Page 154 of The Grave Artist
Carmen said, “I know Hamilton. He’s going to demand witness protection. Fisher offers us a few low-level assholes, and he gets a new identity. How can I tell my sister that our father’s killer will be settled in a picket fence neighborhood somewhere to enjoy his life because he’s scummy enough to have helped even scummier people commit crimes?”
Cohen scoffed. “Don’t worry. We’re not going to roll over for him.”
Carmen, who had arrested her share of dangerous people over the years, had heard such promises before. “Don’t handle me, Jessica. He’s got to go down. All the way, for everything. No deflated counts, no queen for a day.”
The prosecutor seemed to bristle. “Not going to happen, Carmen.”
“Find somebody else to dime out Mezzo. He’s an asshole, but he’s not part of this case. It’s State versus Fisher for Roberto Sanchez’s murder, and money laundering. End of story.”
Cohen said, “Let’s just wait for Hamilton to get here.”
“Did you really say that? Did I hear you right?” Carmen said bitterly. “See? There? He’s already got his foot in the door and he’s not even here. I can smell WITSEC already.”
The prosecutor didn’t hesitate. “You’re jumping the gun.”
Carmen knew a few things about Jessica Cohen, who had an outstanding reputation but had not been able to secure the top spot in the district attorney’s office.
A big win against somebody like Mezzo would go a long way in making that happen.
Cohen flushed and started to say something when the intercom buzzed. She pressed the button.
“Mr. Hamilton’s here to see his client.”
Her response was crisp. “Show him to the interview room.”
Carmen turned to watch Jonathan Hamilton enter, set his briefcase on the cement floor and introduce himself. As slick as they come, Hamilton faced the one-way mirror, not to acknowledge that he knew they were being watched but to make sure his hair was perfectly coiffed. He frowned, smoothed a stray lock and then turned to his client.
“I’d shake your hand, Counselor,” Fisher said, “but as you can see ...” He trailed off, lifting his hands as far as he could in the restraints. He let out a nervous chuckle.
“That’s okay,” Hamilton said in a soothing tone. “I’ll handle the social pleasantries.” He leaned forward to kiss Fisher on each cheek.
It was a strange old-world gesture.
And the greeting did more than surprise Fisher. He blinked in what appeared to be horrified shock.
A moment later the money launderer’s eyes widened. Then his face reddened. He began to gurgle as his hands formed claws, clutching at the air—unable to reach his chest. The clink of the chains was audible even in the observation room.
Hamilton stepped back, evidently stunned.
“Shit. He’s having a heart attack.” Cohen raced to the internal phone, hitting a button and summoning EMTs.
Carmen and Heron ran into the room and began CPR, soon to be relieved by a guard and then two paramedics.
After Fisher was wheeled out to a waiting ambulance, Carmen and Heron cornered Jonathan Hamilton, who voluntarily submitted to questioning, as well as forensic swabs.
Carmen was concerned the attorney had administered some sort of toxin during their brief contact, but there was no trace of anything on him or his client.
A short time later, Carmen called her sister to deliver the news that Christopher Fisher had been pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.
“From what the emergency department doc said, he had an acute myocardial infarction,” she told Selina. “Apparently, he had a history of heart trouble and was taking medication. The doc thinks he became highly stressed.”
After a long pause, Selina said, “After what he did to us, is it poetic justice that he died of a broken heart?”
Carmen wasn’t sure, but she’d take poetic justice over no justice at all.
Chapter 77
“Professor Heron?”
