So, sure, maybe it was a little premature to splurge, but he expected to be buried for the next few months until he got up to speed with the new job. After that, he would start looking for a new apartment, one with a bedroom for Ellie, and maybe a dog. He’d really love to have a dog. Something big enough to run with him and sweet enough to let Ellie climb all over it. Gibson smiled into the sunshine. That was a dream for the future, the kind of dream that Benjamin Lombard’s vendetta had long made an impossibility. Well, as of tomorrow, those days were over, and today was a present to himself. He’d been looking forward to taking Ellie to her first game for a long time—the first of many father-daughter days at the ballpark.
He looked over at Ellie fidgeting in her seat.
Somewhere his dad was laughing at him.
Duke Vaughn had had four loves: diners, driving, baseball, and driving to a diner while listening to baseball. When Gibson had been Ellie’s age, Duke had shuttled him regularly between Charlottesville and DC, where Duke had served as chief of staff to then senator Benjamin Lombard. Listening to the Orioles on the radio had been a staple of those drives. To Gibson’s seven-year-old self, it had been incomprehensibly boring—listening to something you couldn’t see. What was the point? And of course there was his dad lecturing him on the history of the game.
“El, did you know DC used to have a baseball team called the Senators?”
Ellie stifled a yawn.
No one would ever accuse the Vaughn men of learning new tricks.
Gibson wished his dad could be here; Duke had always been good at coming up with silly games and contests, and kids had always loved him. Gibson caught himself. Since learning the truth about his father’s death last year, he’d become a nostalgia factory. It was nice being able to think about his dad without the memories being drenched in bitterness, but he also had to be wary of indulging in too much wishful thinking. Whatever else might be true, Duke Vaughn was still dead.
Not that Ellie was having a bad time. She was the kind of kid who always found a way to entertain herself. He admired that about his daughter. But it would be nice if it had anything at all to do with baseball. She had become fast friends with two boys her age in their row. The three children had invented a game with rules so convoluted that none of the fathers could follow, but which resulted in a lot of conspiratorial whispering and giggling.
So far the highlight of the day had been the Presidents Race. A mainstay at Nationals games since the team had moved to DC from Montreal, it was a promotional event featuring five runners in oversized foam presidents’ heads. During the fourth inning, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Jefferson, Teddy Roosevelt, and William Taft ran from center field to first base. Shenanigans ensued. For years, it had been an inside joke that Teddy Roosevelt never won. Teddy finally broke his winless streak to celebrate the team clinching the playoffs in 2012. Since then, the Rough Rider won periodically, but mostly Washington, Jefferson, Taft, and Lincoln ganged up on him.
Ellie didn’t know that. So at the start of the race, she scampered down to the edge of the field to cheer on Teddy—her favorite president since playing him in a school pageant. Things were looking good, and Ellie’s man led the whole way. She was pogoing up and down—her gleeful shrieks carrying back to Gibson. But in the last ten yards, Lincoln tripped Teddy, and George Washington took it at the tape.
Ellie came back despondent and threw herself into her seat. “Daddy, he cheated!”
“It’s just a race, El.”
“He cheated. I hate him. Abraham Lincoln is a cheater.”
“That’s exactly what Jefferson Davis said,” one of the fathers deadpanned.
“It was close,” said Gibson. “Maybe Teddy will win next time.”
She perked up at that. “Can we come again? Please?”
Gibson pretended to think it over, milking the moment.
“Please,” she begged and smiled an exaggerated, too-cute-for-this-solar-system smile.
“I suppose it might be possible.”
Ellie squealed and threw her arms around him. He hugged her back, ignoring for a moment that he’d manipulated her enthusiasm. You just social-engineered your own kid, he thought. Not cool, slick. But he didn’t care. He needed it. He’d begun to have his doubts about the kind of father he was becoming. This dad-at-a-distance routine felt false. Being a father didn’t happen by appointment, no matter what the custody agreement said. Being a parent happened in the day to day. Not at baseball games and special events every other weekend. He feared that was how Ellie was beginning to see him. As the guy who came around every so often and took her places and conned her into hugging him. He needed to find solid ground with her. Soon. For now, Ellie was forgiving. If he didn’t figure it out, he had a bad feeling that he’d spend the rest of his life looking in from the outside at the rest of hers.
“Want me to teach you how to keep score?” he said, holding up the scorecard enticingly.
“I gotta go to the bathroom.”
“Okay, maybe after.”
Ellie shrugged noncommittally.
Gibson steered his daughter along the concourse past several food vendors. He was getting hungry. Ben’s Chili Bowl was over on the third base side. But if he got a half smoke, Ellie would want one, and a chili dog was way too advanced for her now. He loved her, but she could make a mess of eating an apple.
They found a ladies’ room; the line stretched almost out the door.
“I’ll be right here,” he said.
“Okay.”
“You’re all right by yourself?”
His seven-year-old daughter rolled her eyes at him. “I’ll be fine, Dad.”
He chuckled and walked across the concourse where he could stand, back against the concrete wall, and watch for her. He got uneasy when Ellie was out of his line of sight; he didn’t want to smother her, but at the same time he didn’t give a damn if it meant knowing she was safe. It had gotten worse over the last six months, and he was afraid his paranoia would only accelerate as Ellie got older. As she got closer to the age at which Suzanne Lombard had disappeared.
Gibson lifted the beat-up Philadelphia Phillies cap off his head, swept the hair off his forehead with his free hand, and settled the cap back in place. It looked well loved, but the wear and tear was anything but love. It was Suzanne’s cap, and Gibson wore it to remember her. If he had learned one thing last year investigating her disappearance, it was that the margin for error in guarding your children was absolute and unforgiving.
“Excuse me, Mr. Vaughn. May I have a word?”
A slight man in an open-collared pink polo shirt and khakis stepped into Gibson’s line of sight. One of those men who had somehow gone through life without developing a single muscle and looked like he’d been made on a taffy puller. Gibson looked him over. Boat shoes—check. Whale belt—check. Requisite pair of Ray-Bans hanging from the V-neck of his shirt—check. Half man, half preppie flamingo. Gibson took a step to his left to keep the restroom in view.
“Can I help you with something?” Gibson said, making no effort to mask his irritation.
“Mr. Vaughn, my name is Christopher Birk. I was hoping for a minute.” The Flamingo looked to be in his early thirties, although his thinning blond hair had mostly surrendered the fight and retired to the barbershop floor.
“Are you serious right now with this? I’m at a game with my kid.”
“I’m aware, and I sincerely apologize for the intrusion. It couldn’t wait.”
“Maybe you’ve heard of e-mail? It’s pretty snappy these days. Faster than following a guy to a baseball game.”
“We’d prefer to keep this off the record.”
Gibson gave the man a sidelong glance. “Now I’m really not interested. Enjoy the game.”
A second man stepped aggressively into the conversation. Gibson had seen him earlier but hadn’t connected the two men on the busy concourse because, apart from both being white, they could not have been more different. The second man
was an inch or two shorter but looked hard where the Flamingo was soft, contemptuous where the Flamingo was conciliatory. He looked quick and wiry strong—a fighter. His DNA was missing the gene for growing an actual beard, but, undeterred, he had let a patchwork scruff grow in that gave him a trashy, feral look. A swirling tattoo emerged from his black T-shirt, ran up his neck, and disappeared behind his left ear. He looked like a broken shard from a shattered glass, the one you missed after sweeping up and found only with your bare feet in the dark on the way to somewhere else. Not a man that Gibson wanted around Ellie, and he hoped to be done with these two before she finished her business in the restroom.
“Just give this prick the envelope,” the Shard said.
“Let me handle it.”
“So handle it.”
“I would if you’d let me.”
The Shard shook his head and rolled his eyes but held his tongue. The Flamingo pretended not to notice and turned back to Gibson.
“Would you take a look? I think it will clarify things.”
Gibson looked at the envelope in the Flamingo’s hand. “What is it?”
“A request—”
“Not interested.”
“Just read the damn thing,” the Shard said.
“Who are you exactly? His secretary?”
The Shard locked eyes with him, head cocked to the right, arms hanging away from his sides, as he inflated the way small men did before a fight. “Yeah, I’m his secretary, bitch. Now read it before I feed it to you.”
Gibson would lay money that the man had done time. Not for anything major. Enough to get thrown in with the hard cases but not enough to earn their respect. He’d had to fight to earn that. Gibson knew the type, had known them in jail and in the Marines. Man-boys with the simmering fury of someone with nothing to prove except how few fucks they gave about anything. As if not caring itself were an accomplishment.
“Cool it,” the Flamingo told his partner.
“Where’d you do your bid?” Gibson asked the Shard.
“Buckingham,” he replied with the same pride that another man might announce his alma mater.
Gibson’s eyes went to the bathroom door, but Ellie still hadn’t emerged. Good.
Buckingham was a level-three prison west of Richmond. Not a nice place, and now he really didn’t want his daughter anywhere near these men. When it had looked like his trial would end in a conviction, Gibson had passed the time educating himself about Virginia state prisons. To give a name to the nightmares that plagued him at night in his jail cell. It hadn’t helped.
The Flamingo held out the envelope to Gibson. “Please.”
Gibson looked each man in the eyes before snatching it away. Not because he cared what it said; they had followed him to a baseball game, and he wanted to know why. He glanced down at the pale-blue envelope and felt a jot. He had a stack just like it bound with a thick rubber band back at his apartment. It had been seven or eight years since the last one had arrived, but he would’ve recognized the monogram anywhere: “HBD”—the B twice the size of the other letters. Gibson slipped a single sheet of stationery from the envelope and read the familiar, ornate handwriting. It was signed Hammond Birk.
Gibson glanced up at the two men.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Christopher Birk,” said the Flamingo.
“Son?”
The Shard smirked at the question.
“Nephew,” the Flamingo answered.
Ellie ran up and grabbed his hand. “Daddy, I’m hungry.”
“Just a minute, El. Go pick out a hat, okay?” He pointed to a nearby stand. “I’ll be right there.” Gibson turned to Christopher Birk. “Where?”
“Back of the letter.”
Gibson flipped it over. It was an address near Charlottesville.
“Can you come tomorrow?” asked Birk. “It’s time sensitive.”
Gibson shook his head. “I have a thing tomorrow.”
“What thing?” the Shard demanded.
“A none-of-your-damn-business thing.”
The Shard stepped forward, but Birk put a cautioning hand on his shoulder. “The judge would be very grateful,” he said to Gibson.
Gibson knew he should say no—everything about this felt wrong—but he also knew no wasn’t an option. Some debts you paid when they came due. He’d have a few days after he passed the polygraph before work started; he’d drive down to Charlottesville and talk to Hammond Birk. See what he wanted. It was the least that he owed the man.
“Maybe I can come out on Tuesday?” Gibson said, making it a question, not a promise, although that was exactly what it was.
“That would be terrific. Thank you.”
“Maybe.”
“Cute kid,” the Shard said.
It was Gibson’s turn to lock eyes with him. “Don’t. I’m only going to tell you the once.”
The Shard laughed. “What? You gonna start something here in front of all these nice people?”
“Yeah. Right here in front of them if you talk about my kid again.”
The Shard moved his jaw soundlessly, testing a reply, but smiled instead. “Relax, Pops. Just saying.”
“Get him away from me,” Gibson said to Birk.
“Of course. Thank you for your time.” Birk tried to lead his companion away, but the Shard twisted back to Gibson.
“See you Tuesday.”
Gibson stood on the concourse, watching them until they were out of sight. Hammond Birk. After all these years. What might he want? It wasn’t for old times’ sake, that was for certain. Gibson’s sunny mood was nowhere to be seen. He went to see if Ellie had picked out a cap, suddenly uneasy with the symbolism. Maybe she’d like a jersey instead.
CHAPTER THREE
The offices of Veritas Preemployment and Polygraph Services were located on the third floor of a nondescript office building in Ashburn, Virginia. Veritas was one of more than thirty private firms that contracted with the Office of Personnel Management to conduct federal security clearances. Secrecy was a growth industry in Northern Virginia.
Gibson arrived early and checked in with the receptionist—a drab, polite woman who asked for his driver’s license and directed him to have a seat in the drab, polite waiting room. Abstract swirls of muted corporate art decorated the walls. It felt like a doctor’s office, and no one looked particularly happy to be there. He sat beside an anxious man mainlining coffee. For the stranger’s sake, it had better be his normal intake—an uncharacteristic dose of caffeine could confuse the machine, which might necessitate a retest. And you didn’t want that—a full-scope polygraph took eight hours to complete.
No, thank you, and no, thank you very much. Gibson had taken multiple polys in the military, so he knew the drill all too well. Once would be more than enough. To be safe, Gibson went back through his paperwork, confirming that it was all in order—it ran to sixty-three pages plus attachments and covered his entire life. Most of it anyway.
Nowhere did his paperwork mention the name Suzanne Lombard, his role in the death of her father, Vice President Benjamin Lombard, or the promises that he’d made to Suzanne’s mother, Grace Lombard. After Lombard’s death in Atlanta, Grace and he had agreed that it would be safer if they severed contact except in an emergency. No one could know the real story behind Atlanta. So his paperwork glossed over the true nature of his consulting work for Abe Consulting Group, stating only that he’d helped identify network vulnerabilities. Technically true, and hopefully it gave the examiner no reason to ask specific questions.
His paperwork listed Jenn Charles as his supervisor at Abe Consulting. That was also technically true, although she would probably have a more colorful description for their working relationship. Not that anyone could fact-check it, since Abe Consulting had ceased to exist overnight, and the owner and founder, George Abe, had been missing since August. Jenn Charles had gone looking for him after Atlanta, and Gibson hadn’t heard from her since. He regretted letting her go alo
ne. Letting her . . . as if he could have stopped her. Still, he should have tried harder to talk her out of it. It had just been a strange time in the immediate aftermath of Atlanta, and Gibson, Jenn, and Hendricks had fled each other on journeys of their own.
Dan Hendricks had returned to California, where he was lying low and teaching tactical driving. Gibson checked in with him every two weeks, but Hendricks didn’t know any more than he did. Assuming Jenn and George were still alive, they were both well off the grid. Gibson was good at finding things that people preferred remain hidden, and he hadn’t turned up so much as a whisper. The fact was, Jenn was ex-CIA. If she didn’t want to be found, she wasn’t going to be found. He kept looking, all the same. It ate at him. Not only the guilt. He also found himself missing her. That was unexpected. They probably wouldn’t be friends if they’d met under any other circumstances—they might not be friends now—but they’d been through something together, and it would be good to see her.
Absently, Gibson ran his fingers through his beard, touching the raised scar on his neck that ran from ear to ear. A souvenir from his investigation into Suzanne Lombard’s disappearance. It was an ugly mark. One he never wanted Ellie to see. What would he say to her about it? He’d grown the beard as camouflage, but his fingers sought it out when he was distracted or lost in thought, running back and forth along the knotted length. He caught himself doing it and jerked his hand away.
The unmarked door at the back of the reception area opened; a woman stepped into the room and read his name off a clipboard. She gave his hand a businesslike shake and introduced herself as Amanda Gabir. He handed over his paperwork, and she rechecked his driver’s license before ushering him down a corridor and into a polygraph suite. She talked him through the procedure as she wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around his biceps, put a pneumograph around his chest to measure breathing, and slipped galvanometers over his fingers to record electrical activity. He had to hand it to her, she made it sound as if she were fitting him for a suit, but it was impossible to feel like anything but a lab animal.
Poisonfeather (The Gibson Vaughn Series Book 2) Page 2