“How was your meal?” the senator asked as Eddie removed their plates.
Frankel patted his obscenely trim stomach. “The meal was wonderful,” he said. “Truthfully, though, I found the company a bit unsettling, Senator. Now that we’re between courses, I presume you’re getting to the point of this little ex parte feast?” Frankel had a face made for television; ruggedly smooth until he smiled. That’s when the dimples came out, perfectly aligned on either side of his grin. He was a walking recruitment manual for the FBI. Somehow the television cameras filtered out the lifelessness of his eyes-the raw ambition-that so intimidated people in person. Frankel knew damn well that his luncheon partner held the reins to his future, yet he still hadn’t flinched.
“I assume you know, Peter, that you don’t have a chance next month. When I’m done with you, the public will be screaming for your indictment.” Albricht had already suffered through all the pleasantries he could stand for one day. The time had come for direct attack.
The dimples didn’t move as Frankel lifted a curious eyebrow. “My, my, Senator. Sounds like you may have lost your objectivity. Perhaps I should have my attorney recommend recusal.”
Albricht ignored the bait. Senate hearings were not trials, and he was not a judge; merely an advocate for the People, who ultimately would determine Frankel’s worthiness to run the world’s most powerful law enforcement agency.
“I brought you here for one reason,” Albricht explained. “I wanted to give you a chance to step away from your nomination; to save your career and to save the president the embarrassment we both know your hearing will bring.”
Frankel laughed at that one, long and hard. “And here I thought you just had an ax to grind!” he whooped. “So tell me, Clay. When did you start worrying about the political fortunes of the president? Last I heard, you were saying some pretty awful things about him.”
Albricht’s eyes narrowed. He’d never expected Frankel to cave in-in fact, he’d have been disappointed if he had. But he expected something. A momentary look of fear, maybe? Hatred? Some emotional twitch to mimic the antipathy Albricht carried in his own heart? Instead, he just got more of the laughter; the unspoken “Screw you.”
As the smile faded, Frankel replaced it with a patronizing sneer. He opened his mouth to say something, but the chirping of his cell phone interrupted him. Keeping eye contact with the senator the whole time, Frankel removed the phone from the pocket of his suit coat and punched a button. “Frankel.”
He has something, Albricht mused as he eavesdropped on Frankel’s side of the conversation. The thought made the Alfredo sauce curdle in his stomach.
“Who caught them?… Where?… No shit. Well, have that number ready for me when I get back. I want to call Agent Rivers personally.” He beamed like a lottery winner as he pushed the disconnect button and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Rising abruptly from the table, Frankel clapped Albricht on the shoulder. “Well, Clay, it looks like we’ll both be on the news tonight,” he said.
Albricht remained stoic, a perfect poker face. Somewhere along the line, he’d lost control of this meeting. And he hadn’t a clue what Frankel was talking about.
The deputy director of the FBI left without so much as a handshake, pausing halfway across the room. “You know,” he said glibly, “after all your years in the Senate, I’d have expected you to be less naive.” He chuckled at a joke that only he had heard, then left the dining room, on his way to collect his firearm.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Bullshit!”
Chief Sherwood couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “They’ve made a mistake.”
Agent Rivers’s face glowed crimson and her hands trembled with rage. “It’s no mistake, Sherwood! A perfect match on his prints. Your friend’s client is Jake Donovan. The Jake Donovan. God damn it!” Irene moved her arms randomly, as if searching for something to throw. “Number one on the Ten Most Wanted list, and I let him go.”
Sherwood felt numb; and, frankly, a little shocked by the profanity that spewed from this petite yet apoplectic young lady. As royal screwups went, this one was certainly the blue-ribbon winner. Surely, it was a mistake. There it was, though, right there at the bottom of the sheet: “Wanted for murder.”
As Irene ranted and danced around Sherwood’s office, trying to comprehend the instant implosion of her career, the chief stopped listening, concentrating instead on the dog-eared Wanted poster. Sure enough, the resemblance was there if you looked hard enough. Especially around the eyes.
In the picture, Jake Donovan was a kid. While the man he’d spoken to only minutes before had a full, graying beard and soft features, this picture showed a clean-cut young man in his twenties, with a strong chin, a fighter’s nose, and piercing blue eyes. Sherwood used the edge of his hand to cover up everything but the eyes and the hairline, and magically, Jake Brighton appeared.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sherwood mumbled.
“Damned my ass!” Irene exploded. “We’ll be crucified!”
Sherwood regarded Irene with the expression of a disappointed father. The oh-so-sure-of-herself savior of the law enforcement world now looked suspiciously like she might cry. If she hadn’t been such an asshole, Sherwood might have felt sorry for her. Someone knocked on his office door.
“What’s this ‘we’ shit, Irene? Donovan was never my prisoner.” He stood up and opened the door to reveal a clerk standing nervously on the other side. Barely out of his teens, the young man clearly knew he was interrupting. “Sorry, Chief, but Agent Rivers has a phone call.”
“Tell whoever it is that I’m in a meeting,” Irene snapped without looking. “I’ll call them back when I get a chance.”
The kid seemed to shrink as he stood there. “Um, I tried that, ma’am, but he said I should tell you it’s Peter Frankel. He said you’d take the call.”
Color drained from Irene’s face, like someone had pulled a plug. “Oh, shit,” she groaned.
Sherwood cringed on her behalf, wondering if he should help Irene into a chair. Instead, he offered his own. “You can take it at my desk, if you’d like,” he said. “I’ll have the dispatcher check to see if Donovan’s still with my patrolman.”
She looked confused for a second, then nodded. “Thank you.”
Sherwood smiled. Peter Frankel’s reputation in the law enforcement community was not one of love and understanding. The call rang through just as he closed the door. Right now he wouldn’t have traded places with Irene for a million dollars.
The story was believable enough, Jake thought. Rather than having this cop go to the trouble of taking him all the way out to the boonies, why not just drop him off at the hospital? “My mother’s there getting some outpatient surgery done,” he’d explained. “It’d be a nice surprise for her, and she’d probably love to have the company.”
The cop bought it all the way, oblivious to the tremor in Jake’s hands and the slight crack in his voice. And why wouldn’t he buy it? If nothing else, it got him off the hook for a long drive to nowhere. And who wouldn’t be a bit jumpy after spending the last few hours under arrest? That’d unnerve anyone.
The outpatient clinic shared an entrance with the emergency room. Officer Slavka pulled right up to the entrance, his badge and light bar buying a few extra yards that would have been off limits to civilian vehicles.
“Here you go, Mr. Brighton,” Jason announced. “Doorto-door service.”
Jake shook hands with the patrolman, then climbed out of the car. “Thanks for the ride,” he said.
“I hope your mother’s okay.”
Jake smiled nervously, searching the cop’s tone for signs of sarcasm. “Thank you,” he said again. “I’m sure she will be.”
He walked purposefully through the door labeled “Admissions,” just like he belonged there, and continued all the way to the receptionist’s desk before pausing at a water fountain to see if he’d been followed. He took a long drink-long enough to convince himself that he was alone-then started working his way nonchalantly toward the front door.
Outside again, and free at least for the moment, he fought the urge to run. He was in the open again, and if
