“I told you I would call, hon,” the police dispatcher said when Lia entered the police station. “I won’t forget.”
“So he’s not back.”
“No.”
“It’s just very important that I talk to him.”
“I know; I know. People have to talk to the chief all the time. I never lose their messages. If you’re looking for a place to eat dinner, try the Stissing Bakery,” added the dispatcher. “Sandwich and soup, three dollars. Can’t beat it. Great blueberry pie, and the strawberry-rhubarb isn’t bad, either. Everything’s homemade.”
“Thanks,” said Lia, stifling an urge to ask if Aunt Bee from Mayberry R.F.D. was around somewhere.
Lia decided to take the dispatcher’s advice and walked over to the bakery, which turned out to be a café whose ambiance straddled country quaint and urban sophisticate, with a strong whiff of fresh-baked desserts to hold it all together. On her way in, Rockman started giving her an update; Lia pulled out her phone as she sat down.
A security camera at Penn Station in New York City had picked up a woman who looked like Amanda Rauci near the platform where the Rhinecliff train had stopped that morning. She had gone to the ticket counter and bought a ticket to Baltimore.
“Paid cash. No luggage,” added Rockman. “We’re waiting to check the tapes from the Baltimore station. We’ve already alerted the FBI and Secret Service.”
“Why would she go to Baltimore?”
“You tell me.”
“The people around here say that if you’re going to New York, the train from Poughkeepsie is cheaper. It also runs more often.”
“Rauci wasn’t from around there, was she?” said Rockman, who seemed annoyed that Lia was questioning him.
“Was Chief Ball with her in the video?”
“Ball?”
“They’re both gone.” Lia frowned at the approaching waitress. “Ball left before the police dispatcher got in, which means no later than eight A.M. Amanda Rauci’s car was at the Rhinecliff train station early enough to get the best spot in the lot. So maybe they left together.”
“Are you sure he’s gone? Maybe he just took a mental health day?”
“This doesn’t look like a place where you’d need mental health days,” answered Lia. The waitress was standing over her. There were no menus here; customers ordered from the blackboard, or maybe memory. “I’ll get back to you,” Lia told Rockman, pretending to turn off the phone.
Dinner over—the soup and sandwich were good, and the chocolate ganache cake to die for—Lia went over to the chief’s house to see if Rockman was right; maybe Ball was just blowing off the day.
Not that he seemed the type.
If Pine Plains as a whole reminded Lia of the old television series Mayberry R.F.D., Mrs. Ball’s expression when she opened the door came straight out of The Addams Family.
“I was wondering if Chief Ball was here,” said Lia. “Or when he would be back?”
Mrs. Ball stared at Lia, then shook her head and started back inside, walking as if in a daze. Lia followed her inside to a paisley-covered couch in the living room. The decor was American colonial circa 1976, so out of fashion it looked hip.
“Are you all right?” Lia asked.
“I thought. Oh. I thought you were coming to tell me that the chief had been, had been—”
“Killed?”
Mrs. Ball nodded.
“Where is he?” asked Lia. “Don’t you know?”
“Why would I know?”
“He said he was on a case. That I couldn’t talk about it. He told me right after you came last night. I thought he was working with you.”
Lia began drawing out as much as she could from Mrs. Ball. Being gentle was difficult, not so much because it meant being nice, but because it meant being patient, asking small questions that led to other small ones. Being patient had always been extremely difficult for Lia; her first-grade report card had complained that she always wanted to rush to the next thing.
“Has the chief helped out on big cases before?” Lia asked.
“About a month ago. Otherwise, not in a long, long time. He’s needed here.”
“Who did he work with?”
“I don’t know. He’s very … tight.” Mrs. Ball shook her head.
“Did he say where he went?”
She shook her head again. Lia came back to the question several times, tacking back and forth. Finally convinced that Mrs. Ball simply didn’t know, Lia changed her tactics.
“Where did he go the last time?” she asked. “Maybe that will help.”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he use credit cards, or take a plane, anything like that? The receipts would tell us.”
Tears puckered in Mrs. Ball’s eyes. “There’s something here you’re not telling me. He’s hurt, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” said Lia. “But I am a little concerned. I was hoping that he would help me, and it sounds like he was going to, but he hasn’t called me today. I expected him to check in—if he was going to help. And another person I’m looking for is missing. A federal agent.”
“He said he was working with the federales,” said Mrs. Ball, who was struggling not to show her concern. “That’s what he calls you people. But I thought it was you.”
“Do you know this woman?”
Lia took out her PDA and brought up a photo of Amanda Rauci. Mrs. Ball shook her head.
“How about this man?” asked Lia, showing her a picture of Forester.
“No.”
“This was a Secret Service agent who wanted to talk to your husband about something, but he died first.”
“That’s the man who killed himself?” said Mrs. Ball.
“Yes.”
“What a shame. Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. Did your husband have any theories?”
“You’d have to ask him. I’m not a policeman.”
“But maybe he had an idea.”
Mrs. Ball shook her head. “He was surprised, too. He read the story a couple of times, so I know he was surprised. Usually, he doesn’t even bother with the paper, except to skim it. And for sports.”
“Lia,” said Rubens, popping in on the Desk Three network. “Mention Vietnam. See if he discussed a connection there. It was on the news last night—mention it.”
Lia did so, asking Mrs. Ball if she had seen the stories about Vietnam being implicated in a possible attempt on Senator McSweeney. Of course she had, she answered.
And then Mrs. Ball’s face grew pale.
“Are they after my husband?”
“I don’t know,” said Lia.
“He was in Vietnam.”
“Did he serve with Senator McSweeney?”
“No, but he knew who he was.”
“Does your husband know him now?”
“Oh yes. Everyone knows Senator McSweeney.”
“Real well?”
“Well, he likes to pretend he does. But you know. The senator is a senator, and a police chief is just a police chief.”
Lia let the matter drop, and went back to trying to find a clue about where the chief might have gone. It took a few more minutes, but Mrs. Ball agreed to let Lia look at the credit card statements.
“Use the camera attachment on the PDA,” said Rockman as Lia followed Mrs. Ball to the spare bedroom they used as a home office. “Get pictures of everything.”
No kidding, thought Lia.
“This was my son’s room,” said Mrs. Ball. “We felt terrible redecorating. I did. The chief just said, ‘He’s out of the house now, dear; let him be his own man.’”
“How old is your son?”
“He died in a car accident two years ago,” said Mrs. Ball. Her lower lip quivered. “The chief never really was the same person after that. It was a terrible blow. I—”
The tears welled up and she couldn’t finish. She pointed to a filing cabinet, then left the room.
Lia found the folder and began ta
king pictures of the statements.
“Flights to Atlanta and D.C.,” said Rockman. “Ask her about that. What he did.”
Lia finished with the credit cards. The wall was covered with citations and plaques. There were a few photos as well—the chief and his wife with various local officials.
“As you can see, the chief is very well liked,” said Mrs. Ball. Her eyes were red, but she’d restored her composure.
“What’s that?” Lia asked, pointing at a framed medal.
“That’s the Navy Cross. The chief won that during the war. For bravery.”
“He does seems like the hero type.”
“You should have seen him when he was younger,” said Mrs. Ball, smiling broadly. “He looked just like a Hollywood star. All the girls wanted him.”
“But you got him.”
“Wasn’t easy.”
Lia started to follow her out of the room. “Why did the chief go to Atlanta?”
“I don’t know. When was it?”
“A few weeks back.”
“Was it the case he was working on? That must be it.”
“Ask her if he knew someone named Gordon,” said Rubens.
Lia did, but Mrs. Ball had never heard the name.
“Lia, Ball never won the Navy Cross,” said Rubens. “That’s a pretty rare medal. Can you tell if it’s authentic?”
How can I do that? Lia wondered. Before she could ask, Rockman practically shouted.
“Ball didn’t get the medal,” said Rockman, “but Tolong did. Six months before he died.”
“Lia, please ask Mrs. Ball if she’s ever heard of a Sergeant Tolong,” said Rubens calmly. “And then see if she would agree to let us monitor her credit card and cell phone accounts to help us find him.”
116
THE DIFFICULTY WITH a campaign strategy, especially a successful one, was knowing when to end it. You wanted to cut it off just as it peaked, though that could be difficult to determine.
Not in this case. The news media reverberated with the Vietnamese connection to the attempted assassination. The administration’s denials were fanning the frenzy. With everyone screaming, it was surely time to move on.
“I HAVE A problem with my mother’s aunt that I have to take care of,” Jimmy Fingers told McSweeney as the senator waited to go on the radio with a local Rush Limbaugh wannabe. “I’m going to have to fly to Ohio tonight.”
“You have a mother?” said McSweeney.
“She denies it. I’ll be back in time for tomorrow night’s receptions.”
Jimmy Fingers started for the door.
“Jimmy?”
He turned around. McSweeney had a worried look on his face.
“Good luck with your aunt.”
“Thanks, Senator.”
“And listen—take as much time as you need. Don’t rush back. It’ll be OK.”
McSweeney’s expression gave his true feelings away—he was worried that he’d be lost without his aide. Jimmy Fingers didn’t know which he liked McSweeney more for: needing him, or lying and telling him to go ahead and do what he had to do.
“I’ll be back. Maybe even by the morning.”
117
“THE CONNECTIONS ARE entirely circumstantial,” Rubens told the President. “Captain McSweeney was in charge of assigning the men who escorted the courier. He assigned Tolong and Malinowski. The courier disappears with the money. Malinowski dies. The CIA begins to investigate. Tolong volunteers to go on a patrol. He’s allowed to go, apparently because McSweeney OK’d it. During the patrol, he and a man named Gordon are separated from the rest of the men. He is killed, according to Gordon. Gordon buries him, and comes back with one of his dog tags. McSweeney sends out a mission to recover the body. The body is not recovered. Twenty-some years later, the body is recovered.”
Rubens glanced across his office, looking at Ambassador Jackson. The former diplomat nodded grimly, a folder of his notes on his lap.
“Then there is Chris Ball,” continued Rubens. “He’s a Marine from Georgia who is about to go home. He doesn’t have much family; both of his parents are dead. His only close relation is a half sister who lives just outside Athens, Georgia. We tracked her down, and she tells us that, aside from a few postcards, he never bothered to talk to her after the war. Ball completely disappeared, in fact, until 1978, when he became a part-time patrolman in upstate New York.”
“And you think Ball is Tolong,” said the President. He was using his speakerphone, pacing around as they talked.
“We’ve done a computer rendering that shows how both men would have aged,” said Rubens. “Chief Ball and Tolong match precisely. The young Ball and the chief do not come close.”
“A computer program hardly seems definitive.”
“If we could exhume the remains of Tolong’s body, we might have definitive proof,” said Rubens. “We’re working on tracking down some of Tolong’s relatives.”
“We should have a call back in a few hours,” said Jackson. Rubens repeated the information for the President. “There’s no smoking gun in the records,” Rubens added. “But if we were to prove Ball was Tolong, perhaps he would tell us what happened.”
“If you can find him,” said the President.
“We are working on that, along with the FBI.”
“Why would he try to kill McSweeney?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure why Ball would want to kill McSweeney,” said Rubens. “If it’s related to the money, though, perhaps there was a double cross somewhere. He was in Washington when Gordon killed himself. And the investigator there thinks it’s possible it wasn’t suicide.”
Rubens saw Jackson wince.
“I may be overstating the case on that,” Rubens added. “He has agreed to revisit it, however.”
“As much as I don’t like Senator McSweeney, I have a hard time seeing him as a thief,” said the President. “Go ahead and exhume the body. Let me know what comes of the DNA tests. By the way, Billy.”
“Sir?”
“I’m going to be out in California myself the day after tomorrow. Senator McSweeney and I will be sharing a podium. I’d like to have something specific to tell him when he asks who’s trying to kill him.”
“Understood.”
118
AS SOON AS he was out of the jetway, Jimmy Fingers increased his pace, striding quickly in the direction of the exit. Las Vegas’ McCarran International Airport had never seemed so immense. Fortunately, he’d only taken a carry-on, so there was no need to wait with the others in the luggage-receiving areas. Jimmy Fingers joined the queue at the taxi stand; it moved briskly, and he soon found himself in a cab.
“The Strip,” said Jimmy. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out the secondhand laptop he’d brought along.
“Which hotel?”
“I’m not going to a hotel,” said Jimmy Fingers, turning the laptop on.
“Hoo-kay,” said the driver.
What Jimmy Fingers wanted to do was find a wireless network where he could connect and send the e-mail—from the cab, if possible. But the radio waves didn’t seem to want to cooperate, and the driver seemed nosey besides, checking his mirror every few minutes to see what was going on.
“You know where there’s a Starbucks?” Jimmy Fingers said finally.
“Starbucks. Coffee?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Expensive place for coffee. I know a place—”
“Starbucks is where I want to go.”
“Hoo-kay.”
JIMMY FINGERS ORDERED a tall decaf, then went and sat outside in the small fenced-in area at the side of the Starbucks at Centennial and I-95. He connected to the Internet and, with cars whizzing back and forth, sent what he knew would be the last e-mail of the campaign, this one threatening Congressman Mark Dalton of Florida, whose status as a veteran had not helped him break into double digits in any of the primaries so far, and whose campaign was all but finished.
After he signed off, Jimmy Finge
rs walked to the back of the store, toward a row of Dumpsters. He was just about to throw the laptop into the nearest one when a soft moan caught him off guard. Two teenagers were making out in the scrubby bushes nearby.
Cursing silently to himself, Jimmy Fingers immediately whirled around and began walking in the opposite direction. His heart double pumped, and his hands became clammy. A bus was just pulling up; Jimmy Fingers got on it. He realized it was a mistake but felt trapped; when the bus driver told him he needed exact change, Jimmy Fingers blinked at him for a second before recovering and reaching into his pocket for the right coins.
By the time he gathered himself, the bus was moving. Jimmy Fingers realized he now had a bigger problem than getting rid of the laptop in his briefcase—he had no idea where the hell he was.
Jimmy Fingers stayed on until he came to the Cannery Hotel. Still feeling disoriented, he went inside and found a bar—the Pin-Ups Lounge. He ordered himself a beer, and drank it greedily. When he was done, he simply got up, leaving the briefcase with the computer.
He was about halfway to the door when a woman in her late sixties called after him, telling him he had forgotten his bag.
I’m never going to get rid of the damn thing, Jimmy Fingers thought to himself, pretending relief as he thanked her and tucked the briefcase under his arm.
He made his way to the men’s room, where he flushed his face with cold water. It was the heat that was getting to him, he told himself, not the pressure. There was no pressure—he was within a few months of achieving everything he’d ever dreamed of achieving. McSweeney would be President; Jimmy Fingers would take a job as special assistant to the President, and hold a post in the party as well.
Scores would be settled, friends rewarded.
And they would achieve a great deal. Jimmy Fingers had been a believer in democracy and the little man when he started out, and as cynical as he had become, deep down he still believed that an elected official could do some good. If the right people were guiding him.
Jimmy Fingers caught sight of his face in the mirror. He looked a lot paler, and a lot older, than he had thought.
As he reached for the paper towels, he realized the solution to his laptop problem stood right before him.
With a quick shove, the laptop fell from the briefcase into the wastebasket. Jimmy Fingers rolled out a fistful of paper and threw it on top. He washed and dried his hands again, adding still more paper to make sure the laptop couldn’t be easily seen. Hands dry, he went to find out how to get a cab to pick him up.
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