jammed the gun barrel under the senator’s chin.
“What is the FBI going to do about InCo?”
“I can’t tell you. I’d be committing treason,” he whined.
“I don’t think you fully appreciate your situation, Senator. You are going to answer my questions with complete honesty or the DVD will be released and you will be disgraced. Then, when your humiliation is complete, your wife will be killed in an extremely violent manner, and your children will be kidnapped and sold as sex slaves.”
Carson stared openmouthed. Then he gagged. When he was through, Koshani got a tissue and dabbed at his mouth.
“You’ve ruined my silk sheets, but the sacrifice was worth it if you’re clear about what will happen if you disobey me. And don’t think you can lie to me, then go to the FBI. I’m a small cog in a big machine. There are people who enjoy violence. They will do what needs to be done to punish you if you go to the authorities. They have copies of the DVD, and they know where your children go to school. Do you understand?”
Carson nodded. Koshani slapped him again.
“Answer me out loud.”
“Yes, I understand,” Carson said, utterly defeated.
“Good. Now tell me what the FBI has planned for InCo.”
“They’re going to serve a subpoena for business records.”
“When?”
“Soon. I don’t know the exact day.”
“What are they looking for?”
“I don’t know specifics. They’ve heard rumors about a major attack in the United States.”
“Where is this attack supposed to take place and when is it supposed to happen?”
“They don’t know.”
Koshani thought for a moment.
“I’m going to send you back to Washington, Jack. You will tell me where the authorities suspect the attack will take place and when they think it will occur. You will also inform me of any actions that are planned against me or anyone else.”
“The FBI may not know where the attack will take place. I don’t know if I can get the information.”
Koshani leaned forward and stared directly into Carson’s eyes. “Pray that you can.”
Chapter Eleven
Lawrence Cooper’s office was in a strip mall in Hyattsville, Maryland, between a liquor store and a nail salon. Cooper rarely had visitors he needed to impress, so the office reception area was furnished with cheap furniture that looked as though it could have been made in a high school shop class. Most of the furniture and furnishings in Cooper’s private office weren’t much better, but his wife had hung hunting prints on the wall behind his desk in hopes of giving the office a little class.
Cooper had an aversion to exercise and the sun. You would expect him to be fat, but he had allergies to so many foods that he ate like a bird and looked anorexic. His chest was sunken, his shoulders stooped, and his skin had an unhealthy pallor. Initial impressions pegged him as weak, but he was tenacious in business and strong- willed if not strong of limb. Cooper earned a respectable living by fighting his way up the food chain, and very little scared him. Steve Reynolds was an exception.
Reynolds appeared in his office shortly after Cooper’s secretary left. Cooper thought his secretary had locked the front door so he was surprised when he looked up and found Reynolds standing in his doorway. Cooper got over his initial surprise quickly, but he didn’t pull out the drawer where he kept a loaded. 38 Special because his visitor was a neatly shaved white man with a styled haircut who was dressed in an Armani suit. Instead, he furrowed his brow, perplexed by the situation, and asked his visitor what he wanted.
Reynolds sat on a plain wooden chair across from Cooper.
“I want to make you some easy money,” he said with a warm smile.
Cooper didn’t return the smile. Life had taught him that there was no such thing as easy money. Still, he was intrigued.
“Talk to me,” he said as he eased open the drawer that held his protection.
Reynolds raised an eyebrow. “There’ll be no need for the gun, Mr. Cooper. Besides, I emptied it last night.”
Cooper looked as though he had not understood Reynolds or understood him but couldn’t get his head around the idea that he had been burglarized. Reynolds waited patiently while Cooper checked the gun. There were no bullets in the chamber. Cooper’s face darkened.
“What the fuck is this?”
Reynolds held up a conciliatory hand. “I apologize, but I don’t like getting shot, and I thought our conversation would go better if neither of us was armed.”
“You know what?” Cooper said, “We’re not going to have a conversation. I don’t converse with assholes who break into my office.”
Reynolds nodded. “I’m not surprised that you’re upset, but hear me out. I’m going to offer you ten thousand dollars in exchange for a favor and another ten once it’s performed.”
The money caught Cooper’s interest. “What kind of favor?”
“I want you to hire four men. You won’t have to pay them to earn the money. You’ll just have to tell your managers to use them.”
Cooper smirked. “What will these gentlemen say when INS asks for their green cards?”
“They’ll say they have them. You won’t get in trouble with the Immigration people.”
“I don’t like this.”
Reynolds sat up and leaned forward. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to do it.”
“And if I don’t?” Cooper answered belligerently.
“This is not a negotiation,” Reynolds said. “Either you do everything I ask of you and make some money or you refuse and your comfortable life will come to an end. And don’t even think about going to the police. That would be a huge mistake. Anytime you get set to contact the authorities, think about how easy it was for me to break into your house last night.”
“My house?”
“Check the dresser in your bedroom. Look under your winter pajamas. The envelope with the ten thousand dollars is folded inside the flannels with the tartan check.”
Chapter Twelve
Transcripts from Clarence Little’s trial for the murder of Winona Benford were piled up on the coffee table in Millie’s living room. An empty mug was perched on top of the transparent plastic cover that protected one of them. Scattered across the living room floor were more transcripts and the police, forensic, and defense investigation reports in the Winona Benford and Carol Poole cases.
Millie put down the police report she had just finished and rubbed her eyes. Then she picked up the coffee mug and picked her way through the legal debris until she reached her kitchen. It was Monday morning, and Millie had risen with the sun to finish rereading all of the paperwork in the two murder cases, a task she had started on Saturday and was about to finish after two twelve-hour weekend days.
In Clarence’s postconviction cases, the issue before Judge Case was whether the state had violated Clarence’s legal rights, not whether Clarence had murdered someone. In preparing for the postconviction hearing, Millie had focused more on the legal issues than on the facts. At Clarence’s new trials, the issue the juries would decide was whether Clarence had killed the two girls, so Millie was rereading everything from a different angle. The
