Fatal Consequences Read online

  He usually made use of the time in the car to work. Today, he was using the time to think. More than one hundred thousand people had shown up for the VCU rally, which was four times the number they’d expected. Despite the cold, the numbers had forced the rally outdoors to Monroe Park.

  “I hear they’ve got four thousand on the waiting list for tonight’s fundraiser,” Tony said. “The money is rolling in.”

  Millions had flooded into his campaign since he’d declared his candidacy. “It’s an embarrassment of riches,” Nick said.

  “Enjoy it while it lasts. You’ll do something to screw it up eventually.”

  Nick cracked up at the dryly spoken comment. “Gee, thanks.”

  “I’m just razzing ya. You’ve got the golden touch, Senator. You can ride the wave all the way to Pennsylvania Avenue at this rate.”

  The Democratic National Committee had already expressed an interest in running him in the primary in three years. President Nelson had started out strong, but his numbers had fallen off in recent months, and the party was considering its options should their incumbent choose not to seek a second term. Nick couldn’t believe his name was even in the mix. He’d only been in the Senate for a month and a half and was in the midst of his first campaign. The notion of running for president was almost laughable—until he remembered the sea of people at the rally chanting his name and clamoring for a handshake or autograph. This whole thing was still unreal to him. His best friend and boss had been murdered by the twenty-year-old son John kept hidden from even his closest friend. Despite all the doors John’s death had opened for Nick, he’d gladly give it all up to have his friend back.

  Tony pulled up to the curb outside a nondescript red brick building in downtown Richmond. “Here ya are, Senator.”

  This stop had not been on his official schedule for the day, and Nick was relieved to note that his traveling band of reporters had not followed him here. “See you in a bit,” he said to Tony on the way out of the car.

  Inside, Irene Littlefield, director of the state home for children, greeted him. She’d appealed to his office for help in ensuring the continuation of a crucial federal grant that helped to fund the program. Nick figured her to be in her early sixties. “Senator,” she said, shaking his hand, “it’s such an honor to have you here. The children have been looking forward to your visit.”

  “It’s great to be here. I’ve heard wonderful things about your program.”

  “That’s nice of you to say. We do what we can with the resources made available to us. Let me introduce you to the children.”

  “That’d be great.” He followed her through sterile-looking hallways in what used to be a VCU dormitory to a homey-looking common area filled with sofas, a big-screen TV, games and books. About thirty scrubbed and polished children waited patiently to say hello. Over the next half hour, Nick visited with each of them and marveled at their excellent manners and enthusiasm.

  “We’ve asked Scotty to give you a tour of the facility,” Mrs. Littlefield said after each of the children had had a chance to visit with Nick. She had her hands on the shoulders of a boy who was maybe eleven or twelve. His dark hair looked like it had been brushed into submission for the occasion. He wore a smart-looking navy sweater with khaki pants.

  He flashed a mischievous grin. “I’ve been here the longest, so I got the short straw.”

  Nick laughed. “I’ll try not to ask too many questions.”

  Scotty smiled at him. “Right this way, Senator.”

  As Nick followed him through the hallways, Scotty kept up a steady stream of chatter, pointing out the kitchen and dining room and discussing the food, which apparently ranged from fabulous to gross, depending on the chef’s mood.

  “What’s your favorite meal?” Nick asked him.

  “Spaghetti,” Scotty said without hesitation.

  “Ahhh, a man after my own heart.”

  “That’s your favorite too?”

  “Sure is. A good Italian boy like me has to get his pasta fix at least once a week.”

  “I don’t know if I’m Italian, but I’d eat spaghetti every day if I could.”

  Nick felt a pull of compassion for the boy. “What are some of your other favorite things?”

  “Baseball,” Scotty said without hesitation.

  “What team?”

  “The Red Sox.”

  “Get out of here,” Nick said, laughing. “You’re just saying that to impress me.”

  “I am not! I’ve always loved the Sox.”

  “I grew up just north of Boston. I’ve been a Sox fan all my life.”

  Scotty’s eyes got very big. “Have you been to Fenway Park?”

  “Many times.” He didn’t add that he’d been twenty-four the first time he could afford to attend a game at the fabled ballpark.

  “Oh, you’re so lucky! I’d give anything to go there and sit in the Monster seats. I’ve read every book I could find on the Red Sox and Fenway Park. Did you see the movie Fever Pitch? It’s my favorite.”

  Nick wished he could wave a magic wand and be sitting atop the Green Monster wall in Fenway Park with Scotty and a couple of Fenway Franks. “I loved that movie. I’m sure you’ll get to Fenway someday.”

  “As soon as I have any money, that’s the first place I’ll go.”

  “How did you become a fan?”

  “My grandfather was from Boston. He talked about the Red Sox all the time. Ted Williams was his favorite player. Did you ever see him play?”

  Nick winced. “How old do you think I am, man?”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  Nick mussed his hair. “Don’t be sorry. I was just kidding. Is your grandfather still alive?”

  Scotty shook his head. “He had a heart attack when I was six. A month later, my mom OD’ed. That’s how I ended up here.” He ushered Nick into his small room. “But it’s not so bad.”

  Nick’s heart broke when he imagined the horror of six-year-old Scotty losing his grandfather and then his mother. “You don’t have any other family?”

  “Nope. My mom had sisters but they were estringed.”

  “You mean estranged?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. They didn’t talk to her because of her drug problems.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “Never knew him.” He rifled through some things on the desk. “Check this out—a Dustin Pedroia rookie card.”

  Nick examined the cellophane-sealed baseball card. “Wow. Look at that. You should take really good care of it. I bet it’ll be worth big money someday.”

  “That’s what Mr. Sanchez said. He was my math teacher last year. He’s a Nats fan,” Scotty said, referring to the Washington Nationals. “He took me to a game when the Nats played the Sox in interleague play. It was my first time to a real ballpark, and I got to see the Sox. Best day of my life.”

  “I went to one of those games.”

  “The one I went to, the Sox won three to two.”

  “That’s the one I was at!”

  “Hey, that’s cool.”

  Nick sat on the bed and looked around at the sparse room. “You need some posters for your walls. Who’s your favorite player? I’ll send you one.”

  “That’s really nice of you, but we aren’t allowed to hang stuff on our walls. The custodian says the tape takes the paint off.”

  Nick’s scowl made the boy laugh.

  “Rules are rules,” Scotty said with a shrug.

  “If we were breaking the rules for a minute, who would you want on your wall?”

  “That’s easy—Big Papi. He’s the bomb.”

  Nick smiled. “His bat is the bomb.”

  “That’s why I love him.” Scotty sat next to Nick on the bed. “So you’re really a senator?”

  Even though it was still hard to believe sometimes, Nick said, “I really am.”

  “Isn’t that kind of a boring job?”

  Nick hooted with laughter. “It can be. You have to do a lot of reading.”

&
nbsp; Scotty’s face screwed up with distaste. “I wouldn’t like that. I hate to read.”

  “I used to hate it too, but now it’s easier. Do you play any sports?”

  “Just baseball with some of the other kids here. There’s no money for Little League or anything like that.”

  Nick ached listening to his easy acceptance of the hand life had dealt him. Talking with Scotty brought back memories of his own lonely childhood, spent with a grandmother who’d never missed the opportunity to remind him that there were other things she’d rather be doing than raising her son’s child.

  “Do you play any sports?” Scotty asked.

  “Just some pickup basketball here and there at the gym. I used to play a lot of hockey. I was pretty good at that.”

  “I’d love to play hockey, but it’s really expensive.”

  “Yeah, it can be.” Nick recalled how grateful he’d been the year his father sent enough money for him to play. “So this seems like a nice place to live.”

  “It’s okay. One of the kids in my class at school is in foster care, and he has to move a lot. I wouldn’t like that.”

  “You probably have more of a chance of being adopted here.”

  “Nah, everyone wants babies. They go fast. The rest of us have each other. It’s kind of like having thirty brothers and sisters to fight with.”

  He was so matter of fact that Nick realized the child had stopped hoping anything would ever change.

  Mrs. Littlefield appeared at the door. “I guess you can see why we call Scotty ‘The Mayor,’ Senator,” she said with a smile. “He’s never met a stranger.”

  “He’s an excellent tour guide,” Nick said, earning a grin from the boy. “The next time the Sox come to Baltimore or Washington, what’d you say I get us a couple of tickets to a game?”

  Scotty’s eyes widened. “For real?”

  “Sure. I’d love to take in a game with another Sox fan.”

  “But how would I get there?”

  “You let me worry about that. You just take care of doing really well in school, okay?”

  “Okay! Thank you!”

  Nick stood up and shook hands with the boy. “It was great to meet you, Scotty.”

  “You too, Senator. Thanks for coming to see us.”

  “It was my pleasure.” It had been, Nick realized, the most pleasant half hour he’d spent at work since he took the oath of office. With one last smile for the boy, Nick followed Mrs. Littlefield from the room. “What a delightful kid.”

  “He’s the heart and soul of this place. The other kids follow him around like the Pied Piper. I don’t know what we’d ever do without him.”

  “There’s really no chance of him being adopted?”

  Mrs. Littlefield sighed. “Unfortunately, the older he gets the less likely it becomes. But not to worry, we’ll take good care of him until he comes of age.”

  “And then what? Who’ll take care of him then?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Senator. He’ll be an adult.”

  “I apologize for my tone. It’s just that I was thrust out on my own at eighteen and found the world to be a rather harsh place for an ‘adult.’”

  “I understand what you mean, and I can assure you that Scotty will have plenty of adults to call on should he encounter any difficulties. My staff and I are quite fond of him.”

  “I have something I’d like to send him. Would it be possible to get his last name and the address here?”

  She wrote the information on the back of her business card and handed it to him. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you.”

  They reached the front door and Nick shook her hand. “I appreciate your time today, Mrs. Littlefield. I’ll have a chat with the people overseeing your grant and see what we can do about getting it renewed.”

  “We’ll appreciate anything you can do, Senator.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Nick said on his way out.

  Tony held the car door open for him. Once inside the car, Nick looked back at the building. From an upstairs window, Scotty watched him leave. Nick glanced down at the business card in his hand. Scotty Dunlap. He reached for his BlackBerry and got busy ordering a David “Big Papi” Ortiz jersey.

  Chapter 7

  Sam hit the speaker button and punched in the phone number for Regina’s mother in Guatemala. Calling victims’ families was the thing she hated most about her job, so she was relieved to turn the task over to Senator Lightfeather. Freddie, who spoke Spanish, was prepared to take notes on the exchange.

  A woman answered the phone with a cheerful, “Hola.”

  Appearing frozen, Lightfeather stared at the phone. Sam had no doubt that this phone call was even harder for him than the one he’d made earlier to his wife. “Senator?” she said softly.

  He startled, seeming to realize all at once that everyone was waiting for him.

  “Hola?” the woman said again.

  “Señora Argueta?” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Yo estoy Senator Lightfeather.”

  Sam’s limited Spanish allowed her to deduce that Mrs. Argueta recognized the senator’s name and knew he was a friend of her daughter’s.

  He spoke softly for another moment before the woman on the other end released a wail of despair.

  Sam’s stomach clenched. How anyone survived receiving the news that their child had been murdered she’d never know. These moments were the only time she was ever grateful to be childless.

  Tears cascaded down the senator’s tanned face. He brushed them away as he continued to speak softly to the woman on the phone.

  Sam glanced at Freddie’s notes. Promising to arrange to have the body sent home as soon as he can, Freddie had written. Promising to continue helping her and Regina’s children. No mention of the baby she’d been expecting.

  Lightfeather concluded the phone call and rested his head on his folded arms. His shoulders shook with sobs.

  Sam signaled to Freddie that they should give him a moment. Freddie followed her from the room.

  “Hard to watch,” Freddie muttered.

  “Yeah.”

  “No question he genuinely loved her.”

  “Or had himself convinced that he did,” Sam said.

  “True. How do you want to get him out of here?”

  “Take him out through the morgue. Check him into a hotel so we can keep tabs on him. Put a couple of officers on the door and let them know his wife will be joining him later today.”

  “Got it. What about the media?”

  “I’ll handle them.” Sam left him to deal with the senator and returned to her office to find her nemesis, Lt. Stahl, waiting for her. “What do you want?”

  “Nice to see you too, Lieutenant,” Stahl said with a smarmy smile.

  “I’m busy.”

  “Ahhh, yes, another homicide involving your ‘boyfriend.’ Quite a track record he has lately.”

  “He has nothing to do with this, nor did he have anything to do with John O’Connor’s murder or Julian Sinclair’s, as you well know. And PS, he’s my fiancé.”

  “Your fiancé knew all the victims.”

  “And that proves what, exactly?”

  “That being an acquaintance of his can be bad for your health,” Stahl said, laughing at his own joke.

  “You aren’t threatening me—again—are you, Lieutenant?”

  “So touchy. Such a woman that way.”

  As usual in his presence, Sam held back the urge to smash her fist into his fat face. “As delightful as this conversation has been, I have work to do. If the rat squad isn’t keeping you busy enough, Lieutenant, I’m sure Captain Malone can find something for you to do with your copious free time.”

  His jowls jiggled as he scowled at her. “Heard an interesting rumor today.”

  “Good for you.”

  “About your ex.”

  That got Sam’s attention. “What about him?”

  “That the case against him isn’t as airtight as you
thought it was.”

  She pushed her hands into her pockets to keep from punching him. “That case is airtight. I saw to it myself.”

  “Not all of it you didn’t.” On his way out the door, he said, “Have a nice day, Lieutenant.”

  Hands trembling, Sam reached for the phone to call Malone. “What do you know about Peter?”

  The question was greeted with silence, which sent her heart into a wild gallop. “Tell me. Right now.”

  Under normal circumstances, she’d never speak so forcefully to her superior officer. But anything having to do with Peter tossed all the usual rules out the window.

  “His attorney has requested a suppression hearing to determine whether the evidence gathered from his apartment is fruit of the poisonous tree.”

  The term turned her blood to ice. If the bomb-making evidence Freddie, Gonzo and Arnold had found in Peter’s apartment had been gathered improperly, their entire case against him would be in jeopardy.

  “We have his print on one of the bombs,” Sam reminded Malone. “The one he strapped to Nick’s car. The one that didn’t detonate.”

  “It’s a partial print, Sam. Not enough to hang the case on. We need the stuff from his apartment.”

  The very idea of Peter being set free after he’d tried to murder her and Nick made her sick.

  “Don’t panic yet,” Malone said. “His attorney still has to convince the judge.”

  “What’s the lawyer basing the challenge on?”

  “That they kicked in Peter’s door without any evidence linking him to the bombing other than your suspicion.”

  “But he did it!”

  “We all know he did it, Sam. It’s just the timeline of how we confirmed it that’s under examination. They should’ve waited for the warrant before they busted into the apartment.”

  “They had reason to believe that he had bomb-making materials in there! Were they supposed to wait until he blew up the entire building before they acted?”

  “They were running on adrenaline and emotion after you were nearly killed.”

  Sam sank into her desk chair. “He cannot be released. He just can’t be.”

  “We’ll fight it. Try not to worry.”