Day of Reckoning. Jack Higgins

I ask who this other gentleman is?’

      ‘Blake Johnson, also an attorney,’ Blake told him. ‘I believe you knew my wife.’

      Whelan said, ‘He’s no right to be here.’

      Fox cut in. ‘I’ve no objection. I was distressed to know of Katherine Johnson’s untimely end. You have my sympathy.’

      Parker said, ‘Evidence would suggest that Mrs Johnson’s death was no accident. Could you assist us in that matter, sir?’

      Whelan said, ‘Jack, you don’t need to answer any of this.’

      ‘Why not?’ Fox shrugged. ‘I’ve nothing to hide. I knew Katherine Johnson, gave her interviews, and she did an article about me for Truth magazine. It’s in the latest edition. Quite flattering, actually.’

      ‘Except for the references to the Solazzo family.’

      ‘Just how well did you know her, sir?’ Parker asked.

      Fox said, ‘I knew her well.’

      ‘How well?’

      Fox seemed to struggle with himself. ‘All right, we had a brief affair. It only lasted a few weeks, and I didn’t want to mention it, because I didn’t want to damage her reputation in any way. For God’s sake, the lady is dead.’

      It was an impressive performance.

      Madge McGuire said, ‘Did you ever know her to use heroin?’

      Fox struggled with himself again, got up, went to the window, turned, face working. ‘Yes, once. I caught her at her apartment. I was shocked, tried to remonstrate. She said she’d only just started and promised to stop, but…I guess she didn’t.’

      Whelan said, ‘She was obviously not very practised with it and must have accidentally given herself too much, or had a particularly lethal batch.’

      ‘Still, there are certain anomalies,’ Parker told him.

      ‘Which have nothing to do with my client.’ Whelan turned to Madge McGuire. ‘Are we finished here?’

      ‘Yes,’ Madge said. ‘That’ll do for now. Thank you for your cooperation.’

      She stood up, and Fox said, ‘Hasn’t Mr Johnson anything to say?’

      Blake stood up, face pale, eyes very dark. ‘Not really. It’s all pretty clear,’ and he turned and walked out.

      In the car, Madge said, ‘There’s no case, people. It’s not even worth trying to bring one. He just gave the explanation for the lack of track marks – she’d just started shooting and didn’t know what she was doing.’

      ‘But if she’d shot up before, wouldn’t there be some tracks?’

      ‘If it was only a few times, not necessarily. Whelan would laugh it out of court, Mr Johnson. There’s evil here and we don’t know the half of it, but there’s nothing we can do,’ Madge told him.

      ‘It gets harder the older I get.’ Parker shook his head. ‘I’ve been a cop long enough to know when something stinks, and this surely does.’

      Blake lit a cigarette and leaned back. ‘But what about justice?’

      ‘What do you mean?’ Madge asked.

      ‘What happens if it isn’t done, and the law doesn’t work? Is someone entitled to take the law into his own hands?’

      ‘Well, I know one thing,’ Parker told him. ‘It wouldn’t be the law they were taking.’

      ‘I suppose not.’

      ‘What will you do, Blake?’

      ‘Go back to Washington. See the President. Arrange a funeral.’ The car pulled in at the Plaza. He shook hands with Parker and turned to Madge. ‘Many thanks, Miss McGuire.’

      He got out and went up the steps to the hotel. As the car moved away, Madge said, ‘Are you thinking what I am, Harry?’

      ‘If you mean, God help Jack Fox, yes.’

      At the office, Fox waited for a computer printout he’d ordered on Blake Johnson. It finally appeared and he was reading through it when there was a knock on the door and Falcone entered.

      ‘Just checking, Signore. Is there anything I can do?’

      Fox passed him the printout. Falcone read it. ‘Quite a record.’

      ‘It sure as hell is. War hero, FBI, took a bullet saving the President. But there’s a block there. What’s he been doing lately? I’ll have to get my top people to work on it.’

      ‘Is he a threat?’

      ‘Of course he is. He didn’t believe me for a moment about his wife. Aldo, I’ve stared at the face of the enemy in Iraq, and I know what I saw in Blake Johnson’s eyes. There was no rage in them, only revenge. He’ll be coming, and we must be ready.’

      ‘Always, Signore.’

      Falcone went out, and Fox went to the window as a flurry of sleet brushed across Manhattan. Strange, he wasn’t afraid. He was excited.

       4

      Fox had an impeccable source when it came to computer-accessing: an ageing lady named Maud Jackson, who was a retired professor in communication sciences at MIT, seventy years old – and a confirmed gambler. A nice Jewish widow who lived in Crown Heights, she was always chronically short of money, because she was an easy mark and liked the game anyway.

      Fox met her in a local bar by appointment. She sat there, sucking on a cigarette and drinking Chablis, while he told her about Blake Johnson.

      ‘The thing is, there’s a block on the guy.’

      ‘Like any roadblock, Jack, it’s made to be gone around.’

      ‘Exactly, and who better than you to do it?’

      ‘Flattery will get you everywhere, but if this guy used to be FBI and there’s a block, this is serious stuff.’

      She took out another cigarette and he gave her a light, revolted by the thinning dyed red hair, the cunning old eyes, but she was a genius.

      ‘Okay, Maud, I’ll pay you twenty thousand dollars.’

      ‘Twenty-five, Jack, and happy to oblige.’

      He nodded. ‘Done. There’s only one problem. I want it, like, yesterday.’

      ‘No problem.’ She swallowed her Chablis and stood up and nodded to Falcone. ‘Now, if this big ape will take me home, I’ll get on with it.’

      Falcone smiled amiably. ‘My pleasure, Signora.’

      It took her no more than three hours of devious double play to make her breakthrough and there it was: Blake Johnson, ex-FBI, now Director of the Basement for the President, and what a treasure house that turned out to be. The President’s personal hit squad, and such an interesting cross-reference to London. It seemed that Johnson was very cosy with the British Prime Minister’s personal intelligence outfit, led by one Brigadier Charles Ferguson, its muscle supplied by an ex-IRA enforcer named Sean Dillon. It was all there, past exploits, addresses, homes and phones. She telephoned Fox and asked to be put through.

      ‘Jack, it’s Maud.’

      ‘Have you got something?’

      ‘Jack, I don’t know what’s going on, but what I’ve got is pure dynamite, so don’t screw with me. Just send Falcone round with thirty thousand in cash.’

      ‘Our deal was for twenty-five, Maud.’

      ‘Jack, this is better than the midnight movie. Believe