Royal is actually bragging about working with Carlos Marcello, one of the most powerful Mafia chiefs in America during the twentieth century.
“Listen,” he goes on, “getting that APB canceled shouldn’t be more than a matter of making the right telephone call.”
Having come in ready for a pitched battle, I blink in surprise. “Even on the murder of a cop?”
Royal makes a clicking sound with his mouth. “That complicates matters a little. But Mayor, your father has treated me and members of my family many times during emergencies over the years. I can personally vouch for his integrity in the highest quarters. Why, I can’t understand how a decorated veteran and pillar of the community like Tom Cage could be caught up in such a sordid business.”
“How fast can you make that APB go away?”
Brody scoops some ice into a glass and pours himself a Diet Coke. “With a little luck, maybe two hours. More likely by nine or ten tomorrow morning.”
“And the Viola Turner case?”
Brody holds up his glass, watches the ice cubes as he swirls it around, then adds some whiskey to it. “On that matter, I’m going to have to confer with some people I’d prefer not to mention. They can be unreasonable at times, but one is a pragmatist. I feel certain that he can offer a solution—and maybe even a candidate, warm or cold—to fill the role of Nurse Turner’s killer by close of business tomorrow. You might say this kind of thing is his stock-in-trade.”
Royal’s got to be talking about Forrest Knox. But it’s the way he’s talking that leaves me speechless. His daughter lies comatose only a few feet away, yet he seems completely unconcerned about her. He’s discussing the commission of felonies as casually as he might a real estate deal. Despite having seen some abominable exercises of influence in Houston, I thought the time had passed when men could dispose of murder cases with telephone calls. But in Brody Royal’s world, all things remain possible. Apparently, laws are but inconveniences to fearless men who live by their appetites.
“Obviously,” Royal adds in a less casual voice, “I need to know what I’m getting in return. Every bargain has two sides, after all.”
I glance back at Kirk, who has picked up a banana from another tray and stands chewing it while he watches the door, now seemingly oblivious to our conversation.
“You obviously can’t grant me legal immunity,” Brody observes, “since you’re no longer a prosecutor. So what are you selling, exactly? I’ll need that tape, naturally, plus any and all copies.”
“You’ll get it. Also, a series of stories about Henry Sexton’s death and the old civil rights murders will break in the Masters papers tomorrow. If you deliver, neither your name nor your daughter’s will appear in those stories.”
“Or elsewhere in the papers,” Royal adds.
“Naturally.”
“What else? You mentioned several other potential problems.”
“My father’s lived a long time without telling what he knows about that plane crash. You play ball, he can stay quiet for a few more years.”
Royal smiles. “And the witness? The one who was there at the fire? I assume he was a friend of the Wilson boy?”
It’s perfectly legal for police detectives and prosecutors to lie to suspects to prompt a confession, and in this situation, I’m not bound by any rules at all. “I’ll give you the kid’s name,” I lie. “He’s not a kid anymore, of course. I’ll leave it to you to make sure he doesn’t tell his story to anybody. I’m assuming you’ll pay for his silence, but that’s your decision.”
Royal’s eyes glint with interest in my apparent pragmatism. “Who has he talked to, so far?”
“Only Sexton, who’s conveniently unconscious and almost sure to die by morning.”
Royal ponders these points for a few seconds. “How could I ever know I had all the copies of that tape?”
“You won’t. But you don’t need to lose sleep over that. The tape alone wouldn’t put you in the pen, especially if you can get your daughter to recant.”
He nods thoughtfully. “When do I get the witness’s name?”
“After my father’s safe in federal custody. That’s nonnegotiable. The same man saw you burn the Beacon last night, by the way.”
Royal finishes off his sandwich, sips his drink, then sets his glass on the credenza. “I don’t like it. But I guess I can live with it. There’s just one thing I don’t understand.”
“What’s that?”
“You.” The cool gray eyes gleam with curiosity. “I know about you, Cage. You’re a goddamn crusader. A bleeding heart. Why on earth would you do this deal?”