house to be with her mother. She had been trying to avoid her brother. They both happened to be in the kitchen at the same time and looked at each other without saying anything. She moved around him and out into the hall. People spoke to her and expressed condolences but largely ignored her. This was a time of sorrow, but it was also a time for politics. Any shift in power affected them all. New alliances were already being forged and tested. Lucinda had gone upstairs to be alone, trying to come to grips with the mixed emotions she felt about her brother's anger and her father's passing.
The funeral was at six. The church Mickey had chosen was a Gothic Catholic cathedral in downtown Trenton. Mickey had selected the church because it was large, but also because there was a protected side entrance that would make it difficult for the OCB surveillance cameras to get clear shots of the mourners.
At five in the afternoon, the pipe organ played a dirge for Joseph. Long-lens cameras rested on doorjambs of federal sedans. Blank-faced agents with buzz cuts watched, not bothering to disguise their presence.
The church was full. Late arrivals stood in the back, in silence. Many of the mourners crossed themselves and thanked God that Joseph Alo was really in the box.
Mickey spoke to them from the carved pulpit. The light refracted from the stained-glass Jesus on the cross threw a river of red across the floor in front of him.
Mickey spoke of the loss a son feels when his father passes, of the pure love that exists in a bloodline. He praised the guidance his father had given him. He said his life would never be as full as when his father was there to explain its inconsistencies and fight against its corruptions. It was a moving eulogy and would have been even more heartwarming if Lucinda hadn't been close enough to see Mickey's eyes. They were shining with excitement. Mickey Alo was finally in control and anyone who thought they could take his turf would be watching the parade from a skybox.
They put Joe in the ground as the sun was setting and returned to the Alo estate, where a tent had been set up over the tennis court. The space was warmed with party heaters. A band played peasant songs from Sicily. Penny and Lucinda roamed the periphery of the gathering feeling oddly out of place.
Penny went up to her room at nine, leaving Lucinda alone. After a minute, she found herself again face-to- face with her brother. This time, he smiled at her.
'Hi,' he said.
'Hi.'
Mickey took Lucinda's hand and led her out of the tent and around the side of the house. They stood listening to the music and laughter coming from the tent.
'That was really nice, what you said about Daddy.'
'Thank you. Are we okay?' he said, looking at her carefully. 'What I said the other day, I didn't mean it. I've been upset because of Pop. Can you understand that?'
'Yes,' Lucinda said, realizing that she was now desperately afraid of her brother, that she was choosing her words instead of speaking her mind, that she wanted to get away from him.
He reached out and hugged her, but his eyes were cold and impersonal. 'We're a team,' he said. 'I'd never let anybody hurt you. I'd never do anything to make you unhappy.' He kissed her cheek. 'I gotta get back. We'll talk after everybody leaves,' he said, moving away.
She watched him go and then looked down. At her feet, she saw a faded wooden cross. She had made it when she was seven. She had knelt in her bathroom, crying, and nailed the wood together. She had painted the name on with her mother's nail polish. She had crept outside late at night and pounded it into the ground with a rock. She had prayed to God to take the soul of Mickey's dog. She had promised herself never to forget the puppy's happy face.
Her brother's voice rang in her ears… I'd never do anything to make you unhappy. But he had laughed after his dog had been shot. Somehow he found that funny.
She looked down at the weathered cross and knew everything he said was a lie. 'What about Rex?' she finally whispered.
Chapter 34
Kaz was good at rousts.Everybody started out with a pile of attitude-'I got my rights'; 'I'm gonna call my lawyer.' What you had to do was get the bandit s t o buy into the concept of fecal gravity.
'Shit runs downhill,' he used to shout at the frightened felons who were trying to tough it out in Vegas in front of his elite 'mob squad' of feds.
Usually he could turn them. He'd convince them they had a better chance with the Vegas DA than their own asshole buddies. Of course, most of them weren't very smart.
Brenton Spencer would be a lot tougher, but the thing about people involved in a criminal conspiracy was, they were always sure they were gonna get found out. That thought haunted them. Their own imaginations were what finally busted most of them. Brenton wasn't used to being interrogated, so Kaz had to get him away from his normal surroundings, find a place where he felt uncomfortable, and convince him he was involved in a federal crime.
Kaz had spent the last day setting up for the must. He'd called a friend in the federal prosecutor's office and explained what he needed. The closest thing they could find to a suitable crime was in Statute 348.7 of the Federal Election Code, which governs ballot box tampering and illegal voter registrations. Kaz had done a cut-and-paste job on the document, matching typefaces, inserting a paragraph saying that any person who attempted to unduly influence the outcome of a national election could be charged with felony malfeasance of the political process and violation of federal election law. Then he'd photocopied the document so that it was on one sheet of paper and looked official. He had that little jawbreaker in his pocket as he took the elevator up to UBC and got out on the Rim.
The first thing that struck him was that there were one hell of a lot of young people running around in a hundred different directions with no apparent destination. He grabbed a young man who was flying past.
'Looking for Brenton Spencer,' he said.
'Oh God,' the young man said, and ran off.
Kaz soon realized that this wasn't a room full of overeager yuppies. This was a room full of panicked people. He saw a crowd around an office door and elbowed his way in through the staffers until he saw a bald man in his late twenties, bent over the form of Brenton Spencer, who was lying unconscious on a white carpet. Steve Israel had his ear on Brenton's chest, listening for a heartbeat. Kaz was being pushed aside by some late arrivals trying to get a better look.
'It's okay,' Kaz said. 'I'm a doctor.'
They immediately let him through and he moved to the fallen newsman.
'Anybody call the paramedics?'
'Three minutes ago,' Israel said.
'What happened?'
'He's been having horrible headaches. He walked off the set, back to his office. When I came to get him, he was like this.'
'Okay, gimme some room.. '
Kaz had done his share of field triages, both in the Korean War and a couple of major Bureau shootouts. He started with vitals. Brenton had a reedy heartbeat, weak and irregular, and his breathing was rasping and shallow. Kaz opened his mouth and pulled his tongue free, clearing the throat. He thumbed open Brenton's eyes. The right looked normal but the left pupil was dilated to the size of a small-bore pistol.
'Brain hemorrhage. Get on the phone and tell the paramedics to alert the hospital they're gonna need a head cutter with a catcher's mitt. This guy is critical.'
The paramedics arrived a few minutes later. Kaz helped them get Spencer on the rolling gurney and load him into the ambulance. They tried to leave Kaz behind, but he flashed his lapsed credentials.
'FBI,' he said. 'Man's a material witness in a homicide. I'm coming.' He didn't want to let Brenton out of his
