McCord and Sam followed her down a long hallway, through a passage door, then down another hall to an unmarked door at the end. As she pushed the door open and stepped behind them, she gave McCord a brief, businesslike smile and said in her very proper diction, “Mr. Valente suggests that you attempt to impregnate yourself.”
The open door was directly across from the main elevators.
“I knew that was going too well.” McCord said shortly as they again headed down the corridor toward the main doors into Alliance-Crossing’s executive suite. “You try it this time.”
“I’ll have to give him back his note to Mrs. Manning, or it’s a waste of time.”
McCord hesitated, then nodded.
The receptionist glared as they approached her desk again, but Sam smiled briefly at her. From her handbag, she removed a pen and Valente’s note, which was still in an NYPD evidence envelope. Across the evidence envelope she wrote, “Enclosed is our ticket of admission. It’s yours to keep whether you agree to see us or not. Please give us a few minutes. It’s about LM, and it’s urgent.”
She handed the envelope to the receptionist with one of her own business cards, and said, “Please take this to Mr. Valente’s assistant and hold it in front of her eyes if necessary so that she reads it at once.”
The receptionist obviously knew Valente’s assistant had ejected them out the back door, and she took her cue from that. With a dismissive shrug, she pushed the envelope and card toward a corner of her desk and started to turn to her computer screen.
“No problem,” Sam said pleasantly, reaching for the discarded items. “I’ll just assume you’re busy and you’d rather I take these to Mrs. Evanston myself.”
The receptionist swung around, picked up the envelope and card, gave Sam a scalding look, and marched off in the same direction she’d gone before. “Valente seems to inspire a lot of loyalty in his staff,” Sam remarked as they sat down to wait.
McCord said nothing; he was analyzing the note Sam had written on the envelope, and he was smiling a little. She’d written four short sentences, but each one delivered a significant psychological payload:
“Enclosed is our ticket of admission” . . . If you’re a reasonable man, you’ll realize that our returning this note to you is an enormous gesture of good faith.
“It’s yours to keep whether you agree to see us or not” . . . There are no strings attached. We’re not trying to coerce you, and we acknowledge in advance that we could not coerce you even if we tried.
“Please give us a few minutes” . . . “Please.” There’s a word you haven’t heard from the NYPD, but we realize now that you’re entitled to it.
“It’s about LM, and it’s urgent” . . . We are using Leigh Manning’s initials because we, too, want to protect her privacy from whoever may see this note.
MICHAEL HUNG UP THE TELEPHONE and glanced at Mrs. Evanston as she handed him an envelope and a business card with Detective Littleton’s name on it. “They’re back,” she said, scowling.
Impatiently, Michael reached for the NYPD evidence envelope; then he glanced at Littleton’s handwritten message. He opened the envelope, removed the white envelope inside it, and unfolded the note he’d written to Leigh with the pears he’d sent her in the hospital.
It was harder than lever imagined it would be to pretend we didn’t know each other Saturday night.
If he’d been trying to frame himself and Leigh for Logan’s murder, he could not have chosen better phrasing, Michael thought with disgust.
He looked again at Littleton’s words, and the underlying messages in her phrasing did not escape him, but the phrase that truly swayed him was the reference to Leigh and the word “urgent.” If Littleton was smart enough to play on his feelings for Leigh, she was also smart enough to have kept copies of the note. On the other hand, copies were never as effective with a jury as an original, so she was taking a gamble by returning it—evidently with McCord’s consent.
Michael hesitated, tapping the end of the envelope on his desk. The idea of letting McCord into his office made him grind his teeth. Wallbrecht’s summation of McCord ran through his mind. . . . Trumanti picked the wrong man for this job. You can’t send Mack after the wrong target and order him to stay on it for some self-serving reason . . . because Mack will not only go after the right target on his own, he’ll bring him down and then he’ll go after you He’s the best detective the NYPD has ever had, but he won’t play politics, and he won’t kiss anybody’s ass.
Personally, Michael couldn’t stand the arrogant bastard, but Wallbrecht held him in the highest esteem, and Wallbrecht was the best in his business.
“Shall I call Bill Kovack in security and have him come down here and remind the detectives of the legalities involved in being on these premises without a warrant?”
“No,” Michael said curtly. “Bring them in, but first bring a tape recorder in here.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
Chapter 65
* * *
Although Valente had consented to see them, Sam didn’t expect a warm welcome from him and they didn’t get one. He was standing behind his desk, his expression cold and forbidding.
Sam smiled a greeting anyway. “Thank you for seeing us,” she said, and then she tried—without success—to inject a little humor into the taut moment by gesturing to McCord, who was on her left, and saying, “Unfortunately, you two have already met.”
Valente’s gaze sliced over McCord like a razor. “Your ‘ticket of admission’ buys you three minutes of my time,” he warned him; then he added, “You realize, of course, that you’re breaking the law by attempting to question me without my attorney present?”
McCord’s primary interest at the moment was the tape recorder he spotted on Valente’s desk. “I’m going to turn this off for a moment,” he said calmly. “If you want to turn it back on after I start talking, you can, and then we’ll leave.”
Valente shrugged. “As long as you’re going to do the talking, be my guest.”
McCord pressed the off button and stepped back. “Now, the situation is this: We are not breaking any law by being here, because I have eliminated you as a suspect in Manning’s murder. At the moment, you’re under surveillance, which you already know, and your phones are tapped, but I’m going to let all that stay as it is—”
Valente laughed, a harsh contemptuous laugh. “Of course you are, you son of a bitch.”
“You know,” McCord said, “there’s a part of me that would like to walk around that desk and beat the shit out of you for making this so hard.”
Valente glanced at the floor near him and said in a soft, deadly voice, “Consider yourself invited.”
Sam actually tensed during that opening exchange, but once McCord had fired his warning shot, he turned and strolled over to the windows. Looking out at the skyline, he said evenly. “But then there’s another part of me that has to answer for how I would feel if I were in your position. How would I feel if I’d spent four years in prison paying for a crime the cops knew I didn’t commit, all because the doped-up punk I killed in self-defense, with his gun, not mine—happened to be named William Trumanti Holmes.”
Shoving his hands into his pockets, McCord studied Valente’s reflection in the glass as he continued. “How would I feel if, after I got out of prison and started building an honest business, Trumanti sent three minions after me, each one swearing a false oath in consecut
ive cases that I tried to bribe him?”
From the corner of her eye, Sam saw Valente lean his right hip on the credenza behind his desk and fold his arms over his chest, his expression coolly speculative, rather than ominous.
“The attempted bribery cases were only the beginning,” McCord said, switching to his own point of view, rather than continuing to speak from Valente’s. “As the years passed, the bigger you got, the bigger the arsenal Trumanti hauled in to bring you down. The city got the state involved, then the Feds got into the act. You’ve become the target of every law enforcement agency around, and you haven’t broken one goddamned law that I know of.”
With a grim laugh, he added, “You’re no martyr, though. The prosecutors who’ve gone after you end up lying bloodied on your battlefield, their careers and reputations destroyed. That’s your revenge. Of course, it costs you millions in legal fees, and you still can’t buy back the reputation they stole from you.”
McCord turned slowly from the windows and faced him, his hands still shoved into his pockets. “Did I get the story right?”
“You had me in tears,” Valente mocked.
McCord said nothing to that, and Sam studied the male tableau before her with fascination. They were still hunter and predator, still instinctive foes—cunning, wary, and aggressive—but for the moment, each man was maintaining a deliberately casual, noncombative stance: Mack with his hands in his pockets, Valente with his arms crossed over his chest and his hip perched on the credenza.
Separated by some silently agreed upon neutral zone of about eight feet, Valente wasn’t on the offensive anymore, but he was refusing to engage. McCord was calculating the best way to make him engage—but not attack.
Switching to an offhand, almost friendly tone, McCord said, “I have a very clear picture of what happened in all those other cases, but now we come to the Manning case—my case—and my picture is a little hazy in places. Here’s the way I think you got involved, but I’d like you to correct me if I’m wrong.”