Death and Dark Money

by Seeley James

  “Why the spike?” Pia asked. “What happened that ignited voter interests?”

  “Grassroots bloggers and online sources.” Jeff pulled out his phone. “I’ll send you what my aides turned up on the districts and news outlets.”

  The elevator pinged and the doors open. Tania stepped out, keeping one hand on the door.

  Pia squeezed his arm. “I see why my father puts so much trust in you, Jeff.”

  She strode into the dimly lit garage and around a corner to her car when it hit her. She stared blankly at the concrete wall.

  Koven finances American campaigns with foreign money.

  The biggest economy and the deadliest military in the world is governed by people who owe their offices to foreigners laundering money through social welfare groups. She had to stop it.

  But where was her proof?

  We don’t know that our favorite politicians are taking money from foreigners in exchange for favors. We don’t know that they’re not. And we can’t find out.

  How did that happen?

  Pia closed her eyes and tensed.

  “You OK?” Tania asked.

  Pia looked across the roof of her car at her agent. “Just trying to process all this.”

  She slid into the driver’s seat and thought for a second. Evidence lay not far from her grasp if she played her cards right and followed her father’s advice. Someone took out Müller to keep that evidence from her, but the other two, Suliman and Taimur, were only half a world away.

  She hit the phone and dialed up her tech, Bianca Dominguez.

  Pia asked, “In all that material Jacob picked from Blackson’s hard drive, did you find any references to a woman-owned business in Saudi Arabia?”

  “I saw something like that. Saudi Arabia is not known for feminism, so a woman-owned business surprised me. I think her name was Samira Suliman.”

  “Find her contact information and set up an appointment.”

  Something in Bianca’s voice struck her as hesitant, uncertain. Bianca had always been upbeat and enthusiastic before coming to work for Pia. But something had changed. There could be many causes, but Pia went with her instinct.

  “Megan Rapinoe was the first woman on the National Team to come out of the closet,” Pia said. “She was a great player but after she came out, she had one less thing to worry about, and that allowed her to become one of the greatest. I’ve always respected her courage. No one has to come out if they don’t want to at Sabel Security. But anyone who does, has my blessing and protection in the workplace.” Pia let her words settle for a moment. “Will you set up that appointment for me?”

  “I’m on it,” Bianca said, her cheerful voice returned.

  “Before you go, do we have the resources to do a search of news blogs in specific congressional districts?”

  “Public blogs and posts, no problem. We can message or poll people if you don’t mind spending some money on advertising.”

  Pia’s brows rose, she glanced at Tania. “Could we do a poll that targets people in specific districts? For example, ask them where they heard about certain news stories?”

  “It will take a day,” Bianca said. “Do you want to post some news stories?”

  “What do you mean, ‘post news stories’? You mean, like real newspaper stories?”

  “You can write your own news article and post it on dozens of websites. Facebook and Buzzfeed put a tag that says ‘sponsored’ on them, but there are hundreds of others that make it look like regular content. The major websites will pick it up if it gets a lot of hits.”

  “You mean I could pay to run a news item that says Tania Cooper saved a baby from a burning building and Congressman McCormick might be a suspected terrorist and child molester, ‘vote for Cooper’, then post them in his district?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Or I could write a post about how terrible it is that Sabel Security sends American veterans to work for US enemies?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And if a social welfare group sponsors the posts, no one will know who wrote the article?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And for ten grand you can get a college professor to write a study proving a vote for Cooper expands the economy. You should read ‘Dark Money’ by Jane Mayer—scarier than a Stephen King story.”

  “Strange times we live in.” Pia clicked off and sent Jeff Smith’s files to Bianca.

  She clicked the Aston Martin into gear and powered up the ramp.

  At the street, she stopped for pedestrians. One woman on the sidewalk caught her eye. She rolled down her window and hit the horn. The woman of her interest faced her.

  “Hey, Marthe, my videos uploaded to the cloud before I deleted them from my phone.” Pia waited for the woman to gasp. “I’m going to figure out how you pulled it off. And then, you’re going down for it.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Daryl Koven stared down Rip Blackson, who leaned across his desk with both hands flat on the surface. Neither man blinked for what felt like an eternity.

  Someone had to end it.

  “Fine,” Koven said. “I could’ve told you first. But it doesn’t matter. You were Duncan’s pick for managing the firm because you were his right-hand man. Zola’s my pick for the same reason. We weren’t going to tell you until after the funeral because it won’t be effective until then.”

  “Last time we talked, you didn’t trust him.” Blackson took his hands off the desk and stood up straight.

  “That hasn’t changed.” Koven leaned his chair back. “Do you?”

  “Of course. I talked to him and—”

  “Think, Rip.” Koven lowered his voice. “Who tried to kill you last night?”

  “Are you saying it was Zola?” Blackson asked.

  Koven extended a palm as if he were giving his point as a gift. “He was rifling through your house.”

  “If he wanted to kill me he had plenty of opportunity that night.” Blackson turned away and watched the snow fall past the window. “It has to be someone else.”

  “You said he was working with Jacob Stearne.” Koven read every flicker in Blackson’s eye. “That guy’s been trying to dig his way in here for god knows what purpose. The lunatic beat up both Jago and Brent. Stearne is probably the one who turned Brent against us. Anyone who talks to Sabel Security is a traitor.”

  “Jacob took a bullet for me the other night. He’s not—”

  “Staged.” Koven threw up his hands. “C’mon, who shoots from a moving vehicle and hits anything? Who jumps in front of a semi-automatic without a helmet? And who wears body armor?”

  “That was unreal.” Blackson folded his arms. “But it was totally Jacob. Just like what he did in—”

  “Too real if you ask me.” Koven stepped around his desk. “Why did you download everything about ‘Gottleib liability’?”

  “Me?” Blackson put his hands out. “I didn’t download anything.”

  “The night you got back, you downloaded several gigs of data to your home computer.”

  Blackson clenched his fists and mouth. “That was the night I found Zola at my place. He hacked my computer.”

  “Tell me the truth, Rip. Were they working on something that could bring down the firm? Did Zola kill Gottleib when it went bad?”

  “No way. They weren’t like that.” Blackson considered his friends for a moment. “Zola worships you, he’d never leave the firm. He knows he’d never get a gig this sweet anywhere else.”

  “He’s not the same anymore. Something’s gone wrong.” Koven turned away.

  “How do I know you didn’t kill Gottleib?”

  “Rip,” Koven snapped a look over his shoulder, “you know that’s impossible. I promoted him, and what thanks did I get? He resigned.”

  Koven paced away.

  “Listen to us,” Koven said. “We’re scared and blaming each other when we should be working together. If we don’t, we could end up like David or Tom.”

  Blackson looked out the window
. “You think the killer is inside the firm?”

  “Whoever he is, he’s close to us. Someone knew Tom would be in France. Someone knew David went to Jacob’s house. Maybe David and Brent made a deal with someone and backed out.”

  “What kind of a deal would get you killed?”

  “They were doing something,” Koven said. “They must have given you a hint. Think about what pissed them off.”

  “Gottleib and Zola argued about the foreign clients a couple times. It was nothing I knew about one way or the other.”

  “Argued enough to kill?”

  “Well. Actually.” Blackson paused. “Jacob told me Brent had the murder weapon on him.”

  “What? You didn’t think to tell me?” Koven clenched his fists. “Wait, how did Jacob know it was the murder weapon?”

  “I asked him that,” Blackson thought for a moment. “Damn. He changed the subject on me.”

  “It’s Brent then. He’s working with Stearne.”

  “But Jacob wasn’t in France.” Blackson faced him and shrugged. “If he killed David, do you think Brent killed Tom?”

  “Brent left for LA but never checked into his hotel.”

  “You called him? Checked his location?”

  “He’s off the grid.”

  “I’ll call him.” Blackson’s gaze swept the carpet. “I’ll check with his mom, his baby-mama.”

  “Thanks.” Koven stuck out a hand. “You and I need to clear this up and move the company forward.”

  Blackson left and Koven went back to his desk and worked through his email.

  Marthe staggered in with stooped shoulders. She shrugged out of her coat, letting it fall to the floor and plowed face-first into the sofa. She pulled the throw blanket over her and curled up into a tight fetal position, her back to him.

  He watched her for a moment, then went back to his email.

  She didn’t move.

  After a while, he asked, “What’s bothering you, my love?”

  “That girl.” Marthe’s voice muffled by the sofa. “She knows we killed Duncan.”

  “You’re letting your imagination run wild, Marthe. She knows nothing.”

  “Have you seen how she looks at me? She can read the guilt in your eyes and see the blood on your hands.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? I spoke to her just hours ago. I had her eating out of the palm of my hand.”

  “She yelled at me when she left.” Marthe rolled her face upward.

  “She tried that crap with me, but I took her down a notch.”

  “She still has the pictures and videos.”

  “What pictures could she possibly have that would implicate us?” Koven asked. “It doesn’t matter anyway. She came to me for help with the Mercenary Restrictions Act and left ready to work with Prince Taimur and the others.”

  Marthe turned her face back to the sofa. “Daryl, you’re such a fool. She’s a girl.”

  Koven turned back to his email. “Whatever that means.”

  “She played you. She let you think what you wanted to think. We tell you what to do and you always think it’s your idea.” Marthe sat up and faced him. “She’s going to kill us.”

  “You’re blowing this way out of proportion. Get hold of yourself.” He stood and crossed to her. “The one we have to worry about is Brent Zola. He and Gottleib both downloaded a lot of privileged information from our servers. Information that could lead to criminal charges if they find a way to corroborate it. And now, he’s gone missing.”

  She stood up. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing. I sent Jago to find him, but he’s disappeared.”

  “We can’t have another death in the firm. It would play into Sabel’s hands.”

  “It won’t connect back to us.”

  Marthe crossed to him and wrapped her arms around him.

  “Tell me the truth,” she said. “Did you have anything to do with David Gottleib’s murder?”

  Koven pushed his wife back half an arm’s length and looked into her eyes. “No.”

  She pulled herself close again. They held each other.

  She said, “I feel so out of control. Everything has become too messy.”

  He wondered if she were blaming him. Wasn’t it her idea from the beginning? She’d taken on too much. Tom’s funeral, rescheduling the symposium in Germany, several trips across the Atlantic—the strain was getting to her. She was his rock, his center. He needed her back on point.

  “Aren’t we humans just pathetic? We want life to have meaning and be in order when it’s all meaningless and chaotic.” He waved his arms. “We’re born without definition or purpose. The only thing we can do is define ourselves, build something. That’s what we’re doing here, Marthe. We’re building something big.” He tightened his arms around her and whispered into her hair. “You and me. A powerful legacy. We started into this and we can’t back out.”

  “What is that supposed to mean? You’re still planning to kill Brent?” She shook her head. “I can’t live with making this thing worse. No, he’s gone. It’s his message, he’ll leave us alone.”

  Koven kissed her nose. “Now who’s letting herself think what she wants to think?”

  CHAPTER 20

  I scanned the room: bookshelves, television, dresser, windows—none of which felt the least bit familiar. I threw back the covers and stood up only to drop back down with a massive head rush. Then it came back to me, where I was and who I was with. I looked around for Miguel and couldn’t figure out if he’d been there earlier when I was groggy or if I’d dreamed it.

  Anoshni lay on the floor next to me and looked up with big, happy-puppy eyes. Miguel brought him home from the Reservation as a peace offering after we had a territorial dispute over a woman. Naturally, we both lost in the end. Tania wasn’t speaking to either of us. But I liked the dog—at least he was trustworthy.

  The only thing more disorienting than waking up in the guest wing of Sabel Gardens was seeing my albatross—the homeless god—standing next to one fierce-looking brown-skinned dude at the foot of the bed.

  The new guy was short and muscular, had his hair in a bun, a breastplate of polished sea shells, an illustrated loincloth, a wide black streak painted across his eyes, and lips painted white. He chanted something angry and loud and shook a stick that rattled.

  Mercury said, Don’t look at me, bro. It’s your fault.

  I said, What the hell? Who is he?

  Mercury said, Jupiter heard you say I needed cultural diversity. And Jupiter thinks you’re the special sauce on the cheeseburger of human life. So here we are. This is whatcha call a cultural exchange.

  The short dude ranted more words, held up a nasty looking knife made of black glass and shook his stick. It had tiny skulls hanging from it.

  I said, I can’t handle this. I’m losing my mind.

  Mercury said, Be nice. His name is Vucub-Camé, which is Mayan for Seven-Death. He’s my new traveling companion—thanks to you. Don’t spook him, he comes from a long line of gods who think ripping the beating heart out of your chest with an obsidian blade is good for you. Breathe in now. Ahhh. Can you feel the cultural diversity flowing like energy from a crystal?

  I said, I need my meds. I’m going back on my meds.

  Mercury said, No, no, no! Don’t do anything crazy. I’ll take our new buddy for a walk until you calm down.

  Mercury grabbed his pal by the shoulders, turned him around, and pushed him toward the door. He looked back at me. Jupiter and Minerva are backing you big time, homie. The least you could do is call that bat-shit crazy doctor and make us look good. Is that too much to ask?

  I said, Will Voodoo-whatshisname go away?

  Mercury said, I’m so disappointed in you, brutha. I thought you were all cool with expanding your horizons, but I guess that’s all just empty words, huh. Should have guessed. All y’all white people are like that, ya know. ‘Oh, honey, let’s have our friends-of-color over for dinner and hope they don’t deify Denz
el Washington.’

  I said, Don’t get me wrong, I like Mayans. Some of my best friends are Mayan, or cousins of Mayans. Navajo anyway. It’s just that I’m using my heart right now. If we’re going to expand horizons, can we try Saint Francis of Assisi or something?

  Mercury said, Puh-Leez. That’s like Cedar Rapids having a cultural exchange with Iowa City.

  He pushed Seven-Death into the hall and closed the door behind him.

  I took a deep breath.

  The door opened again.

  “No, not yet!” I grabbed a pillow for a shield and looked into the surprised face of Ms. Pia Sabel.

  “Are you OK?” she asked.

  “Sorry, nightmare.” I tossed the cushion and checked my wardrobe. Boxers and a t-shirt that said, US ARMY BOMB SQUAD / if you see me running—follow.

  She handed me one of the two cups of coffee she carried and moved to the windows. She pressed a button that opened the blinds, revealing a dark sky and snow-covered garden.

  She faced me with crossed arms. “I’m not happy that you brought the murder weapon here.”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “I’ve turned it over to your attorney. He’s having it checked for fingerprints before he turns it over to the police.”

  “Oh great. When should I turn myself in?”

  “Don’t be melodramatic. It wasn’t loaded when it was stolen, so your fingerprints won’t be on the magazine. If Zola’s are, we’ll know what happened.”

  “There won’t be any. The cops found rubber gloves.”

  She nodded and motioned to the furniture. “Have a seat, we need to catch up.”

  My ribs screamed when I gingerly folded myself into the wingback in the corner.

  She took the seat opposite, a pedestal table between us. She picked up the pup, put him in her lap, and baby-talked him. Anoshni licked her face.

  He was mostly house-broken, but we weren’t past the occasional accident stage when he got excited. I closed my eyes and prayed he would keep the proceedings dignified.

  “Your idea to record Koven incriminating himself was a good one,” she said, “but he was too clever to get caught. He did give me some good leads, though. I’m heading to Dubai to follow up. We ran into Kasey Earl and he gave us a good tip as well.”