She turned pale. “You believe someone at the Court murdered Steven?” Fiske nodded. “Can you prove that?”
“I hope so.”
“That can’t be, John. Why?”
“There’s a guy who’s spent half his life in prison who’d like to know the answer to that.”
“Does Detective Chandler know all this?”
“Some of it. But Agent McKenna has pretty much convinced him I’m the bad guy.”
“I’m not sure Detective Chandler believes that.”
“We’ll see.”
As Fiske dropped Knight back at the Court, she said, “If everything you suspect is true and someone at the Court is involved in this . . .” She stopped, unable to continue for a moment. “Do you realize what this could do to the Court’s reputation?”
“I’m not sure of a lot in life, but I’m certain of one thing.” He paused and then said, “The Court’s reputation isn’t worth an innocent man dying in prison.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
* * *
Rufus looked anxiously over at his brother, who had just finished an exhausting coughing fit. Josh tried to sit up a little, thinking that would help his breathing. His insides, he knew, were all but destroyed. Something important to keeping him alive might burst at any moment. He still held the pistol against his side. But it didn’t look like a bullet would be needed to end his life. At least, not another one.
It was fortunate for them that Tremaine and Rayfield hadn’t come in an Army vehicle. But the Jeep did have one crushed side from being broadsided by the truck and this would draw unwanted attention to them. At least it had a cloth top, which prevented anyone from getting a good glimpse of what was inside.
Rufus didn’t know where he was going, and Josh moved in and out of lucidity too much to really help him. Rufus flipped open the glove box and pulled out a map. He studied it quickly and traced the route to Richmond with his finger. He had to get to the highway. If he had to he would stop and ask directions. He pulled the little card out of his shirt pocket and glanced at the names and telephone numbers. Now he just had to find a phone.
* * *
When Fiske and McKenna arrived at Fiske’s office, the FBI agent said, “Let’s get to it.”
“We wait for the police,” Fiske said firmly.
Just as he said that, a police cruiser pulled up and Officer Hawkins climbed out.
“What the heck’s going on here, John?” Hawkins asked, perplexed.
Fiske pointed at McKenna. “Agent McKenna thinks I killed Mike. He’s here to get my gun so he can do a ballistics test.”
Hawkins looked at McKenna with hostile eyes. “If that’s not the biggest bunch of bullshit I ever heard . . .”
“Right, thanks for your official assessment — Officer Hawkins, is it?” McKenna said, coming forward.
“That’s right,” Hawkins said grimly.
“Well, Officer Hawkins, you have the consent of Mr. Fiske to search his office for a nine-millimeter pistol registered to his name.” He looked at Fiske. “I’m assuming you are still giving that consent.” When Fiske didn’t respond, McKenna looked back at Hawkins. “Now, if you have a problem with that, then let’s go talk to your boss and you can start planning another career outside of law enforcement.”
Before Hawkins could do something foolish, Fiske grabbed his sleeve and said, “Let’s just go get this over with, Billy.”
As they walked into the building, Fiske commented, “Your face looks a lot better.”
Hawkins smiled, embarrassed. “Yeah, thanks.”
“What happened?” McKenna asked.
Hawkins looked at him sullenly. “Guy decided to take a ride on drugs. He was a little difficult to arrest.”
There was a stack of mail and packages in front of Fiske’s office door. He picked them up and unlocked the door. They went inside and Fiske walked over to his desk and dropped the stack of mail on it. He slid open the top drawer and looked inside. He stuck his hand in and fumbled through the contents before looking up at both men. “It was right in this drawer. I actually saw it the day you came to tell me about Mike, Billy.”