by David Chill
The sky was becoming lighter, the dark gray of the night giving way to the softer gray of an overcast morning. The long shadows still extended across the empty streets of West Los Angeles. When traffic eased up, this was a pleasurable city to cruise around in, but unfortunately these moments were fleeting. The congestion on the streets made drivers irritable and less inclined to be even marginally polite. But this morning was pleasant. And as we turned right onto San Vicente, a car turning left slowed to let us through, even giving us a good-morning wave. Others in the world were clearly in a more magnanimous frame of mind than I was.
As I unlocked the front door, Angelina gave a small scream, the type of demonstrative yelp that was a mixture of joy and relief. She rose from the breakfast table, knocking over her box of Honey Nut Cheerios, and ran toward me in tears.
"Oh, my God! Daddy! Are you all right?!"
She threw herself into my arms and hugged me. Leslie came out from the kitchen and hugged me as well. I had received far more physical contact from my family in the past few days than I had in months. I appreciated it, albeit wishing it could have been evoked through less traumatic circumstances.
"My goodness, Ned!" Leslie cried. "We've been worried sick. I called the focus group facility, they said you left at ten, I tried Blair, but he wasn't answering his phone. At two o'clock I called the police, but they said a person needed to be missing twenty-four hours before they could do anything."
"Then we heard about the vice president being shot and taken to Cedars-Sinai, and well, Daddy, you could just imagine what we were thinking!"
I could indeed imagine the worry and grief they were enduring. I quickly took them through my endless day, a twenty-four hour whirlwind of absurdity, beginning with our appointment with the oncologist to discuss my terminal illness and ending with the Secret Service accusing me of being at least complicit, and potentially spearheading, a grand-scale assassination of a man who could have become the next president. I suddenly realized I hadn't given much thought to the death of Richard Sudeau, only insomuch as it affected my own personal freedom. A human being had been killed, shot to death, an act of sheer brutality. I hadn't even pondered the question of why anyone would want to commit such a crime. I was far too busy trying to extricate myself from being implicated and charged with his murder.
Leslie and Angelina listened rapturously, hanging on to my every word, their mouths open, displaying the shock one goes through when someone tells them a tale that is beyond any reality they have encountered this side of a horror film. I finished and they hugged me again, happy I was okay, comforted to know I was safe. Angelina told me she wanted to stay home with me. I smiled at her gambit, she was seventeen, but still displayed the childlike guile that was transparent. I told her she had to go school, adding that I needed to get some sleep and would be of no use to anyone for the next eight hours. Maybe ten. Before they left, Leslie remembered something.
"Dr. Ashland called yesterday, late afternoon. He scheduled you into Cedars on Monday morning. For the pleurodesis. And the biopsy. I told him okay, I hope that was the right thing to do."
"Yes," I said absently. "Of course."
"I should have called you, but with the focus groups, I didn't want to distract you."
"No, it's fine. Monday. I'll make it work," I said, unable to stifle a yawn. "I'll have to make it work."
Leslie left to take Angelina to school. The fatigue had caught up with me hours earlier and I stumbled through it. But I needed sleep, desperately, unquestionably. I climbed upstairs, hands gripping the banister unevenly. I reached the bedroom, tore off my clothes, and plunged on top of the covers, not even bothering to slip inside. I vaguely noticed I didn't have any pain in my back, a luxury in which I took no small amount of joy. I still needed almost a half-hour to finally drift off to sleep, the anxiety and atrocity of my ordeal having wired me up. I slept straight through to three-thirty, waking not refreshed, but not utterly exhausted either. I went downstairs and fixed a pot of coffee. I was on my third cup when the doorbell rang. I groaned at the thought it might be the Secret Service again. As I glanced through the peephole, I recognized it might be worse.
"Hello Blair," I said, opening the door and ushering him in.
"Hello yourself. And good afternoon. Or good morning, as the case may be."
We walked into the living room and Blair seated himself in the bentwood rocker and began to creak back and forth.
"Coffee?" I asked.
"Nah. The Feds poured about eight cups into me this morning. My head's about to explode."
I refilled my cup and sat down. "The Feds?" I asked.
"Yeah, once they got through grilling you, they must have figured I'd be jealous. Three FBI agents marched into the office and peppered me with questions for five hours. These guys act like they're the national police force. You know they even followed me into the men's room? They thought I was trying to ditch them."
It sounded as if the Secret Service already had a dossier on Blair Lipschitz. It also sounded as if they were running low on leads. Questioning my partner was probably standard de rigueur, but keeping him for five hours was as poorly conceived as questioning me all night.
"What did they want to know?"
"Anything. Everything. Asked me where I went after the focus groups, as if it's their business, asked me why I didn't answer my phone all night. Christ, they even asked me who I was sleeping with. I told them I'd make them a list. Didn't even crack a smile. Those guys are just dorks."
I couldn't disagree, but I knew they had the unenviable task of trying to find a killer without a lot of information. Whoever shot Richard Sudeau was probably long gone by now. The Feds had to pick up the trail, and I sensed they were operating in the dark. They didn't quite know what they were looking for, so they'd interrogate anyone they could, in the slim hope someone dropped a morsel that could turn into a lead.
"Any news on the assassination?" I asked.
"Yeah, I can see you've been dead to the world today. They found the murder weapon across the street, an office building, they were doing construction on one of the top floors. Whoever did it used a high-powered rifle. Must've been a hell of a shooter, Sudeau had to have been three hundred yards away. My money says it's a Marine. The corps knows how to mold sharpshooters."
"But no leads on the killer?" I asked
"Nope. If we can get our candidate in, first order of business is to appoint a new FBI director."
I peered at him. "You understand that our guy isn't going to be president, don't you?"
Blair nodded ever so slightly and I thought I saw the briefest glint of a smile. "Look, the Feds really messed up my day. They don't know what they're doing. But all the time they were grilling me, I was coming up with ideas."
"Ideas?"
"Yeah. To your point, our high-profile client is no longer running for president. We're up shit creek here, my friend. I have an idea but we need to do something fast."
"Such as ... ?" I asked, continuing to peer at him, trying to see if I could get a glimpse into the fertile yet twisted mind of my partner. Blair was an ideas guy, but his ideas were as likely to lead us up the highest mountain as they were to lead us off a treacherous cliff.
"You ever hear the saying never let a good crisis go to waste?" he smiled.
"I don't know as I like where this is going," I said.
"We have an opportunity, my friend. We need to capitalize on it."
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. After spending most of the night being interrogated by a series of sober, intense federal agents, I did not see any opportunity, rather, I thought we needed to do some serious damage control. Calling our current clients, reassuring them, and waiting for the dark storm to pass had been my first thought.
"Just what are you getting at?" I asked, starting to grow nervous.
"You and I are about to become famous my friend. You were the last person to see the vice president alive. That's big news. That's something the networks want a piec
e of."
"Oh, no."
"Oh, yes. You and I are going on Hello America tomorrow morning. I have a contact at NBC, Callie Saxon, she set it up. We'll be on the second half-hour, once they get past the update on the investigation. Merry Teale is interviewing us."
I shook my head. "I'm not flying to New York."
"Hey! Who said anything about New York? We'll do it out of their Burbank studios. Remote feed. It'll be early, I got to warn you. We're slated for seven forty-five but that's Eastern time. Four forty-five here. They want us at the studio an hour early. Not much traffic, I'll pick you up at three. Wear a nice tie. Nothing loud, nothing flashy. We need to make a good impression."
I lay down on the couch and continued to sigh. Maybe it was a moan. The last thing on earth I wanted was to be interviewed again, especially with a few million people watching this time. I was great at asking questions, awful at answering them, and feeling mildly nauseated at the notion of publicly analyzing the murder of a man who I'd been speaking with just a few minutes before he was gunned down.
"Hey, what's the matter?" Blair said. "I thought you'd love the idea. We could never ever get this publicity anywhere else. This is a golden opportunity and it just fell in our laps. We'd be crazy not to milk this. We absolutely have to get our faces out there. Most importantly, we need some business. We're in the big leagues now."
"Did it occur to you," I started, "that appearing to take advantage of someone else's tragedy and misfortune may not be a good thing?"
"And did it occur to you that sticking our heads in the sand and not having any future business is an even worse thing?"
"We have Garter. And a few other smaller clients."
"We don't have Garter. John Quinn called. The project's on hold. The whole Sudeau thing shook them up. So we need to get our faces out there. The check from the campaign didn't come in yet. Look. Don't worry. You'll be fine. I'm working another angle. Don't want to get your hopes up, so I'll hold off telling you. But I do need to let you know that a good showing tomorrow morning on national TV will help. A lot."
I didn't have an answer to that, and arguing with a crafty salesman is tantamount to arguing with a good lawyer. It's an endless cycle, and you rarely win. And I also sensed that Blair would likely go on TV without me, so being on air next to him might have some benefit, if only in limiting collateral damage. Oddly, I suddenly thought about my cancer diagnosis for the first time since I woke up. Nothing like being caught up in a national crisis to help me compartmentalize. I started to wonder what I had to lose. There were worse things than going on TV.
"Three o'clock in the morning, huh?" I said in a resigned voice.
"Yeah," he said, adding wryly, "maybe you should just stay awake for it."
"We'll need to take your car. Mine's indisposed."
"Of course. We're not going to NBC in a jalopy."
I thought of something. "So where were you last night?" I asked. "Why weren't you picking up your phone?"
"Had a date," Blair said. "Actually, I got stood up at the last minute so I called an old standby."
"Leslie said she'd been trying to call you all night."
"That was her? I saw the call coming in, but the number was listed as Unknown. I figured it was a telemarketer. They have no shame these days. Kept ringing so I had to turn it off."
"I'll bet you don't get stood up much," I muttered.
"Bet your ass I don't. But you know what? It was that honey we met on the plane back to D.C. The one with the green eyes, Iris."
"Iris stood you up?" I exclaimed.
"Yeah, why? You seeing her, too?"
"Good lord, no," I said, and my mind started to whirr. It was plainly apparent Iris was at the Century Plaza to see the vice president; obviously she was his next appointment after me. I tried to reconstruct our conversation, but things just didn't fit. Not yet.
"Hey," Blair continued. "You know Iris used to work for the CIA? Never would have thought, but stranger things happen. You know what they say about the best way a female spy serves her country."
I shook my head. "Look, she was at the hotel last night. I saw her in the bar. After I met with Sudeau. She was worried. She said something about being in some danger. Any idea what that would mean?"
Blair wrinkled his nose. "Danger? Nope. I don't worry about women's problems. I just like being with them. The way a fat kid loves cake. Don't always see the ramifications until later on."
"So, give me a hint. What's this idea is you're cooking up?"
"Well, look. It's not exactly my idea. But I think we have another presidential candidate waiting in the wings. Maybe even one that could get elected."
Chapter 16
The LAPD Detective got the call just after five in the morning, as he was pulling out of his garage in Palmdale. The chief's orders were clear and direct. Don't go in to the office, go straight to Century City, meet up with the FBI and Secret Service, get briefed. His staff would be fine without him for a day or two. His hands gripped the steering wheel. He knew what happened to the vice president, knew that the Feds would be all over this. The last thing they would appreciate was a local cop stepping on toes. But the chief had good reason to pick him. Two years ago he had thwarted an assassination attempt that had slipped through all of the agencies of Homeland Security. He thought of things that others did not. It earned him a promotion to captain.
Arriving on the scene wearing his blue LAPD windbreaker, badge hanging from his neck, the Detective handed his I.D. to the agent manning the elevator bank. He told him he was there by order of the chief of police. He told them his name was Karl Mooring and he was in charge of Robbery-Homicide within the LAPD. Everything was in order, but it still took fifteen minutes of discussion and phone calls before the Federal Bureau of Incompetence would let him go upstairs. He wandered around the thirty-third floor, talking to whomever would speak to him, picking up bits and pieces of what had transpired last night. The Feds did indeed seem a little annoyed at his presence, and while they were not overtly rude, neither were they very accommodating. The Detective overheard one of them make a comment about limiting access to too many jokers who might mess up their crime scene. He knew they were referring to him.
The Detective pieced together what he had learned. The Assassin knew where the vice president would be and when he'd be there. He knew there was remodeling being done on the thirty-third floor, in a structure directly facing the vice president's hotel. The Assassin was a pro, he had easily gained access to the building. The fact that he had left the murder weapon was curious, but the Detective knew it was a ploy. The FBI guys were excited about getting a lead, although it might have been the Secret Service; it was hard to tell who was in charge. The only thing he knew was that the FBI agents were the ones who were in far better shape. One Secret Service agent had a beer belly that would have been disgraceful even if he were just employed as an insurance agent. The Secret Service used to be a top-flight agency. Then they got absorbed into the DHS, suddenly had to compete for funds, and standards began to slip. They used to employ the best, now they were stuck with whatever. Something like this was bound to happen eventually. No one transferred into the Secret Service anymore. The good agents got fed up and left, the farts got fed up and stayed.
After a half-hour of milling about, the Detective went downstairs and talked to the security guard. Yes, he had been there all night, yes, the Feds had interviewed him and taken the sign-in sheet and all the pens already. The guard had seen a man with a beard leaving late, he assumed that had to have been the Assassin. Yes, the Feds were reviewing video surveillance video. The Detective asked the guard if the building kept records of which floors each elevator stopped at. The guard frowned and said no, he didn't think their elevators were that sophisticated. The Detective asked if there was anything the Feds hadn't asked him, anything at all that might be helpful. The guard thought for a moment and then pointed the Detective toward a construction crew huddled in a corner. Those guys might know somethin
g.
He approached a man who had an air of authority about him, as well as a lit cigar protruding out of the corner of his mouth. People weren't allowed to smoke indoors, but the Detective, a reformed smoker himself, was not about to enforce this law. He would settle for being envious. The man indeed turned out to be someone with authority, the foreman of the crew, and someone unhappy at having his day derailed. The Detective asked if the Feds had spoken to them, and surprisingly they had not. They simply ordered his crew to wait in the lobby. And not to leave.
The Detective asked if the foreman could provide any information about the thirty-third floor. The foreman shrugged and said he arrived at his usual four-thirty in the morning, heard street noise, and discovered the hole in the window and then the rifle on the floor. After calling it in, the FBI arrived and ordered his crew off the floor, telling them to stick around until they got around to interviewing them. The Detective asked if anything else struck him as unusual, and the foreman thought about it for a moment, taking an extra long drag on his cigar. He mentioned that when his crew left for the day, they always turned off the elevator's ability to stop at the floors where they were doing work. Prevented looky-loos from snooping round and maybe getting hurt, but it also minimized petty theft. He assumed the FBI had ordered it turned it back on when they arrived on the scene.
The Detective thought about this for a few minutes. It was now getting close to seven o'clock. A few office workers were starting to file in. By eight o'clock the building would be filled with people again, mostly office workers waiting in the lobby until the FBI deigned to allow them back in. That might not be until tomorrow. He had an idea. Pulling out his cell phone, he called Ernesto Mendoza in Forensics. He picked up on the first ring. The Detective asked if Mendoza could come over to Century City right away. Yes, it was important. Crucial, perhaps.