Access to Power
Page 5
“He thinks of everything, doesn’t he,” Frank said.
She nodded, still holding him.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She nodded again. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
She let go of him and moved to the next chair. As she wiped away the tears that were still coming, the shock of seeing Woody’s dead body staring at him began to lift and Frank got his first glimpse of the reality beneath. In the end, Woody fought for what he believed in and was right more often than he was wrong. He had been the better half of their partnership, Frank thought. The good one, the one with all the heart. Since their beginning, Frank was the one with brains, the one who always seemed to be getting into trouble. In Woody’s death, Frank had lost his part-time guide, his part-time conscience. And there was an emptiness that came with the loss. A loneliness. A fear of the vacuum ahead. Watching Linda struggle with her emotions only seemed to deepen its reach.
“It’s three weeks before election day,” she said. “What are we gonna do?”
He shook his head. They were in a crisis. He needed to think, but couldn’t.
“In the morning,” he said in a low voice. “We’ll call Woody’s clients in the morning. We’ll see who wants to stay and who wants to go.”
She was leaning toward him. He felt her breath against his face and watched her green eyes wander down to his mouth. A moment passed. Before he could tell what she was thinking, the door opened and Hardly walked in with three cups of coffee. He passed them out and sat down beside Linda, sipping the fresh brew. No one said anything. As Frank watched them, he wondered how long they had been together, how far they’d gone.
His mind was drifting again. Going places.
He dug into his pocket for his cigarettes and stepped out of the room. He took a deep breath and glanced down the hall. The lobby had thinned. Two people who looked like worried parents were talking to the cop at the front desk. Frank wondered if they were the mother and father of the boy with the smile who had just been led away in chains. When the public defender joined them, looking tired and bored, his thoughts were confirmed. She was saying something to them. The boy’s mother burst into tears. Then the father sat down in the corner and began sobbing as well.
He heard a door open behind him and turned. Grimes walked out of the observation booth, stiffened and gave him a long look. The detective had been watching him, listening to his conversation with Linda.
“You’re all business, aren’t you,” Grimes said evenly.
It wasn’t posed as a question. Grimes thought he was a mind reader. Frank could see the disapproval on the detective’s face, the attitude and ignorance, before the man turned and made his way down to the detective bureau. Frank lit a cigarette, leaning his head against the wall and trying to suppress his anger. There was no escape, the horror all around. And the night felt like it still had legs.
Chapter 14
Frank’s car was parked on the street across from their office. Linda dropped him off with Hardly asleep in the backseat. There wasn’t much to say that hadn’t already been said. Linda wanted to take a short nap, but would be in by nine to help out.
Frank watched them drive off, then got into his car, keenly aware that he was alone. The sun had just cleared the horizon, the bright light raking the city in what looked like fool’s gold. He switched on the radio and scanned the dial, avoiding the news and talk stations as he made the fifteen minute drive home to Georgetown. He needed a break to sort things out, if only for an hour or two. And he had a hungry dog waiting—a one-year-old Labrador retriever. Buddha had probably eaten most of the furniture and was bouncing off the walls by now.
Frank’s house sat on three-quarters of an acre of prime real estate. A big Victorian with trees and a fenced-in backyard so Buddha could be outside if he wanted while Frank worked at the office. Buddha must have heard Frank’s car pull into the drive and run inside through the doggy door off the back porch. When Frank entered the kitchen, Buddha was sitting by his empty bowl wagging his tail and looking Frank straight in the eye like he’d just been picked as poster dog by the National Humane Society.
The guilt trip worked, as it always did. And Frank put a little extra in his bowl, last night’s dinner and this morning’s breakfast, all rolled into one. As he watched the dog snap up the food, he remembered what his mother had told him as a young boy. She had said that the humanity in a person who didn’t love animals wasn’t finished yet. That their souls were somehow incomplete.
Buddha cleaned his bowl and began licking the floor. He hadn’t been fed since yesterday morning. Frank wondered what his mother would think, whether she would have considered her son incomplete or unfinished in some fundamental way.
Shaking off the guilt, he dumped yesterday’s coffee into the sink. Then he started a fresh pot and went upstairs while it brewed. His head was pounding, and he walked into the bathroom swinging the medicine cabinet open without looking at himself in the mirror. He grabbed the bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol, shaking out two caplets and swallowing them with half a glass of tap water. There had already been four water alerts this year. During the last crisis in August, health authorities warned that the water was unsafe for drinking and might even kill aquarium fish. After they dumped chlorine into the antiquated pipes, the water tasted like Clorox and it had been recommended that people take their showers in ventilated rooms to avoid being poisoned by chlorine gas.
Frank tried not to think about it as he tasted the bleach in his mouth, got out of his tuxedo and stepped into the shower. He could feel the tightness in his body that comes from a night without sleep. And he let the warm water roll over his head, standing under the spill for five or six minutes without moving.
He thought about what Randolph had told him after they finally spoke. The crime scene at first glance. A kid, most likely a drug addict in search of money for another hot load, sees the lighted window, breaks in and kills Woody for his credit cards and cash. Anyone who lived in Washington and read a newspaper knew that the nation’s capital was also the capital of the stickup. Stickups happened every day, all over town. Once they had your wallet, whether they shot the gun, flicked the knife into your chest or decided to run away was a matter of luck and timing. Twenty to thirty people were critically wounded in the nation’s capital every single day.
But Woody had shot back. As Randolph said, there was closure here. Woody had gotten his man.
Frank shaved and got dressed, making sure that the bottle of Tylenol ended up in his jacket pocket just in case. But as he stood over the kitchen sink forcing a piece of raisin toast down, he wondered how he was going to get through this.
He drove back into town, deciding to make a short day of it. As he pulled into the lot at the office, he noticed the yellow crime scene tape had been taken down. He thought he’d still seen it when Linda dropped him off two hours ago but he wasn’t really sure now. Parking in his usual space away from the trees, he unlocked the front door and walked inside the building.
It was still early. No one would show up for another hour or so.
He stood in the middle of the war room, taking it in as he had when the police were there. It was quieter now. Brighter with all the sunlight spilling in from the windows. After a few minutes, he crossed the war room and looked in Woody’s office. The desk faced the door. A couch and coffee table were set along the wall opposite the bookcases and a couple of high backed chairs. It was still and lifeless. But at least the detectives were gone.
When Frank moved down to his own office, he stopped in the doorway, unsure if he could walk inside. There was a blood stain on the carpet where Woody’s body had fallen. A faint smell of urine in the air. He was seeing Woody again. His friend’s pain and fear just before he was murdered. The sound of gunshots. Frank’s eyes began to sting as the image crystallized. After the gunshots began to fade away, he thought that he could hear someone weeping in the distance who sounded a lot like his father.
Chapter 15
Raymond looked at what was left of the Iwo Jima Motel’s continental breakfast. The coffee cakes were gone. So were the toaster waffles. Although he could have gone into the diner and ordered anything he wanted, there wasn’t a TV there.
A pudgy ten-year-old was eyeing the food with him. Raymond had seen him get up from the table in the corner where he had finished breakfast with his family. They were dressed like tourists and looked undisciplined and overfed. Obviously, the fat kid wanted more. Raymond grabbed the two remaining boxes of cereal before the kid could reach a decision. Then he moved down the line, picking out a container of milk that still felt relatively cold, a Styrofoam bowl and the last plastic spoon in the basket.
It was eight-twenty. The Today Show would be cutting to local news in a few minutes. Raymond found an empty table in the back and sat down so that he wouldn’t be facing the TV but could turn to watch if anything of interest came up.
Something of interest came up quickly. They had used the story as their lead-in.
A highly respected media consultant was murdered last night in a failed robbery attempt at his Capitol Hill office. It is reported that the victim managed to shoot and kill the intruder. Both names have been withheld until family members can be located. More later as the story unfolds.
When the broadcast switched to the weather, Raymond poured milk over his cereal and dug into the Styrofoam bowel of Sugar Pops.
The cops had bought it as he had known they would. He had dressed the murder scene with the right evidence in the proper amounts. He had gone the extra mile by hunting Sonny Stockwell down and providing the cops with a perp they could understand and would not question. He’d placed a gun in Stockwell’s hand, another in the victim’s hand and fired them in order to coat their fingers with gunshot residue. Both pistols had been picked up at local gun shows for cash, defying any trace. He was leading the cops along, staggering the evidence so that they’d feel like they were part of the hunt and actually accomplishing something. The victim’s body first, the apparent result of a robbery. Then Stockwell’s corpse on the lawn out back with the victim’s credit cards and cash. He’d used the psychology of discovery to reassure the cops that their first impression was the right one and everything made sense. Once the lab results came in, the case would be closed. Raymond had believed for many years that most cops liked to think they were smarter than everybody else and could be sucked in by the evidence. If he laid the puzzle out in pieces, completing the picture with a small clue here and another there, he could lead them anywhere.
Making the victim’s murder look like a suicide would have been a lot less complicated. He knew from his research that political consultants had business difficulties on a routine basis. Suicide would have been an easy sell. But he also knew that he couldn’t afford the risk. People would have asked why. They would have taken a closer look, paid better attention. Even a stupid cop might have figured it out.
None of this mattered, of course. Raymond understood that he had fallen short and hadn’t delivered on what he’d intended. He’d already extended his visit at the motel with the clerk at the front desk. At some point in the day, he would try to reach his client, whom he doubted was very stable right now.
Raymond finished off his Sugar Pops and got up for a cup of coffee. He’d take it to go, he decided. He’d spend the day listening to his tapes and considering his options. Keep his eyes and ears open, then call his client once he’d had a chance to think things through. Dressed in a gray flannel suit, a shirt and tie, he was playing a business man. Maybe even a bureaucrat. Either way, with his hair greased back and a briefcase in hand, he looked particularly lifeless and could easily get lost among all those drones he’d seen over the past few days working on the Hill.
Chapter 16
Messengers were in and out, delivering flowers and notes of sympathy. Tracy had her hands full.
Frank turned back to Woody’s desk. He couldn’t find his partner’s client files.
He checked the drawers, then went through the stack of papers on the side table. Client files were something Woody would have kept within easy reach because they were used every day. When all Frank found were scripts and polling data, he moved to the filing cabinet on the far wall and started with the top drawer.
Linda walked in, placing a vase of yellow flowers on the side table.
“I can’t find his client files,” he said. “Did you already pull them?”
She shook her head and crossed the room, watching him thumb through the files in the drawer. “I haven’t had a chance. Maybe they were on his desk and the police took them.”
“What would they want with client files?”
The files might have been out, but it didn’t make sense for anyone to take them. The investigation was open and shut. The police already had their man. He was lying in a body bag beside Woody in a refrigerator at the D.C. morgue.
“Let me look,” she said, nudging Frank aside.
She slid the second drawer open. Frank read the tabs, recognizing the names from the election two years ago.
“Those are last cycle’s clients, Linda.”
He took a step back as she pulled the long drawer all the way out.
“Here they are,” she said. “All the way in back.”
He checked the names, wondering what they were doing so deep in the drawer. “But he would’ve used them every day?”
Linda shrugged. “It looks like they’re in chronological order, front to back.”
Frank sat on the couch, watching her pull the files and stack them on the cabinet. They were difficult to reach and the drawer kept inching closed, snagging her fingers. He turned to Woody’s desk on the other side of the room as he thought it over. Woody may have been meticulous, but he was also lazy. It didn’t make sense.
Chapter 17
Peter Riggs sat before the computer at Linda’s desk as Linda and Frank watched from the couch and red leather chair. The door was closed. Riggs worked the keyboard, adding and subtracting numbers as he paged through the company’s books and brought them up to date. About the same age as Frank, Riggs was more slight in body with bristly hair. He’d been their accountant since Frank and Woody opened the business.
“You started out with thirty clients,” Riggs said, looking over his glasses. “Two left. Now you’re down to twenty-eight.”
“Twenty-seven,” Linda said.
Riggs glanced at her. “Who?”
“Eldridge from Tennessee.”
“But he was Woody’s biggest client?”
Linda nodded.
Riggs typed in the adjustment and looked at Frank slumped in the chair. “Well, your total media buy still adds up to almost seventy-five million dollars,” he said. “The firm takes fifteen percent off the top. That’s about eleven million, two hundred thousand. With Woody gone, you split the money not by three, but by only two. After all the bills are paid, even if you reinvest something in the company, you could walk away with five million dollars apiece.”
“Five point two,” Frank said.
Riggs checked his figures again and nodded.
Fifteen percent was a standard agency fee. But unlike an advertising agency that worked by committee and spent money needlessly, requiring months or even years to craft an ad campaign that might never hit its intended target, a decent media consultant knew content outweighed style every time. Armed with the right research, once you defined the message, you could hit your target in a matter of weeks or days and actually compute the response.
Frank could see Linda taking it in. Even without a night’s sleep, her face seemed to glow. Still, the whole thing felt like the reading of a will to Frank. He was uneasy about it. With Woody gone, he and Linda would profit, dividing the take in two. Each of them would be receiving an additional $1.7 million just because Woody had been murdered. $5.2 million in total. The fee might have been standard, but it was a lot of money. And everyone in the room knew that it was a lot of money.
Riggs sat back in the chair, pushing his glasses over his forehead. “All I’m saying is that it’s a two-way split on a big year. One of your biggest, considering it’s not a presidential year.”
“I want their bonuses doubled,” Frank said, still looking at Tracy.
“Are you sure that’s the way to handle this?”
“I want them doubled,” he repeated. “You guys finish up without me.”
Frank opened the door, crossing the war room to Tracy’s desk. She glanced at him for a moment, then turned back to the window.
“What do you think they’re doing out there?” she asked.
Frank noted the fear in her voice and moved closer to the window. He looked at the parking lot one floor below. He didn’t notice at first, but then he saw it. The car that didn’t fit. An unmarked car, with Randolph and Grimes sitting in the front seat.
Harry and Tom moved to the far window. Linda walked out of her office with Riggs, the meeting apparently over, and joined them. Frank could see the anxiety in their faces. Paranoia was in the air. When the locksmith suddenly appeared, he had an audience ready and waiting.
“You’re all set,” the locksmith said. “These are the new keys to the front door.”