Access to Power

by Robert Ellis

  Frank stepped into the foyer, listening to the house and overwhelmed by its eeriness. All the lights were on, and he could feel a chill crackling up his spine as he looked around. A small chest had been placed just below the stairway. The drawers were open and he found gloves and scarves packed and ready for the winter ahead. He could smell the wool and faint scent of cedar lining the drawers. The sense of finality—his friend’s death—was overwhelming.

  A moment passed, deep and quiet, until he finally noticed the sound of a clock ticking. As he stepped into the living room, he saw an antique grandfather clock standing against the wall by the window. However faint, Woody’s house still had a measurable pulse. Frank checked the clock’s time against his watch. The pulse was fading, the time, six hours off. Frank couldn’t help wondering when the old clock had last been wound and didn’t want to think about what might click off in his head if he were to hear it finally stop. Opening the glass door, he found the clock key behind the face and tightened the spring. Then he reset the time. It was 4:30 p.m. Merdock’s press conference would just be getting started. Perfect timing for the evening news. Within the next half hour, Frank’s career would be over. Within the next thirty minutes, Frank would be the issue, not Merdock or Olson or even Woody.

  He shook it off, turning to the writing table beside the bookcases set against the far wall. He’d start here, he decided. He’d search the first floor and work his way upstairs. As he approached the writing table, he noticed a photograph set in a silver frame and picked it up. It was a black-and-white picture of Frank and Woody taken in a parking garage a long time ago. The angle was cocked to one side. Frank remembered that they had taken the picture themselves using the camera’s timer. They had just started the business, working clients together and still a long way off from making any real money.

  Frank wiped a water spot off the glass with his thumb. The mayor of Trenton, New Jersey had been up for reelection. Frank and Woody were handling his opponent and needed a shot of the acting mayor to go along with the newspaper headlines they’d collected. It was a shitty race, negative all the way. And there was talk that the mayor had mob connections, which added a measure of fear to the pot and made the whole thing a little crazy for two unknown consultants just finding their way.

  The political go-to guy in the county, Vic Patterson, had told them over the phone that the mayor walked out of his office at City Hall every day at three sharp, got into his black Lincoln and drove home. He said that the mayor parked his car in front of the building, and that a garage stood directly across the way. The view would be perfect.

  Frank and Woody had driven up from Washington with a camera and tripod, wondering how Patterson could know so much about the mayor’s routine. But when they finally arrived in Trenton and found City Hall, everything that the man had told them turned out to be true. They pulled into the parking garage, drove up to the third floor and found a spot for the camera. Then they waited.

  They were an hour early and had a bird’s-eye view of the entire town. Trenton was an industrial city without any industry. Much of the landscape had been burned down or abandoned. It looked like the kind of place where the rules had been forgotten and everyone on the street was either somebody’s next victim or heavily armed.

  Frank could remember how nervous they were as they waited out the hour. Even though they were hidden, their hearts were pounding and they were both chaining cigarettes down. But then at three sharp, the lobby doors swung open and out walked the mayor just as Vic Patterson had said he would.

  Frank ran over to the camera and switched it on. The mayor was only about twenty-five feet away from the building when he spotted them three floors up and looked right down the barrel of the lens. The man stopped dead in his tracks and Frank could see fear in his eyes, like just maybe the camera was a rifle and he was about to die. The moment only lasted for a few seconds. Once the mayor realized what was actually happening, his fear for his life gave way to a heavy dose of indecision. It looked like he wasn’t sure if he should run back into the building or continue to his car. Another moment passed before he caught himself. Then he looked down at the ground, rushed over to his car and sped out of the lot into the ruined cityscape.

  On the drive back to Washington Frank remembered telling Woody that they could have been killed. Woody laughed and cracked open another beer from the six-pack they’d bought on the way out of town. He was saying something like we could have been dead, but we weren’t. This time it was the mayor who was going down. It was all a front, Frank knew. Woody had been just as nervous as he was.

  Still, Woody’s prediction proved to be true. The mayor’s campaign for reelection ended the moment the man noticed the camera and looked at the lens. He had done nothing wrong, but the image came off like he was doing everything wrong. The fear in his eyes read like guilt. The moment of indecision, as if he were running away from a crime with everyone watching TV as his witness. When election day finally came, the mayor went down in a landslide, never to be heard from again.

  Frank placed the picture back on the writing table, wondering why he hadn’t understood it before. What had happened in Trenton should have been something he considered. A sign on the road that he never should have missed.

  Chapter 64

  Raymond saw the mall ahead and turned into the parking structure. He looked around for the level designation and spotted the letter C stenciled on a concrete post beside an image of a cat. Even though it was late on a Monday afternoon and the mall didn’t appear busy, shopping for a car on the ground level would be too risky.

  He found the ramp and cruised down to the next floor, noting the B stenciled on the wall beside an icon of a bear. Then his eyes moved to the first row of cars, coasting by them slowly. The car would have to be big, he decided. Big and heavy enough to absorb a collision and remain roadworthy for a mile or two. As he turned down the next aisle he found just what he was looking for. A Ford LTD wagon at least thirty years old. It looked like a battering ram on wheels. The body had been sprayed with a dull coat of primer and would be hard to spot at night. He particularly liked the darkened windows in back. Any cargo he might be carrying would be hidden from view.

  Marveling at his good fortune, Raymond continued around the exit ramp until he found a space visible from the entrance to the mall. As he parked, he noticed the light overhead. He knew the percentages with auto theft and wanted his Honda to be here when he returned later that night. This was a safe spot, as good as any on the floor.

  He reached for the canvas tote bag on the backseat and took an inventory of its contents. On his way over he had stopped by the long-term parking lot at the airport. The set of plates that he’d pulled off a BMW were on top. Pushing them aside, he checked the charge on his power screwdriver and made sure that his hand tools were easily accessible. He doubted that the LTD had an alarm system. Once he got the plates changed and the door open, he’d be on the road in less than two minutes.

  A car blinked its lights and tapped its horn at him. Raymond turned and saw a teenage girl waiting for his space. He shook his head at her and the car moved on. When it vanished around the corner, Raymond got out of his car with the tote bag and locked the door.

  He slipped into a pair of latex gloves. Passing the entrance to the mall, he made a mental note of the time it took until he cleared the exit ramp and the LTD came into view. Fifteen seconds. If someone entered the garage, he would hear the doors and have plenty of warning.

  Raymond moved down the aisle, reaching into the bag for his power screwdriver as he glanced around. He was alone. Ready. He started with the back plate, then moved to the front. Within a few minutes, he’d made the switch and was headed for the driver’s door. There wasn’t an alarm. The door wasn’t even locked. Raymond guessed that the owner didn’t feel the need to lock up because the car had shit-wagon written all over it.

  Raymond popped open the ignition, drawing out the wires and reconnecting them. When he’d finished, the engine turn
ed over and the LTD began to sputter and shake itself awake. Clouds of black smoke spewed from the exhaust pipe. Raymond slammed the door shut and backed out of the space. As he passed his Honda, he waved good-bye and rumbled up the exit ramp. The steering was loose, but he could feel the car’s weight. They used steel back then, he thought to himself, the heavier the better. Tonight would be a memorable occasion and he smiled. He couldn’t help it. There really was an art to it, just like the author of his audio book always said.

  Chapter 65

  By the time Frank pulled into the lot at his office it was already half past seven. He’d searched every room in Woody’s house. He’d worked slowly, methodically, trying to ignore anything of emotional value that stirred up memories. It hadn’t worked, especially as he went through Woody’s desk in the study. Still, he hadn’t found the photographs that he’d been looking for. The snapshots. Mel Merdock under the sheets with his sugar baby in Georgetown.

  As Frank swung the office door open and locked it from the other side, he remembered Merdock’s press conference. By now it would have been over, the results broadcast on the evening news. He tried not to think about it, trudging up the steps into the war room. Woody’s desk light was on and he could hear someone inside the office shuffling papers. When he stopped in the doorway, he found Linda seated on the floor searching through a file on her lap. She must have been at it for hours, looking for the photos just as he had. Discarded files had been stacked four feet high and pushed against the wall. What files remained were on the carpet beside her crossed legs.

  “Nothing?” he asked.

  She shook her head without looking at him.

  “Me either,” he said.

  A long moment passed. Frank entered the room and sat down on the couch.

  “Merdock held his press conference,” she whispered finally. “The president was with him and said the right things. The worst things. They said that you stopped Merdock’s media buy with five days to go. They passed out copies of the receipts as proof. Then the phones started ringing. Most of your clients called.”

  “Most?”

  “Everyone except Helen Pryor.”

  Frank thought it over, his clients running for cover. Everyone of them except Helen.

  “Then I’m out of business,” he said.

  Linda nodded with a heavy look in her eyes. She picked up a manila envelope and handed it to him.

  “Mario had prints made of Stewart Brown outside RAVE’s office.”

  Frank opened the envelope, sifting through the photos. “They’re close ups,” he said. “They don’t tie him to the building.”

  Linda didn’t say anything. Frank returned them to the envelope and fastened the metal clasp. He’d lost his business for turning against his own client. He’d been caught sabotaging Merdock’s campaign and it had been made public. No one would ever trust him again. No one would believe his story. He saw Linda turn away, wiping a tear away from her cheek. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, even though he knew that he couldn’t because he’d lost her, too.

  She cleared her throat and turned back to him. “Mario called a half-hour ago,” she whispered. “Eddie’s missing.”

  “Did he call the cops?”

  She nodded. “He said he’d call back when he had news.”

  Chapter 66

  The LTD pulled away from the curb at Frank’s house, rolling down the street and requiring an extra wide berth. The press had packed up and gone. From the calls Raymond had heard on the talk radio stations, he imagined that Frank was in agony right now. Probably still at his office on the phone trying to save his sinking ship. Putting him down would be an act of mercy, no different than shooting a horse with a broken leg.

  Raymond cruised through Georgetown, ignoring the smug looks he got when he stopped at red lights. In spite of the heavy fog, there were plenty of people on the sidewalks giving him dirty looks as they waited to get into the restaurants and bars. The LTD’s timing was off. With every stop, Raymond had to keep the idle goosed in order to prevent a stall.

  People could be so selfish, so fucking rude.

  Raymond worked his way toward the Hill, keeping an eye out for cops and passing the White House without incident. The sound of the LTD seemed to be getting louder. It had an energy to it—a force like thunder—pulling him through the night toward his mark.

  Frank’s office was just ahead. Backing his foot off the gas, he peered through the fog into the parking lot as he coasted by. The office windows were lighted, but a black Explorer obstructed most of his view. Raymond circled the block and stopped on the other side of the street. He must have just missed them. Now the building was dark, the Explorer gone. The lot was empty except for Woody’s abandoned car.

  But then something caught Raymond’s eye. When he turned, he saw a car vanishing around the corner.

  Metallic blue.

  Raymond gunned the engine, the LTD rocketing forward. As he made the turn, he spotted the Chevy two blocks ahead and slowed down. He needed to be patient. This wasn’t the place and it didn’t look like Frank was in much of a hurry to get home. When the Chevy reached 7th Street, the car turned right, heading south. Then Frank made another right onto Constitution Avenue. It occurred to Raymond that Frank wasn’t on his way home. Instead, it looked like he was driving toward the monuments.

  Chapter 67

  Frank looked up the steps at the memorial. There was a momentary break in the fog and he could see Abraham Lincoln sitting in his chair for maybe a second or two. The stone-faced president was staring at him, or so it seemed, before the hazy cloud rolled back in again.

  Frank shivered and turned away. Then he noticed a figure walking toward him in the gloom. He recognized him before his face took on any detail. It wasn’t Mario this time. Instead, it was Lou Kay, and they shook hands.

  “You’re going to lose,” Frank said evenly. “It’s gonna be a landslide, Lou.”

  When Kay shrugged it off like he still might have a chance, Frank handed him the photos of Stewart Brown tossing an answering machine into the trunk of his Mercedes. Kay sat down on the steps and held them to the light. Frank took a seat beside him, briefing him on what his consultant had done and who he was doing it with. Kay had put his life in Brown’s hands, his future. They’d worked side by side for most of the last year. Stunned by the betrayal, Kay mumbled Brown’s name a few times as it sank in. Juliana Merdock had used her body to get to Brown and Brown wasn’t about to let go.

  “What about the law?” Kay said more clearly. “There’s got to be a law.”

  “If you took Brown to court, you’d lose. You’d never be able to prove what he’s done to you. As long as the names stay buried with the money, everything’s legal.”

  “Legal?” Kay said. “What about my family? My daughter?”

  “The closest you’re gonna get is a review of your own media buy,” Frank said. “I’ll bet Brown rotated your spots so often, no ad played for more than a day or two. I only saw them because I was looking for them. But no one else did. No one outside the business. Call the stations and get the receipts. But even if he did bury your ads, it proves as much as these pictures do. Nothing.”

  Reaching into his pocket, Frank dug his cigarettes out and lit one. He’d been wiped out, too. Kay stood up, rubbing the back of his neck and thinking it over.

  “I thought this kind of thing ended with Watergate, Frank.”

  “That’s not where it ended,” he said. “That’s where it started. One party going after the other, Lou. Watergate was basic training. These people want the seat and they’re gonna take it. If you want to dig, all you’ll find is mirrors. But I can tell you how it’s done.”

  Kay turned and looked at him. Frank lowered his eyes, staring into the fog.

  “You’d start with background checks,” he said. “People make mistakes, like you said at the debate. You’d look for their mistakes, Lou. An illegitimate child. A bitter ex-wife. Then you’d threaten them with exposure and watch their cam
paign nose dive until it hits the ground.”

  Kay looked down at the pavement, shaking his head at what had happened to him.

  “If you couldn’t find a mistake,” Frank said after a moment. “You’d use greed. The president pays your opponent off with a great job offer to get him out of the race. A local TV reporter takes cash to hammer your opponent every night on the news. That ex-wife stages a press conference on the courthouse steps and lies in front of the cameras for a big payday.”

  Frank wasn’t seeing the fog anymore. He was standing in the void. The black.

  “If none of that works, you’d make things up,” he said in a quieter voice. “You’d find a third party candidate and get him on the ballot so he steals votes away from your opponent. You’d get creative, Lou. Your opponent owns a chain of restaurants. One day they’d be overrun with rats. Or how’s this? You blanket a liberal district with a fake newsletter claiming that your opponent’s just been endorsed by the NRA. You time the newsletter to hit the day before the election so that your opponent doesn’t have time to get out the truth. Or even better, Lou. The gold ring. You see your opponent looking for his runaway niece outside a porno theater and a strip bar. You shoot it and run the ad, leaving the niece out of the story and destroying your opponent’s life.”

  Kay turned to him. “Ozzie Olson.”

  “That’s the way it’s done,” Frank said. “Just the way they framed your daughter and used your ex-wife. Winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.”