police sta-“
“Okay. I’ll keep my damn mouth shut.”
Gage stepped aside and pointed toward the Jupiter Club. “Why don’t you go back inside and play with your friends.”
CHAPTER 56
Vice President Cooper Wallace rose from his chair at his kitchen table as CIA Director Casher entered, then shook his hand and directed him to sit across from him.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Wallace said. “I’ve always found it easier to do my hard thinking in here.”
Casher had often seen print and television advertisements of the iconic black-and-white photograph of Wallace and his father talking over Spectrum business at their kitchen table in Topeka in the 1970s, but until this moment he thought it had been only a marketing gimmick.
Casher set his briefcase on the floor and sat down.
“What can I get you?” Wallace asked.
Casher pointed at a half-full pot of coffee on the granite counter next to the sink. “That’s fine.”
Wallace poured him a cup and took his seat.
“Before we start,” Wallace said, “I want to thank you for our discussion last week. It’s rare that anyone in Washington wants to talk about what events mean, except in a narrow partisan sense of which party gains and which party loses.”
Casher watched Wallace’s eyes go blank for a moment. He recognized that in recent days Wallace had put himself on trial and found himself guilty of the same offense. His role in both presidential campaigns had been to engage the enemy party in sniping skirmishes away from the central fronts of health care, terrorism, and economic uncertainty.
Wallace blinked, then looked at Casher and said, “We talk policy and implementation, then end up finding ourselves in a political or military or economic wilderness and don’t know how we got there.”
He needs a confessor, Casher thought, someone to guide him through the psychological rebirth he seems to be undergoing. The problem was that Casher could see only two possible outcomes from the experience, and both were nightmares. The first was that Wallace would be paralyzed like a college freshman by the glare of a sudden confrontation with too many questions and possibilities. The second was that he’d choose Reverend Manton Roberts as his midwife.
Wallace half smiled. “I know you didn’t come here to listen to me ramble. You came to talk about financial issues, but I need to ask why you came alone. I expected that someone from the Treasury Department or maybe Milton Abrams would be with you.”
Casher had anticipated the question and so had the president. He leaned forward, rested his forearms on either side of his cup, then said, “The president has been undergoing some medical tests in the last few weeks.”
“I haven’t noticed him leaving for-“
“They were done in the facility in the basement of the White House.” “What have they found?” “A brain tumor-” “Dear God.”
Casher saw in Wallace’s eyes what he and the president feared he’d see: wide-eyed bewilderment. Casher waited until it seemed to pass, then said, “It’s not malignant, but it’s growing and has to be removed.”
“When did he find out?” Wallace asked.
“About two weeks ago he began to suspect that there was something wrong. Vision and balance problems. Headaches. Numbness in his hand. They first thought that he had suffered a minor stroke, but an MRI found the tumor.”
Wallace reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
Casher raised his palm. “This isn’t a good time to call. He knew you would want to and asked me to thank you in advance. He’s explaining to his wife and kids what the treatment will be.”
Wallace set his phone down on the table.
“And that is?”
“Surgery. Preceded by an induced coma.” Casher pushed on before Wallace could react. “He’s less worried about surviving the surgery than about post-operative side effects.”
The president was also worried that in his single-minded pursuit of the office he’d made a bad choice for vice president. But Casher suspected that Wallace already knew that.
“He’s concerned about emotional instability, loss of memory, and impaired judgment, and that he won’t be capable of assessing whether he’s competent to reassume the duties of the office.”
Casher watched Wallace bite his lip. Wallace now understood that soon he would be the acting president of
