The Shut Mouth Society (The Best Thrillers Book 1)

by Unknown

  “What companies?” someone shouted.

  “They’re private and keep a low profile; however, one is an investment bank that Forbes ranks as number four in their list of the largest private companies.”

  “Name?” many shouted.

  “Confederated Trust.”

  “Oh shit,” Harding said. “That’s an American business icon.”

  The incredulous reaction of the press resulted in more shouted questions. They wouldn’t quiet down this time. Sherman gave his staffer a discouraged look and indicated he should pass out the spiral-binders.

  “Questions. One at a time.”

  He had to wait several minutes until the confusion caused by passing out the binders subsided, and the reporters settled back into some semblance of order. Eventually, the congressman pointed to an uplifted hand.

  “Mr. J. C. D. McGuire is chairman of Confederated Trust. Are you accusing him of heading up this so-called union?”

  “We know he does not lead the union, but we also know he is a direct descendant of one of the families that plundered the South during Reconstruction and formed the union during Grant’s administration.” The congressman hesitated, and then gave a “what the hell” shrug. “We do believe J. C. D. McGuire is among the top echelon of the union.”

  The resulting blast of shouted questions made the other eruptions seem mild. “Are you prepared for a slander suit?” someone shouted without recognition.

  “Is he prepared to explain the financial transfers listed in those binders?”

  A barrage of questions followed, and then somebody tossed one of the binders at Sherman’s feet, and it skidded across the platform. He looked down at it and immediately marched out of the briefing room.

  “Damn it. Is that all he’s got?” Evarts said.

  “Maybe there’s something more in those binders,” Baldwin said hopefully.

  “I doubt it,” Harding said. “If there were, he would’ve beaten those assholes over the head with it.”

  An anchor desk replaced the raucous briefing room, and the bespectacled woman opened by saying, “Congressman Sherman from Ohio just made the outrageous accusation that J. C. D. McGuire, a respected businessman and generous philanthropist, is involved with a secret group of drug runners that Congressman Sherman claims controls the Mexican Panther Party and their presidential candidate, José Garcia.”

  Suddenly the televised picture split into four quadrants, with a face in each. The anchor, in the upper left window, introduced the three talking heads shown in the split screens and then said, “Let’s ask our panel if the House will censure Congressman Sherman and whether his career can recover from this embarrassing episode.”

  Evarts turned the television to mute and asked Baldwin for the congressman’s cell number. As she got it from her purse, Harding picked up the remote and turned on English subtitles. From what Evarts could read, the panel assassinated the congressman politically.

  “Use my cell, not the landline,” Harding said.

  Evarts nodded, knowing that if they monitored Sherman’s cell, a landline would be quicker to trace. The congressman answered in one ring. “Yes?”

  “Gregory Evarts.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Goddamn it, this’ll only take a second. If that’s all you’ve got, I’m not going to allow Patricia Baldwin to expose herself.”

  “Are you sure that she’ll agree with that decision?”

  “What do mean?”

  “Your family shunned us. Patricia’s family has paid the ultimate price in this war. She may be differently motivated.”

  “Have you seen the way the news channels are playing your press conference?”

  “I would if I wasn’t talking to you. This is a three-act play. The climax always comes in the third act. Ask Patricia to release the William Evarts papers tomorrow.”

  “I’ve seen the documents. What possible corroboration can they provide?”

  “I won’t say any more on this telephone.”

  “Then good-bye. We’re outta here.”

  “Hold it. The William Evarts documents confirm the existence of the union in the late nineteenth century, and they also tie the current CEOs of all six corporations to that organization. Every last one of them is a direct descendant of an indictable figure in those dossiers.”

  Chapter 50

  Evarts described his conversation with the congressman and then asked Harding, “Is that enough? Will it swing the media over to our side? All we have are some questionable financial transfers to six corporations led by men whose ancestors plundered the South after the Civil War.”

  “Hard to tell,” he answered. “The congressman had a good strategy, but I think he underestimated the pack mentality of the press.” Harding looked at the still-muted television set. “I wish I could see one of those spiral-binders.” He nodded toward the press release he and Baldwin had been editing. “That’s an art form. A black art, perhaps, but an art form, nonetheless. I sure hope the congressman had a good spinmeister.”

  “I’m going to get one of those binders,” Evarts headed toward the door.

  “You mean right now?” Baldwin asked.

  “Yeah, right now. Before you become a media sensation, we need to know if this plan has a chance in hell.”

  “Greg, is this wise? They’ll put it on the Internet soon.”

  He walked back toward Baldwin. “Sherman wants you to release your documents tomorrow. That means we need to make the decision tonight.”

  “I’ve already made—”

  “Wait. Don’t decide yet. I’ll use the subway. I can be back in less than two hours. Steve can give us his view of the evidence, and the evening talk shows will give us a better handle on how this’ll play out in the media.”

  “Greg, I’ve—” She stopped. After a moment, she smiled, leaned forward, and kissed his cheek. “Okay. Hurry but don’t take any chances.”

  As Evarts walked to the subway, he called Congressman Sherman using Harding’s cell phone. He asked to have three of the binders left at the security desk of the Cannon Building. Sherman sounded relieved that he wouldn’t have to meet with Evarts and promised to have the binders ready for him. Not having to pass through building security and go up to the Congressman’s office would save Evarts at least half an hour.

  He made the round trip in under an hour and a half. On the subway back, he glanced through most of the binder. Without preamble, the document listed an array of financial transactions woven intricately into an impressive web. Evarts’s concern was that few of the reporters would take the time to comprehend them. The second section showed how these transactions tied the six American corporations to the Mexican companies in a tightly integrated coalition. Sherman had built a great legal brief, but Evarts guessed it wouldn’t supply the kind of sound bites and headlines the media needed to grab the attention of an audience afflicted with attention deficit disorder. The problem, as Evarts saw it, was that the media train had already left the station with scheduled stops at bigotry, dim-wittedness, and lunacy. They meant to destroy Congressman Sherman because he had the audacity to criticize a neighboring country they wished to pretend posed no threat. He feared that the introduction of facts couldn’t derail this speeding train. Passion, rather than logic, often drove public discourse.

  Evarts opened the front door and yelled out that he was back. No response. He quickened his pace through the hall and into the kitchen in back. No one. He ran up the stairs and checked the bedrooms. Still no one. Where the hell were they? He reentered the guestroom that he and Baldwin had been using and saw no clues as to her whereabouts. He checked the hall bath and saw nothing unusual. He had started down the stairs but suddenly reversed course and ran back to the bathroom. Everything was neat and tidy except for a tiny bottle of dry-wash antibacterial soap that sat in the center of the tile counter. Baldwin always took the hand soap with her to the gym. Maybe she pulled it out of the cabinet and then forgot to throw it in her gym bag. He ran into th
e bedroom and pulled dresser drawers open until he confirmed that her workout clothes were missing.

  He had taken Harding’s cell phone with him to the congressman’s office, so he pulled it out and ran through the directory until he reached G. He quickly found the telephone number for Harding’s gym and pressed the call button. In two rings, a receptionist answered, “Capital Fitness.”

  “Can you tell me if Steve Harding is at the gym? We were supposed to work out together, but I forgot what time I was to meet him.”

  “Just a second … yes, he arrived almost an hour ago with a guest.”

  Evarts felt more relief than he could have imagined. Damn them, they should have at least left him a note. “Thanks, can you give me directions?”

  Evarts ended the call and decided he needed exercise, so he would run the six blocks to the gym. After he changed into shorts, tee shirt, and running shoes, he searched until he found a small backpack. He stuffed a towel, bottle of water, and his gun into the bag and slung it over one shoulder by a single strap. This arrangement might be uncomfortable while running, but he could never reach his gun if he needed it with both arms through the straps. Before leaving the house, he wrote a brief note, partly to let them know where he had gone in case he missed them, but mostly so he could be righteously indignant that they had left no note for him.

  It took him about ten minutes to make the short run. The gym lobby included a full-circle wood counter enclosing three perfect bodies who handled customer requests and complaints. The twenty-something female greeter wore a beauty-queen smile designed to convince any male walking through the door that he had to join the gym that very day.

  Evarts leaned against the counter. “I called earlier. Is Steve Harding still in the gym?”

  “I don’t know. We only scan customer membership cards on the way in.”

  The gym was open behind the circular counter, but Evarts didn’t spot Harding or Baldwin. “May I walk around to look for them?”

  “I’m sorry, but Capital Fitness is restricted to members and guests escorted by a member.” The smile spreading across her face was so wide, it seemed her molars might show. “If you’re considering joining our gym, I can have someone give you a tour.”

  Evarts smiled back. “Did I fail to mention that I was here for that very reason?”

  She shoved a three-by-five card at him that probably earned her a two-dollar incentive. “I’ll go get a trainer while you fill out this information card.”

  By the time she had brought back a trainer, Evarts had written some bogus contact information on the card. The gym had dressed the male trainer in a blue Capital Fitness polo shirt with sleeves cut so short and tight that they barely stretched over his Herculean biceps. He flashed a handsome smile that would have gotten him instantly hired at the hamburger emporium in Westwood Village.

  “I can see that you work out. Let me show you why Capital Fitness won the Readers’ Choice award from The Improper Washingtonian.”

  Evarts kept the trainer moving quickly by not asking any questions. Although he constantly searched for Harding and Baldwin, he never saw them. If they were still in the gym, they had to be in the locker rooms. He took a quick peek through the men’s locker room and saw no sign of Harding. Damn, they must be back at the house already.

  Evarts pretended to get a phone call, telling the trainer he had set his cell on vibrate. He walked out the front door, cell phone in hand, and called Harding’s home landline. No answer. Where the hell could they be?

  He walked back into the gym. “Excuse me, I forgot to ask about parking.”

  “All members get twenty percent off at the lot across the street and up one block.” She pointed further up the street.

  What she called a lot was actually a four-story parking structure. Evarts jogged up the ramps until he reached the fourth level. He had just turned the corner when he spotted Harding’s white Lincoln Navigator. What he saw next caused him to swing the backpack free of his shoulder and put his hand inside to grip his gun. He checked left and right but saw nobody. He dropped prone and checked for feet visible under cars but again, nothing.

  Rising to his feet, he returned his attention to Harding’s vehicle. He hadn’t been mistaken. Someone sat slumped over in the driver’s seat. He approached carefully, his hand still on the gun inside the backpack. When he got closer, he was sure the body belonged to Harding. He took another quick look around and opened the driver’s door.

  As the door swung open, Evarts used his hip to keep Harding from falling to the ground. Keeping an eye on the garage, he pressed two fingers to his friend’s throat and got a pulse—a very quiet pulse but a pulse, nonetheless.

  He would have felt more relief if he had not already scanned the rest of the car’s interior. Baldwin was gone.

  Chapter 51

  Steve Harding had been drugged, evidently a weapon of choice for the union. Hurrying around the Navigator, Evarts struggled to get him into the passenger seat. He yanked Harding’s legs around the center console and grabbed his shirtfront with both hands, pulling with all the strength he could muster, until Harding was positioned in the seat. He then leaned his friend’s head out the door, pried open his mouth, and put his finger down his throat, forcing him to throw up. When Harding produced nothing but dry heaves, Evarts pushed him upright in the seat and closed the passenger door against his inert body. As he ran around the Navigator to get behind the wheel, he wondered how he would get Harding into the house. He exercised regularly, but his friend had to weigh over two hundred and fifty pounds.

  Pulling out of the parking structure, he lowered the passenger window, causing Harding’s head to flop outside like a dog excitedly taking in all the new scents. Evarts grabbed his shirtfront again and hauled him back inside the car. He doubted that the streaming air would revive him, but since Harding seemed to balance almost upright, he kept the window open.

  Evarts grappled with the backpack until he got his hands around the bottle of water he had stuffed in it before he left the townhouse. It still felt cold from the refrigerator as he twisted off the plastic cap and poured the entire bottle over Harding’s head. No response. By this time, he had arrived at the house and found a parking spot for residents less than a block away. What should he do? Harding appeared far more drugged than Baldwin had been. It could be hours before he started to come around. Evarts considered leaving him in the car to sleep it off, but until he could find out what had happened, he couldn’t start looking for Baldwin. Suddenly he realized they might be looking for him. He had been so upset that they had grabbed her, he had forgotten about his own safety. He couldn’t help her if he didn’t start acting like a professional.

  He immediately turned the ignition and drove away from the townhouse. He circled the block twice but saw no one lurking in a vehicle or on the street. They could be waiting inside the townhouse to ambush him, but they would have taken Baldwin to a different location. Besides, entering the house alone would be foolhardy. He needed Harding. Pulling into a supermarket, he found a parking spot away from other cars and reached for Harding’s cell phone. He scrolled through the directory, looking for names he recognized. There were many. With each, he pressed the view button and dismissed anyone with an area code outside the district. He soon found his man and touched the green call button. It took six rings before Rick Matthews answered.

  “Rick, this is Greg Evarts. Steve Harding and I need your help. Now.”

  “Where are you?” his old army buddy asked.

  “Georgetown.”

  “I’m in Alexandria. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “No. We’ll come to you … Rick, this is life and death.”

  “What … never mind, do you have pen and paper?”

  “Just give me the address.” After he did, Evarts added, “Meet us at the curb, a white Lincoln Navigator. I’ll need your help moving Steve.”

  Evarts cut off the call, started the engine, and wheeled out of the parking lot. He tried to think strai
ght, but his anger got in the way. Damn. Why had he left Trish alone? Why had he been so stupid as to stay at a former address, even one that had never been documented as his residence? He stole a glance at Harding. Damn him. Why had Harding taken her out of the house? And how the hell was he going to get her back?

  He drove a hairbreadth below reckless and pulled up to the apartment building in less than twenty minutes. Because he had ended the call so abruptly, Matthews was already standing in front of the building. Evarts pulled the big SUV alongside the curb in front of the fit-looking black man.

  “Parking?” Evarts asked through the passenger window that he had left opened.

  Matthews waved a remote. “Underground.” He leaped into the backseat and immediately put two fingers on Harding’s throat. Feeling a pulse, Matthews leaned forward and quickly examined Harding’s body. Next, he cradled Harding’s head in his palm and rocked it back and forth. “Drugged?”

  “Yes. Hit the remote.” Evarts had pulled down a steep driveway, his progress stopped by a white wrought-iron gate. Before he had completed the sentence, the big gate started to roll slowly to the side. Matthews directed him to a visitor spot next to an elevator.

  The two of them each grabbed an arm and hauled Harding into the elevator. He seemed to breathe normally but didn’t respond to their manhandling. When they finally got his limp body inside the small apartment, they eased him down to the carpeting.

  “What happened?” Matthews asked.

  “Not sure. We need to revive him to find out.”

  Without another word, they each grabbed an arm and dragged him into the bathroom. They struggled, lifting him up enough to get his bulky body into the narrow shower stall. Once inside, they just let him collapse into a sitting position.

  “How long since he took the drug?” Matthews asked.

  “My guess would be about an hour.”

  “He’s out like a light. I think it’s too early for cold water to do much good.”