CHAPTER NINE

After the door closed behind Otto and the Judge, Crane said, “Agent Gaspar, can I have a word with you outside, please?”

Gaspar stood, stretched, ignored the pain and forced himself not to limp as he followed Crane into the corridor. When they reached the window at the end of the hallway where they were unlikely to be overheard, Crane asked, “What are you doing here, Gaspar?”

“Enjoying the sunshine.”

“Still the same smart ass.”

“I think you mentioned that the last time our paths crossed, Crane.”

“When I saw you at the memorial, I called in. Miami doesn’t know why you’re here. Have you gone rogue, Gaspar?”

“Possibly,” he replied.

“If you’re connected to Weston, you’re going down. Got that?”

Gaspar ignored the threat, which was par for the course with Crane. “Rumor says you’ve got a warrant in your pocket. Brought along the judge herself, just to cover your bases. The bad news, though: you arrest Weston, you won’t need a court reporter. He’s not talking to you until he gets a lawyer, and probably not then.”

“He’s got a lawyer, and he’ll talk.”

“Lane says she’s the wife’s lawyer. Not his,” Gaspar said.

“Not to me, she didn’t.” If he jutted his chin any farther, he might fall over from the weight of his fat head.

“You’re thinking Weston’s going to confess to something? Have you ever talked to the guy? He wouldn’t tell you how he takes his coffee unless he had a damn good reason.”

“He must have a good reason, then.”

Gaspar hadn’t considered that Weston would confess. He mulled this over, pushed the idea this way and that, like kneading bread. Couldn’t make it work.

“What reason?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” Crane sounded like a guy grunting his way through the defensive line. “He’s committed about a hundred counts of treason. Murder. Grand larceny. You name it. The guy’s a scum-bucket. I get it on the record in front of a Federal judge before he croaks, that’s all I care about.”

“You think Weston is dying? You’re planning a dying declaration?” Gaspar laughed a good two seconds before he controlled himself. “He was winged. Two busted legs and a messed up shoulder. That’s it. He’s not dying. You’re wasting your time.”

“Wise up. He’s got cancer. He’ll be dead by the end of the month. It’s his wife he’s worried about protecting now. He thinks we’ll charge her with his crimes.”

“Why would he think that?”

Crane shrugged and made no reply. Which was all the reply Gaspar needed. Crane must have threatened to charge Weston’s wife. And Weston must have believed the threat. Nothing else would puff Crane’s confidence up so far.

Steven Kent came around the corner and saw them standing at the end of the hallway. “You can come in now,” he said, then stuck his head into the waiting room and made the same announcement to the others.

“What about Weston’s wife?” Gaspar pressed.

“That’s his motivation. He’s trying to save her ass,” Crane said.

Gaspar wondered whether the wife cared that much about Weston, since she’d filed for divorce. He shrugged. “Will it work?”

“Depends on what he says, doesn’t it?” Crane strode away from Gaspar like a man who’d spiked the ball in the end zone.