business.”
“You prick! You bastard! You scum-sucking pig!”
Around us, various civil servants stopped to watch. Or did they just slow their tempo another nanosecond? The German shepherd padded over and sniffed my leg for contraband, or maybe just to see if I was edible.
“Why would I shoot Crespo?”
“Ah, yes, motive. Hard to get a conviction without one, but why should I tell you your business? Some dispute over fee splitting. Crespo wanted a bigger cut of the cases he sent your way. You brushed him off. He threatened you with exposure and disbarment. You warned him once. He persisted. You offed him.”
“You bullshit artist! I never split a fee with Crespo or anybody else.”
“Then how do you explain the letter written in your own hand?”
“What letter?”
He opened a thin briefcase and removed a one-page photocopy. “Exhibit A,” he announced.
I grabbed it. My handwriting all right. A curt little note telling Crespo to lay off or he’d regret it. And my signature at the bottom, a forgery so good even I couldn’t tell it wasn’t real.
I balled up the note and tossed it back at Foley. “That’s why you had me write out a statement, you fuckhead.”
He took an identical copy from his briefcase and admired it. There seemed to be half a dozen copies. “The exemplar was quite useful, I admit.”
“Who’s going to believe this? What kind of asshole would write a letter like that?”
He smiled and put the letter back into the briefcase. “I believe that’s what you lawyers call a jury question.”
“I ought to kick your ass.”
“Go ahead. Assaulting a federal officer is pretty tame stuff compared to the trouble you’re in.” He smiled again and leaned toward me. “Of course, I could help you out. I could see to it that Socolow never gets this letter and those wetback witnesses all end up working in the Post Office in Corpus Christi.”
“Who do I have to kill?”
“Don’t be so melodramatic. All you have to do is sign a confidentiality agreement. Not a word about Operation Riptide to anybody, ever.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Why not have your handwriting guy just sign it for me, save the trouble?”
“Not for this one. We’ll go to the Farm at Langley, videotape the signing, have you state for the record you’re not being coerced, that sort of thing.”
“What makes me think you’ve got the statement all typed up and neatly bound in blue-backed paper inside your government-issue briefcase?”
He opened the case and beamed. “Because you recognize efficiency and grudgingly admire it.”
He handed me a three-page document, which, by golly, was stapled to a blue backing with a gold government seal. I skimmed it. “You prick, Foley. This isn’t a confidentiality agreement. It’s a confession to the murder of Francisco Crespo.”
“Best confidentiality agreement I know. It goes in the safe in Langley. It’ll never see the light of day as long as you keep your mouth shut. You talk, or do anything contrary to our interests, the confession will be in Socolow’s hands quicker than shit through a goose.”
“Or the next Socolow, or the one after that. There’s no statute of limitations on murder. You guys would have something over me for the rest of my life.”
“Hey, nobody promised you a rose garden. I’m just trying to help you out here. So think about it.” He looked at his watch. “Flight leaves in ninety minutes.”
I asked Foley if I could use the phone to call my secretary. He grunted an okay and told me I was free to call the Prince of Wales if I wanted. I used an unmanned desk out of Foley’s earshot and caught Cindy at home.
“What is it, boss? I’m late for ladies’ night at the Crazy Horse.”
“Sorry to make you miss the Chippendales.”
“Nah, it’s the lifeguards from Daytona Beach, all those tan lines.” The line buzzed with faraway static as she paused. “Whadaya mean, miss…?”
“You remember how to write a writ?”
“Now?”
“C’mon, Cindy. I need a writ of prejudgment attachment under Chapter Seventy-six, and I need it quick.”
“Courthouse is closed, el jefe.”
“Call Judge Boulton at home. Prepare a short complaint, emergency motion, and affidavit. You swear to it. If you’re indicted for perjury, I’ll get you a good lawyer. The property to be attached is a one-page document belonging to me. At least, it seems to have my signature on it. An original and some copies, I don’t know how many, so plead it broadly. The document is a letter with no monetary value, so we don’t need to post a bond. The tortfeasor, one Robert T. Foley, is about to flee the jurisdiction, which gives us the statutory basis for prejudgment relief. Unless we secure the property now, the normal process of the court will be for naught, blah, blah, blah. Get it?”
“Yeah. The usual bullcrap boilerplate.”
“Good. Get the writ signed by the judge and hustle it to Concourse F, gate eleven at the airport, and I mean quick. Better bring the biggest process server you can find. Maybe one of the guys who used to repo Harleys from that Broward biker gang.”
I hung up and walked back to Foley, who sat placidly, hands in his lap, watching me. “Well?”
“I’m yours,” I told him.
“Good. I’ll file a report. Then we’ll head to the gate.”
He moved to one of the empty desks, worked quietly on a computer for half an hour, printed out a multipage document, and used an intercom to ask a young woman to fax it to Langley. Then he came back to where I was sitting. “Let’s go, counselor.”
An elevator took us to Concourse F for the Delta flight to Dulles. I was still limping as we passed through the X-ray machine and then the neutron explosive detector. It scans for gamma rays, an indicator of high-density nitrogen. We didn’t ring any bells, so I assumed Foley was neither armed with his Beretta nor carrying TNT in his Jockey shorts.
We sat at the gate until a loudspeaker announced that cattle with coach tickets were now being herded to the rear of the aircraft. Anyone within flushing distance of the aft lavatory should begin boarding. So should expense account first-class types, if they so desired. Foley stirred and stood up. I didn’t move.
“I need a drink,” I told him.
“What?”
“Always have one before a flight. Sometimes two. Calms my nerves.”
“You can get a drink on the-”
“No, need it now. It’s a ritual.”
The bar was twenty paces away. Airports may be big and noisy, sterile and dehumanizing, but the best ones use every spare inch for taverns with cushioned barstools and televisions tuned to the sports channel.
“Okay,” Foley said, “but make it quick.”
I ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, changed it to a double, and made myself comfortable on a high stool. Foley stood next to me, pulled a pack of Camels from his coat pocket, and lighted one. They called the flight a second time. Passengers in the middle rows who would get trapped by the food carts should begin boarding. I sipped at my drink, and Foley crushed his half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray. “C’mon, Lassiter.”
I drained the drink and motioned the bartender for another. “Lots of time,” I said. “They probably haven’t gotten the pilot out of the detox center yet.”
When the second drink arrived, I swirled the glass, watching the auburn liquid crash into the ice cubes like waves against a rocky shore. I usually stay away from hard liquor, and now I already felt a spreading warmth that moved from my stomach to my chest and, if given half a chance, would spread to my toes.
“Final boarding call for Flight three-seventy-six to Washington-Dulles,” a voice announced. They used to just say “Dulles,” but a lot of passengers headed to Dallas ended up on the wrong plane.
