Death and Dark Money

by Seeley James

  Surprised, the muscular man stopped and turned. They stood for an awkward moment as he searched for the right posture.

  “The first day is always rough.” Pia smiled and patted his shoulder. “You aced boot camp, so you can relax. Act as if you are talking to a new business associate.”

  “Sorry, chica … uh, ma’am.” He blushed. “But where I’m from, I kept a gun in my hand when I talked to a new business associate.”

  “Leave it holstered, thank you.” She laughed. “Tell me what you thought of that exchange.”

  Carlos’s eyebrows went up and his eyes bulged for a second before he pulled himself together. “You want to know what I think?”

  “You survived for a long time in a tough business before joining us. You must have some insights.”

  The tension in his shoulders lessened, he bit his lip and looked at the floor. “You’re good. You knew where you were going before you began, you listened to them first, you laid out your plan, then laid down your law. When they tried to change your mind, you listened to the guy, not the lady, and you never repeated yourself. That’s El Camino del Jefe.”

  Pia squinted. “The way of the boss?”

  “More or less,” Carlos said.

  “I like that.”

  “They’re not afraid to argue with you. That means you respect them.”

  “Marty took a bullet trying to save me. That’s how he ended up with a cane. The Major was the first person in the company to believe in me, so I made her run the place. I trust them.” She thought a moment. “What was that about ‘not the lady’?”

  “You cut her off when she brought up your old man.” He shrugged. “You got some daddy-issues?”

  “Different strategies.” She watched his eyes as they struggled to meet hers.

  “He did good in a tough business, too,” Carlos said. “Maybe you should listen to him.”

  She picked up one of two overstuffed trash bags in the corner and started for the door. “Have you met your jefes yet?”

  “Si.” He picked up the other trash bag. “Jacob doesn’t like me but he’ll work with me because you say so. That Tania lady, though…”

  “She has her reasons,” Pia said. “But she’s a professional, she’ll get over it.” Pia stopped in the doorway and caught his eye. “Working for people like them, respecting them, that must be tough for you. I understand that. But you can do it, Carlos.”

  “It’s only for a little while.” His eyes rose to meet hers. “Tell me something. You got maids all over Sabel Gardens. Cooks, guards, drivers, you got everything. Why you come down here and work like the peón?”

  “What does every human strive for?” Pia strolled down the hall.

  “Money and power.”

  “Everyone wants to be important.” Pia stopped. “Whether a guy’s building a huge tower to put his name at the top, or tying his daughter’s shoelaces and sending her off to school, everyone wants someone to think they’re important. The banker, the drug dealer, the schoolteacher, the president, everyone. It drives people to commit crimes or achieve greatness.”

  She faced him. “You want your son to know how important you are. In a good way.”

  “True that.”

  She continued down the hall. They walked a couple yards before Carlos had to ask. “What’s so important here?”

  “After dinner, a young, single dad is going to take his two daughters to that room back there and they’ll get into those beds. It will be the first time they’ve slept outside of his car in weeks. That’s important.”

  As they neared the community room, she smiled over her shoulder. “By the way, as long as your intent is respectful, I prefer chica to ma’am.”

  Carlos’s phone buzzed. He checked it. “Uh, ma’am … chica, do you have your phone?”

  “I prefer to stay focused on the task when I’m working in the shelter. Why?”

  “Jacob’s been arrested.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Daryl Koven tried to speak to his wife across the first-class aisle on the Air France flight to Paris before realizing he would have to take his feet off the footrest to pull back the curtain. He sat up, reached the drape, and twisted around it to face her. When he caught her gaze, she smiled and reached out a hand. He took it in his and crossed the aisle to sit on her footrest.

  He forgot what he wanted to say. And he knew why.

  Koven was a man of average height and average looks and average fitness whose hair went gray after thirty. Nothing anyone said about George Clooney made him feel better. Where nature failed him, he compensated with a singular focus on his agenda. His intensity won him many deals and promotions over the years. Only Marthe could derail his thoughts.

  “I’m proud of you, Daryl,” Marthe said. “They were right; you are destined to be the king of kingmakers. You’re running the partnership now.”

  His career had stalled before he met her. He began to rely on her as his other half almost immediately after they met. She shared his ambition and helped him make decisions.

  After seven years of marriage, he still saw her as his stylish and pretty bride. She had jet-black hair and a figure that drove him mad. Especially in her designer fashions, always black. This evening’s choice was a black crepe de chine dress, flared with a spread collar. She looked fabulous.

  Koven laughed gently at her mistake. “Rip Blackson is managing partner. I’ll have to leapfrog him before I’m anything more than Duncan’s second lapdog.”

  “But he’s a junior partner.”

  “Our line of succession’s as arcane as a Scottish monarchy. It’s a partnership, we work like three small businesses sharing resources. We have separate client lists and staff. Rip Blackson works with Duncan’s clients while David and Brent work on mine. Sorry, David used to work on my client list. Anyway, Duncan set it up so Rip gets the clout and I get my name on the door. It’s his way of making us compete for everything. In other words, Duncan still has all the power.”

  “You get that power when Duncan retires?”

  “The shares are his until he dies. He’ll never retire.”

  A flight attendant approached and offered more champagne. They accepted refills.

  “I have to be honest,” Koven said, “I would kill for Duncan’s client list.”

  “Not a bad idea.” She squeezed his hand.

  He tried not to look as startled as he felt.

  She sipped her bubbly and pointed at his seat.

  “Sit,” she said. “I want to run some ideas through your ear.”

  He craned over his shoulder to glance at his reclining seat, then returned to it.

  She followed and dropped in his lap. She pressed a button and the blue shade buzzed down with machined precision. She dimmed the light and drew circles around his ear with her finger. “The reporters told you what to do, Daryl.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, my love.” He laughed and ran his hand up her skirt to stroke her thigh. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “If only I were a war hero like you, with your strength and courage. As it is, I have the resolve and you’re just an innocent flower in the garden.” Moving close, her lips brushed his. “You have to transform yourself. It’s time to become the snake.”

  Koven leaned back and searched her eyes. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “The Three Blondes will help you every step of the way. They need headlines and you can bring them. But don’t think they’ll wait for you. Thousands of people are pouring money into campaigns, they could move on to someone else tomorrow. And what has Duncan even done with the Sabel fortune? Nothing. It’s going to waste. We need to act now. My cousin heads the Gendarmes and will handle the investigation; your reporters will handle the spin.”

  They were silent for a moment. The puzzled look on Koven’s face turned sour.

  “My dear Marthe,” he whispered, “I don’t want to say what you’re thinking, but the second name on the door is Hyde. If anything happens to Tom Dunca
n, I’ll become a senior partner, but his entire network will move to Senator Hyde.”

  “In rehab?” she scoffed. “Everyone knows about his little monthly binge-vacations. What was it last week, his ninth trip? You’ve already moved most of his clients to your operation while he was away. Would Duncan’s clients trust him with the kind work you do? Think, Daryl, think.”

  Her face was too close to see.

  She drew back, sat up straight. “Why did the Three Blondes talk to you and not Duncan? Why you and not Blackson?”

  He shrugged.

  “Duncan plays with Super PACs like a child with toys. He has no stomach for the work. Blackson is a boy scout, sticking to the outdated rules for lobbyists. Everyone knows you bring in the new ideas, the fresh players, the big opportunities. It’s your destiny to be the king of kingmakers. The nation needs you.”

  She smiled, her dark hair falling over one eye.

  “You’re giving me the creeps.” Daryl Koven squeezed her arms and pushed her back.

  Turning his scowl to the window, he raised the shade. Outside, a setting sun spilled pale hues of lavender across the cloud tops. She was right and he knew it. With Duncan’s client list in his hands, a hundred million was nothing. If he could move Sabel, there would be no limits. He could have all of Congress eating out of his trough. They would come to him asking how to vote on any given bill. All Duncan did with those clients was listen to them whine and bicker over ideology as if any of it mattered. All that really mattered in life was having power.

  She squirmed back into his lap, one hand soothing his chest, the other stroking his face. “If you want something, you have to step up and take it. You need a mean streak, Daryl, one that gives you the authority to act when action is required.”

  “I’ve arrived at my position by taking action. Honest action.” Koven squinted at her. “You’ve been aware of my decisions.”

  “You’ve left me to clarify your decisions too many times.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’ve taken liberties with your most loyal people and it always worked out. This Duncan business is over my head. I don’t know how to do what needs to be done, but I know it needs to be done now.”

  “What do you mean ‘taken liberties’?”

  “Why do you think Alan Sabel is coming to your symposium?”

  “Because Duncan invited him.”

  “Wrong,” she cooed. “He’s coming because I invited his daughter.”

  Koven laughed. “You?”

  “I found a girls’ football team who’re fans of hers and arranged for her to address them while her father attends the seminar.”

  “Brilliant.” He smiled and stroked her face. “When I first met you, I knew you were a force to be reckoned with. You know, for those three days while you thought it over, I was worried sick you weren’t going to marry me.”

  A sly grin stretched one side of her mouth. “I love that story.”

  After a good night’s sleep and fresh breakfast, they landed at DeGaulle and caught the TGV to Metz near the German border. They settled in their first-class seats and read newspapers.

  Brent Zola ran up the aisle. “Sorry to bother you, sir. Is your phone off?”

  Koven pulled it from his pocket and glanced at it. “Damn, I forgot to charge it. Why?”

  “Duncan’s been trying to catch you. He wants to crash the symposium. He’s a few hours behind us.”

  Koven’s scowl pushed Zola back.

  “I thought you’d be stoked,” Zola said.

  “He is stoked,” Marthe said, leaning across her husband. “Thank you for bringing such great news. It will be great to see Mr. Duncan again. I’m sorry to hear about your friend. I wish we could’ve stayed in Washington for the funeral. Were you close?”

  “Since boot camp, ma’am.” Zola swallowed hard.

  She gave him a moment to compose himself. “Did they catch his killer?”

  “I heard they took Jacob Stearne into custody.” Koven leaned forward.

  “They changed their minds after the Sabel attorney showed up.”

  “Why the hell did Gottleib go to that nut-job’s house anyway?”

  “He was tripping about something, sir.” Zola met his boss’s gaze and held it for a minute, then shrugged. “I don’t know what it was.”

  “Stearne cracked under the stress of combat years ago,” Koven said, his voice deepening. “They should’ve discharged him after Nasiriyah. The man was the very definition of ‘mentally unfit for duty’ way back then. I knew it was only a matter of time before he went on a rampage.”

  Marthe leaned over Koven and touched Zola’s hand. “You’ve done great work for Daryl. Is there a seat left in this section you could upgrade to?”

  Koven saw Zola’s eyes light up and tried to give his wife a subtle wave-off that was noticed.

  “No, I’m fine,” Zola said. “Thank you anyway. European trains are much nicer than Amtrak.”

  “We insist,” Marthe said, squeezing her husband’s hand. “This row is full, but find an open seat and Daryl will handle the porter.”

  Zola checked around and grabbed a seat four rows back.

  Marthe pulled her husband’s chin until he met her gaze. “This is it, Daryl. Duncan won’t leave Château de Malbrouck alive.”

  “You gave my man an upgrade.”

  “Get with the program and don’t give yourself away.” Her snarl turned softer. “Be generous and happy. Greet people like long-lost friends. Tonight will set the path for our future.” She squeezed his knee. “Aren’t you excited?”

  He was excited.

  He’d always imagined it would take decades to take over the firm. Could the future really be that close at hand? She was right, this was the perfect moment. Marthe’s extended French family had all the right connections and the Three Blondes were ready to believe anything he told them. It was as if the stars had finally aligned for him.

  Marthe crossed her arms and then her leg. Koven glanced at her and patted her knee.

  She brushed him away.

  “Go talk to your boy about Gottleib,” she said. “He lost his friend and you didn’t say anything, much less give him time to mourn.”

  “Stop telling me what to do,” Koven hissed.

  He folded his newspaper, tucked it into the seat back in front of him, and sighed.

  He rose, stretched, and walked back to Zola. The younger man brought his eyes, red and shiny with tears, back from the window. He looked much older than the happy-go-lucky surfer who fled California’s beaches for the Marines just to pay child support.

  “Hey,” Koven said. “It’s a shame we had the symposium lined up this week, otherwise I’d have stayed for the funeral. You?”

  Zola didn’t answer.

  “Sorry, dumb question.” Koven pointed at the adjoining empty seat and Zola nodded. Slipping in, he patted his friend’s arm. “We’ll grieve when we get back. We’ll make time, take a few days off, sit Shiva with his mother.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Koven regarded him. The younger man looked lost, confused, pale, and unsteady.

  “It’s a shame the Jews move so quickly to bury their dead. If they’d just wait a few days…” Koven trailed off when he felt Zola’s open-mouthed stare. He cleared his throat. “We’ll wrap up Sabel Industries this week. That should lift morale.”

  “Alan Sabel is the CEO of all the Sabel companies, right?”

  “Of course.” Koven gave him a curious look.

  “I’ve heard his chief advisor is—”

  “His daughter, Pia,” Koven said. “Why do you think I invited her to the symposium?”

  “I heard she was apolitical.” Zola leaned back. “Did she accept?”

  Koven smirked. “I’ve made arrangements for her to address a women’s football club nearby.”

  “Awesome.” Zola admired his boss for a minute. “She’s the one we should focus on.”

  “Why do you say that?” Koven asked.

  “She’s an
unknown in political circles and has the potential to smoke our biggest spenders. Duncan’s worked with Alan for years, so we should focus on Pia for the win.” He paused and tried to grin. “Besides, it’s our only play.”

  They sat in silence for a mile or more, then Koven said, “Have you given any thought to what the Three Blondes told us?”

  “Tons. You deserve the attention, sir. They know you’re the rising star.”

  “And what they said about your son?”

  “I called him last night.” Zola sighed. “First time in way too long. He’s set on Berkeley, but I don’t know if he has the grades for it.”

  “He’s a fine boy, I’m sure. Maybe he could intern this summer. Get his feet wet and spend some time with you.”

  “Really? You mean it?” Zola smiled. “We’ve never had a high school intern. That would be great. Maybe those crazy women were right.”

  CHAPTER 5

  I drove up Georgia Avenue to Olney, Maryland on a dark, overcast afternoon past cars that managed to smash into each other on only half an inch of snow. I hadn’t seen Mercury all morning, which was good and bad. Good because I could imagine, however briefly, I wasn’t nuts. Bad because I’d come to rely on him, even if it was just a matter of time before he talked me into killing an innocent bystander.

  The Judean Memorial Garden and its iconic modern chapel were easy to find. The sign reading “David Gottleib Funeral” confirmed I’d found the right place. I parked and walked into a remarkable space with wooden pews and walls of maple. Above me the ceiling soared thirty feet. Directly below the highest point was the pulpit. Next to it rested a closed casket of unfinished pine. The people milling about were not dressed up, making me feel better about my turtleneck sweater over jeans. It was the only black sweater I owned.

  A bearded man said something to me in Hebrew. In his outstretched hand was a folded program for the service. He checked my confused expression and swapped the paper in his hand for one on the table behind him. I took what he offered and checked it: the memorial service in English and printed left to right. I gave the guy an appreciative nod that he returned. He pointed to a pile of kippahs. I grabbed one and topped my buzz cut. The front rows were filling with family and friends talking in hushed whispers. I left a couple empty pews for mourners who knew the deceased better than I and studied the guide for non-Jews. This wasn’t my first Jewish funeral, but combat chaplains don’t always get it right.