Ami squeezed her eyes shut. She felt sick. She wanted to take Ryan and run somewhere, far away, but there was something she had to do first.
“Will you take me to the murder scene?”
“I don’t think…“ Walsh started.
“Please,” she said, remembering the crime scene photos in the Glass file. “I can’t explain why, but I’ve got to go to the crime scene.”
On the ride over, Ami learned that one of the cleaning crew in French’s office building had discovered the doctor’s body. A police car had been sent to French’s house, where the body of his wife had been found. Walsh thought that the Frenches had been asleep when the killer broke in. His bedroom and den had been ransacked, but Walsh didn’t think that the killer found what he was looking for because he had brought the psychiatrist downtown and the safe and the filing cabinets in French’s office were open and files were strewn about.
When they arrived at French’s office building, Ami was escorted to French’s suite. As they walked from the reception area to the doctor’s office, Kirkpatrick became aware of the nauseating stench exuded by the newly dead that permeated every murder scene. He glanced at Ami. Her complexion was pasty and she was unsteady on her feet.
“Are you certain that you want to do this?” he asked.
Ami nodded because she was holding her breath to block the smell. She hoped she wouldn’t be sick.
When they arrived at the door to the office Ami squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them slowly to control her view of the body. The office could have passed for a slaughterhouse. Blood had sprayed across the coffee table and the rug. Her stomach churned. Bile rose in her throat.
Ami focused on two bare feet that were taped to the base of a chair in the center of the room. The feet were bloodstained. Someone had beaten them. Ami remembered what Carl Rice had said about the penchant his Vietnamese captors had for torturing his feet. Her eyes moved upward. French was wearing blood-spattered pajama bottoms. Ami gulped some air and vowed to get this over with. She raised her head and looked at what was left of George French. He had been taped to a chair. He was bare-chested and there were cuts all over his torso. His throat had been cut. She was looking at a mirror image of the crime scene in the home of Congressman Eric Glass.
Ami stumbled out of the room. Kirkpatrick half-carried the attorney to the reception area. He settled her on the couch and handed her a bottle of water he’d had the foresight to bring with him. Walsh and Kirkpatrick waited anxiously for Ami to calm down.
“Can you tell us the name of the woman and Morelli’s real name?”
Ami looked as if she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “I don’t know what to do. I’d have to break their confidences,” she said, her voice a tremor away from a sob.
“Can you at least tell us if something you saw in French’s office makes you think Morelli did this?” Walsh pressed. “That would be your idea, not something your client said.”
“He did it,” Ami said. “I can’t tell you how I know, but I know.”
“Brendan, get this in front of a judge first thing. In the meantime I’m putting some men outside Mrs. Vergano’s house tonight.”
“Why?” Ami asked in disbelief.
“Morelli didn’t run,” Walsh answered. “He stayed in Portland knowing that every policeman in the city was looking for him. I think he’s trying to destroy the record of what he told you and French. If you hadn’t been out of town, I think you’d be dead too.”
Ami was already frightened. Now she was terrified.
“Surely, he won’t come after me now. He’ll think I’ve spoken to you.”
“He can’t be certain that you’ve told us what you know. He may take the chance that you’ve honored the attorney-client privilege and kept your mouth shut. If he plans to kill you to keep you quiet, he’ll have to move tonight. I’ve already sent a car to Mary O’Dell’s house to make sure your son is protected.”
“Oh, God,” Ami moaned. She slumped forward. “What do you want me to do?”
“Go home and try to rest,” Kirkpatrick said. “You’ll collapse if you don’t.”
“No, I want to see Ryan.”
“That’s not a good idea,” Walsh said. “If Morelli is coming after you, you don’t want to be anywhere near your son.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Emily Hobson, Victor Hobson’s wife of fifteen years, had supper waiting when he arrived home a little after eight. Two years before he met Emily, Victor had been engaged to a teller he’d met while investigating a bank robbery. His fiancee had broken off the engagement because she couldn’t put up with his erratic hours and his refusal to discuss the details of his work. Emily was a fingerprint examiner in the FBI lab. She’d retired after their second child was born. Victor worried that she would be bored silly if she stayed at home, but she had surprised him by being perfectly content to raise their children and put up with him. Victor knew that he’d been lucky to find someone who understood his job from the inside.
After dinner, Victor checked on his children. His son was working furiously at a video game, and his daughter was talking on the phone with her best friend. They both grunted at him-a clear indication that they wished to be alone-so Victor walked downstairs and turned on CNN. The Supreme Court had heard another case involving
As the newscaster discussed the breaking story in Oregon, the station ran a clip of the brawl that had led to the arrest of a Little League coach on multiple assault counts. Victor stood up when the handheld camera focused on the face of the man the announcer identified as Daniel Morelli. The announcer explained that an unknown woman had helped Morelli escape from the security ward at the county hospital where the defendant had been imprisoned. A police artist’s sketch of the woman and a mug shot of Morelli flashed on the screen.
Hobson had flown to Lost Lake shortly after the murder of Congressman Eric Glass. Vanessa Wingate had already been removed from the hospital by her father. The only positive result of his trip had been an opportunity to look through Carl Rice’s army records, which had been supplied to the sheriff by Vanessa’s father. Hobson still had a copy of the file, which contained the only photograph he had been able to locate of Rice. The face in the mug shot was older and careworn, but there was no question in Hobson’s mind that Daniel Morelli was Carl Rice.
The newscasters started talking about a plane crash in Brazil, and Hobson turned off the set. The day after Morris Wingate had declared his intention to challenge President Charles Jennings for his party’s nomination, Hobson had received a call from Ted Schoonover, an ex-CIA man who was the president’s chief troubleshooter. Schoonover had invited him to breakfast at a Greek restaurant in a strip mall in a Maryland suburb. Hobson was willing to bet that no one with any clout in D.C. had ever set eyes on the place. Schoonover was a short, chubby man with thinning hair and a double chin, certainly not the type of person you would notice in a crowd. After their meeting, Hobson had run a check on him. Except for some basic employment information, Schoonover’s file was eerily blank. Hobson had been able to determine little more than the fact that Schoonover had served with Charles Jennings when Jennings was the director of the CIA. When Hobson tried to get more information about the ex- spook he was told that he was not cleared to look at the relevant files.
Over breakfast, Schoonover had asked Hobson if he’d heard Wingate’s announcement. Then he asked the FBI man to brief him on the events at Lost Lake and their aftermath. When Hobson was finished, Schoonover asked if there was any new information on the whereabouts of Carl Rice. Hobson had told Schoonover that he’d had no new information about Rice since the mid-1980s. Schoonover told Hobson that the president wanted to know immediately whenever there were any developments in the case.
Hobson had not contacted Schoonover after his phone conversation with Vanessa Wingate, because he had nothing concrete to report. Now he took Schoonover’s business card out of his wallet and dialed the cell phone number that the president’s aide had written on the back.
“Talk to me,” Schoonover said after three rings.
“This is Victor Hobson. There’s been a new development in that matter we discussed.”
