“Why? What was in it for him?” I asked, having a pretty good idea.
“Same thing I said,” she said, slurring her s’s. She hiccupped and added, “He said I’d find out later. Why look a gift horse in the mouth, right? So I agreed.
“Anyway, it was late and I had a Goose buzz, so I took the offer of the suite. Fallon and a security man escorted me to the penthouse. Maynard reserves the entire eighteenth floor of the Buckingham for his major events. When the elevator doors opened, Fallon rode back down alone but not before he said to enjoy myself and flashed that warped little smile of his. He knew. The hunky security guy walked me to my suite and I saw one of the big business fat cats from the party enter the next room with his hand on the ass of a stunningly hot babe young enough to be his granddaughter. A waiter followed wheeling a room service cart with champagne into their suite.”
I wondered about the accuracy of her story, given her state. “What happened next?”
“The suite was gorgeous and big as a house. Panoramic view of the Arch and downtown. Marble columns, fireplaces. Fully-stocked fridge, wet bar, all-night room service. Mirrors above a giant circular bed, green Italian marble walk-in shower and four-seat Jacuzzi—”
“Cut to the chase already. I’m not going to buy the place.”
She put a finger to her lips as if to shush me, lost her balance, and nearly fell off the chair. “It’s my story, and I’m going to tell it my way. I almost sold my soul for it, so let me be.”
I closed my heavy eyelids briefly and let her continue.
“Beyond the master bedroom was a dark-paneled room that housed a fax, copier, and several flat screen televisions mounted to the wall, tuned to the latest stock market trends and news.”
She chugged the dregs of her martini. “I’m gonna need another one of these babies to get through the rest.”
“Here you go,” I said. She didn’t notice that I’d handed her the water tumbler. “Then what happened?”
“I'd just showered and was naked when I heard the snick of a key card open the door to my suite. I held a robe to my chest as Maynard walked in, suit coat off. He was smiling. He began to unbutton his shirt. He expected me to be there, waiting. He put the Do-Not-Disturb sign on the outer knob, closed the door, and finished unbuttoning his shirt.”
She made a face at her glass. “This one’s not as good as the first.”
“They never are. Go on.”
She shrugged. “He said he was happy to see I’d made myself comfortable and asked how I liked the suite.” She took another drink and said, “Then he tossed his shirt onto a high-back chair. The guy is really ripped. Wow.”
“Stick to the facts, oh ripped one.”
She made a face at me, not understanding. Then the lightbulb clicked. “Very funny. I asked him what he thought he was doing in my room. He walked to the wet bar and poured himself three fingers of Glenfiddich; he wasn’t I-don’t-have-a-fucking-clue-what-I’m-doing drunk, but he was drunk. I looked for those skin blotches you talked about and saw none. He walked up close and said, ‘Do you want to keep reporting traffic accidents, house fires, Midwest puppy mills, and meth lab busts the rest of your career?’ I shook my head, terrified, dying to get dressed. He grinned and said, ‘This is politics. How far do you want to go?’ I stood there not knowing what to say. Then I asked what was going on in the suite next door and he said, ‘Keeping key constituents happy.’”
She took a sip of water and exhaled deeply. “He walked closer as I backed away, the terry cloth robe the only thing between us. I was scared shitless. I reminded him he just announced he wasn’t running for the senate and he answered, ‘After I clear this case, I may feel differently. I can throw my hat in the ring late. With my name recognition I’d win in a landslide.’”
“Did he put his hands on you?”
“No. He didn’t solicit sex or speak directly about having sex. Everything was implied, but he expected to fuck me. That was his quid pro quo. I told him I was getting sick and backed into the bathroom and got dressed. I demanded he call security to drive me home. He apologized for Paul’s ‘honest mistake’ with the suites but didn’t offer another. While he phoned security, I heard him going through my purse before he let me leave.”
“Probably checking for a tape recorder or microphone,” I said.
“As I left, I heard him dial a number on his cell and whisper, ‘Je suis encore dans une blonde humeur. Envoyer la tall Russe.’”
“Sorry, I didn’t take French.”
She smiled, albeit crookedly. “Well I did. My high school French finally paid off. He said, ‘I’m still in a blonde mood. Send up the tall Russian.’”
“Did he threaten you in any way? Did he terminate your arrangement?”
She waved her now empty glass in my face, wanting more. “To the contrary, he acted like nothing had happened. He was cool as the gin you’re about to pour. He said he wants me there when he announces his candidacy.”
This time I made a stiff drink for me and water for her, wondering about her story. “Do you have any proof other than your word against his?”
She shook her head and her eyes had difficulty focusing. The rocking resumed. Hiccups caused her thin body to jerk.
“I’m such an idiot,” she said, slurring her words. “And to think I was furious at you for using me to get close to him.” She slapped the back of my shoulder like we were long-lost pals and said, “Iconic, isn’t it?”
“Iconic, indeed. A limo drove you home. How’d you get here?”
“I drove the silver Jeep, you silly man. Hi ho, Silver!” she said, a la the Lone Ranger and promptly fell off the chair.
“No more driving and no more booze for you.”
Even though my townhouse had three bedrooms, the second housed my office and the third my library. I hid her car keys, carried her into the master bedroom, and placed her on my king-sized bed. As I did, she opened her eyes and ran a hand through my hair.
“God, you’re gorgeous. Can I tell you a secret? I’ve always had a thing for you.” She fumbled to undo the buttons on my shirt and when that failed she slid the straps of the black evening dress off her alabaster shoulders, revealing pert, firm breasts with large nipples. “Fuck me, fuck me now,” she said into my ear.
“I think you’ve had enough excitement for one night.”
“I want you inside me,” she moaned, softer.
“I think we’d both regret it in the morning,” I answered as I covered her slender legs with a blanket and placed the lemon water on the night table.
That seemed to sober her. “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you? Admit it,” she said, hurt bleeding into her voice. When I didn’t answer, she said, “God damn you,” softly as she turned her head away.
Flushed with anger, I thought: You narcissistic little.…
“I’m going to let that slide because you’re drunk. Good night,” I said and turned off the light but kept the ceiling fan running. Besides, I’d used her plenty this week.
She stared with unfocused eyes in the direction of the revolving blades. “No mirrors. Tha’s good, you silly man, you. No more booze for you. And no sex,” she said as she hiccupped again, rolled on her side, curled into a tight ball, and closed her eyes.
I turned the night light on for her in the master bath while my erection and I retreated to the couch. The younger me would have acted differently.
That was the first time I’d gotten close to a woman in a year. Kris had an inner je ne sais quoi that enhanced her physical beauty and made her the total package. Someone like her is a rare find.
Several times during the night I heard the bed springs squeak followed by the padding of elfin feet as she went to vomit. I held her hair back as she emptied her stomach. The last time, I found her with a finger down her throat as she sat on the white ceramic tile, hugging the porcelain throne. When she finished, I cleaned her face with a cold washrag and had her take small sips of water.
She seemed steadier. �
��How long have you been purging?”
She brushed tousled hair from her face. “Since I moved from the production booth to in front of the camera,” she exhaled and added, “Two years now, give or take.”
“Do you want to stop?”
She sat with her legs folded under her bottom next to the toilet. She said nothing, looking pale and gaunt, and then she began to cry. I held her until she’d calmed enough to answer. “I don’t want to live this way. No job is worth this.”
For what remained of the dawn, we talked about her childhood, her parents, her body image, treatment options, and doctors and therapists who specialize in eating disorders. Then her thoughts returned to what had transpired in the Buckingham penthouse.
“I screwed up. I allowed myself to get caught up in the Maynard mystique, the promise of the national spotlight. I thought I’d been accepted into an elite group. I’m so stupid.”
“No you’re not. You were recruited by a master manipulator.”
“I lost sight of my journalistic creed: to be objective, seek the truth, and provide a fair and comprehensive account of newsworthy events in the community. I’m supposed to act independently, serve the public trust with thoroughness and honesty, because an enlightened public is the forerunner of justice and democracy.” She looked up at me, tears shining in her eyes. “You probably think I’m lying, but I really believe in the creed.”
“I know. I’ve fallen from grace before,” I said, thinking of how I met Kris. “It means we’re human.”
She wasn’t done. “My job is to avoid conflicts of interest, remain free of associations that might compromise my integrity or damage my credibility. But I failed. I drank the Maynard Kool-Aid, deluding myself into thinking I could remain objective.”
You’re not alone. Some entire news channels sold out long ago.
I brushed back another stray bang. “That’s enough self-abuse. Do you always dump on yourself when you’re drunk?”
She smiled sadly and gave almost a faint chuckle. “Calorie guilt.”
Low self-esteem behind the professional façade.
“You’re right. New plan: I want to expose the bastard for what he is, but I don't know how.”
I thought of Maynard’s security entourage. She’s in over her head. It’s way too risky for her.
“Don’t even think about it. You’d be the disgruntled, former associate in a case of ‘He said, She said.’ He could turn the tables and claim you made advances toward him, accuse you of professional misconduct, say that you sacrificed integrity to advance your career. Other area reporters with more seniority, one recently, have been fired for similar behaviors. Maynard’s too well-connected.”
Her tiny frame sagged inward. “What am I supposed to do, nothing?”
“Journalists are supposed to avoid undercover or covert methods of information gathering, right?”
“Yes, unless traditional methods fail and the information is vital to the public knowledge or well-being.”
I smiled. “I’m not a journalist. I’ve done undercover work before. Are you privy to anything, past or future, we could possibly use against him?”
She sat thinking, then perked up. “You’d give me the exclusive, right?”
I nodded. “That’s the Debbie I know. Welcome back.”
Leaning her arms on the toilet seat, she said, “I had a hunch Fallon wasn’t giving me full access to Maynard’s schedule, so I copied his personal appointment calendar for this month and I was right, it didn’t match.” She fished a crumpled and torn piece of paper from her purse and handed it to me.
Hardly damning evidence, for I imagined there were times when even Fallon couldn’t reach the Golden Boy.
“It’s a start,” I said. “Lay low. If you want out, tell Maynard, but do not go back with the idea to dig up dirt on him. His security team will have you under the microscope. They’ll catch you and you’ll be up shit creek.”
“I know.”
I didn't know how far Maynard was willing to go to protect his turf, but I had an idea.
It was now eight a.m. and I served orange juice and toast, which she kept down. I had a plane to catch in two hours.
I thought about my night out, my dinner and movie with friends, and it seemed like it happened a week ago. So much for a break from the case.
The bell rang as I walked her to the front door.
Baker stood dressed in his trademark black, gold earring in his left lobe, bald head reflecting the early morning sun as he calmly looked at us.
She walked up to me, stood on tip-toes to peck me on the cheek, and said, “Thanks for last night. Call me.” Her black evening dress was wrinkled and her big hair was helter-skelter.
She eyeballed Baker from head to toe, leered, and said, “Mandingo. Woof!”
Baker laughed and said in his baritone voice, “Fuckin’ A, girl. Mandingo the porn star, not the slave.”
We watched her stagger to her Jeep like an extra in a zombie movie, holding her black stiletto heels in one hand.
“Damn, you not only grew ’em back, but anorexic Barbie could barely walk to her ride, Cool Breeze. My man!” He smiled, his gold front tooth gleaming.
“It’s not like that.”
“Shit,” Baker said skeptically.
I grabbed an overnight bag and said, “Maynard tried to fuck her after a party last night. When she refused, he called security for a hooker. Others were provided to major party contributors.”
His eyes widened. “He force her? We got any physical evidence? Eyewitnesses?”
I shook my head. “They were both drunk. No witnesses.” I didn’t mention the quasi-deal Maynard had forged with her earlier. “Any luck finding Quinn?”
“Nada. Old Irish still into the wind, or worse. You workin’ on The Voice?”
I nodded. “She also said Maynard plans to wrap up the trial quickly and is considering a late run for the senate.”
“He can’t control the speed of a major trial.”
“I know, and that’s scary. Maybe Lonnie’s right. There isn’t going to be a trial because Maynard has a more permanent solution in mind.”
His hands balled into fists. A vein beat visibly on his temple as he weighed possibilities.
“I have a plane to catch.”
“Don’t bail on us, Cool Breeze.”
“I’ll be back to see Lonnie first thing Monday, if he still wants to see me. The only witness we have is over seven hundred miles away.”
chapter seventeen
money for nothing
I flew into Dulles International and rented a red convertible Mustang GT. I’ve got a soft spot for convertibles and don’t quite understand why anyone would drive with a roof over their head if they had a choice. The weather was resort-like; I lowered the top and soaked up the sun.
Virginia wasn’t that far, but the freeway grind gave me plenty of time to dwell on Skinny’s powers and predictions. By the time I got into the District and reached the DC library near the Mall, they remained an enigma, so I filed them away for the time being and prepared to take my next step.
I’d scanned old Post-Dispatch issues last week and found no references to the armed robbery at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing in DC eight months ago. In his first press interview, Maynard claimed Lonnie and the others had shot and nearly killed a pregnant security guard in their daring getaway. So I reviewed the archives of the Washington Post, Examiner, Times-Herald, The Hill, City Paper, and Business Journal and none mentioned a robbery or shootout at the BEP. I found a few back-page articles warning area businesses to be on the lookout for a possible increase in counterfeit bill trafficking. Generic warnings with no specifics. I wondered if this was how the Treasury and Secret Service usually operate and whether this was the first major theft of paper and ink.
I did a reverse Google name and address search for the guard and entered it into my rental’s GPS. The Skyline Towers apartment complex had no skyline or towers worth mentioning. Drab pitted odes to conc
rete stood cramped together like dominoes hastily spray painted every color in the spectrum. Drying laundry and bed sheets hung from tiny patios behind many tenements while potted plants, bikes, barbecue grills, and lawn chairs filled the others. The warm air smelled of bus exhaust and fast food. Several windows were broken or boarded up. A culturally diverse mix passed me in the dark hallway to the elevator, while the cries and laughter of young children behind first floor open windows floated to me.
On the sixth floor I pressed the doorbell marked Rachel Sanchez and immediately heard a stampede of many feet rushing the door. Four little Latino boys greeted me, jumping up and down, talking all at once, while behind them a very pregnant woman holding a toddler warily assessed me from the kitchen. The woman walked to the door and offered a neutral smile. She was Mexican-American, young, petite, and pretty, her short black hair tucked under a Redskins cap. She wore a sleeveless green camouflage tank top with white shorts and flip-flops.
After I introduced myself and offered my card, she prompted the kids to play outside. It didn’t take much. She offered me a seat at her kitchen table and said, “This one’s ready for her nap. Let me put Angela in her crib. Have a seat.” She turned down a short hallway with worn brown carpeting and pictures of the boys lining the walls. I sat waiting in front of an old dinged oak table in the tiny kitchen, wondering how Lonnie was. The worn linoleum floor under my feet was sparkling clean and harvest-gold colored. The appliances were lime green and, like the floor, probably original items after this sterile concrete cookie cutter slid down the truck chutes sometime in the seventies.
Rachel returned and said, “She’s out like a light. Would you care for some tea or coffee?”
I declined her polite offer.
“Why is a social worker from St. Louis knocking on my door in Virginia?”
“I’m providing therapy to a man who is suspected of being one of the four who shot you and robbed the Bureau of Engraving and Printing last year. I want to get a complete picture of my client and something about this case tells me I should talk to you.”
Counterfeit Page 14