The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [79]
When Stefanovitch got close, he saw that Parker was slowly clapping his hands. Parker was also grinning. It was the first real smile Stefanovitch had seen from the black detective, a great goddamn smile.
“That was real fine. You’re off to a flying-A start with the man. I like the way you serve notice, serve papers. Now he has to kill you, too.”
Stefanovitch’s heart was beating so hard he could hear it over Isiah Parker’s voice. He was thinking that he still didn’t care enough about what happened to himself.
He felt like he was flying, though, and that was good enough. He felt as if he had been released from some max-security prison where he had been slowly rotting, wasting away, dying of old age at thirty-five.
It was all beginning again.
Maybe it could be revenge against St.-Germain and the Club.
Maybe retribution, some kind of justice finally.
Or maybe it would be something Stefanovitch couldn’t bring himself to imagine—a world where justice no longer had a place.
76
Sarah McGinniss; One Hogan Square
SARAH HAD TO get The Club right. She was obsessed with the book, focusing all her energy on it. The issue was proper documentation; the hard part was getting people to believe truths too horrifying to believe.
Stuart Fischer had suggested she come to One Hogan Square for a briefing with some of his people. The meeting was actually held in what amounted to the attic of the district attorney’s office.
Sarah had talked Fischer into letting her bring a tape recorder. She was planning to take written notes as well. Documentation was so important.
“Why doesn’t everybody grab a seat in this comfortable little nest of ours.” Stuart Fischer addressed the small group that was filing into the makeshift office. The tenth-floor loft had originally been furnished, however sparsely, when the D.A.’s office was secretly investigating the New York Police Department in 1986. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was out of harm’s way.
“I have some news for you, unexpectedly good news. We’re going after Alexandre St.-Germain again.”
The office was nearly silent as they huddled closer around Fischer. The young lawyers were clearly in shock.
Sarah watched a young assistant perched on a peeling windowsill. A brrrr sound emerged through his lips and an overgrown, bushy mustache.
A few of the others seemed to avert their eyes. There was a definite similarity to the meeting at Sarah’s house in East Hampton. A sudden chill was in the air.
“When we prepared our case against St.-Germain last year, we were accused, maybe justifiably, of being too conservative. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t particularly care about the sins of the past. I promise you, though, conservatism won’t be the problem this time.”
Fischer glanced at Sarah, who was the only one who understood exactly what he meant.
“I want to be particularly clear on that,” Fischer continued. “I want all of you to understand exactly what I’m saying. If this sounds like a personal vendetta against Alexandre St.-Germain, then I’m communicating pretty well so far. Because that’s what we’re going to try to conduct here. Anybody? Questions?”
There were none. Not yet. Just complete surprise that they were going after Alexandre St.-Germain again.
“All right. We’re going to be contacting other key agency heads this morning. The FBI, the French and Italian police, Customs, a few bosses in Treasury. I’ve already spoken to the IRS. They’re in. They understand that we can get St.-Germain this time.”
One of the assistants finally spoke, a striking blond woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight. “We’re going all the way with the IRS? I should say, they’re going all the way with us? Power to seize and confiscate? St.-Germain’s bank accounts? The companies he supposedly owns? That kind of all the way?”
Fischer nodded at the younger lawyer. He smiled at her. “That kind of all the way, Louise.”
Sarah made a note about the tenor, the feel of the meeting. There was very little of the usual self-deprecating humor. The