Death and Dark Money

by Seeley James

  I stared at it then peered at Cates. “What’s this?”

  “It’s the one Gottleib gave you.”

  “The one he gave me wasn’t polished.”

  My attorney nearly leaped on Cates. I put a hand out to hold him back.

  “Sorry, I, uh.” Cates closed his hand and rubbed the back of his neck. “To tell the truth, I can’t let the other one out of evidence. But, as a soldier, I know these little totems have deep meaning and I thought you’d like to have one just like it. Go ahead, take it.”

  “Sorry, Captain Cates, but it means nothing to me. The only thing I remember about Nasiriyah is being scared to death.” I grabbed my coat. “Good luck with your totem.”

  He squeezed his fist around the bullet and closed his eyes. I stepped around him and nodded my attorney toward the hall.

  My attorney said, “Hey Cates, I don’t know why Lovett has a hard-on for Jacob, but he’s ignoring enough evidence and testimony to make it look like he’s being paid to frame my decorated veteran here. I’m putting my investigators on your team for some deep research. If any of these guys has one problem with chain of custody, erased interview tapes, or any funny business with evidence in the last ten years, I’m reopening all your cases and working for the incarcerated victims pro bono.”

  “Go for it, counselor.” Cates twisted an ear in our direction. “They’re not my team. Their captain is on vacation and the chief called me in a few minutes ago to make sure we don’t piss off Alan Sabel.”

  There was something strangely competitive in his reply. I guessed the vacationing captain was younger and looser around the rule book. The kind of guy clean players hate but the brass promotes.

  “Tell the regular guy, no funny business on this one. Mr. Stearne is a decorated veteran and—”

  I tugged his arm.

  Cates didn’t look up and didn’t speak.

  We shrugged into our heavy coats as we walked out.

  My attorney’s big Mercedes sank three inches when he got in. I tried not to watch him struggle with his seatbelt. He cranked up the heat and drove three blocks before saying anything. “What the fuck was with the bullet?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Hey, where’re you heading? I live in Bethesda.”

  “He was trying to trick you into saying something.”

  “Ya think? Where are we going?”

  “What’s the deal on the robbery? How many people know enough about your collection to know where you keep the rare guns?”

  “Tons. I show it off at parties.”

  A lie. Only my buddy Miguel and a few select others had ever set foot in that room. Although anyone who knows a veteran with too many tours behind him, knows he owns a cabinet like mine—just in case.

  But there was one time, when we had to negotiate a split contract with our competitor, Velox Deployment, we used my house for neutral ground. One of their guys took a long bathroom break—I found him in my office, admiring my collection.

  I gave my attorney a look. “Where. Are. We. Going?”

  “Your shrink. We’re getting the insanity crap off the table right now. I don’t want to get blindsided if they pry those files open.”

  “Et tu, Brute?” I said.

  There was no end to people worrying about my mental health. I have no idea why.

  Mercury said, Now do you believe, dude? Cates was in the 3/2. He was Daryl Koven’s commanding officer. I told you Jupiter was pulling some strings.

  I said, What the hell are you talking about? Why would I care about Cates? And who is Koven?

  Mercury said, You don’t remember that day? It was the day we met, dawg. You were bawling for Jesus like a little girl. You were visibly disappointed when I showed up—but I let that shit slide. Nasiriyah was our first big win, brutha! Remember? What? Nothing? Man, you suck. I gotta find a better mortal to evangelize on our behalf cuz you just ain’t pulling your weight.

  I craned over my shoulder to glare at the world’s most obnoxious god, in his paper-thin toga, sprawled across the back seat like he owned it. I shook my head.

  “Is someone following us?” My attorney tried to look over his shoulder.

  “Thought I knew a guy back there.”

  The attorney dropped me at Dr. Harrison’s office.

  My shrink’s goatee was gray, his spectacles round, his cashmere sweater a shade of muted-blah. I sat on the far end of a long couch, he sat in a wingback. A glass coffee table separated us. We exchanged tense pleasantries until he figured I wasn’t warming up.

  “Look, Jacob,” Dr. Harrison said with a clenched jaw, “you don’t want to be here, I don’t want you to be here, but your attorney wants to put this whole god-business to rest.”

  “You told him?”

  “No, of course not. You and I know about your imaginary friend, but I would never—”

  I jumped to my feet. “He is not imaginary.”

  My voice was so loud it shook his lace curtains.

  “Take it easy.” Harrison pushed down the air in front of him with his palms. “My bad, as they say. I meant that everything you say in here is private. It never leaves this room. You can rest assured I would never betray your trust.”

  Mercury said, That slimy rat bastard already betrayed us, and will again anytime someone sticks a knife in his face. Hey, dawg, you’re recording this session, right?

  I said, Recording it?

  Mercury said, On your earbud-phone thingy. Trust me on this one.

  Why not?

  The link to record blinked and I dropped my earbud in my shirt pocket as if I were turning everything off to give him my full attention. Dr. Harrison smiled his thanks. I retook the couch and Mercury stood behind the wingback, pretending to give Harrison a scalp massage. The doctor and I let the tension fade before attempting more.

  “What’s the career path for a psychiatrist?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Doing good is my reward. Maybe a published book about an extraordinary patient would cap off a career nicely.”

  “How about a patient who talks to a god? Would that help you write a book?”

  “That would be perfect!” He laughed. “Now, I’m going to run through a series of simple questions to see if your voice is internal or supernatural.”

  Mercury said, WTF? Internal? Like talking to yourself? Who does this guy think he is? How dare he test me! Does he have a planet named after him? I don’t think so. Not even a comet. Best he could hope for is one of those Kuiper Belt rocks, out in the cheap seats with those idiot Greeks, Uranus and Pluto.

  Harrison kept talking. “I’ve reviewed your scholastic record and have a good idea of your lesser subjects. For example, I see you never excelled at mathematics. So let’s start there. Can you tell me any three-digit prime number?”

  Mercury said, Oh easy, 101, 103, 107, 109…

  I repeated Mercury’s words until we reached 997, all 143 prime numbers in the range.

  Harrison’s mouth hung open. He looked at his pad. “You missed 864.”

  “Not a prime number.”

  “Very good.” He nodded like a bobble-head.

  Repeating Mercury’s words again, I said, “Do you want the Centered Squared Primes? Or the maybe the Harmonic Prime?”

  “That’s fine. Let’s move on to history. Who was the Emperor of Rome before Severus Alexander?”

  Again I parroted Mercury’s answer. “Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus, but you probably know him as Elagabalus, the name they gave him after he died. He was so depraved his grandmother had the Praetorian Guard murder him at the ripe old age of 18. Did you know he married three women and two men?”

  Harrison stared at me like I’d pulled a dragon out of my ear.

  I texted Agent Miguel, my old Army buddy and best friend, to pick me up.

  “My word.” My psychiatrist’s face paled with wonder. “It’s real, isn’t it? I mean, you couldn’t have known all that. You really do talk to God.”

  “Look, doc, I get it. You’re not sure
where to go with this.” I rose and grabbed my coat. “Trust me, neither do I because he’s not the kind of god you bring home to Mom. You know what I’m saying? So. We’re done here.”

  “Wait,” Harrison said. “Tell me my future.”

  “What?”

  “Say something you couldn’t have learned from a book.”

  “You’re a whack job—I didn’t learn that in a book.”

  Harrison got up and stepped into my path. He put his hands on my arms as if his aging, overweight body could stop me from leaving. He looked up into my eyes as if I were Jesus returned.

  I gave him my soldier stare: let-go-or-die.

  He didn’t budge. He said, “Tell me something about my future.”

  Mercury said, He’s going to smack his shin on the coffee table.

  I told the doc his fortune.

  The man spun around to look at the coffee table and smacked his shin on it. He grabbed his knee and fell to the floor, laughing and yelling at the same time. “Ow. It’s true! Oh my god! Ow. It’s true.”

  “Excuse me, Doc. I have to catch a killer ’cause the cops can’t be bothered with getting the right guy.”

  I stepped over him and went downstairs and out the front door and waited on the sidewalk for Miguel. The freezing air stung my cheeks as much as it burned my nostrils.

  Mercury stood a few feet away in his mini-skirt toga. I can’t believe it. You finally got a convert.

  CHAPTER 9

  At 3:04 AM, Pia woke up in her suite at the Four Seasons hotel struggling for air and fighting a pillow held firmly against her face. She kicked and bucked and threw her assailant to the floor. She leaped from the bed, landed on her feet, her fists raised and ready for a fight.

  She blinked into the empty room. Like every night, the dream had been more real than life. This time her tormentor screamed about saving her country from foreign campaign contributions and something else about innocent men dying in France. With her heart hammering hard enough to burst from her chest, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She hoped for one full night of sleep just once in her life.

  Tania swept into the room, leading with her pistol. “You okay? I heard the scream.”

  Pia shook her head. “Fine.”

  She put on her running gear and left. She told Tania to let her run alone reasoning that good guys can’t keep up, and bad guys don’t get up that early.

  Two hours later, Pia led her group from the helicopter through wet snow across the executive apron at London’s Luton airport. They sprinted up the airstair and boarded her jet.

  Pia, in a double set of heathered pullovers, took her favorite chair at the front, her father the seat opposite.

  Tania pointed down the aisle. “Anywhere is fine, Mr. Blackson. Pia will call you when she’s ready to talk.”

  Rip Blackson took off his hat, nodded at Pia and her dad, and made his way to the sofa in back. Carlos chose a row behind Pia, folded his arms, tilted against the window, and closed his eyes.

  Tania remained in the aisle, staring at her boss with arms crossed.

  “It’s not a discussion,” Pia said. “Carlos stays and you deal with it.”

  Tania harrumphed and took a seat farther down the aisle.

  “Before you lecture me about the need for lobbyists,” Pia said to her father, “tell me about your relationship with Duncan, and why Rip Blackson was following me with a parabolic microphone.”

  Alan Sabel sighed. “The biggest advantage in business is knowledge. My guess? Duncan sent him to find out if you’re going to retain his firm. The obvious question is, will you?”

  “Who wants to know, you or Duncan?”

  “Everyone. What you do in the coming months impacts thousands of lives. Not just lobbyists, but the contractors who launch Sabel satellites, the customers who hire Sabel Technologies to fix their networks, the captain of our yacht, the people who clean your bedroom—they’re all stressed about their future.”

  Pia considered her responsibilities while the roar of engines drowned out further discussion. It was part of the stress that gnawed on her nerves, everyone waited for her to make decisions when she didn’t even know there were decisions to be made.

  They rolled down the runway and into the darkness, launching upward at a steep angle.

  “Nothing has changed,” Pia said. “You still run Sabel Industries. But you haven’t answered my question. What is your relationship with Duncan?”

  “They’re worried because you’re young, and young people are idealistic.” Alan leaned his elbows on the table. “I was idealistic when I was your age. But once you take on the responsibility of keeping people employed, when you realize the gravity of your decisions, when you see former employees bagging groceries, you begin to guard your company like Gollum protecting his ring.”

  Pia put a hand out: stop. “What does Duncan do?”

  “Duncan represents our interests in political circles. Politicians can help or hurt you. But, as you’ve learned, they sure as hell won’t leave you alone.” He tugged at his cuffs and glanced around. When he met her gaze, he shrugged. “Tom Duncan looks for political winners. For example, three years ago, he told me to back a certain Maryland State’s Attorney. The guy won. And a few days ago, after I texted him, that same attorney released Jacob Stearne.”

  “We bought the state prosecutor?” Pia’s eyebrows rose.

  “Certainly not. We supported him, we’re his constituents, and when detectives pursued the most convenient suspect, we asked him to review the relevant facts. Because we supported him, he extended the courtesy of acting on my request. And Jacob was released. But if Jacob did commit the murder, campaign contributions will not get him off.”

  “What else has Duncan done for us?”

  “We backed the governor in Wisconsin and a congressman in Idaho and—”

  “Do we have operations in Wisconsin?” Pia asked.

  “We considered building an aerospace engineering office for Sabel Satellite out there.” Alan leaned back and brushed his slacks with the edge of his hand. “The governor had other backers who used our designated tax incentives for private prisons instead.”

  “We backed a governor who chose blue-collar jobs over highly paid aerospace engineers?” Pia huffed. “Is Duncan the guy who told you to back Veronica Hunter for President?”

  “As it turns out,” Alan said, “Duncan is old school. He thought $20 million would give me access to the president, but that was before Citizens United opened the floodgates. $20 million won’t get you coffee with her Chief of Staff anymore.”

  “Citizen’s what?”

  “It’s a Supreme Court decision. They ruled that corporations and unions can raise money on behalf of political candidates and issues as long as they don’t coordinate with the candidate and they disclose their donors.”

  “How do we know if they break the rules?”

  Alan shook his head. “We don’t.”

  “We’re Jeff Smith’s biggest donors. Why is he shaking me down for more donations?”

  “He isn’t driving this,” Alan said. “When representatives are new and insecure, they look for any excuse to get in the news. They found a cause that gets voters talking.”

  Pia thought about her growing profile in political circles, an area where she’d prefer more anonymity. Politicians controlled more than regulations, they could bring down armies on your head, as she knew all too well. The thought of tangling with them made her head swim. Plato was right, politicians should be set aside in a special class that could own nothing, all their needs given to them from the public trust to keep them above corruption.

  “Wake my stalker for me.” Pia nodded at Blackson, who’d fallen asleep on the sofa.

  Alan woke the lobbyist and coaxed him to the front. Blackson took the seat opposite her, his shirt rumpled, his eyes bloodshot.

  He tried to brave it out with a forced smile. “When you offered me a ride, I didn’t realize you meant five in the morning. So the rumors a
re true, you’re an insomniac?”

  Pia let his question sit for an uncomfortable minute.

  “When I was four,” she said, “I watched a man strangle my mother to death. I stabbed the guy but it was too late. Alan Sabel adopted me and sent me to the best therapists in the world, but you can’t erase that kind of trauma. Ever since then, I’ve slept for no more than three hours.”

  She watched Blackson think through a hundred apologies that he wisely chose not to voice. The silence stretched to the breaking point.

  “Why the microphone?” she asked.

  “It was a present from a friend. Looked kinda cool, so I thought I’d test it out in a crowded…”

  She knew the power her piercing gray-green eyes could bring to bear and saw it working on Blackson. His head sank and he placed both palms on the table.

  “Why did you miss your coworker’s funeral to eavesdrop on me, Mr. Blackson?”

  His head snapped up, his eyes fixed on her, but he had no answer.

  “Were you close to David Gottleib?”

  Blackson drew back and inhaled. “Since Camp Lejeune.”

  “Do you think Jacob Stearne killed your friend?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “How do you know?”

  Blackson squinted as if she’d asked if the sun would rise in the morning. “He’s the kind of guy who saves people. I called David’s mom and tried to explain it to her, but she and those detectives—”

  “What did Mr. Gottleib want with Jacob?”

  Blackson rubbed his palms together and thought. He kept thinking for a long time.

  Pia put a hand on his wrist, forcing him to look up. “If I can’t trust you to answer difficult questions, why would I keep your firm?”

  Blackson bit his lip and closed his eyes. She let go of his wrist.

  After a few moments, he looked up. “David was a proud Jew, the kind who kept kosher even at business meetings. It was hard for him to work with Arabs. For the last several weeks, David was getting upset about money pouring into the firm. Not just Arab money, but Russian and German and Indian. When his team worked on a Saudi deal, he turned bitter. He was going to tell me about it—but someone killed him first.”