Renaissance would never blossom.
Emil sipped tea as he skimmed the half-finished story on the computer monitor. He would emphasize in the conclusion how the lawyers had worked to bring Steere to justice and how Bennie Rosato had risked everything to protect a client. The story would take the cloud off Bennie's law firm and show her to be a hero. The young Turks called it spin, but that wasn't what Emil called it. He called it truth.
Emil finished the story, tying up the loose ends. He imagined winning a Pulitzer and would settle for reinstatement to the day shift. Emil always knew he was a better reporter than Alix Locke. Sneaking into the chief of staff's office and stealing her purse. Using Pressman's keys to get into Steere's beach house. Emil shook his head. No one had any morals anymore, any scruples. That was the problem today.
Emil hit the PRINT key and sighed happily.
* * *
John LeFort watched the telephone lights blinking from his desk chair in his office at Cable & Bess. Sunlight poured through the windows and glinted off the Waterford tumbler in his hand. LeFort never drank during the day, but today was an exception. He heaved a short sigh and picked up the phone. 'Hello?' he asked, as if he didn't know who it was. As if he didn't know who any of the blinking lights were.
'John, Mo Barrie. I'm at home watching television. Did you see? Did you see it on the news? Steere's been rearrested. Conspiracy to murder, for hiring a hit man. Vote fraud, trying to rig the mayoral election. It's a scandal.'
'I know. I was there.'
'We're calling the notes, John. We're calling the notes right now. All of them. Those properties are for sale as of this minute. I'm ringing the city right after we hang up.'
'I understand,' John said. He sipped his drink. Mo could be as hysterical as Bunny. How foolish. It was only business.
'All of them, John. Consider them sold, John. As of now. Right this instant. It's a house of cards, John, and it's about to come tumbling down.'
'See you in court, Mo,' LeFort said, and hung up. He took another sip before picking up the next call.
* * *
Elliot Steere sat behind the wired glass across from his new criminal lawyer. The glass was scratched and smudged, and the interview room at the Roundhouse was far dirtier than the one at the Criminal Justice Center. Steere's surroundings didn't matter to him right now. 'You'll plead me innocent of all charges,' he said to his lawyer, who wore costly rimless glasses and a Zegna suit.
'But they have an excellent case for conspiracy in the murder of the security guards. They found Bogosian's magazine, and there were papers in his apartment linking him to you. They'll get his phone records and bank accounts.'
'Bogosian will never testify against me.'
'Bogosian is dead. The New Jersey police found his body on the beach.'
Steere paused. 'All the better. Then he can't testify.'
'But Richter will. Carrier will. They have a computer file from your beach house. They're impounding your boat. They have records from Darning and a suspect in the DiNunzio shooting. He used a stolen car.' The young lawyer consulted his notes. 'I expect indictments on vote fraud and election rigging. They're talking about obstruction of justice, but I don't know if they can prove it.'
'I am innocent of all charges against me.'
'You'd be lucky to be offered a deal.'
Steere smiled, amused. 'Luck has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. Did you ever hear of a general named Sun-Tzu?'
67
In an anesthetized sleep, Christopher dreamed he was cantering a horse across a snow-covered field, under a warm sun and a crisp blue sky. A fog hovered over the snow, so the horse appeared to be cantering on a bed of clouds. In anyone else's dream the horse would have been white, an Arabian, but Christopher thought white horses were for show-offs, so it was a brown quarter horse. A large gelding with a white blaze, over sixteen hands high.
The horse's hooves crunched through the snow as its canter accelerated without warning to a gallop. Though Christopher hadn't kicked the horse to gallop him, he didn't object to the change of pace until horse and rider were racing toward a wooden rail fence that appeared from nowhere. The fence was high, almost four feet, and Christopher didn't know if the horse could jump it.
The horse's hooves reached farther into the snow as it galloped full tilt, nostrils flaring, straining against the bit. The fence raced toward them. It was crazy to jump at this speed, but if Christopher halted he'd fly over the horse's neck. He lifted into position and tightened the reins, but the leather slipped from his hands and flapped against the horse's wet neck. The jump zoomed up to meet them. The horse leapt into the air. They'd never clear the fence.
'No!' Christopher shouted, waking up. He looked around him. Everything was white, but it wasn't snow, it was a hospital room. He wasn't crashing into a fence, he was lying on a hospital bed. And the touch on his hand wasn't a loose rein, it was a woman. Megan Gerrity, the redhead from the jury, was sitting at the edge of his bed. Christopher blinked, groggy, and cleared his parched throat.
'It's all right, Christopher,' Megan said. She squeezed his hand, and Christopher squeezed back, easing into the soft pillow with a sigh.
* * *
'You almost stabbed Elliot Steere! Do you realize that?' Bennie said as she stormed down the long hospital corridor. The late afternoon sun glowed through the large windows, but its residual warmth was lost on Bennie. On either side of the hall hung polished plaques listing the names of hospital benefactors, but she couldn't have cared less. Bennie was walking so fast she didn't notice anything and was so angry she didn't care if Marta could keep pace.
