High Crimes

“So you have nothing on the general?” Claire asked, when they’d gathered that evening. Embry and Grimes sat in their usual chairs. Devereaux stood and paced, because he liked to loom over people. She sat behind the beautiful library table-cum-desk, leaning back in the high leather-upholstered executive chair, and exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke. “No wife-beating, no adultery, no child molestation, nothing?”

“He’s clean as a whistle,” Devereaux said. “Fastest-promoted general ever to serve in the army. Eagle Scout, kind to animals, good to his neighbors. Gives generously to charity, serves on the board of the United Way and the American Cancer Society. He doesn’t even rent dirty videos.”

“‘Even’?” Claire said. “Like everyone does?”

“Well, you don’t,” Devereaux said. “That I know.”

“Thanks. Nice to know you respect my privacy.”

“What about Robert Lentini?” Grimes asked. “Still can’t turn that guy up?”

“Even assuming he wasn’t behind that setup in the Catoctin mountains, and that they just used his name because they knew Claire would bite — no. The guy’s disappeared without a trace. Either that, or he never existed.”

“Well, we know he existed, from his service records,” Embry said.

“Maybe,” Devereaux said.

“And what about my CIA guy, Dennis?” Claire asked.

Devereaux broke out in a grin. “You gotta love this. These cloak-and-dagger boys can’t even pick up on a tail if it’s six-four and three hundred pounds. I followed baldy home to Chevy Chase, right to his suburban manse. His name is Dennis T. Mackie. ’Course, I don’t know what good that’ll do you. Unless you have a CIA personnel directory. Now, you guys mind if I take my leave? I gotta get my beauty sleep.”

“I wanted to say something,” Embry ventured bashfully. “That was a really great cross you did of the ballistics guy.”

“Thanks,” she said. “But this was definitely a case of I-couldn’t-have-done-it-without-you.” Embry shrugged. “No, I really couldn’t have,” she insisted. “I’d never have thought of the barrels. What the hell do I know about guns?”

“You prepped her on that?” Grimes said.

Embry looked at Grimes uneasily.

“You’re a smart dude,” Grimes said.

Embry smiled in amazement. “Thanks.”

“Even Coultas didn’t remember about the barrels,” Grimes said.

“I don’t believe that,” Claire said. “Not someone like Coultas. He’s a national ballistics authority, and he doesn’t overlook something obvious like that.”

“It wasn’t that obvious,” Embry protested.

“It is to a guy like Coultas,” she said. “I’m sure he was hoping he wouldn’t be asked.”

“Naw,” Grimes said, “he’s a neutral expert. He doesn’t take sides. He was probably instructed, by Waldron, not to bring it up unless asked, not to point to it in any way.”

“Is there anything else?” Embry asked after a while. “Because I want to get to work on the General Marks stuff, see if I can come up with any angles. Actually, I’d kind of like to go home and get some shut-eye.”

“Go ahead, Terry,” she said. “Thanks for coming over.”

When Embry had left, Grimes said, “You want a drink?”

“I don’t think so, no. Thanks anyway.”

“You look tired.”

“I’m always tired these days.”

“Then I’ll head home myself.” He stood up, collected his papers, and put them in his briefcase. Standing near her desk, he said, “Can I tell you something kind of personal?”

“Yeah?” she said warily.

“I just — what I mean is, you’re this big hotshot lawyer, and I’ve been, like, a fan of yours for a hell of a long time, and I thought it was kind of cool you wanted to hire me.”

She nodded, smiled. “You came highly recommended.”

“Forget that shit. I’m saying, even though I was, like, totally intimidated when you came into my office that first time, I still couldn’t help think it was a joke, you wanting to try this case, a totally high-pressure military court-martial, and not knowing shit about military law. But you know what?”

“What?”

“Now I get it. Now I see why you’re the hotshot you are. You’re just fucking good at whatever you do.”

Tears came into her eyes. It was late, she was exhausted, and she was emotionally a wreck. She smiled and shrugged and shook her head. She stood up and came around to where he was standing. “Grimes — Charlie — Charles — oh, fuck it.” And she hugged him long and hard.

The phone rang again, at two-thirty Monday morning.

She fumbled for it, picked up the handset.

“Ask yourself who really wants him locked away,” the electronically altered voice said.

“Thanks,” Claire said. “We’ve almost got you, asshole.”

46

“They’re putting the general on the stand today?” Devereaux asked. Claire sat in the front seat of Devereaux’s rented car, a Lincoln Town Car even larger and more luxurious than the one he drove back in Boston. Corinthian leather was everywhere.

“Apparently.” Distracted, she sipped from a takeout cup of coffee.

“So he’s going to sit there in his general’s costume with the four stars and the fruit salad on the front and say Sergeant Ronald Kubik did it? And that’s going to sway the jury because he’s a four-star general? Even though he wasn’t even on the scene?”