FEW BANGED RIBS, a scraped elbow, a sprained wrist, and the total and exquisite feeling of victory were his trophies of battle. Mitch would soon forget the bumps and bruises–not much more than your average day on the football field. But he’d carry with him the rest of his life this divine feeling of gratitude. What a relief it would be to be cleared of a crime he didn’t commit. And the look on Vinnie’s face was an enormous bonus, given at no cost to Mitch and the dozens of agents who’d reveled in the moment. All said and done, more than a few stifled chuckles had been heard before Mitch was put in a car and whisked away, the proclaimed “masked Zorro” of the homeless.
“You’re a lucky young man,” Reverend Keller said after proper introductions had been made. “A hot shot like David of old, perhaps, but shielded from the wickedness of the modern Goliath by the grace of God.”
“You think God saved me?”Vinnie’s new operation, got your car back, got Vinnie arrested?” “Yeah, with a lot of help from Smitty.”
“Well that’s giving credit where credit’s due. Smitty’s a miracle in himself. Alive against all worldly odds, with a positive outlook on life, despite who knows what horrible abuse. . . . Have you ever seen his back?”
“No.”
“Scars so thick he can’t stand up straight. I’m sure the scars inside are just as bad. Those we’ll probably not see until he stands at the judgment bar of God, when Christ takes them upon himself and the person who inflicted them burns in hell.”
Mitch’s countenance fell. “I didn’t know . . .”
“The man’s come through it all like a champ, though.”
“I’d say.”
“And just look at Nurse. Another miracle. Stripped her bony behind to save your hide; clubbed a guard to keep you safe; and gave up all she had to see this whole thing through. All this from a woman who was labeled loonier than a fruitcake in her earlier days. Now that backwoods hillbilly, the supposed lunatic, has the political yuppies taking lessons from her.”
“What do you mean?”
Keller shot Mitch a teasing smile. “You’ll figure it out before it’s over. Suffice it to say, she’s playing a key role in solving this entire identity theft mess. And, believe me, we’ll need a few more miracles to get you all out in one piece.”
Mitch shifted apprehensively. Nurse had warned him that the reverend was a sharp cookie. She’d also said that he could look right into one’s heart and pick out what was missing; it was one of his gifts from God. She never knew herself how often he did the same with her.
The reverend continued with his sermon. “Did you ever stop to think that God can see so far into the future that he can bring two people together to accomplish His purposes–to get His work done? That’s exactly what He did with Nurse and Sound. God sent to Nurse the one man that could teach her how to cope with death, and Sound was given Nurse to help him through this difficult time in his life. That’s the whole purpose behind what we call a “godsend”. . . . In the same way He can see forward, God can look so far back into the past that He can anticipate our actions. He knows us personally, he knows what we need most. . . . Take a complicated problem like your father-in-law. Did you have the tools to fix the problem?”
Mitch shook his head. “I don’t think so. He only spoke to me once, and that was to warn me to stay away from his daughter. There was no way I was going to change his mind.” He wondered–how did Reverend Keller know anything about his father-in-law?
Keller went on with his analogy. “How is it that you can take on a gangster like Vincent Domenico, but you can’t make peace with your in-laws? The thought casts a different light on things, doesn’t it? The key is knowing that someone else has the tools to fix that problem. It’s like a huge tool chest chock-full of different wrenches and saws and hammers. Each tool is designed for a different task. You might be terrific with a hammer, but maybe you need someone who can wield a saw, instead. That’s where the Master Carpenter comes in. He’s familiar with all the tools; He knows which one to pick up at any given time; He knows just who to send along to help you with your problems. . . . I have a feeling that you may be seeing a change of heart in your father-in-law. To you it will be a miracle; to God it’s just what He does.”
Mitch smiled to himself. The reverend had just pointed out his weaknesses, without pointing fingers. He knew a lot about human nature. But Keller was wrong about one thing: Congressman MacArthur, Stephanie’s ogre of a daddy, would be all the more incensed by the whole, embarrassing ordeal. There would be no generous outpouring of love and compassion, nor a willingness to welcome Mitch into the family. “I think you’re wrong, Reverend. Do you even know who he is?”
“It doesn’t matter if I know who he is. God knows. He knows perfectly what He’s doing. You’ll see.” Keller stood. “I’m sure Agent Barnes and his cronies want to talk to me now.”
A knock came at the door; it was Barnes. “We’re ready to discuss a few arrangements with you, Reverend.”
The pastor turned back. “Think about it, Mitch. See what’s missing in your life. Give up what’s troubling you–give those burdens to God. He’ll take them when you’re ready.”
Mitch pondered the philosophy behind it all. “What about Bino’s daughter?” he called out, the niggling questions rushing into his mind. “Where was God then?”
Reverend Keller was already out the door, following Barnes down the hall and up the elevator to Field’s office. As he took his seat, his mind bounced Mitch’s words to and fro. Bino’s daughter. . . .
Wilding began the interview anew. “This is our prosecuting attorney, Glade Cox,” he said, gesturing to a suited figure seated near the opposite wall. “It turns out a body was in the locker. It’s gone now.”
“Agent Hale’s?”
“Possibly. We don’t have DNA confirmation yet.”
“Blood type matches Hale’s?”
“Yes.”
Keller suppressed a sudden yawn, brought on by fatigue, not boredom. “Assume for a moment it is Agent Hale. You know by now you’ve had a credit card scam operating in your backyard?”
Wilding glanced over at Field, then back at Keller. “We do.”
“Do you know who’s behind it and where its operation is?” “That’s classified.”
“Why, because some big-shot politicians got taken to the cleaners?”
“What do you know about that?”
“I know quite a bit. I know who did it and why.”
“You already turned your facts over to the press once, why wouldn’t you do it again?”
Reverend Keller smiled and looked around the room. “Gentlemen, for the price you pay two of your agents a year, I feed half the homeless in Vegas. I know more about this city than all your agents combined. If I wanted a bunch of reporters and journalists to know what I know, I’d give it to them.” His tone, rather than being conceited, was more than a bit irritated.
“Isn’t that a bit presumptuous?”
The reverend dropped his gaze. “Yes, I’m sorry. I get carried away occasionally and forget I’m just a servant.”
“It’s obvious you have connections, and information.”
“With the help of God and my friends, I can give you Vincent Domenico and enough information to put him away for good.”
“What do you want in return?”
“One simple thing: immunity for my parishioners.”
“That’s a tall ticket.”
“It’ll cover the murders of three people and save a young girl’s life.”
Wilding needed time to think. “Why don’t you give us a few minutes to discuss it.” Reverend Keller left the room and Barnes closed the door.
“We don’t need him, sir,” insisted Barnes. “We’ve already got all the information he’s got.”
Wilding wasn’t so sure. “How close are we to cracking the case?”
“Trenton Ritter will give us Vincent Domenico and the murder weapon. We make his fifty-grand subject to our obtaining the weapon and body.”
“Suppose he can’t produce?”
“We take what we can get and string him up with the rest of them.”
“What about the girl?”
Barnes fought to maintain an optimistic voice. “That’s where it’s tricky. We’ve already identified the two thugs from Jersey. They flew into town a couple of days ago. We’re getting close.”
“How close?”
“They ate breakfast at Denny’s this morning.”
“And the other murders?”
“The chemicals from Jimmy’s bones match the solvent used in the body shop. The girls at Kitty’s swear that Clint was the father of the dead hooker’s child. We’ll bring him in right after we wrap up Vinnie.”
“And what about the credit cards?”
“Kitty will sink that ship to get out from under it all. We just don’t know where they moved the shop to yet.”
“Is Domenico still here?”
“Nah, his attorney made bail as soon as it was set. He doesn’t get his piece back, though. We’re keeping it as possible evidence.” Barnes hesitated. “I have to admit, sir, the look on his face when he saw his flattened car slide off the wrecker was worth a week’s pay.”
“We could arrange that,” Field teased.
The men in the room all gave a knowing chuckle. Wilding continued, “You think Mitch Wilson murdered Hales?”
Barnes carefully considered the question before responding. “He was packing the body in the trunk of his car; he had Hales’ gun and badge on him; it was documented on film that they’d had an argument. . . . Wilson may not be the killer, but he’s dirty–I know it. We can’t let him walk scotfree. If he’d just cooperate with us. . . .”
“Mr. Cox,” Wilding said, turning to the prosecuting attorney–who up until that time had remained uncharacteristically quiet–“what do you think?”
“With a gun and a body, we can go for life,” Cox began, speaking in legalese. “It all hinges on the evidence as a whole, of course. If Wilson’s willing to cooperate, like Barnes is saying, we could reduce the sentence substantially–maybe to 15-to-20 years.”
Wilding turned back to Barnes. “Proceed as usual. Keep me posted. Get a fax out to every casino in the city. Have them report any suspicious activity involving credit cards. We’re going to take the heat from the congressman on this one.”
“And the reverend?”
“Tell him we’ll be back with him.”
“Yes, sir.”
On his way out of Barnes’s office, Wilding nodded at Reverend Keller, who was standing by the drinking fountain, listening to an employee bare her soul. The woman bolted at the sight of the boss from the upper floor. “Stop by the kitchen sometime, Sister,” the reverend called after her. “We can always use a helping hand.” She nodded and backed away, disappearing around a cubical.
Barnes approached the reverend and politely informed him that, as much as they appreciated his offer, they were apt to decline. New information on the case was rolling in and they would be in touch if they needed any further help.
“Be careful,” Keller said. “Vinnie’s a wicked man. He’ll do whatever he feels he needs to do to save himself and protect his honor.”
“We can take care of Mr. Domenico,” Barnes assured his God-fearing guest. “You take care of your flock.”
“I will, you can bet on it.”
“And Reverend, don’t do anything illegal. We’d rather not have to arrest one of our city’s fine advocates of the homeless.”
The reverend stepped out into the harsh sunlight. The new hand he’d been dealt had no face cards in it; things weren’t going as planned. He peered up at a passing cloud and whispered a quiet prayer. The sunshine warmed his tired face, renewing him. The corners of his mouth lifted as he bent his head and scurried to his van.
Feted with lasagna and creamed corn from the cafeteria, Ritter lay against the wall in interview one, fast asleep, the lifestyle of the rich and famous permeating his dreams. In the happy recesses of his mind he could picture himself back in Yorkshire, doing nothing but spotting trains with his kid brother.
“Well, Mr. Ritter,” boomed Barnes as he entered the room. “Looks like we’ve got a deal.”
Ritter awoke with a start, snorted, and sat up. “Spot on, mate. . . . You book me flight?”
“Got your ticket right here.” The agent dropped an itinerary on the table. Stapled to it was an envelope containing a one-way ticket to London. “Redeye flight to New York.”
“Me mum’ll be a happy one, she will.”
“You’ve got to sign the docs.”
“You ain’t said nothin’ ‘bout any docs.”
“Government red tape.”
Ritter turned a wary eye. “You wire the funds?”
“They’ll go out as soon as these are signed.”
Ritter heaved himself up off the floor and held the papers up to his foggy eyes, trying to focus on the small print. “Need me glasses. . . .”
“Where are they?”
“Back in me flat. Don’t read much these days.” “Agent Horne can give you a ride.”
“I’d like to have me friend look this over, too. . . .”
National flight 70, from Reagan airport in Washington to Las Vegas, had been delayed by the endless bag checks and lines of additional security. Finally, after a three-hour wait, during which two first-class businessmen had been bumped in favor of two other travelers, the 747 was off the ground. The additional 40-minute wait out on the tarmac had set all the passengers on edge; two were getting particularly testy. The quiet conversation between Congressman MacArthur and his wife Levina had at times become rather heated. A gaggle of other first-class passengers pretended not to listen–but often could not help but do otherwise.
“She probably didn’t want you to know because she knew how you’d react,” whispered Mrs. MacArthur, her slender features showing the years of submission to the powerful man.
“She’s embarrassed me again, Levina–this time on national television. I told you that boy would be no good. I’ll get the marriage annulled. . . .”
“You’ll do no such thing, Dalton.” She took a sip of her soda and took in several deep breaths, hoping to jettison the weight of the load from her mind.
“I beg your pardon!” He glanced around in embarrassment from the outburst and rested his hand on hers.
“You’ll do no such thing,” she repeated, this time more loudly. “Not if you want me smiling by your side. . . . I’ve had enough.”
“Shh, Levina, hold it down . . .”
“No, I won’t. This has gone on too long . . .”
“This discussion can wait until we land.” Dalton MacArthur kept his domineering hand clasped tightly over hers.
“No, it won’t wait. This is our daughter we’re talking about, not your career or a promotion or just another political gambit or another voting district. She’s my child–and yours. I haven’t seen her in three years. . . .” Levina pulled her hand away. “Let go of me; that hurts.” An open can of Diet Coke tumbled from the tray and fizzed out onto the floor, bringing a gracious flight attendant to the rescue. The congressman’s wife turned her gaze to the window, sobbing silently.
An awkward hush fell over the first-class compartment. The jetliner started into its final descent.
Nurse sweated it out under her cotton dress and rayon slip. After their meager breakfast, she and Sound had gone on to hit three casinos. Now on their fourth, something was definitely amiss. The Aladdin’s teller was taking a few extra minutes to process her card. It was then Sound noticed her dentures were missing, forgotten in the drawer at The Palace.
“Why didn’t ya’ say somethin’?” Nurse cussed under her breath. “I ain’t never worn no teeth ‘fore. I ain’t used t’ ‘em.”
Sound coughed, then went on the defensive. “I’m more accustomed to seeing you without them than you are. I didn’t even notice.” He coughed again. Profuse droplets of sweat ran down his high forehead.
Nurse stopped her henpecking. “Ain’t yer fault. I’m th’ one shoved ‘em in th’ drawer. . . . You feelin’ okay?
“Just a little hot. I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t look fine.”
“I just need to sit down a few minutes.” He ambled away from the teller window and hiked himself up onto a slot-machine stool.
Nurse watched as he swabbed his brow and neck with a napkin and stuffed it back in his pocket. Panic spread across her toothless scowl when security from the Aladdin approached and asked her for a second picture ID. . . .
In his office, Barnes took the call from the Aladdin Hotel and Casino. It turned out to be the most profitable interruption of the afternoon. The card was good, reported the casino’s head of security, but the odd-looking couple taking the cash sure seemed nervous. An old woman without teeth together with a slim, fuzzy-headed, sickly-looking man fit the description being passed among two dozen agents in the briefing room.
“Get a photo off the casino’s security camera,” ordered Barnes, a bit of a flourish back in his commands. “We’ll distribute it by fax as soon as it comes from the lab. The rest of you start scouring the Strip. They’re using the credit cards of a rich woman from New York. The real Margaret Thurston just spent the morning at the hospital with her father.”
Back at the Aladdin, the guard turned the eccentric old woman and her companion loose. It turned out she didn’t have any additional ID, but her other credit cards–of which she had a purse-full–were all legit.
Though it started out as a clumsy attempt at reconciliation, it ended up a most poignant reunion. It was their first opportunity to really sit down and talk in over fifty years. Throughout all that time they had been decent to each other, but the love had long-since been buried. When Eddie had called and asked her to come out, she really had to force herself into it. He’d seemed strained, or was it just that he was getting old?
For days now she’d faithfully come to the hospital, each morning, noon and night. It was the honorable thing to do. He was her father; she, his only child. But now that he was doing better, it was time to go home. She’d booked a flight back to New York for the next day.
“I’ve got to tell you why I called,” Eddie said as Margaret propped a second pillow under his head. It was clear that his opening line had been carefully thought out. “I’ve been too hard on you over the years.”
Margaret sat down and crossed her legs. “I don’t suppose I’ve been easy to deal with.”
A lump formed in the old man’s throat. “The boy’s bad blood isn’t your fault.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
“He’s been into drugs.”
“Yes, I know . . . since age twelve.”
“I thought I could change him.” Eddie sat up a bit more, wincing from the pain.
Margaret’s head shook involuntarily. “I couldn’t change him, and half the therapists in New York couldn’t. Did you think you were Superman or something?”
“You always gave him too much.”
“Like you did me?”
“I made a mistake; spoiled you rotten. You were a long way from home. . . .”
“I would rather have been home. I didn’t have anybody to confide in.”
“I couldn’t keep you here.”
“I know, I know. I’ve heard it a thousand times. Family Services would have taken me away . . .”
“They would have.”
The woman fought for the right words. “And–and maybe it would have been better for both of us. At least I would’ve known you loved me. The way you sent me away . . . it felt like you wanted to get rid of me. You couldn’t stand the thought of keeping me around.”
Eddie’s eyes began to leak tears. “That’s not true. . . . It broke my heart to send you away. You were the only thing I still loved.”
Margaret softened. She, too, blinked, then turned away. “Then . . . why?”
He let out a raspy sigh. “I took a good look at the lifestyle I was living; I saw how rough it was on you. You were already using foul language at five. I couldn’t give you what you needed.”
“I needed you. I’d already lost my mother. I needed the only parent I ever knew, not some fancy boarding school teaching proper etiquette and fancy music classes and voice lessons and French and violin. I needed my dad.” Margaret began to tear up for real. “Yes, I got a good education, and for that I thank you. But what I really needed–and still need– is you. I wanted you to tuck me in at night and sing me your silly songs. I wanted to see you shuffle your feet like you did before a big fight and let me give you good-luck kisses. I wanted you to come back to the locker room and let me clean the blood off your face and–and tell me . . . you won . . . just for me.”
Tears flowed freely now, on both sides. They seeped down into Eddie’s curled moustache and dripped off his chin. They streaked the mascara on Margaret’s lashes and soaked into the fabric of her blouse. A few words came from under the sodden moustache. “I’m . . . sorry. I made a mistake.”
“You did–and it broke my heart. Over the years I learned to protect my own heart from you. I’ve always been one to guard my feelings.”
“How can you ever forgive me?”
Margaret began to sob even more fiercely. “I don’t know . . . if I can. A hundred therapists at a hundred bucks an hour . . . couldn’t help me.”
“I’m sorry, Margaret. I’m sorry. . . . I love you.”
Margaret stood and faced the window. Her hand was pressed up to her mouth and her body shook. “Come here, Margie. Come over here and let me hold my little girl.” The old man held out his arms, loose folds of skin sagging under his once powerful biceps.
“Say that again,” came the faint request.
“What?”
“Say it again.”
“Come . . . let me hold my little girl?”
Margaret turned slightly. “The part . . . before that.”
“Come here, Margie?”
“You haven’t called me Margie in fifty years.”
Eddie let out a muffled grunt, remembering the smell of floor wax in the principal’s office. “The school told me not to. It wasn’t proper.”
“All those years . . . that’s all I would have needed to have known you still loved me.”
“Oh, dear me, how I loved you. In the first year or two after you were gone, most nights I cried myself to sleep.”
“Becky told me. She said sometimes she could hear you out in the alley.” Margaret slid the chair up closer to the bed and gently draped herself across the old man’s chest, silently committing to memory the rhythmic beat of his weary heart, the feel of his skinny arms–and remembering the tender words he’d just spoken.
Eddie lay still, scarcely breathing, eyes closed, taking it all in, basking in the pain from the weight on his body. It was the good sort of pain, the healing type–sort of like a massage. Besides, he could take any degree of suffering, now that his daughter was back.
A half-hour later, when all the tears were shed and both hearts warmed, the old man held his daughter’s hands in his own. “Now that I know how much you love me,” he began, “I hope you still feel the same when I tell you why I called you here.”
“What is it?”
Eddie gripped her hands a little tighter. “I’m going to testify against Clint.”
“What’s he done now?”
“The reason I fell down the shaft was because I was running for my life.”
“Clint was going to kill you?”
“Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I don’t think so. Since then, on one occasion, he actually protected me from getting hurt.”
“What, then?”
“He’s been running a credit card scam down in the gym’s basement. The dirtbag he partnered up with, he was the one that was going to kill me.”
Margaret’s head gave a shake. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“You better bring your husband to town. Your son is going to need a good lawyer.”
Her reply came with a sense of relief. “Maybe they can learn to get along after all. Clinton hasn’t had a good battle in years. Fighting for his son might be precisely what they both need.”