His crooked grin held a smug swagger. “Listen to this advice from a hardened realist: his phalanx of spin doctors and media experts have already worked out multiple scenarios to deflect the blow, they will claim and create proof that you doctored the camera to satisfy your own need for attention, the hookers will conveniently disappear, his loving and doting family will stand by their man, his supporters will rally around him, and he will be portrayed as the victim while you will be subjected to a brutal smear campaign rivaling The Inquisition. You will be lucky if you’re merely discredited. And here’s the rub—his approval ratings may actually rise.” He slapped the table to emphasize his point.
Talking with Peebles reminded me of being in psychoanalysis, of your core being probed with a cold blunt instrument, cracked open, and inspected for flaws. Peebles would have made a good teacher, if anyone survived the class. He spoke his mind, forced you to survey a situation from all angles, shared useful information, and delighted telling you when you were full of shit.
“I could see this happening a hundred years ago, or maybe when the Mafia wielded more influence, but these days—”
“Trust me, it's worse since Citizen’s United. Look at the Peabody Coal decision here in town. Look at CEO salaries. Precious few uber-rich corporate leaders get there without breaking spines and crushing basic human rights along the way, and now the Supreme Court has ruled corporations are people. Money governs now, son. Not ‘We the People.’”
Peebles leaned back and hooked his thumbs under his black suspenders. “A few years back, a man ran for office and lost. He received forty percent of the votes. No big deal. Happens all the time, right? Before the election, a jury found him guilty of six-figure embezzling. Against his counsel’s advice this convicted felon ran, even though he could never assume office if elected. He was a dead man running. Yet hundreds of thousands of voters pushed their asses out of their Barcaloungers on a cold rainy day and voted for him, solely because of his party affiliation. Stupid votes count the same as informed ones and stupid is influenced by spin. Spin is now backed by unlimited money. Let’s just say Maynard could weather this storm and win.”
“People should know the type of person Maynard is before they vote.”
Peebles stared at me like I was that kid who missed the bus again. “They should also be able to point to the US on a world map, know the difference between the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, and speak basic grammar correctly, but that’s not as fun as watching reality TV, is it?”
He was right about one thing; I have to depersonalize this, become calculating, cold. What move would he make next? That much money is heavy. He’s got it. How do I link him to it?
“I think we’re more alike than you care to admit, Mr. Peebles. I can be a cynical realist with the best of them while you sit here railing against the establishment with an energy and passion reserved for that of a closet idealist or an Occupy Wall Street member. You have a big axe to grind.”
“Perhaps. Let me tell you something that might surprise you. In the year 2000, twenty-nine members of an elite band of 541 people were accused of spousal abuse, seven were arrested for fraud, nineteen accused of writing bad checks, an amazing 117 had bankrupted at least two businesses, three had been arrested for assault, eight for shoplifting, fourteen were arrested on drug-related charges and a staggering (no pun intended) eighty-four were stopped for drunk driving but all were released after claiming immunity. One guess what group this is.”
“The United States Congress.”
Peebles smacked his thin chapped lips together. “You’re smarter than you look. These numbers are from 2000 but they don’t vary much from year to year. They’re essentially equal across both parties. Congress is a crime wave, son. To think that they will agree on healthcare reform or give a flying fart about the everyday working man and woman is akin to thinking Bill Clinton is a poster boy for monogamy. Maynard will fit right in.”
Great. Will Peebles sell me out to Maynard next?
“So you’re saying if the system is broken, don't fix it?”
Peebles motioned to the bartender for another Guinness. “You have enough to do before Monday and I’m too damn old. If you want to die, keep leading with your emotions. You’re tilting at windmills while Maynard’s goons close their nets around you. If what you say is true, you may have a day or two before you end up alongside your counterfeiters.”
I was betting my life on the word of a dead counterfeiter and a package that an unknown confederate sent me. I couldn’t survive on the run much longer. Someone would silence me one way or another.
“Now that you know these bills are the real deal, I think you want to influence how this plays out. Give me someone I can turn to who’ll offer protection during a fair investigation.”
Peebles sipped his Guinness and wiped his dry, weathered lips on a dingy sleeve. The familiar brown foam clung to his white mustache as it had at Fast Eddie’s. His nose twitched again and he stared at me for what seemed an eternity. Raising Lonnie’s bill to the light, he said, “Such craftsmanship. It takes a lot to impress me. Remember this—anyone can kill anyone. If Maynard wants you dead, he will have someone kill you and soon.”
He took something small from his shirt pocket. My now-rumpled business card that I’d given him at Fast Eddie’s. He quickly scribbled something on it.
“Some say that as a man ages, he becomes more conservative in his thinking and world view. I’m an exception. After my wife died, I was feeling sorry for myself, mad at the world. I got drunk one night, staggered out to my car, and passed out behind the wheel before I ever turned on the engine. A cop woke me and gave me a DWI because the keys were in the ignition. The fucking cop showed no mercy and neither did the prosecutor. I didn’t have congressional immunity to wave in their fat little piggy faces. That’s why they kicked me off the Board. I’ve never told another soul that, except Betty when I visit her at Mount Carmel.”
“They were wrong,” I said.
Peebles scoffed. “Right, wrong, what difference does it make? It’s done. You bleeding hearts have an overinflated sense of social justice. You are right about one thing, though, I want to see how this plays out.” He fondled Lonnie’s bill and stared at it. “I can't believe what I’m holding. This is a real treasure. Hold on to it. For what it’s worth, I hope they don’t kill you.”
“That’s very bleeding heart of you.”
He handed the card back to me, saying, “Mark DeFrane is a straight arrow at the St. Louis branch of the Secret Service. He’ll listen and won’t kowtow to Maynard, his daddy, or their attorneys. He took a bullet meant for Maynard, Sr. when he was president. Saved the old bastard’s life. Maynard owes him, not the other way around. You convince DeFrane and you just might make it through this. After your time in the spotlight last year, Maynard’s team will twist everything and claim it’s all about you. I bet you a real C-note. If he doesn’t kill you, his legal team will try to ruin you. Either way, he moves up the food chain to the senate.”
I thought of Skinny’s prophecy. One will be reviled.
“I’ll take that bet,” and we shook on it.
Peebles rubbed his gnarled hands together and grinned. “I almost hope you stick it to The Man. Good luck Sonny Boy, you’ll need it.”
I pocketed my card, thanked him, paid our tab, and left the bar. I wore the Rams cap low to cover my eyes and kept to the shadows on the walk back to my motel.
I'd convinced the ultimate skeptic that Lonnie's bills were dead ringers. Now I had to hope Peebles’ eyes and mind were sharp enough and that Lonnie hadn’t somehow conned us both.
I used the prepaid cell again before I went to bed. DeFrane was noncommittal about my claims. He wanted to meet. He promised nothing more. I confirmed what I now suspected, learned that ‘The Big Top,’ is code for the Secret Service. So who was their mole? That, among other things, kept me tossing the rest of the night. I may have to stick my head into the mouth of the lion tomorrow.
<
br /> chapter twenty-five
I walk the line
I checked out of my hotel room in the morning and drove Highway 70 downtown. I didn’t notice the big black SUV following me until I was halfway to the city. I saw the plate number and knew. After changing speeds and lanes so many times I figured I’d get pulled over for reckless driving, it always returned in my rear view, maintaining a steady safe distance. It shadowed me into downtown and mirrored every turn I made. Its tinted windows rendered the passengers invisible, but I had a pretty good idea. I fumbled for my regular cell phone and made a quick call. No need to use the prepaid. It was showdown time.
If I only knew—
When I stopped at a red light in the city, the SUV slammed hard into the rear of my car. My forehead struck the steering wheel, snapping my neck back violently. I saw stars and sparks of light. The force of the impact caused the trunk lid to fly open, instantly shielding the SUV from my vision in the rear view mirror. I checked the side mirrors and saw no men with guns rushing toward me. I was disoriented, my vision fuzzy. The crunching shriek of metal on metal returned and for a second I thought I was diving deep in a submarine. I felt the world moving again and realized my rental was being pushed into the intersection by the bigger, heavier vehicle. I floored the brake pedal but the car moved inexorably forward. The smell of burning rubber and smoke filled the cabin. I threw my shoulder into the damaged door but it wouldn’t open. To my right an eighteen-wheeler barreled down on me from the cross street doing at least forty. I sat directly in the truck’s path now as it bore straight down on me, its horn blaring at ear-splitting level. I floored the accelerator, but nothing happened, my back bumper apparently entangled in the front grill of the SUV. I rocked the car back and forth from reverse to forward, watching helplessly as the huge chrome grill of the eighteen-wheeler grew in size as it neared. Suddenly the Mustang tore free and I rocketed forward into the intersection against the red light. I was too late. The truck pulverized the right rear quarter panel and spun my car 270 degrees. Hubcaps rolled down the street and the side windows exploded, showering me with glass shards. I held on to the wheel, my head impacting the driver window so hard my ears rang. I fought to straighten the car, sideswiped a Yellow Cab and nearly blacked out. I regained control and steered away from the cars stopped behind the taxi as the driver cursed and shook his fist at me. I floored the pedal while the dark SUV remained blocked on the other side of the intersection by cars and trucks splayed in all directions. I gagged on smoke, sick with fear. Behind me a distant siren began to wail.
The Mustang wobbled west on Market Street on two flat tires as fast as it could. Black smoke billowed from the engine and by the time I turned onto 10th Street I was running on rims and lost control of the rear wheel drive. The oil light came on. The smoking car jumped a curb and crashed to a stop against a fire hydrant in front of the Thomas F. Eagleton US Courthouse building, home of the St. Louis branch of the Secret Service. The relentless black SUV sped toward me, its red dash light now spinning and siren wailing. The cabin filled with smoke; I had to get out of there. I reached for my cell phone with the Maynard tape but it was gone. Shit! The crash must have knocked it off the passenger seat. A burning wire smell filled the air; I groped blindly with both hands, cutting them on glass shards until I found it wedged between the passenger seat and my briefcase.
I pulled it free and juked past an armed guard stationed outside. I sprinted up the two sets of five steps and ran toward the curved glass entrance. I lost all hope when I saw the line inside the lobby.
Beyond the oval main foyer stood four armed guards stationed at a security checkpoint near a walk-through metal detector, where all visitors stood waiting to be screened. The guards were already converging on the entrance; a short, thin one had his weapon drawn at his side while the dark SUV screeched to an abrupt stop alongside my smoldering car.
I should have seen this coming. I’m running into a US courthouse like a lunatic. I’ll be detained and Dodd, as head of Maynard’s Secret Service detail, will arrest me. I’d come so close.
Then the strangest thing happened—
The thin man with the drawn gun opened the door for me, and I ran inside with my arms up, then placed my hands behind my head. I called out my name and that of DeFrane, ready to comply with orders to lay face down on the floor.
Instead he said, “Follow me.”
We passed the checkpoint without going through the metal detector and jogged along beautiful polished terrazzo floors to the stainless steel elevators. As the doors closed I saw Dodd and his partner, short and stocky with wing-nut ears, try to bully their way through the checkpoint only to be stopped by three security men. The thin man quickly and thoroughly frisked me.
We rode in silence to the eleventh floor, which was nothing like the lobby. I followed the thin man down a narrow Spartan hallway with bare white walls and dark blue industrial carpeting. We made a quick left and a right to the end of the hallway. A simple wooden sign read US Secret Service next to a plain brown door. We entered a very small waiting area with a table and two chairs under pictures of President Obama and Janet Napolitano, the current secretary of Homeland Security and head of the Secret Service. Behind a Plexiglas partition sat a smiling young secretary the thin man called Denise, who immediately buzzed us through the inner door.
The thin man knocked softly once on an office door and we walked in. He whispered to the man behind the desk who raised an eyebrow and smirked.
“Thanks. Let them stew a little,” he told the thin man, who left the room.
Mark DeFrane looked fit, in his early forties, with a closely cropped brown crew cut. He wore a button-down white shirt and red tie, his pressed suit coat hanging neatly on a rack behind his desk next to his gun in a speed holster. Across his desk sat an older, heavy-set man who looked vaguely familiar. The office was the polar opposite of Stan Winston’s—no obligatory pictures on the wall of DeFrane schmoozing with politicians or plaques announcing commendations, and no visible flags, medals or brass nameplates with bold, pithy sayings. The Spartan room contained DeFrane’s desk, his chair, two visitor chairs, the coat rack, a file cabinet, and the latest computer and office equipment.
I hoped this was a good omen.
Mark DeFrane studied me but didn’t say a word.
“I apologize for barging in like this, but two men out there want to kill me. The place will be crawling with Maynard’s security people in seconds, demanding to arrest me. You have some difficult decisions to make and not a lot of time.”
He considered what I’d said and turned to the older man. “George, would you mind if we continued our talk later.”
The heavy-set man nodded, looked at me placidly for a moment like this happens every day and left the room. I recognized George from Maynard’s fundraiser. St. Louis is the epitome of a small big town, with few degrees of separation.
I handed him my original cell phone and a lengthy handwritten statement from my pocket that detailed my relationship with Lonnie Washington, the conversation I’d overheard between Maynard and Fallon, the transmitter, Rachel Sanchez, Agent Winston, and concluded with my suspicions about the duffel bags, their description, possible whereabouts, and destination. I omitted Debbie Macklin’s name from my report.
“Help me find the money. I can prove it’s counterfeit. It was last seen on a Channel Four news segment two days ago being hefted into the back of a black SUV by one of the men downstairs, Mr. Dodd, the same man who shot and chased me from the Buckingham Hotel two nights ago,” I said, raising my bandaged hand. I passed DeFrane another paper and said, “This is the license plate number of the SUV in the news segment. It’s the same one downstairs that pushed me into the path of an oncoming truck about fifteen minutes ago and totaled my rental car. It’s one of many vehicles currently leased by John Maynard, Jr.”
I’d called Tony last night and he confirmed my suspicion that the plates were registered to Maynard.
I waited for DeFrane’s respo
nse, when suddenly all his phone lines began beeping and blinking. From the commotion outside, I could tell Denise the secretary was under siege from Dodd and the man with the wing-nut ears.
He looked me over, his bright green eyes assessing me. He watched the video twice; he remained so calm and stoic I couldn’t read him. At last he said, “When you called, I was certain you were a conspiracy nut. Then I did my homework and checked your background—you stayed frosty with that psychopath last year and broke the university scandal. Impressive.” He held up the phone and said, “You have my interest, Dr. Adams. What’s your proof about the money?”
I told him. He still didn’t show a reaction.
The commotion escalated to shouting and threats in the outer office.
He punched a button on his phone, listened a moment, then chuckled, “I owe you one. Send them in.” He turned back to me. “This ought to be good. Roll with it.”
The thin man entered first, followed by the two big men. The first was short and muscular, with no neck and straight dark brown hair bowl-cut so close the wing-nut ears were the first thing you noticed. His tie was too short and narrow for that thick body. The taller Mr. Dodd fixed his gaze on me. He still wore his reflective shades and said, “Special Agent DeFrane, there’s an APB on this man and a warrant for his arrest. We’ll take him off your hands.”
“What’s the charge?”
“Attempted assault on a high government official under Secret Service protection. After he’s questioned, we’ll decide whether to add blackmail and attempted murder to the list.”
I started to say something but DeFrane shot me down with a look. “When did this alleged assault occur and who was the target?”
Dodd shrugged and said, “You know who I work for. The incident happened two nights ago.” He pointed at me. “This man trespassed and stalked Mr. Maynard. We need to question him.”
“Take off the damn shades, Nelson,” DeFrane said, “We’re not doing a remake of Cool Hand Luke here.”
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