by Peter Stone
“This place is about to get even less crowded if you don’t tell me what’s going on.” I did my best to sound bolder than I felt. I was literally taking my lead from watching crime shows on TV with my dad. Though if this were a TV show, the person playing me would start to look around the restaurant and realize that he’d been set up, outnumbered, and was not getting out alive. However, as I scanned the restaurant and saw a group of senior citizens at one table and a gregarious busboy passing by, I figured I was okay. For the moment.
“Tell me what you know about Wade Branson and Ariel Lancaster,” he said. He spoke in an efficient, clipped manner. He scanned the restaurant, inside and out—not in a nervous way, but the way a father scopes out a park where his child is playing.
“No connection,” I said. “Branson is some greedy CEO who killed himself six years ago. Ariel died in a drunk-driving accident. That’s it.”
“So you researched Branson,” the man said.
“Yes,” I responded. “He sounds like a monster.”
“Branson’s not the monster,” he said.
I sat down. “Well, then who is?”
“Cameron,” he said. “The answer to that question could put you in danger, but we need your help.”
“Come on, man, just tell me or don’t.” I took a bite of the unwieldy hot dog, and it was ridiculously delicious. But this guy’s runaround was getting annoying, and I didn’t want to give him the credit for introducing me to the greatest chili dog I’d ever tasted. So I placed it down with an indifferent shrug.
“A little over three weeks ago, I had lunch—” he said.
“I get it, you like meetings over meals,” I interrupted.
“I had lunch with Ariel Lancaster the week that she died,” he added.
I moved my plate of food to the side and leaned in across the unsteady table.
“Okay . . . ,” I replied, my mind racing to terrifying thoughts that were just out of reach.
“We had been in contact with her due to some suspicions of Beck’s involvement with Branson’s death. . . .”
I leaned back. “Hold up, you’re telling me that Beck is involved in all of this? You’re crazy.”
He gave a condescending smile, “We needed someone on the inside. And she had questions of her own,” the man continued as he scooped up some residual chili with a spoon.
“But her mom and BIB are political allies,” I said.
“Which is exactly why she was perfect. No one saw it coming,” he explained. He paused for a beat and then said, “Until they did.”
“Are you saying Ariel’s death wasn’t an accident?” I asked.
“I’m saying that Ariel was on the verge of confirming some very dangerous information about your boss. She said she was about to find something really big. And then she died.”
“But she was with a drunk driver.” I protested an increasingly viable reality.
“Well, we’re not here to solve Ariel’s murder . . . death,” he corrected himself. “We’re here because of Branson. Because I think Beck knew about Thativan—even encouraged it despite the risks. He was an investor in the company, after all, and all anyone could see at the start was money. But then people’s brains started shutting down, and Beck had to get far, far away from it. And Ariel claimed she knew how.”
“And then she died. What’s stopping the same thing from happening to me? Why did you pick me?” I said, a slight tremor in my throat.
“Cameron, no offense, but you are a diversity pick for a summer internship. You’re headed to junior college in a month and a half. Your dad is a landscaper, as long as he can keep that business together. And up until a month ago, so were you. No one is going to think you’re capable of researching or even interested in a crime that happened six years ago. Interns are invisible. You’re invisible. I bet there are people in the office who don’t even know your name,” he said.
“Okay, first of all, my dad’s business is fine. He’s fine.” I weakly jumped to his defense. “And second, what’s up with your knowing all of this stuff about my life? You basically know how much money the tooth fairy gave me for my second bicuspid, so why can’t you figure out your little BIB theory on your own?”
“Cameron.” he pushed aside his drink and leaned in across the table. “You have all access and no profile, which puts you in an even better position than Ariel to figure this out.”
“So let me get this straight,” I said. “You picked me because I seem like a nobody, because I’m the last person anyone would think could be smart enough to research an open case.”
“Well, actually, Ariel picked you,” he replied.
I looked at him, silent.
“She knew who you were before you showed up at the office. And she told me over lunch that you were smart. Smarter than anyone else realized, even though she’d only spent a few days with you,” he said. “And that, if anything should happen to her, we would need someone on the inside to help. And she said that someone was you.”
I was both stunned and oddly complimented. But I didn’t want this. I didn’t ask for this.
“I don’t even know who you are,” I said, my voice still tremulous. “Who do you work for, and why are you doing this? Who’s this ‘we’ you keep referring to?”
“I work for the government,” he said, leaning back and folding his arms. As if this answer were automatic, a reflex.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked. “So do I, kind of.”
“In this town, when you hear people say I work for the government or I work for the State Department, that’s when you stop asking questions,” he explained. “Because there won’t be any more answers. But I’ll give you a hint. . . .” He opened his thick flannel shirt just wide enough to reveal what looked a lot like the FBI badges that agents flashed on TV.
Seeing the badge—the legitimacy—made me feel both more safe and more nervous.
“Look, Cameron,” he said firmly. “Something tells me whatever killed Branson killed Ariel. There is corruption there—mold, as I called it. And it will grow and grow, unless we shine a light on it. And you should care about that.”
I wasn’t sure that I did. I preferred the Katie Campbell fast-track-to-a-job-on-the-Hill version of this summer to being a mole for the freaking FBI.
“And if you need an extra reason to care,” he said, accurately assessing that I did, “there’s Central Valley State University.”
“CVSU has nothing to do with this,” I said. I felt an echo of my dad’s disappointment for losing that landscaping contract.
“CVSU has a lot to do with your dad,” he answered. “Lost that whole campus to some statewide operation. And he could have done it. He’d need to staff up a bit, but he could do it.”
“Yes, he could,” I said.
“And he will,” he said. “If you help us indict BIB.”
I felt a brief but massive wave of relief as I thought about my dad getting to work that campus. He’d be set for life. In a lower-middle-class kind of way. But then I wondered if it was all legal.
“Are you bribing me? That’s a state-owned facility. You can’t do that,” I said.
“It’s a reward. We use them all the time in my line of work,” he explained. “And if you’ve learned something so far this summer, I hope it’s that people win government contracts for all kinds of reasons.”
“I need proof,” I said. “That you have any ability to reverse the contract that’s already in place.”
“You’ll get your proof.” He rolled his eyes. “Now can we talk about what you’re going to do?”
“Fine,” I said. “But I’m not doing anything until I have some sort of assurance. . . .”
“You and your assurances, kid!” he interrupted, exasperated.
“Okay, what am I supposed to do?” I asked.
“Did she leave anything behind?” he responded.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I sit at her old desk, and there’s some personal stuff, a few files.�
�
“Start there,” he said.
“Did she tell you anything more?” I asked, incredulous. “You met with her all this time, and that’s all you have for me? ‘Start there’?!”
“She didn’t want to tell me any more details. She said she was protecting someone. That it was best for only her to know,” he replied. “And now, only you.”
“I am freaking out right now, dude.” I decided we were past any illusions of calm. I then thought that “dude” was probably not an appropriate way to refer to an FBI agent. “Um . . . agent?” I corrected myself.
“The name is Memo,” he said.
“Okay,” I replied. “Agent Memo. I just graduated high school and I wanted to come here to support a congressman, not to destroy him. I’m a kid from Lagrima.” He surely must have realized that, didn’t he? “I’m just an intern.”
Memo pushed his plate aside and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You’re an intern who is going to make history,” he said.
“I’ll settle for an intern who saves his dad’s business,” I answered.
“That works too. Let me know what you find,” he said. “And don’t use that e-mail address anymore; it’s not safe for more than a couple exchanges.”
“How will I contact you?” I asked, suddenly feeling very vulnerable.
“Here,” he said, pulling out a small black flip phone from his battle-scarred briefcase. “Secure line, but best to keep the texts to a minimum anyway.”
“So you’ll be contacting me from the year 2002?” I asked.
“Very clever,” he said as he got up from the table and walked away. “Nice meeting you, Cameron. I think Ariel was right about you. And you’re welcome for the half smoke.”
As Memo walked out the door, I stayed seated at the table. And hoped Ariel was right about me.
14
I may have spent most of the weekend with Lena (an outdoor concert on the Mall, and an evening run around the monuments), which was a good thing because she was managing some Mexican-Caribbean relations event in Florida the following week.
“So I’ll see you on the Fourth of July, right?” I asked her before we kissed good-bye at the end of our run.
“Well, actually.” She hesitated. “I have another embassy thing. I don’t think I’ll be able to see you on the holiday.”
“On the Fourth of July in the US Capitol?” I panicked at the prospect of an entire holiday weekend as referee for Zeph and Hillary’s pointless spats. “What is it? Can’t you get out of it, at least for the fireworks?”
“Look, I know it sucks, but I can’t really do anything about it. My parents want me there, and I’m still living with them—remember? I’ll see you again soon, okay? You’ll be fine,” she said, unusually obscure, while rubbing my arm up and down. I started to flinch away, frustrated by her vagueness. Mostly frustrated that I wouldn’t see her for so long.
“I’ve never had a long-distance relationship with someone who lives in the same city as me,” I said.
She answered with a kiss and another “soon” before jogging north across the Mall, back home.
As I walked back to my apartment, my thoughts shifted from disappointment about Lena to thoughts of what Ariel had left for me in the office before she died or maybe was murdered.
• • •
Late Sunday night, I talked with Berto and explained why we hadn’t spoken in so long. “Dude, I had to look into that thing I told you about.”
“Your little Watergate situation?” he asked, exasperated.
I looked around my room in the apartment as if someone was eavesdropping. I pulled down the shade of the window, which somehow made me feel better. Safer.
“Look, this probably sounds crazy, but we shouldn’t talk about this on the phone,” I whispered.
“Oh, so now you won’t say anything about it to me, bro?” he asked.
“No,” I said. The twisted carnage of that car and the shard of Ariel’s yellow dress flashed through my mind. “I mean, I will talk about it eventually. If I can. But it’s serious. It’s complicated.”
“If you can? Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Berto replied. “You’re complicated now. Congratulations for sounding important. I’m just going to go back to bagging groceries.”
“That’s not what I mean,” I protested.
“Look, dude, I gotta go,” he said. And then, before hanging up: “Sunday-afternoon UNO game with the primos. You know how it is.”
I did know. Because I was the reigning champ of Sunday- afternoon UNO before I left for DC. I enforced the compounding “Draw 2” card rule and always knew that Berto’s cousin Julia hid one of her last two cards just to make you think she was almost done. And if it ever came down to just me and Berto’s little five-year-old brother, Cesar, for a consolation round, I let him win.
Before I turned off the nightstand lamp to go to sleep, I reached for the small picture of my mom and slipped it into my wallet. I was going to need her with me for what lay ahead.
• • •
I woke up to a text my dad had sent that night, after I’d gone to bed: CVSU is back in play. They said contract negotiations are stalled. We just might win the thing after all!
I shivered as I realized that my lunchtime conversation with Memo two days prior had already taken effect across the country. This was a signal from Memo. This was his proof.
Wow! I responded. That’s great. When will you find out?
They said they’ll need until August, but I’ll take it! Even the possibility has us real excited.
Until August. Just enough time for my internship—and Memo’s investigation—to wrap up.
I bolted out the door, telling Zeph and Hillary that I needed to get to the office early in order to catch up on some research. But the real reason I rode the metro into work a little early was so I could have some time to search Ariel’s remaining things in that desk before everyone came into the office. Now that Memo had confirmed the reality of my “reward,” his questions seemed more real, more urgent. I imagined the clues Ariel might have left behind. Was there some code on the Post-it notes? A trashed gum wrapper with directions inside?
I found a stack of unclaimed mail at the base of the office’s front door and picked it up as I tried to open the door. Nadia Zyne’s heels clicked against the marble floor and she stood next to me. She did not offer any help with my balancing act, but she did offer a condescending “Looks like you’ve got a lot on your hands. Are you sure you can handle everything?” Cryptic and cold, she chuckled to herself, and I wondered if she knew of my recent interest in Wade Branson. Or maybe I was just paranoid.
She opened the door, vainly keeping it open for me for a half second with her index finger. When I heard her start a phone conversation with some reporter, I dumped the cluster of mail and went to my desk to open the drawer of Ariel’s belongings.
The desk was empty.
I opened another drawer, just in case I had chosen the wrong one. This one was filled with my crap. I opened every drawer in the desk, hoping that I could find those Post-it notes, those movie ticket stubs, or even just that photo.
Nothing.
“Looking for something?” Nadia emerged from her office as Katie and some other staffers entered the front door.
“What?” I nervously replied, shutting all of the desk drawers I had opened.
“I had Jigar pack up all of Ariel’s things Friday after you left,” Nadia explained. “Nani wanted the last of Ariel’s belongings, which I think is reasonable for a grieving mother. Or were you planning on hoarding the girl’s stuff forever?”
“I wasn’t hoarding it. I just didn’t know what to do with it,” I responded.
“Well, now you don’t need to worry about it. Sorry for the inconvenience, but Ariel wasn’t able to clear out her own desk, as you might have noticed.”
A phone rang, someone turned on the other half of the lights, and the office slowly lumbered to life.
“That’s not what I meant to
say,” I responded.
“Cam, I don’t really ever know what you mean to say.” She sighed. “Jigar!”
Just like that, Jigar carried an armful of files and Nadia’s filled coffee cup and joined her in her office.
“The press secretary beating up on you again?” Katie asked quietly as she walked to her office.
Zeph dumped a weekend’s worth of letters on the large table near the office supply closet, compounding the minimountain of magazines and packages I had retrieved from the front door.
I opened all of the desk drawers one last time, just in case there were any remnants of Ariel left in there.
None.
I went to the table and joined the mail brigade. As I tore open letter after letter and Zeph complained about Hillary for some reason, my disappointment turned to total relief. Now Memo couldn’t expect anything of me. This thing was over, and it wasn’t my choice. I couldn’t help it if a mom wanted to see what her dead daughter kept in her desk.
Hillary very conspicuously made an inconspicuous entrance into the office, almost walking sideways with her back to Zeph and me.
“Did you shut off her TV show last night or something?” I asked Zeph.
“That girl is crazy,” Zeph declared.
“You should have seen her back home,” I mused.
Even though he was straight off a red-eye from the home district, BIB entered the office looking sharp and refreshed and bearing that invincible grin of his.
“Hi, everyone,” he greeted us in a bold but earnest way, like an organizer at a volunteer event, humble and grateful that anyone showed up to help out. I tried to reconcile this magnanimous image with the murderous one Memo had suggested. As BIB walked through the office, I looked at him more closely than ever, as if my closer look could somehow expose a crime. So when he came over and asked if he could help open some mail with us, I was worried that if I looked him in the eye, he’d suspect that I suspected something.
“You kids aren’t the only ones who know how to use a letter opener,” he said as he tore into a few letters and assessed the messages therein. The most important man in the office spending some time with the plebeians—that had to say something about his character, didn’t it? “I’m pretty sure this woman thinks I’m a senator, and this other guy managed to misspell ‘liberal scum.’ ” He waved a couple letters in the air before carefully opening a handwritten note. “But this one, this is just a thank-you. No one’s perfect around here, and I certainly don’t expect the gratitude. But sometimes a thank-you is nice. . . .”