by Chad Zunker
“Geez, sorry, boss,” I said, stepping away, not making direct eye contact. “Shouldn’t walk and text, I guess.”
The old guard gave a quick chuckle. “No problem. Have a good one.”
His eyes went back to his papers. I did a quick circle back to the stairwell.
I was standing in front of Natalie thirty seconds later.
I smiled wide, held up the key card. “You were saying, Ms. Foster?”
She shook her head. “I don’t even want to know.”
“No, you don’t. You can honestly deny it later.”
I held the key card in front of the small security box. The light went from red to green, the door clicked. Money. I turned the knob, pushed the door open. We stepped inside a small lobby with two brown leather chairs, a coffee table, small receptionist desk. There was no noise or signs of life inside the office suite. A hallway peeled off to the right from the lobby. The lights were off. I turned on the flashlight on my phone. The hallway looped around into a large open space with about a half-dozen cubicles in the middle, private offices along the outside. There was enough space for about twenty workers.
I shined the flashlight into the cubicles. Natalie and I exchanged an odd look. They were all empty. One had a clean desk and an office chair. Nothing else. No phones. No computers. No paperwork. No office supplies. No trash cans. No sign of anyone using them at all. We checked the exterior private offices. Not a single one of them even have desks inside. They were all completely empty, just carpet and bare walls. There was actually no sign of anyone working inside the offices at all. Other than the name on the door, there was no sign of this being a legitimate office.
“They move offices?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. My info says they’ve been right here since they formed back in April.”
“So where is everyone? This place looks like they haven’t even moved in yet.”
“I think it’s a front,” Natalie said.
“You mean this firm isn’t real?”
“Oh, it’s real. But on paper only.”
“Can you do that?”
“Sure. If no one asks any questions.”
“So someone created a fake PAC, and then also created a fake lobbyist firm to launder money through to it?”
“And I doubt it stops there. Every name on the donor list, for both the Roots super PAC and Tolstoy & Peters, both individual and corporate, could be fake. Layers deep. I’m thinking to hide who is really funding Roots. There are thousands of firms and tens of thousands of lobbyists in this city. It’s a ten billion dollar industry. The only reason I even connected Tolstoy so directly to Roots is because I asked some direct questions to inside sources. Otherwise, operations like this one could carry on with no one the wiser for years.”
“Who would do that? It would take an incredible amount of time, money, and effort.”
“Someone who has a lot riding on this election.”
“Right,” I agreed. “Someone who would kill to cover it up.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Sunday, 8:51 p.m.
Washington, DC
1 day, 3 hours, 9 minutes to Election Day
We stood on the sidewalk outside the Watergate Building in the night shadows.
“I think Jill Becker texted you two nights ago,” Natalie said.
I turned. “Why?”
“Jill’s maiden name was Jill Clayton. And it turns out, Jill Clayton attended SMU twelve years ago.”
I tilted my head. “I’m not following.”
“Lucas McCallister attended SMU twelve years ago. Before going to Harvard Law.”
“Right. You think they knew each other at SMU?”
“Yes.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a folded piece of paper, handed it to me. “It’s a photograph I printed off from an SMU digital yearbook page.”
It was a photo from some type of campus rally. A younger version of the blonde was in the picture, with the arm of a young college-aged Lucas McCallister wrapped around her. Both were smiling. The yearbook photo caption read Lucas McCallister and Jill Clayton march against racial discrimination up Bishop Boulevard.
Natalie continued. “I called a friend of Jill’s in New York. They were roommates a few years ago, before Jill’s second failed marriage. She admitted that Jill had been acting a little weird the last few weeks. Jill told her she had to go to San Antonio for something that would hopefully put an end to all of her financial troubles. I tried to get more, but the lady got really tight-lipped on me. It was clear that she knew a lot more, she just wouldn’t talk about it. She hung up on me and hasn’t called me back. I’m going to keep trying. But I’m not sure I can get more out of her.”
“The end of all of her financial troubles? You think someone paid Jill and planted her in Boerne that night?”
“Yes, I think it’s a strong possibility.”
“Mitchell?”
“Still my first guess. Can’t prove it. We really need to talk more with this friend.”
“What if I go see her, get her to talk to me?”
“To New York?”
“Yes, I can take the train and be there by midnight.”
"Why would she talk to you?"
I gave her a grin. “I can be very persuasive. You know that.”
“That’s true. But what if she recognizes you?”
I shrugged. “A risk I’m willing to take.”
She didn’t like that answer. “Okay, you go. But I’m going to help you.”
TWENTY-NINE
Sunday, 9:47 p.m.
Washington, DC
1 day, 2 hours, 13 minutes to Election Day
I just barely caught the last train to New York City out of Union Station. I snagged a coach seat by the window. No one was sitting beside me, thank God. I had no desire to fake small talk again. I just wanted to be left alone for a few hours. The train was scheduled to arrive at Penn Station five after midnight. The Amtrak train was not crowded. This was both good and bad, depending on how you looked at it. Natalie dressed me up in a new disguise this time. She chose a black baseball cap with a white Yankees logo that we’d picked up at Union Station. Gray windbreaker, zipped to the top, collar flipped up. Fake square-shaped black glasses that hid my eyes. She’d even taken one of her makeup pencils and darkened some of the hair around my chin into a more prominent goatee. I had to admit, I looked a lot different than the pictures floating around on TV screens and the Internet.
I’d also purchased big black headphones that fully covered both ears that I now had plugged into Dobbs Howard’s phone. I’d downloaded Bruce Springsteen’s Devils & Dust album. Bruce had helped get me through that very difficult season living on the streets of Denver as a teenager. While most of my boys had their ears filled with rap and hard core metal, I was always drawn to Springsteen. There was just something soulful and spiritual in his music that connected with me. I needed that right now.
When the train left the station, and the lights finally dimmed, and no FBI agent or contract assassin popped out of a compartment somewhere with a gun aimed directly at me, I pressed play on my favorite song on the album. The Hitter was about a kid who was kicked out at a young age by his mother. Violence was his way of life. The song recognizes that no matter our character or how many poor choices you make or wrong turns you take, we are still drawn back home. Even when we feel abandoned, we can’t escape the innate desire for the comfort of our mother’s embrace. My heart desperately longed to be near my mom right now.
I scooted way down deep into my very uncomfortable seat.
I closed my eyes, turned up the volume.
THIRTY
Monday, 12:32 a.m.
New York City
23 hours, 28 minutes to Election Day
The ex-roommate was named Maggie Medina. She was a CPA at one of the big firms. Natalie said that she and Jill Becker were roommates three years prior, before Jill had remarried. They’d kept their close friendship, according to m
ultiple sources, which had been confirmed by the quick phone call with Natalie earlier that evening. Maggie lived in a red brownstone on the Upper West Side. I caught a cab from Penn Station, somehow feeling safer. Now, I was in a vast new city in the middle of the night without any sign that someone had come along with me. I had slept in tiny spurts on the train, listening to the rhythmic hymns from The Boss, and the shake, hum, and rattle of the train bumping along on the tracks up the East Coast.
The cab dropped me in front of Maggie Medina’s brownstone. I needed to speak with her. It could not wait until morning. Hopefully, my gutsy plan would work. I took a deep breath, trotted up the steps, knocked firmly on the front door of the home. According to Natalie, Maggie was not married. She had divorced five years ago. There was no immediate answer. I waited a few seconds and then knocked firmly again. Finally I heard the rattle of chains inside. The door was cracked open a few seconds later by a black-haired woman wearing a white cotton robe. Her brown eyes were weary, like I had stirred her from bed. She didn’t say anything, just stared, confused.
“Ms. Medina?” I asked, with authority in my voice.
She nodded.
I flipped open the black wallet, showcasing a gold badge. “Detective Aitchison, NYPD, ma’am. I need to speak with you for a brief moment.”
I closed the black wallet quickly. The badge was a fake, of course. We’d picked it up in DC before I left. I knew from history that if you speak with enough confidence and authority in your voice, show some semblance of proper identification, people will believe just about anything. I’d cased many homes as a teenager wearing a fake cable TV uniform with a name badge. If Maggie asked to examine the police badge more carefully, or to make a phone call to headquarters, which she probably should have done, I would’ve done my best Usain Bolt impression down 94th Street.
“Is something wrong?” Maggie managed. She seemed to be struggling to shake off the deep fog of sleep.
“It’s about Jill Becker. I just need to ask you a few questions. It’s urgent. Can I come in for a moment?”
“Jill? Yes, of course.” She pulled the door open, led me inside to a small formal living room where she turned on two lamps. There was a small white sofa and two red sitting chairs opposite it. She sat in one of the chairs, invited me to sit on the sofa, which I did. I pulled out a small notepad, like I wanted to take official notes.
“Something bad has happened to Jill, hasn’t it?” said Maggie.
“When was the last time you spoke to her, Ms. Medina?” I asked. Again, with authority.
“I think on Monday. The day before she left for her trip.”
“To San Antonio?”
Maggie nodded.
“Were you aware of the nature of her travel plans?” I asked.
She considered her reply for a moment. “I’m not sure. Jill said there was some type of fashion convention going on there. Is Jill okay? You haven’t answered me. She was my friend. Please tell me what happened.”
She was fishing. I needed to push her further along.
“She’s missing. That’s why we’re investigating.”
Maggie lifted a hand to her mouth, stunned. “Missing?”
“Yes. If you care about your friend, I need you to be forthright with me, Ms. Medina. Do you understand?”
She nodded, her eyes suddenly welling up.
“Why was she really in San Antonio?”
Maggie exhaled deeply, swallowed. “I honestly don’t know, detective. Jill had been acting very strange the past two weeks. She said someone, a man, had come to see her privately and made her an unusual business proposition. She mentioned fifty thousand dollars up front and then another fifty thousand dollars, if all went well. A hundred thousand dollars. It was crazy. But she wouldn’t give me any details. She had borrowed ten thousand dollars from me earlier this year, when she was really struggling, and she’s been unable to pay me back. She wanted me to know that it was coming soon. That’s the only reason she’d even mentioned this man and the trip to San Antonio.”
“She say anything more about this man? A name? What he looked like?”
Maggie shook her head. “No, nothing. She was actually very uneasy about telling me anything. I’ve never seen her so uptight. She said she had not had a single drink in a week so she could be absolutely clear-minded and focused for the trip, which was a really big deal for Jill. Jill struggled with alcohol a lot, especially recently, since her divorce from Roger last year.”
“And nothing at all about the nature of the business?”
“No, not a word. But it was something serious. She mentioned signing some very strict confidentiality agreement.”
“And you haven’t heard from her since?”
Another shake of the head. “She was supposed to come back yesterday. A reporter actually called me earlier today to ask about her, too. So I’ve been trying to reach her all day with no success. Now, of course, I’m thinking something really bad has happened to her.”
“And no one else has come by asking questions?”
“No, just you and this reporter.”
“Ms. Medina, how much do you know about Jill’s past relationships?”
“Which ones? Her marriages?”
“Or boyfriends.”
She paused. “That’s a really long list, detective. Jill has never had any trouble attracting guys. She’s just had trouble attracting the right guys.” She shrugged. “But that makes two of us, I guess.”
“Does she have a history with anyone well-known?”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Well-known? Like an actor or something?”
“Or a politician.”
Maggie shook her head. “No, nothing like that. I mean, she did once, back in college. But that was a really long time ago. And before he was any big deal.”
“Who did she date in college?”
“Lucas McCallister.”
Bingo. “The congressional candidate?”
Maggie nodded. “Although I wouldn’t really call it dating. Jill called it a fling. I don’t think they were ever an official item. Not boyfriend-girlfriend or anything like that.”
“When did she tell you this?”
Maggie shrugged. “When we were first roommates. She didn’t want to talk about it too much. She said that when Lucas McCallister’s father, Senator McCallister, was first forming a presidential exploratory team several years ago, some campaign guys visited her and offered her a few thousand dollars to keep her mouth shut about any relationship she’d ever had with the senator’s son. I think they were trying to cover any skeletons in the old man’s closet, even among his family. Jill took the money and had never said a word, as far as I know. Until that night with me, anyway.”
“Had she mentioned anything about Lucas McCallister since?”
“No.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is he involved?”
“No, ma’am. Just don’t want to leave any stone unturned. Jill ever mention the name Tolstoy & Peters? Or a political action committee named Roots? Both out of DC?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
I shut my notepad, stood. “I apologize for waking you tonight, Ms. Medina. But I appreciate your help.”
“Of course. Will you please let me know if you find out anything?”
“Certainly, we’ll be in touch.”
THIRTY-ONE
Monday, 1:10 a.m.
New York City
21 hours, 50 minutes to Election Day
The cab took me over the East River on the Brooklyn Bridge.
Jill Becker lived in a small apartment in East Flatbush, Brooklyn. Natalie had spoken to the landlord. Jill was three months behind on rent. They had threatened eviction several times in the last year, and each time Jill somehow came up with just enough to hang around a little while longer. From all accounts, she was a desperate woman and a perfect candidate for the assignment of taking down Lucas McCallister in Texas. Someone had done their homework. They had dug deep into McCallister’s distant past, lookin
g for bait. The type of bait that they knew he would have a very difficult time resisting. Someone beautiful, of course, but it had to be more than that. There had to be a deeper connection for McCallister to roll the dice and risk the election.
I was dropped in front of a four-story yellowed building. There was no doorman, but the front door was connected to an intercom system. To gain access to the building, a resident had to buzz you in from their apartment. The front door was well-lit. I could not spend too much time examining the lock system to see if I could overcome it. There were still cars moving about along the street, and some stray walkers out. I spent a minute or two studying the engineering, seeing if there was a quick point of leverage. I couldn’t see one.
I chose a random button, pressed. No answer.
Another random button. It was late.
“Yeah?” answered a gruff male voice.
“Hey, this is Don in 2C, forgot my key. Can you please let me in?”
“Who?”
“Don, 2C, come on, man, it’s cold out.”
“Don’t know you.” The line went dead.
I gave another shot at it. Two more nonresponses. Then, finally, another answer. An irritated female.
“Hello?”
“Hey, this is Geno, with Pizza King. Got an order for your neighbor, but they aren’t answering. Can you let me in? The pizza is getting cold.”
“Which neighbor?”
“Jill Becker.”
“Jill lives above me. And I can see you from the window, pal. You don’t have any pizzas. You want me to call the cops?”
I looked up, saw a fifty-something hefty blonde woman peering down from behind the curtain on the second floor corner unit. Busted. “Okay, you got me, Ma’am. I’m staying over at Jill’s place. Can you let me inside?”