“Why the hell should we worry about blaming anybody?” Shrader demanded. “We went by the book, we solved the case, and Sam saved the state a fortune in prosecuting and housing that crazy woman in the bedroom who killed Manning.”
On the television set, the station broke again for the same news bulletin, and McCord picked up the remote control and pressed the off button. He tipped his head back, and Sam watched him carefully choose his phrasing. “In the course of the Manning murder investigation, I personally turned up a wealth of incontrovertible evidence that incriminates members of the NYPD in a long-standing, highly effective vendetta waged against Michael Valente using a variety of illegal measures.” He looked down at them then and said bluntly, “I intend to take this evidence to the mayor, and if he doesn’t act on it—publicly—then I will take it public, myself.”
Shrader and Womack exchanged unhappy glances, and then Shrader spoke for both of them. “I don’t like to see the department’s dirty laundry hung out in public, Lieutenant. Why can’t you let the department clean this up privately? Hand it over to Internal Affairs, or—”
“That’s not an option,” McCord informed him curtly. “Valente has been publicly victimized for decades by a high-ranking member of the NYPD and some of his cronies. When a private citizen becomes an intended victim of the department, then that’s not an ‘internal department affair’ anymore—not to me. I want a little public justice here, and then I want a little public revenge. Valente’s entitled to both.”
“Who’s the official?” Womack asked uneasily.
“Trumanti,” McCord said flatly, after a pause.
“Oh, shit,” Womack breathed. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
If anything, Womack’s alarm only made Mack look more coldly resolute to Sam. He shrugged and said, “Mayor Edelman inherited Trumanti as commissioner, so he’s not politically tied to him, but after I tell him what I know on the phone, our new mayor may still want to avoid a public scandal involving the NYPD. He may prefer to treat Trumanti’s actions as internal police department business that should be dealt with privately. I’m fairly sure he’ll demand Trumanti’s immediate resignation, but I want more than that.”
When he stopped there, Womack said, “Exactly, what is it you want?”
Mack looked at him as if the answer should have been obvious. “I want Trumanti’s bare ass hung in public along with everyone who knowingly collaborated with that crazy, vindictive bastard.”
“What, exactly, did Trumanti do?”
“You don’t need to know that.” He broke off because CSU was arriving, and he left Sam with Womack and Shrader while he went to talk to the head of the team.
“Okay, Littleton, let’s hear it,” Shrader demanded. “Womack and I have a right to know whatever you do. We have a right to know what we’re up against.”
Hesitating, Sam glanced out the window at the twinkling lights of the city’s majestic skyline. She understood why Mack wanted to shield Womack and Shrader from the details, and she also understood why they felt they had a right to know them. The only thing she wasn’t certain of was whether her decision to tell them sprang mostly from her conviction that Shrader and Womack were right—or whether she couldn’t bear for them to think Mack’s decision to go public was disloyal, unethical, or capricious. Since Mack hadn’t specifically ordered her not to reveal the details, she told Womack and Shrader very quickly about Valente’s unjust manslaughter conviction and everything that Trumanti engineered afterward. When she was finished, they both looked dazed and angry.
Unfortunately, when Mack returned to the group, he took one look at Shrader’s and Womack’s faces; then he looked straight at her. “You told them,” he said, looking disgusted and disappointed in her.
Inwardly Sam flinched at his condemning expression, but she nodded. “They needed to understand where you’re coming from.”
Instead of replying, he looked harshly at all three of them. “Now that you all know the details, it doesn’t change a goddamned thing. What I said before still goes. I don’t need or want your loyalty; what I need is to know that you’re out of the way when the battle begins. I want you to go about your business tomorrow, and I want you to keep your opinions about me, this case, and everything associated with it entirely to yourselves. Got that?” he demanded.
Shrader nodded reluctantly and so did Womack; then Mack’s stabbing gaze swung to her. “That was an order I just gave you. Don’t mistake it for a request!” he warned her, his jaw hardening.
Sam had absolutely no intention of following that order if she ever came to a point where she had to choose between loyalty to Mack and her job. Her career, she suddenly realized, was much less important than the ethics involved—and vastly less important than the ethical man she was in love with who was willing to stake everything on what he believed in.
“I won’t mistake it,” Sam replied quietly.
He nodded coolly, erroneously believing that having understood his order, Sam would follow it; then he said, “I’m going to phone the mayor. When the three of you leave here, you make no comment to the press.”
He went into the kitchen and all three of them lingered for ten minutes, but Mack remained there, out of sight and hearing. Finally, Shrader said, “I had the distinct impression he wanted us to leave.”
Sam had the same impression, but she would have liked to have stayed to hear what Edelman told him.
“C’mon, Littleton, it may take him an hour just to locate the mayor,” Womack said when she hesitated in the foyer and cast an anxious look in the direction of the kitchen’s empty doorway. “He’s already royally pissed off at you. Let’s get you out of here before he decides to bust you back to Patrol.”
“I didn’t think he was royally pissed off,” Sam murmured uneasily as she paused outside the apartment door and stepped into her gray suede shoes. She sent a quelling glance at a fresh-faced young officer in the elevator foyer who was elbowing another officer, gesturing to her legs.
Womack watched her, but his thoughts were still on McCord’s temper. “I’d say he was. In fact, I’d say the only thing that saved your ass was that you saved his ass in a shootout tonight.”
“Nah,” Shrader argued as they got into the elevator. “He wasn’t as mad as all that; he’s just focused. McCord’s like a freight train right now, roaring down a mountain with no brakes, and Littleton just stepped a little too close to his tracks for a moment.”
With Womack to one side of her and Shrader on the other, they shouldered their way through the throng of shouting reporters and blinding camera lights aimed at them outside the building.
Whether Mack was furious with her or not, Sam would have liked to find a way to wait there and watch him talk to the press. Most of all, she would have liked to have stood in the shadows somewhere, silently lending him her support. But whether Mack was simply “focused” or “royally pissed off,” she decided it was probably wisest to do as he’d instructed this time, and go home. Whatever happened, she’d be able to watch it unfold on television.
Chapter 74
* * *
Curled up on the sofa in a soft pale blue robe with a satin collar that her mother had given her for Christmas, Sam absently brushed her damp hair while she rewatched the videotape she’d made of Mack’s statement to the press outside the apartment building, and then Mayor Edelman’s statement, which followed an hour after Mack’s.
Mack had obviously managed to persuade the mayor that Michael Valente was innocent and that the mayor needed to distance himself from Trumanti immediately. Smiling, she watched Edelman make his statement again: “The investigation into Logan Manning’s death reached a sad, but final conclusion tonight when Lieutenant Mitchell McCord and his team interrupted Jane Sebring’s attempt to murder Mrs. Manning at Mrs. Manning’s apartment,” Edelman said. “Before Miss Sebring fired her weapon at the police who’d entered the apartment, apparently she admitted to murdering Logan Manning, as well as psychiatrist Dr. S
heila Winters, whose body was discovered this afternoon in her office. According to the police they returned Miss Sebring’s fire, and she died instantly.”
The first and only question Mayor Edelman took after his brief statement was the inevitable one about Michael Valente’s involvement. To that, the mayor replied emphatically, “Michael Valente had nothing whatsoever to do with Logan Manning’s death. He was, however, responsible for assisting Lieutenant McCord’s team in the investigation, and it is my clear understanding that, tonight, Mr. Valente risked his own life to save Mrs. Manning’s life when shots were being fired.
“Tomorrow morning, my office will institute an investigation into all prior charges brought against Michael Valente by the City of New York. I have asked Lieutenant McCord to head up that investigation, and I’m awaiting his decision. In the meantime, I have asked for—and received—the resignation of Commissioner William Trumanti, effective immediately.
“My office will have no further statements to make on this subject until the investigation is completed. However, at this time, I am already in possession of enough information to ascertain that an apology is owed to Michael Valente for some grievous injustices done to him in the name of ‘justice.’ When I campaigned for this office, I promised the citizens of New York City that I would take a hard line against misuse of power and privilege by city officials at all levels, and I’m making good on that promise tonight.”
Sam pressed the rewind button, rewound the tape all the way, and then watched Mack making his much shorter and, typically, more direct statement to the press outside the Mannings’ apartment building. He was brusque, and so lethally, ruggedly handsome that she thought the mayor seemed insignificant and puny in comparison.
Clad in his leather jacket and open-collared black shirt, Mack looked straight at the cameras and said what he had to say: “Jane Sebring was shot and killed in the Mannings’ apartment tonight while she was attempting to murder Mrs. Leigh Manning. Before her death, Miss Sebring implicated herself in the murders of Logan Manning and Dr. Sheila Winters. Two of Mrs. Manning’s employees were more fortunate. Joseph O’Hara and Hilda Brunner were taken to the hospital a short while ago and are expected to make a full recovery.”
He paused, waiting for the excited reporters to grow completely silent; then he said, “Throughout our investigation, Michael Valente was incorrectly targeted and treated as a primary suspect. Despite that, tonight he aided us in our investigation; then he risked his own life to save the life of Mrs. Manning, and in so doing, he may well have saved the lives of those of us who were present during the exchange of gunshots. I understand the mayor is preparing a statement regarding Mr. Valente, which he will make shortly. In the meantime, I would like to express my gratitude for Mr. Valente’s assistance . . . and my admiration for his unbelievable forbearance.” Finished, he looked up at the crowd and said, “I have time for three questions and no more.”
“Lieutenant McCord,” a reporter shouted, “are you trying to tell us that Michael Valente should never have been a suspect in Logan Manning’s murder?”
Sam giggled at Mack’s quick, incisive response. Instead of answering, Mack looked at his audience and said with amused disgust, “Does anyone have an intelligent question?”
“Exactly what was Michael Valente’s involvement in Manning’s murder?” another reporter yelled.
“Does anyone here know the definition of ‘intelligent’?” Mack countered. “Last question,” he warned.
“Lieutenant McCord,” a woman’s voice called, “would you care to speculate on the current relationship between Michael Valente and Leigh Manning?”
Mack’s grin was lazy, baffled, and mocking. “Can you think of any reason on earth why I would care to do that?”
With that, he moved away from the microphones and strode off through the crowd, his broad shoulders clearing a path through the crush of reporters, photographers, and onlookers.
Sam pressed the rewind button again while she contemplated this recent proof that Mack did not suffer fools lightly. Her smile faded a little as she wondered if he was perhaps equally intolerant and unforgiving of a subordinate—namely, her—who’d knowingly circumvented his wishes tonight by telling Shrader and Womack the details of the Trumanti-Valente issue.
She was still wondering uneasily about that when the buzzer at her apartment door rang. It had to be Mack, she thought as she raced through the living room. Her doorman would have stopped anyone without a badge and insisted on phoning her first before letting someone up to Sam’s apartment.
Forgetting that she was wearing a robe, she glanced out the peephole while she unlocked her apartment door; then she yanked it open.
Mack was standing there, his right hand braced high against the doorframe, his expression as enigmatic as his opening remark. “Don’t you normally check to see who’s standing out here before you open your door?”
“I knew it was you,” Sam explained.
“Good, because I’d hate to think you open your door to just anyone wearing—” His gaze dipped to the expanse of smooth bare skin above her satin lapels. “—that.”
Sam self-consciously pulled the lapels closer over her breasts and tightened the belt. “It’s a robe,” she explained foolishly and defensively. Then she smiled at her own absurdity and stepped back. “Would you like to come in?” she asked, certain that he would say yes.
“No,” he said.
Sam looked at him in surprise. “Then why are you here?”
He took his hand down from the doorframe, and she saw her cell phone in his palm. “I came to return this,” he said evenly. “And also to make sure you were doing all right after—what happened tonight.”
Sam wasn’t certain whether he was referring to what happened to Jane Sebring or to his attitude toward her after she told Shrader and Womack about Trumanti. She studied him in silence, wondering why all her expertise on males never worked when Mack was involved. The Manning case was over, therefore, they could begin, but evidently Mack wanted to rethink the matter—or else he wanted to nurse a grudge for what she’d done. Or else he was simply exhausted from an incredibly long, stressful day. Whatever the case, she gave him the only answer she felt was appropriate: “I’m fine,” she assured him, taking her cell phone from his outstretched hand, but she gave conversation one last try. “I saw your interview and the mayor’s statement,” she said softly, smiling. “It looks like you’ve won your battle with city hall already.”
He nodded, his gaze shifting momentarily to the hair spilling over her shoulder; then he stepped back away from the door. “That’s the way it looks,” he agreed.
Mentally, Sam decided to let the unpredictable male in her hall walk away and the hell with being in love with him, so she was understandably startled when she heard herself say, “Are you angry with me for telling Shrader and Womack about what Trumanti did?”
“I was,” he admitted, “earlier.”
That did it. Sam never lost her temper—except with him. Folding her arms over her chest, she leaned against the doorframe. “Then it’s just as well we never got started, Mack, because there’s something about me you don’t know.”
“What’s that?”
“I have a brain,” she informed him. “Every morning when I wake up, it wakes up, too, and starts working. I don’t know why, but it just does. Since you had not specifically ordered me never to tell Shrader and Womack about Trumanti, my brain decided tonight—rightly or wrongly—that it was the correct thing to do. I’m sorry,” she said, feeling suddenly sick and eager to retreat to her apartment. “I really am. Thanks for coming by and returning this—” She waggled the cell phone in her hand, smiled to show him that she wasn’t upset; then she stepped back into the apartment and started to close the door.
He stopped it with his hand. “Now let me ask you a question. In fact, I have two questions to ask you. First, by any chance, are you upset because I’m not coming in?”
“No,” Sam lied emphatically.
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“Good,” he retorted. “Because I am trying my damndest to live up to the spirit of the bargain I made with you yesterday. I gave you until the Manning case was over to decide if you wanted to be with me, but I never imagined it would be over so soon. And while I’m on the subject, I think that after what happened between us last night, your remark just now that ‘it’s just as well we never got started’ was either heartlessly flippant or else it was a final decision. Which was it?” he demanded shortly.
Sam felt an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh hysterically because she could not seem to maintain a grasp on what was happening.
“I’m waiting for an answer, Sam.”
“In that case,” she replied, “I would have to pick ‘heartlessly flippant.’ ”
His jaw relaxed a little. “Don’t do it again,” he warned.
“Don’t give me orders, Lieutenant,” she shot back smoothly. “Not on personal matters. You said you had two questions; what was your second question?”
“Are you naked under that robe?”
Sam blinked at him, more disconcerted and more amused than ever. “Yes. And what possible difference does that make?”
He shook his head and backed up a step. “I can’t believe you can ask me that. Last night, I barely managed to keep things under control when I had several imperative reasons to stop. Now I have none of those reasons except that we had a bargain, and I intend to keep it. Take your time deciding about us, Sam, and when you’ve made up your mind, then you can invite me in.”
“Is that all?” Sam asked dryly, “or do you have any other orders to give me?”
“One,” he said. “The next time you invite me in when you’re wearing a robe, you’d better be damned sure you want me to stay.” His gaze dipped to her lips, dropped to the shallow cleft above the crossed lapels of her robe; then he lifted his smoldering gaze to hers and shook his head. “I’m going home now, while I’m still fit to drive.”