Shattered Trust

by Leslie Esdaile Banks

  Megan wiped her face with both hands and sniffed. “What about the rental?” she murmured, motioning to it as James began to pull off.

  He glanced at Laura, put the gears in reverse, and backed into the side panel hard.

  Stunned, Megan’s mouth dropped open.

  “Call it in as an accident. Tell them you were in a very unsavory area of the city, and got a cab to the train station, and will file a report later—but as a female, you’re not trying to stay in this desolated area.”

  “I like your style, Mr. Carter,” Laura said, her gaze fixed to the road ahead.

  Megan just dialed, continuing to stare at them both.

  It had been a long time since she’d cruised The District. Everything had changed, and yet, it was all still the same. Pockets of opulence and grandeur in the power seat of the nation were still framed by poverty. Re-gentrification was in full effect. Georgetown still had its exclusive charm, albeit she saw more yuppies and students than ever before. The community, as it was in Chocolate City, was on veritable lockdown. Skyrocketing prices, a police force that kept the have-nots at bay from the haves, was the order of the night.

  “I’ve never directly dealt with these people,” Megan finally admitted, as they pulled up to a vacant-looking brownstone that had been sectioned into apartments. “I just heard from friends a long time ago that they used to come here to get phony ID so they could drink while in high school.”

  “Bad plan,” James said, wiping fatigue from his face. “Got any good ideas?” He looked at Laura and she shut her eyes.

  “No,” Laura said. “Not at the moment.” She sighed hard and glanced up at the building that had people slowly filing in and out. “If you ask me, this has crack house written all over it.”

  “Like I said,” James grumbled. “Bad plan.”

  “Think, think, think,” Laura muttered, dropping her forehead into her hands in exasperation. Then she suddenly sat up straight. “Take my driver’s license and a matching passport.” She turned to Megan and leaned over the backseat. “You put on one of my suits; we get you out of here with light, carry-on luggage. I’ve got a couple of days before I have to jump a jet, and can get a matching license later.”

  “Bad plan,” James said shaking his head and pulling away from the curb. “You’re a target, she isn’t. If someone is looking for you, they’ll come for her.”

  Megan had begun to hyperventilate in the backseat.

  “Then, just give her a secondary one that doesn’t have my name on it,” Laura said calmly. “One that doesn’t show U.S. citizenship—that way, she wouldn’t need a license to confirm it.” Again, she glanced at Megan and petted her arm over the backseat. “You’re Lillian Braithwaite, citizen of Grand Cayman.”

  They’d waited in the short-term airport parking lot until just after sunrise, half dozing. Megan’s brief call confirmed she’d made her flight. Sean was right behind her. Again, their world was spinning out of control. But they had a gala to attend. James needed a tux; she needed a gown. They both needed VIP tickets. That wasn’t a problem, they’d be on the list as guests of one of the Micholi Foundation’s significant donors—courtesy of Sean’s old firm.

  “Good brother, B,” Akhan murmured, accepting an embrace from his old friend. He held Edgar Braithwaite away from him to stare into a pair of eyes that knew him well.

  “Brother Akhan, long time, mon.” Braithwaite smiled and jauntily tilted his head to the side, which caused his large red, black, and green crocheted cap filled with silver locks to lean. “Dis your family?”

  Akhan smiled, as Brother B surveyed Steve with suspicion. “It is a very complex arrangement,” he said quietly. “But, yes, this is my family. Two are still overseas.”

  Brother B rubbed his scraggly, gray-streaked goatee, pinching his dark, gaunt features into a soft scowl. “I guess it’s all good.”

  Unable to operate on fumes any longer, James pulled their car up to the Florida Avenue Grille. “A brother’s gotta eat,” he said through a yawn. “Then at least three hours to crash and burn, before we do this thing tonight.”

  Laura was so bone-weary that she practically staggered out of the car, and once inside the small diner, she half feared she’d pass out if she ate a full plate of fried fish and grits. Coffee was calling her name, but soon the aroma of bacon, pancakes, sausages, and eggs, along with tender fried whiting made her stomach gurgle. James sat in a sleep depravation daze staring at the table, seeming to only be holding himself up on his elbows.

  “This has gotta stop,” he finally said, once the waitress had taken their orders.

  “I know,” she said quietly, sipping her coffee. “The circle of people caught up in the madness is getting too big.”

  “Then there’s only one option,” he muttered, slurping his coffee. He stared at Laura for a moment. “Bring ’em down, and bring ’em down hard—or go out in a blaze. I don’t want anybody’s death on our conscience.”

  “You been following the news?” Brother B asked as he pulled his rusted-out, old Ford station wagon up to the small shanty in Kingston.

  “Not since we left,” Akhan said, his eyes roving the streets he remembered from thirty years ago. He’d forgotten about the heat and congestion of Kingston and the economic decline. The three passengers in the back sat silently, as though holding their breaths.

  “Was all over BBC News. They don’t have crimes like that in Grand Cayman,” Brother B said, glancing at everyone in his car. He paused as his eyes met Akhan’s. “Two officers shot dead by an unidentified white man, claimin’ to be an insurance salesman ... but they said he was a terrorist, because he had bomb equipment in his briefcase. The policeman that shot him dead away couldn’t make a statement until their investigation is over.” He stroked his beard, winced, and then looked at his house, seeming unsure. “You gwan need to go up in de hills, mon. In de bush country wit da Rastas.”

  “Where, exactly, on Grand Cayman did this happen?” Akhan asked, glancing at Najira, Steve, and Jamal quickly, and then returning his gaze to his friend.

  Braithwaite let out a long, weary breath. “House owned by Caldwell-Carter family. You know ’em?”

  What had started out as crazy had become next to insane. Laura sat in the hotel room of the Watergate with her eyes glued to her laptop screen while James lay prone and snoring across the bed. Too wired to sleep, she worked. The CNN television crawl at the bottom of the screen caught her peripheral vision, and made her stand. Two officers murdered in Grand Cayman?

  She sat down again quickly and pulled up each news service as fast as she could, then simply froze. Instinct sent a panic rush through Laura as she speed dialed Steve’s cell, and waited. Why hadn’t they called? She was about to wake James on the second ring, but Steve picked up.

  “Where are you?” she breathed out in a rush.

  “An island. A big one, with shaky cell phone reception—that’s why we hadn’t called before. Getting an outbound signal’s been a bitch. But we’re safe.”

  “Good, anybody hurt? You heard?”

  “No. We’re cool and, yes, we heard. Where’s James?”

  “Asleep. But I’ll wake him.” She quickly walked over to James, shook him once, and he sat up fast. “Steve. They had to move. I’ll explain later, not on the phone.”

  James nodded and took the phone from her. “Talk to me, man.”

  “Up at Braithwaite’s. We’re good. Must be living right, because it was close. The old man had a vibe and moved us out.”

  “Cool,” James said. “Stay in touch.”

  “No problem,” Steve muttered, and then disconnected the call.

  James instantly turned his attention to Laura. “What happened?”

  “They found our house in Grand Cayman and sent a clean-up man. It’s all over the BBC.” Laura wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself. “They might not have made it. He’d rigged the house to blow from a cell-phone unit. What if they’d been there?”

  “They’re with
some guy named Braithwaite,” James said carefully, his line of vision following Laura around the room as she paced.

  She stopped walking. “That’s the last name on the ID I gave Megan,” she said quietly. “From Akhan’s contacts—his man in Jamaica.”

  “I know,” James said, flopping back on the bed with his arm across his eyes. “But there’s nothing we can do about that now. Get some rest, and save the fight for tonight.”

  “I can’t cover for you any longer,” Polanski said into the telephone, his gaze darting around the room. “This is so thoroughly out of control that we all stand to lose more than money.” His voice became a strained whisper as only silence responded to his entreaties on the line. “Maybe we should just hold off for a little while, give them some time to react with a reasonable counteroffer and divest, or try to open lines of communication—now that they see things are serious?”

  Receiving no response, Polanski mopped his brow, his voice pleading. “We can sway the contracts on the New Orleans clean-up jobs ... we can make up the difference once they rebuild there—you know the feds will get eminent domain on the most lucrative areas and we’ll get a piece of that as developers. We can probably also cut a deal to build resorts near the gaming districts in Mississippi, once the original residents get bled out by insurance companies that won’t cover total losses. There’s no reason to go after the old Philadelphia land sites that we lost, given how sloppy this whole operation is becoming.” His voice dropped to a strained whisper. “Just think about it. I know this is personal, but it’s getting too much visibility.”

  Again, only silence filled the line. Then an abrupt click ended the call, making Polanski close his eyes with a slight shiver.

  Chapter 11

  James stared in the mirror as he worked his black bow tie into a knot. Everything was set. Their extra clothes and sets of false ID had been sent to Jamaica via FedEx, guaranteed arrival the next day. The limo had been called, sent from Steve’s contact, Caluzo’s Philly people, to be sure there’d be ample security and a driver packing heat. The rental had been ditched and traded in for a new one under a different name, also parked only a couple blocks away from the Smithsonian, with two untraceable nine-millimeters taped under the dashboard—just in case.

  He spied Laura through the mirror as she passed by the bathroom, readying herself for the event. Even under these circumstances, the woman was a knockout. She was wearing a backless white sheath with iridescent crystal beads that seemed like raindrops had splattered on her breasts. But the spiked, beaded satin heels were killer every time her legs swept through the slit in her gown. He stopped fumbling with his bow tie to give her an appreciative glance. “You look absolutely beautiful,” he murmured. “Remind me to show you proper, once we do this thing.”

  She gave him a strained smile. “Not bad yourself, in a tux, Mr. Carter.” She came to him, brushed his mouth gently, as not to disturb her flawless makeup, and then tied his bow tie knot for him.

  As fantastic as her husband looked and smelled, they didn’t have time to lose focus. Sean had blown her Blackberry up with new data that James needed to be aware of.

  “Got a transmission from Sean,” she said, smoothing James’s black tuxedo lapels.

  He just stared at her as she walked away to find her beaded clutch and sheer white wrap.

  “The kid is brilliant,” she said, offhandedly. “The old man who founded Micholi also had the same attorney as Haines before he died. Seems a then-very-young Alan Moyer Senior became the general counsel for that foundation. Polanski, Moyer, Haines, and Sutherland were all in school together. Harvard.”

  “Hold it,” James said, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. “Sutherland, the doctor who slept with Haines’s wife and killed Haines, was in their crew?” He smoothed his hand over his clean-shaven jaw and shook his head.

  “Isn’t it always the way?” She kissed James’s cheek and then brushed the faint lipstick mark away from it with her fingertips. “That’s why the old Mafia adage holds true: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. The old boys on the Main Line invented nepotism and inner-circle deceit. I’m not surprised. I just needed to know.”

  James pushed away from the door and collected his wallet with phony ID. “If Sutherland is serving hard time, along with Alan Moyer, Jr., then we find old man Moyer and Polanski at this bull tonight, and lean on them a little.”

  “Just enough to let them know that we know,” Laura said with a dangerous smile. “The only problem is, Sean’s info didn’t show any common assets that they might have held together. But where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” She nervously fingered the beads on her purse as she hoisted the long strap over her shoulder. “One guess who also had Moyer as his attorney?”

  “Senator Scott, for five hundred,” James muttered with disgust.

  “Five hundred goes to the man with the right answer,” Laura said, no amusement in her tone.

  “Suggestion,” James said, looking up from the table and stashing his wallet in his breast pocket. “We go in with the media rush, have a glass of wine, walk the room before dinner, say what we’ve gotta say, and then be out—while the full media is still around to make it too visible to do a hit.”

  She nodded and draped her wrap around her shoulders. “I’m right there with you, brother. Shall we dance?”

  She kept her gaze steady as their limousine pulled up to the grand entrance of the Smithsonian museum. Paparazzi were everywhere for the gala. Oddly, that helped her relax and she just hoped that those who were after her and James would employ enough patience and decorum to wait for a less visible moment. True, there was a debt to settle, but she doubted that they would be so foolish as to make a hard public statement; it wasn’t like they were JFK or anything. Then again, one could never be sure.

  When the limo stopped and the driver got out to round the vehicle and open the door, she took a deep breath. James squeezed her hand, and they exited the vehicle in high style as though they had actual invitations.

  She gently threaded her hand through James’s extended elbow and kept a media smile on her face. As they approached the small guest admittance podium just inside the huge glass doors, a small rush of butterflies escaped within her belly. What if Sean’s little guest-list-addition trick hadn’t worked? Then she remembered the oldest ruse in the book: Dress the part, speak the part, confidently appear like you belong, and that was half the battle—act like you know. Laura tipped her chin up and feigned the bourgeois attitude of entitlement.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, from the American Education First Foundation—guests of the Micholi Foundation.”

  She felt James’s bicep tense, but her man was cool ice on the outside.

  “Oh, yes,” the greeter said, after peering at the register a moment. “A late add-in, and we are so glad your schedule permitted you to attend. Welcome.”

  Laura gave the young White House intern a pleasant but dismissive smile and walked forward with James. They were in. She immediately felt his bicep relax as they scanned the room.

  “This is your thing, baby. Work it. I don’t even know what these guys look like,” James muttered quietly in her ear.

  “First off, smile,” she said, ribbing him lightly. “Then when a butler comes by with wine or champagne, select a glass and sip it slowly.”

  He cut her a sidelong glare. “That part I’ve got.”

  She chuckled and swiped two glasses from a passing tray. “Then why aren’t you smiling?” she asked, and handed him a chardonnay.

  She watched him take the glass and try his best to smile. The man seemed pained. They had to go deeper into the soiree. The old boys always arrived early to give the best media sound bites and then shake the refuse of reporters so they could get down to business. The real VIPs and keynote speaker would make the final grand entrance. If her hunch proved correct, Polanski would already be here, and hopefully Moyer would, too.

  Casually glancing around the room, she scanned the environ
ment with purpose, soon spotting James Devereaux.

  “Husband, let’s take a walk,” she said, moving in the opposite direction of Devereaux. It was all about timing, patience, allowing the targets to see her and to think that she hadn’t seen them yet. “The Redevelopment Authority contact is here, which means so is his inner circle.”

  “Where?” James said under his breath.

  “Six o’clock, but don’t turn around. I see some folks from Harrisburg that we’ll briefly chat with—state level, and then I’ll give my condolences about the loss of a solid senatorial seat ... and then we’ll go see the people whose ticket we slid in here on.”

  The tension within James’s body and within his strides was palpable as she made the rounds, exchanged phony air kisses, and engaged in small talk. But it was a necessary evil. Soon she’d glimpsed George Townsend, another member of the Micholi team, and had watched him slowly go over to Devereaux, confer, and then glance in her direction. That was her cue. She looked up, smiled, and raised her wineglass ever so slightly to let them know she’d be over to greet them in a moment.

  “You don’t mind if I scoot over to chat with some old friends from Philadelphia, do you?” she asked the small group of state officials standing near her and James.

  “Of course not, Laura,” the head of the Department of Community Economic Development said with a pleasant smile. “We hope to see you back in the game soon.”

  “Thank you, John,” she said, gracefully slipping away as James nodded, shook hands, and followed her across the wide, marble floor.