Dane was home in thirty minutes. The apartment he and Joanie shared was small for two people. After he was released from the hospital, Dane moved into her place. It was a simple twelve-hundred square feet, two-bedroom apartment. The plan was to save money so they could purchase a much bigger house as the wedding approached, whenever that might be.
He undressed, threw on a robe, and meandered into the kitchen. After popping a TV dinner in the microwave, he opened a beer and sat in his recliner. When he turned on the television, he managed to catch Wings, his favorite comedy, just after it started. Crystal Bernard had just entered the scene when the microwave timer dinged. Not about to leave with Crystal on the screen, he stayed put. He adored her—almost to the point where Joanie was jealous.
At the first commercial, Dane hopped off the recliner and retrieved his TV dinner and resumed his position in his chair. No sooner than the show returned, with Crystal front and center, his phone rang. He wanted to ignore it, but when the caller ID showed a New York number, he muted the television and answered the phone. His instincts were right. It was the network.
“Dane? This is Everett Patterson from NBC in New York. How are you tonight?”
Dane tingled inside, but he tried to hide his enthusiasm. He needed to appear as professional on the phone as he did on-air. “I-I’m fine. How—what can I do for you?”
“It’s what we can do for you, Dane. We’d like to have you on the TODAY show in the morning. We’d like you to summarize the broadcasts you’ve done at the affiliate and give us any updates you’ve got. Would that be something you’re interested in?”
“I . . . well, yes. But I won’t be able to catch a flight to get there in time.”
“No worries. I’ve already spoken to Ed at the station. We’ll get the live feed from Tulsa. Give him a call. He’s got all the details.”
Dane’s heart pounded. Twice in one week! He’d struck the broadcasting lottery!
“I’ll do that. And I look forward to tomorrow morning’s broadcast.”
“Great. Look, if this goes well, it could mean bigger things for you.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we might pull you up to the major leagues. Interested?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Okay. Give us a good show tomorrow. We’ll talk in the morning. Good night.”
Dane couldn’t wipe the smile off his face if he tried. “Well, okay, then. Good night.”
He called Joanie at the station, excited about the great news. This was even more important than watching Crystal Bernard.
“Dane, this is so exciting,” she said. “Ed already has everything in motion for tomorrow’s broadcast. You’ll go live at six a.m., Tulsa time.”
“Wow. Thank Ed for me. I’ve got to get to work on my story.”
“I will. He figured that.” She paused for a moment. “What was in the envelope you got earlier?”
Dane stared at the package sitting on the dining room table. He couldn’t tell her he was watching Wings and hadn’t gotten to the package yet.
“I-I’ve been so tired I hadn’t opened it yet. I’ll get to it right away.”
“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll see you later tonight. I’m so happy for you. This is exciting.”
“All right, I’ll see you when you get home, babe.” Dane hung up the phone and stared at the FedEx envelope again.
Little did he know that what he found would keep him up most of the night. He worked earnestly, and the deeper he probed, the more he began to fit the pieces together. Again.
He would have his update for tomorrow morning.
DANE HOPED to be asleep when Joanie came home after eleven p.m., but he was far from it. They made love, and she insisted he go to sleep. In time, he dozed off for about an hour but had to rise very early to prepare for the broadcast. Most of the restless night he used to put together his story, based on the new details Draken Black gave him.
At 5:55 a.m., Dane sat behind the anchor desk in the studio, his notes in front of him, alongside the redacted file he had received a few days before. As tired as he was, going on little to no sleep, he never felt more alive. He was on the verge of breaking the biggest story in this country since Watergate—one that would shake the nation to its core.
“Dane, we go live in five,” the director said next to the camera, going silent and continuing the countdown with his fingers—four, three, two, one.
The light on top of the camera glowed red, and the television monitor displayed the TODAY show team in New York. “Welcome back, America,” the host said. “This morning, we’re going back to an old friend of ours. One who you might have seen here in New York just a few days ago. But like many of our affiliate stations out there, he’s been busy as a bee with his nose to the grindstone. I’m talking about America’s favorite underdog, the Taaaser from Tulsa. Dane Robinson. Good Morning, Dane.”
“Good morning. It’s great to be back with you.”
“Dane, yesterday you rocked the nation with the revelation that Jason Conrad, a lieutenant in the United States Air Force, was actually a Russian double agent. This is in addition to the report that Lieutenant Conrad is alleged to be the prime suspect in at least three murders, possibly four.”
“Yes, I believe the smallest number is four.”
“Smallest number! Oh, my goodness. What information do you have?”
Dane shifted in his seat and picked up Conrad’s dossier. “I am not at liberty to discuss the details at this time. The station’s attorney advised me to keep a lid on the evidence. It is my understanding Jason Conrad was placed under arrest sometime yesterday.”
“Yes, we’ve heard that, but Dane, can you tell our audience why this obsession—no, obsession is probably not a good word. Why this pursuit of Jason Conrad?”
Dane went on to explain his involvement in the San Antonio incident, linking together all the players: Lenny Banks, Vince Andrews, Kathy Delgato, and the Oklahoma mobster Big Joe McCain. Next, he brought up all the people who died around Conrad—Lenny Banks, Bud Bailey, CIA agent Greg Johnson, and two thugs who worked for Big Joe. He made the connection between Jason, CIA agent Aaron Caldwell, and Nancy Williams. More recently, two boaters were killed on a lake the very day Conrad visited there, and a police officer was shot outside a local bar shortly after Conrad was reported leaving the place. To his credit, Dane skillfully tied all these components together, showing Conrad’s relationship with all those who died. And more importantly, he clarified his ties to Russia, deftly weaving his ex-wife into the storyline. Most of the information was a rehash of what he said last week, combined with details from this week’s Tulsa broadcasts.
“This is all so fascinating, Dane. We want to thank you for getting up so early and sharing it with us. We don’t usually say this, but the word on the streets is you are primed for a major network gig. How does that feel?”
Dane beamed. “It’s great. Just great.”
“Thank you for being here this morning, Dane. Before we go, do you have anything else for our audience?”
Dane’s back stiffened, and his head turned side to side before returning his focus on the camera. “I didn’t realize we were out of time. I have a huge announcement to make, and I wanted to make it here, as opposed to our local broadcast.”
It was the interviewer’s turn to be stunned. “Really? We weren’t aware...we were about to cut to a commercial...let’s do that and re-engage on the other side.” She paused, her hand jutting up to the side of her head. “Dane, the producer said to press forward. We’ll go to commercial when you finish.”
Dane straightened in his seat and grabbed the folder he received last night. “Thank you. This won’t take long. A lot of people across the nation and from various media outlets have been clamoring for my source for this story. After the broadcast last night, my contact at the Central Intelligence Agency sent me this package and permission to reveal his identity,” he said, holding up the official-looking folder. “My source, Agent Draken Black from the
CIA, gave me the latest round of information involving the Russian agent Jason Conrad. It’s been heavily redacted, but the implications are clear. Jason Conrad isn’t the only Russian spy in this story.”
“He’s not. You’ve already mentioned Vince Andrews—the one who was said to be a Bosnian spy. Is that who you’re referring to?”
“No,” Dane said, almost smug in his delivery. “Jason Conrad has an accomplice. One we would never suspect. The ringleader of the Russian operation here in the United States is none other than his father, Senator Jonathan Bowman.”
36
May 1, 1996
IT FELT like hours had passed before the guards returned to check on the prisoners. The biker regained consciousness a few minutes before they arrived, moaning over his injured elbow. The guards took him to a different area of the station to see about his injury. Jason tried to question the guards about getting a lawyer. He was anxious, and he wanted out of this cell. His requests, of course, went ignored.
About an hour after the biker had been removed, the cleaning lady strolled back through the area. She had some drinks on a tray for the prisoners, all in small Dixie cups. Passing the drinks through the bars, she appeared to be one short by the time she reached Jason. The hungover businessman who sided with the biker during his fight was about to grab the last cup. The old woman moved the cup away from his hand and handed it to Jason.
“Hey, what the hell?” the businessman said. “I’m dying of thirst here.”
Jason eyed the spineless man and started to lift the drink to his mouth when his instincts kicked in. Why? Why did she bypass this guy and hand me this cup? Why did she start over there and work toward him? It was shortly after she talked to the biker that he was attacked. He stared at the drink in his hand and sniffed it. Nothing seemed unusual, but it didn’t add up.
“If you’re not gonna drink it, I sure as hell will.” The hungover businessman grabbed the small cup from Jason’s hand.
“I wouldn’t—” The man downed it in one gulp before he could stop him. Maybe the guy wasn’t spineless after all.
“Asshole,” the businessman said as he threw the cup at Jason’s feet and walked away. Halfway across the cell, he stopped. His body shook subtly seconds before he fell to the floor and began convulsing, foam running from his mouth. Another prisoner ran to help the man, but it was too late. The man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, his jaw dropping open. He was dead.
Jason moved against the wall where he could keep everyone in sight. That was twice someone tried to kill him since he’d been thrown in this cell. This was no coincidence.
The prisoners on the other side began yelling for the guards, and within a few minutes, two guards came in. Assessing the situation, one ran out and returned with two more. One directed the prisoners to line up facing the back wall. Jason stood on the far side of the cell, away from the other prisoners and the door.
“Turn around and face the wall!” the guard said, pointing his baton at him.
“And end up with a bullet in my back? I don’t think so,” Jason replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The other three entered, and two of them dragged out the dead businessman while the third guarded them. He kept Jason in his crosscheck as they backed out of the cell and shut the door behind them. Jason noticed the cleaning lady shuffle into the doorway. She was smiling.
The smile faded when the cops carried the body past her. The white of her bulging eyes made her corneas look small as they shifted to Jason, then narrowed with contempt. That was it. She was the one behind it. That much, he was sure of.
TUGGAR ANSWERED the phone on the first ring. When he saw the number, he hoped to hear something positive. He started to speak into the receiver when Sheila walked out of the bathroom naked. She had just taken a shower, and Tuggar was finally going to have his way with her. It would be their celebration for getting the job done.
He pressed the green button to answer the phone and set it against his ear. “I suppose you have some good news for me.”
“Aaaww, damn,” she said. Her tone wasn’t what he expected.
“What’s wrong?” He glanced at Sheila, still nude, who sat upright, aware something wasn’t right. “Is the job done?”
She sobbed into the phone. “I been tryin’ hard. We didna get him.” She laid on the country mammy accent thick, a sympathy ploy no doubt. It didn’t matter. Big Joe would be pissed—at all of them.
“What happened?”
“My guy didn’t work out. I paid him, and he tried. That Conrad boy was too tough for my guy. Whupped him real good. They called an ambulance to take him to the hospital. He got a busted elbow. That Conrad boy done it.”
“You told Mister McCain you’d get this done.”
“I tried . . . I even tried poisoning the boy, but someone musta took his drink. He’s got to know it’s me doin’ this. I-I left the station. There’s too much goin’ on, and he’s gonna finger me.
“They are releasing him from jail soon. Some fancy lawyer come in with a Fed. There’s been a lot a yellin’ going on here. I think they’re gonna drive him back to the base. Tell Mista McCain I’m sorry I didn’t get the job done.”
Damn. Tuggar turned to Sheila and shook his head. “Yeah,” was all he could say, and he hung up.
“Get dressed, darlin’. We’ve got to go.”
Sheila said nothing and shrugged her shoulders. She scooted off the edge of the bed and proceeded to put on her clothes. Tuggar retrieved the automatic he used the other day when he killed the cop. Initially, he had been nervous. Once he found out they pinned the murder on Jason Conrad, he was fine. But now, they had to go. Tuggar knew once they got the kid back to Vance, there would be no way to kill him.
37
May 1, 1996
FOR JASON, time dragged on. The excitement from the last hour or two confused his senses and distorted his ability to judge time. The door from the police station opened, and a man in a crisp suit, peppered black hair, and stylish glasses entered and walked straight toward him.
“Jason, I’m Alex Hastings. I’m your father’s attorney. And now, I’m yours.” He turned to the guard standing behind him. “What are you waiting for? Release my client from this cell before I have you brought up on charges, as well.”
Jason tilted his head to the side. He wasn’t familiar with the attorney, but he liked his style. The guard, with a drooping face and sunken shoulders, opened the cell door and motioned Jason to come out. He shuffled at first, worried this might be a trap. His head scanned in all directions. Once outside the cell, the attorney grabbed him by the arm and moved faster down the hallway until they reached the office section of the station.
Standing at one of the desks, yelling at what appeared to be the officer in charge, was his old friend Aaron Caldwell. A smile crossed the CIA agent’s face the moment he saw Jason.
“I wasn’t sure what to expect when I heard about your incident with the biker,” Caldwell said, walking toward him. “He was in bad shape. These guys have been less than cooperative.”
“They think I killed one of their officers.”
“Yeah, they wanted someone to blame. You were the easy target. Especially with the news broadcasts. They didn’t bother to wait for the ballistics report, let alone, produce the murder weapon.”
“Gentlemen,” Hastings said, “let’s go in this office for a minute.” Jason and Caldwell followed the attorney into a side office. The attorney shut the door behind them.
“Jason, you’re being released,” Hastings said. “All charges have been dropped.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The convenient, yet circumstantial evidence had too many holes. I’m sorry it took so long. I arrived in town this morning and had been at the base talking to your wing commander and interviewing your classmates. I’ve spent the last hour and a half here, telling the police how inefficient they have been in their investigation.”
“But did I hear you say all charges have been
dropped?”
“Yes.”
“H-how’d you do that?” Jason was impressed. Caldwell handed him a bottle of water from the refrigerator in the office.
“They had no solid evidence. Your classmates all vouched for you at the lake. Your buddy, one Pete Peterson, told an interesting story, by the way.” The attorney smiled. “The shell casings found outside the restaurant came from the same caliber gun the cop was killed with. All the shell casings from the restaurant had the same fingerprints. They belong to a smalltime hood named Kevin Plimpton. Goes by the nickname Tuggar. He was last known to associate with a bookie out of Tulsa named Joseph McCain. Sound familiar?”
“Yeah, he’s the bookie Lenny Banks placed his bets with. Owed him a lot of money.”
“Interesting. Well, as for the women’s underwear found under the seat in your jeep—your father gave you that Jeep three months ago. The police had no answer as to why you would stick panties under the seat of a new jeep. Since the anonymous caller said you did it right after you supposedly murdered her, it was a no-brainer.
“I have several lawsuits I’ll be filing against the police department. Reckless endangerment and a few Constitutional issues. It will be enough to keep them busy covering their own backsides rather than harassing you, particularly if heads roll.”
“How did you get this done so fast?” Jason asked.
“Lucky for them, they gave you a phone call. That’s about the only thing they did right. Your father gave me a few details, and then your mother gave me the rest. I headed this way as soon as I could.”
The Right to Know Page 19