“The physical therapist. I thought you’d driven over to see if Charlie was still alive.”
“No. I wanted to go yell at him, make him confess. Looking pathetic isn’t a confession, but…”
Porzolkiewski’s voice faded and he pursed his lips.
“But what?”
“But then I saw his wife through the living room window. Is she Mexican or something?”
“Half.”
“Anyway, I saw her sitting by herself, just staring. Made me think of my wife. It kind of took the wind out of me.” Porzolkiewski shook his head. “I regretted it later, after he was dead. I figured I missed my chance to force him to tell the truth. I was still pissed off when you came by the house the first time.”
Gage removed photocopies of a list of names, some in English and some in Arabic, and numbers on a scrap of paper and of both sides of a credit card, then slid them across the table.
“Why didn’t you give me copies of these?” Gage asked. “They were found in Meyer’s wallet when the police searched your house.
Porzolkiewski glanced at the pages.
“I figured I’d keep something for leverage if I needed it,” Porzolkiewski said. “All these names and numbers must mean something. And the credit card didn’t seem right.”
“What didn’t look right?” Gage already knew the answer, but was more interested in how far Porzolkiewski had gotten.
“The expiration date. It was like the way my parents wrote them in Poland. Instead of writing the month, then the day. They did it the other way around. I think they still do it like that in Europe.” Porzolkiewski tapped date on the card. “See? Instead of March 30, it’s 30 March.”
Gage pointed at the list of Arabic names. “You figure out what all these mean?”
“Other than it looking like he was involved with some kind of terrorists?” Porzolkiewski cocked his head toward Gage. “They make any sense to you?”
“No. But I’ll find out.” Gage changed the subject. “What are you going to do in court tomorrow?”
“It depends on whether you’re getting me out of here.”
“I’m a long way from that. You’ve lied to me too many times. You still could’ve done it or hired someone else. And you were in the Delta at the right time to poison Karopian.”
Porzolkiewski’s face flushed and he pushed himself to his feet.
“Not that again.” Gage shook his head and pointed at the chair. “Sit.”
Porzolkiewski glared at Gage, then dropped back down.
“It’s going to take some time,” Gage said.
“How much time?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe my next phone call should be to the San Francisco Chronicle.”
“What are you going to say? TIMCO, the San Francisco Police Department, a respected lawyer, and a federal judge conspired to frame you for murdering two people who you hated for covering up the unproven cause of an explosion that killed your son fourteen years ago? And combine that with your recent trip to the psych ward-”
“What do you want me to do? Just sit on my hands?”
“Exactly.”
“What do I say in court?”
“Tell the judge you need a couple of weeks to hire a lawyer. He’ll be so thrilled you’re finally talking, he’ll give it to you.”
“Should I get one?”
“You guilty?”
“No. I’m not guilty.”
“Then don’t waste the money.”
“It won’t cost me anything.”
“How do you figure?”
Porzolkiewski smirked. “A bunch of those media-hungry cable TV lawyers contacted Suzanne at the store. Any of them will represent me for free just to keep their faces on television. They’re excited as hell. They all think I’m a serial murderer.”
“Instead of what?”
Porzolkiewski paused for a moment, then shrugged and sighed.
“I guess that’s up to you.”
Chapter 55
It’s the White House calling,” Landon Meyer’s secretary announced over the intercom.
“I’ll take it.” He punched the flashing button. “This is Landon Meyer.”
A female voice spoke, “Please stand by for the president.”
Landon pulled up his sleeve, then watched the second hand on the 1958 Elgin Durabalance his father had left him. He could gauge the importance of the call by how long the president kept him waiting.
“Good afternoon, Landon.”
Five seconds. The president was desperate.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President.”
“Three weeks.”
“I know, Mr. President.”
“And New Hampshire is three and a half months away. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yes, Mr. President, I know what you’re saying.”
“Let’s get out there and kick those last two butts in line.”
B randon picked up on the first ring. Landon heard a crash in the background.
“What’s that?”
“A waiter dropped a tray. I’m at Tadich Grill with Anston.”
“Where do we stand with my colleagues from Ohio and Massachusetts?”
“Hold on. Let me step outside.”
Landon heard shuffling as Brandon rose, then footsteps, then street traffic.
“They each wanted a million,” Brandon said, standing next to a parking meter in front of the restaurant. “Part for them, and part for PACs and 527s.”
“Can we cover it?”
“Sure. We’ve got more than that from the Silicon Valley group. But the problem is how to explain a huge influx of money so far in advance of their primaries. They’re afraid it’ll seem like a payoff coming this close to the vote.”
“It’s not a damn payoff.” Landon’s voice rose. “They want to vote our way, they just don’t want to pay the political cost.”
“And what if Starsky and Hutch don’t get confirmed? Then every dime will get reported.”
“There’s no turning back now. Get it done.”
T he big man sitting in the Yukon a block away punched off the recorder as Brandon slipped back inside the restaurant.
Half a conversation was better than none.
Chapter 56
Shakir Mohammed studied the photocopy as he lay propped on the rented hospital bed in his room in the Oakland loft. His laptop was resting on an over-bed table.
