together, Thorne and Nick erupted with laughter.
“Well, now, there’s some fine detective work,” Nick mocked. “Peter Frankel in the library with the candlestick, right?” He laughed again.
Jake ignored the barbs. “He was in charge of the investigation back in ’83, remember?”
“Of course I remember. But Jesus, Jake, there were lots-”
“And he was the one pressing to shut down the original investigation, right, Nick? At least that’s what you told me. Every time you mentioned continuing, he just shouted you down.”
Nick didn’t want to see it. “I could have pressed harder-”
“No!” Jake shouted. “Open your eyes! He’s the only investigator with the seniority to pull it off. He stopped the investigation as soon as he had the answers he wanted, and he was sure to get those answers because he planted the evidence himself. Who’s to know? Since then, he’s had all the time in the world to build his case. He’s smart enough to know the value of those computer files if we ever decided to go back, and he’s certainly well connected enough to put a tag on them that would ring a bell, as you say, if anyone accessed them. Now he’s on the news again, every day, preening for the cameras and telling the world just how guilty we are. It’s got to be him. He’s the common denominator.” The silence from the others told him he was close to making a sale here. “Frankel’s the only one with the power and authority to make it all work.”
Nick turned to Thorne for some help. “Come on, Thorne, tell him he’s full of shit.”
But that wasn’t what the other man’s expression said at all. “You know,” he mused, “I’ve actually run into this Frankel before. The prick’s run a couple of witch-hunts against a good friend of Mr. Sinclair’s. A senator, in fact. Frankel plays rough. And he sure as hell doesn’t mind breaking the law if it suits his purpose.”
Thorne scowled thoughtfully and locked eyes with Jake. “After watching what he put the senator through, I wouldn’t put anything past him. And how tough can it be to fool the investigators when you’re the investigator who needs to be fooled?”
Nick opened his mouth to argue but shut it again. “Oh, man…”
“But that still leaves us with why,” Jake lamented. “Why would he do such a thing?”
Thorne finally stepped all the way into the parlor and helped himself to a chair. He crossed his long legs in front of him and folded his fingers across his chest. “Shit, Jake,” he said, smiling. “The ‘why’ is the easiest of all. Blowing that place up-it’s one of your classic moves.”
“Now,” Thorne concluded, “the trick is to prove it.”
“It’s not possible,” Nick said. “Too many variables. Too much conjecture. Besides, nobody’s going to listen to us, anyway.”
“I suppose you could get some eager-beaver newspaper type working on it,” Thorne offered.
“No,” Jake said. “That’ll just spook Frankel and drive him further underground. Besides, without proof, even the press would be nuts to push this one.”
Nick stood up again and began pacing the room. “The whole problem is that the FBI has spent a decade and a half proving their own theory. They’ll never be open to anyone else’s ideas. Particularly not if we’re pointing the finger at their boss.”
This was not a new thought to Jake. “Then we have to get them to see it for themselves,” he said. It was time for dramatic, decisive action. “Do we know where the lead FBI agent is staying? What’s her name? Rivers.”
Thorne shrugged. “Shouldn’t be hard to find out. Why?”
“I’m going to pay her a visit.”
Thorne shook his head vehemently. “Bullshit. That’s suicide.”
“I can make her believe,” Jake insisted. “I’ve reasoned with her before, back in the body shop when all of this began. If I can set her on the right track, I think she’ll be able to prove it to herself.”
“No.” Thorne was unequivocal.
“You’ve got a better plan?” Jake’s frustration caused his voice to crack. “We’re dead in the water here!”
The big man seemed to struggle for an answer, then looked away, his jaw set angrily. “Well, I got no part in it,” he said. “There’s no way Mr. Sinclair will allow himself to walk into a buzz saw.”
Jake hiked his shoulders into an extended shrug. “Do you see him here?”
Thorne didn’t bother to answer.
Jake shifted his gaze. “Nick?”
Nick recoiled at the thought. “I don’t think so!”
“All you have to do is drive, okay? I promise. I need your help to pull it off. You’ll never have to leave the car.”
Nick cocked his head warily. “Look, Jake. You know I’m committed to helping, but I’ve got to start thinking about damage control.”
“What are you saying?”
Nick looked to Thorne and got a supportive, understanding nod. “God’s honest truth, I don’t think you’ve got a chance. It’s too big. I came here with the idea of staying away from the law. Now you’re seeking them out.” He broke eye contact. “I just can’t do that.”
“It’s stupid, Jake,” Thorne repeated. “Listen to him. There’s got to be a better way.”
Jake just stared. “And searching for better ways takes more time than I’ve got.” He felt himself flush with anger as he realized they were abandoning him. Well, to hell with them. He’d make it all right, with them or without them. He looked to Thorne again. “Let me have the keys, then.”
Thorne paused for a long moment before hesitantly handing them over.
Jake bounced the keys in his palm. “Some tough guy you turned out to be,” he said bitterly. When his eyes landed on Nick, he just broke his gaze and headed for the door.
As Nick listened to the quiet click of Jake’s rubber-soled shoes disappearing down the hallway, he looked to Thorne and felt ashamed. It was foolish, he knew-and sentimental-but he just couldn’t let Jake down like this. Not again.
“God help me,” he groaned, rising from his chair. “In for a dime, in for a dollar, right, Thorne?” He had to hurry to catch up.
Alone, finally, in the sprawling house, Thorne poured himself a drink and reached for the telephone. It was time to catch his boss up on everything that had happened.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The guards wouldn’t tell Carolyn a thing. She’d begged. She’d cried. Still, no one would tell her how Travis was doing. She knew he was alive, but beyond that, they said nothing. More precisely, they insisted they had no information. Of course, if she found a way to be more forthcoming with details about Jake, well, they might just be able to scavenge up a tidbit or two. Assholes.
She lay on the concrete shelf that served as a cot in her isolation cell, bathed in the yellow light cast by the wire-reinforced fixture overhead. She’d unrolled her mattress, such as it was, but the threadbare Army blanket and plastic pillow remained folded and stacked on her bed, serving as a convenient footrest. Officially, her celebrity status was responsible for her isolation, but she knew that it was just more mind games.
She worried how much longer she could hold out. Fear was hard to manage when you were all alone, and the fact that her tormentors took such pleasure from her fear made it that much worse. She tried to focus on Jake and on all she knew he must be doing to get her out. They’d been married nearly fifteen years now, and he’d never once let her down. God only knew how he’d do it, but she had to keep believing in him. Without that hope, there was nothing.
She’d heard over the years that one of the worst adjustments to life in prison was the constant noise. The air handlers thrummed endlessly, keeping the place cold enough to hang meat and preventing even the few quiet moments from being truly quiet. Already, she missed the rushing sound of an autumn breeze, the silence of a snowy night. Over time, though, she knew she could adjust to mechanical noise. It was the human noise that frightened her.
She was all alone in her little four-cell isolation wing, yet the sounds of other inmates still reverberated off
