“Why were the Russians there?” Special Agent Berman asked. She was getting frustrated but continued to doggedly pick at Connolly.
“Are we going here again?” Chase growled. “I’m very close to ending this, Special Agent Berman.”
“I’m still waiting for an answer,” Berman replied, holding her ground.
Chase looked to his right at Connolly and nodded.
“Like I said before, it was never really totally clear to me,” Connolly responded lightly. “It seemed as if they had someone who wanted to work with Peter’s company and some approvals through the government might be required. Since I would likely be working so closely with the vice president were he elected, they thought I might prove helpful.”
“Right,” Speck answered with derision. “You really expect us to believe that?”
“Say what you want,” Connolly replied. “But I arrange or take meetings from people, foreign and domestic, all the time, people who want to get access to the people I work for and with. This was a meeting like the others.”
“Except for the fact that everyone at that meeting, with the exception of you, is now dead,” McRyan chirped as he barged into the interview room.
“Who are you?” Chase asked.
“This is Detective Mac McRyan from St. Paul,” Berman said, introducing Mac. “He is handling the murders of Sebastian McCormick, Jason Stroudt and Adam Montgomery.”
“Ahh, so this is the Detective McRyan we’ve heard about in the media,” Connolly said breezily, totally at ease. He was comfortable, his face relaxed, hands folded over his waist, left leg crossed over the right. He didn’t think the government had anything on him.
It was time to change that impression.
Mac leaned down on the table and Connolly looked up to meet his face. McRyan’s eyes bored in on Connolly’s. “Who’s the Bishop?” Mac asked in almost a whisper.
Connolly’s eyes went wide and his body went momentarily rigid. He tried to quickly recover but Mac saw it, Chase saw it, Berman and Speck saw it. Everyone saw it—fear.
Mac had Connolly’s undivided attention.
“I’ll ask you again, Mr. Connolly,” Mac pressed. “Who is the Bishop?”
“I … I have no idea who you’re talking about,” the political operator answered, trying to regain his composure.
“You do,” Mac answered, still leaning down on the table. “You do. And he scares you, he scares you a lot. And you know what? He should.”
McRyan slammed a picture of the Kentucky meeting in front of Connolly and Chase.
He pointed at the young Ukrainian in the picture, “Domitrovich is dead, shot between the eyes two days ago in his apartment in Kiev.”
Mac moved his finger. “Khrutov was found dead in his dacha outside of Moscow earlier today, executed.”
Then Mac moved his finger to Checketts. “Peter Checketts was murdered yesterday in Milwaukee. Now your friend the Bishop had his men stage it to look like a suicide, but he was murdered, no question.”
Mac reached into a folder and took out four more pictures. He went through them one by one, his voice biting, angry.
“Jason Stroudt—dead.”
He took out another picture, “Adam Montgomery—dead.”
Then a third, “Sebastian McCormick—dead.”
Then a fourth, “Gabriel Martin—dead!”
“They were all murdered. Murdered in cold blood and you know what, Mr. Connolly?”
“What?”
Mac smiled, a cold-hearted almost evil smile, as he leaned down to the table. He took one last picture out, it was of Connolly. Mac put his finger on the picture: “You’re next,” he said in almost a whisper.
“Is that a threat, Detective?” Chase demanded.
“Not a threat, at least not from me. I’m just pointing out the hard reality for your client, Counselor,” Mac answered, his eyes never leaving Connolly’s. “The threat is being sent by the man Connolly has been working with or maybe even for. That man has clearly determined that there will be no loose ends. And there’s only one loose end left,” Mac pointed at Connolly, “and that’s you, Heath.”
Mac peered into Connolly’s eyes and took the measure of the man. The message was sent but it would need time to be truly received by the political operative. He was afraid, Mac could see it in his eyes, but he wouldn’t break—not yet. Heath Connolly was a political animal. He would need some time to process all the angles, figure out the only way to stay alive and once he did, he’d be back.
It was time for Mac to go, so he pushed away from the table, put the pictures back into the manila folder and walked over to the door, but he didn’t leave without a cold warning.
“Mr. Connolly, whoever hired all these men involved in these