Dark Reservations

by John Fortunato

  No doubt Gates was still a master at the game of favors.

  OCTOBER 27

  WEDNESDAY, 3:52 P.M.

  OFFICE OF SENATOR KENDALL HOLMES, 110 HART SENATE OFFICE BUILDING, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Both Dale and Andi were in the dark. This trip was off the books, so Joe could not call ahead to arrange the meeting before he flew to D.C., but at least Helena had been able to confirm the senator would be in town today. She’d picked Joe up at the airport and had driven him to the senator’s office building. He told her if his meeting went well, he would have a story for her when he was finished. She said she’d wait for him.

  Joe’s plan was to hit up the senator cold. Not always smart when interviewing such a high-profile person, but it gave Joe the possibility of getting the story raw, which often proved more truthful (or sometimes more full of holes), and less likely to involve lawyers. If the senator refused to meet, Joe would at least try to get an interview with Malcolm.

  The Capitol Hill police officer who worked the lobby of the Hart Building sized Joe up and offered a phlegmatic “May I help you, sir?” His stolid face and no-nonsense attitude made Joe suspect that important work was being done in the venerated congressional suites above. Work of a most high and noble nature. Work that would cause those upstairs to look upon Joe, a mere rube, as a distraction.

  The officer picked up the desk phone and told someone on the other end that a BIA agent was here to see Senator Holmes. The call must have caused quite a stir in the senator’s office, because Joe had to wait thirty minutes before the same officer got a callback. Joe secured his Glock in a lockbox by the guard desk and passed through the metal detector.

  When he got off the elevator, Joe found Malcolm waiting, holding out a hand. He looked like an olive tree offering a branch, tall, dark, rough, and a lot of seasons behind him. They shook and the former BIA agent apologized about their previous encounter at Grace Edgerton’s office.

  “It’s customary for an agent to call ahead before asking to interview a senator,” Malcolm said.

  “I’ve never interviewed one before,” Joe said. “I didn’t know there was a protocol.”

  “It’s okay. The senator was impressed with your work on the Edgerton case. I always believed he had run off. You proved me wrong. That art collector was never on our radar back then.”

  “He wouldn’t have been because he didn’t kill Edgerton.”

  “I thought the news said he did.”

  “I believe they’re saying he’s being investigated for his involvement with the case.”

  “Then who killed him?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I’m hoping the senator can help me.”

  They stopped outside a door.

  “After I finish with the senator, I’d like to talk with you.”

  “Everything I know is in the file.”

  “Not everything. There wasn’t much in the file on Holmes.”

  “There wasn’t much to put in there.”

  “How long have you been with the senator?”

  “Eighteen years.”

  “I’m sure you’ve gotten to know him pretty well. What do you think?”

  “If you’re asking if he’s capable of murder, everyone is.”

  “You, too?”

  Malcolm didn’t answer.

  “Why didn’t you write up the interview with Ellery Gates?”

  “He refused the interview.”

  “No. I mean the second interview.”

  Malcolm stared back at Joe, revealing nothing. The olive branch had been withdrawn. He was impassive. Still a good imitation of a tree.

  “You traveled to Oklahoma and interviewed him.”

  “He refused that interview, too.”

  “How come there was no report in the file?”

  “It may have been the year I left the BIA. Probably got lost in the shuffle.” Malcolm smiled. It looked more menacing than friendly. “You’re leaving, too, right? Retiring, I heard.”

  A man in a shiny blue suit and manicured hair hurried down the hall. Joe waited for him to pass, not answering Malcolm’s question.

  “How did you get this job?”

  “During a follow-up on the case. I interviewed him. He offered me the job.”

  “Was that after you interviewed Ellery Gates?”

  “I don’t remember interviewing him.”

  “Holmes was a state senator then, right? How was he able to pay enough to hire you away from the BIA?”

  “I wanted to leave and he was ambitious. He said he had his eyes set on a U.S. Senate seat. I took a chance. It paid off.”

  “I don’t buy it. We do this job because we love it. You wouldn’t have just walked away.”

  “I was tired of locking up my own people. Kendall wanted to help them. And the pay was good.”

  “So his job offer had nothing to do with what Ellery Gates told you?”

  “I don’t remember interviewing him.” Malcolm opened the office door. “The senator is waiting.”

  Inside, a young woman sat behind a reception desk. She told Malcolm they could go right in.

  They walked across the small, elegantly furnished waiting area, past the receptionist’s desk, and into the senator’s inner office.

  Senator Kendall Holmes rose from behind his desk and came around to greet Joe.

  “I’m glad you were able to bring Arlen’s killer to justice. When his body was found, I was shocked. All these years, I always believed Arlen was relaxing on a beach somewhere.” He motioned for Joe to join him on a museum-quality sofa, but Joe remained standing. “I met this Othmann fellow once or twice, at fund-raisers and art events over the years. I would never have suspected him of anything like that.”

  “He didn’t kill Congressman Edgerton.”

  “Then how can I help you, Agent Evers?”

  Joe looked at Malcolm. “I would prefer to speak to you alone.”

  “Of course.”

  “Give me a few minutes with the agent, Malcolm.” He displayed a courteous smile, more mechanical than genuine.

  “Yes, sir,” Malcolm said. “And just to remind you, we have the Smithsonian event tonight.”

  “This won’t take long,” the senator said.

  Joe looked around the room. On the walls hung tasteful black-and-white photographs of the senator posing with people, most of whom Joe didn’t recognize.

  “May I?” Joe said, pointing to the picture frames.

  “Please.”

  Joe walked along the row. He recognized a few U.S. politicians and a few foreign dignitaries: Margaret Thatcher, Mandela, Gorbachev. Many of the photos were group shots of delegations. One photo caught his eye.

  NAFTA ARCHITECTS

  San Antonio, Texas

  December 17, 1992

  It was a photo of twenty or so individuals. A message was handwritten on the photograph: “We did it, mi amigo! Sylvestri Guillen.”

  “I don’t see you in this photo,” Joe said.

  “I wasn’t. Bush senior, when he was vice president, had asked Arlen to represent the border states during negotiations in ’87. We worked closely with the Mexican delegation. When it was signed, a friend sent that to me. I’m very proud of my association with NAFTA.”

  Joe returned to the sofa. “Arlen was involved in several major initiatives. Indian Gaming. NAGPRA. NAFTA.”

  “He lived and breathed politics. I learned a lot from him. The country lost a great leader.”

  Joe studied the senator’s eyes. Brown. When he blinked, blue appeared at the bottom edge. Then it disappeared. Contact lenses to cover up his heterochromia.

  “There are rumors you might be running in the presidential primary.”

  The senator grinned. “I’m hearing the same rumors.”

  “After the Edgerton investigation, I’m surprised you were able to get back into politics.”

  “The voters in my district were amazing. It was four years after his disappearance and, of course, I was never implicated in th
e corruption probe. They saw through all that smoke and sent me to Santa Fe. Six years later, the state sent me to D.C. I’m very grateful for their trust, and I try to live up to it every day I’m here. I don’t forget where I came from.”

  “Who do you think killed Edgerton?”

  “I thought this Othmann fellow did. On the news, they talked about a theft from a dig site on the day Edgerton disappeared. Seems plausible.”

  “I’m sure back then you probably thought of someone, Senator. Who?”

  He was thoughtful. “Is this off the record?”

  “Yes,” Joe said, lying.

  “I never said anything back then, but I always wondered if Grace had gotten tired of Arlen’s fooling around.”

  “With whom?”

  “Faye, of course. I used to cover for him all the time.”

  “You know for a fact they were having an affair?”

  “He would have me keep tabs on Grace, check her itinerary so he could block out hours. Jealousy can be a powerful force.”

  “That doesn’t explain Nick, the driver.”

  “No witnesses. I guess Nick was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Is it possible that Nick or Faye was the target and it was Edgerton who was in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  “I suppose anything is possible. I didn’t know Nick that well, but Faye went through boyfriends weekly. She even hit on me, but I knew she was trouble.”

  “Did you have a relationship with her?”

  He shook his head. “I was very concerned about my political career. Working for Arlen was a stepping-stone. I planned to put in my time and then go out and run myself. I was always careful with sex, drugs, and money—the three vices of politics.”

  “How did you feel when you learned about the corruption investigation?”

  “I was angry and scared. I couldn’t believe he put me in that situation.”

  “So you believe he took the money.”

  “No. I didn’t believe he took the money. When he disappeared, I was shocked. But later it made sense, especially after the ethics committee made their findings public.”

  “Did anyone try to bribe you?”

  “Why would they approach me?”

  “You were his policy man. He valued your counsel. People might see you as the person to influence.”

  “I don’t care for your insinuation, Agent. The investigation showed that Arlen and Ellery both took the money. Not me.”

  “No, it proved that Ellery Gates took the money, but Arlen was never given the chance to defend himself and none of the money was traced directly to him.”

  “What about the bank account in Mexico City?” Holmes said. “That was linked to him.”

  “In name only. The bank officials never met Arlen, and the Mexico City attorney wouldn’t talk to our agents back then. I’m pulling border-crossing records on everyone who worked in Edgerton’s office. It’ll tell me who went down to Mexico.”

  “I assume that’s why you were so interested in the NAFTA photo. Well, your instincts are good. We regularly traveled to Mexico City. But what does that prove?”

  “Do you think Cedro Bartolome will talk to me?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The attorney in Mexico City.”

  “Clever, throw out the name and see if I react,” Holmes said. “Why are you so sure it was someone from Arlen’s office?”

  “Do you recall a Colt 1911 pistol that Arlen received from the Veterans of Foreign Wars?”

  “I don’t.” The senator checked his watch.

  Joe found it interesting he didn’t ask the significance of the gun.

  “I hate to cut this short,” Holmes said, “but I do have to get to an event tonight. It’s not polite to be late when you’re the keynote speaker.” He stood and held out his hand. “All this has been very interesting. Please let me know how you progress with the investigation.”

  OCTOBER 27

  WEDNESDAY, 5:20 P.M.

  SECOND STREET NW AND CONSTITUTION AVENUE NW, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Helena’s Jeep darted across the outside lane and came to a stop at the curb in front of Joe. The cab she cut off blared its horn. Not to be out-classed, Helena fired off several expletives, a few of which made Joe blush. He quickly ducked into the car.

  “Thanks for—”

  “Cut the pleasantries. What’s my story?”

  “I’ll give it to you on the way back to the airport. I need to get home and dig out my passport.”

  “An international man of mystery. Let’s get married.”

  “If I told you Othmann is not a suspect in the murders, would you write about it?”

  “If I can source it to someone close to the investigation.”

  Over the next half hour, while they crawled through rush-hour traffic, he told her about the threats made by Hawk Rushingwater, his organization, and his petition to the UN seeking to have the Navajo Nation secede from the United States.

  When he finished, she grew sullen.

  “I have a confession to make, Joe,” she said after a while.

  He was concerned by the change in her voice.

  “I’m not the big political reporter you probably thought I was. I’m a gossip columnist. Beltway chitchat. This case is my big break. Thank you for trusting me with it.”

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. He’d led her astray with the story, but he was too committed to stop now. All he could do was push on. He tried to tell himself he would make it up to her when the case was over.

  “You’re welcome,” he croaked like the frog he was.

  OCTOBER 27

  WEDNESDAY, 5:50 P.M.

  INDEPENDENCE AVENUE SW, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Senator Holmes had chosen to sit in the front seat tonight. Usually, he relaxed in the back, sprawled across the wide leather seat of the Lincoln, talking away on his phone. But not tonight. Tonight was different. It was business, but a different sort of business. Malcolm sensed it as soon as Joe walked out of the senator’s office. Now he was waiting to hear what the senator had in mind.

  “You’ve been with me a long time, Malcolm,” he said. “A very long time.”

  Malcolm wished the senator would get to the point.

  “Do you believe in my work?”

  Malcolm groaned inwardly. Over the years, he’d come to hate D.C. double-talk. “Yes.”

  “I’m sure you want to see me continue my work on behalf of Native Americans.”

  Malcolm didn’t bother answering.

  They were coming up on the Smithsonian.

  “We have a little problem that Agent Evers might unearth.”

  Malcolm suspected Joe had already unearthed the problem. Apparently, the same way Malcolm had unearthed it eighteen years earlier. They’d never talked about the missing congressman after he was hired. When he had gone to Holmes’s office back when Holmes was only a state senator, Malcolm questioned him about what time he had picked up Ellery Gates from the airport. Halfway through the interview, Holmes had said, “You know, I’m starting to realize that politics can be a dangerous business. I should consider hiring a bodyguard.” The offer was made. At the time, Malcolm was coming up on a use-of-force review, which he wasn’t sure would go in his favor, so he made his decision. And hadn’t regretted it until today. But now he was in too deep. Joe might cause problems for Malcolm if the investigation gained momentum against Holmes.

  “What do you need, sir?”

  Holmes explained his problem and finished by saying, “So I need you to go down to Mexico City.”

  Malcolm nodded. Then he told the senator what he needed.

  OCTOBER 29

  FRIDAY, 4:16 P.M.

  AEROPUERTO INTERNACIONAL DE LA CIUDAD DE MÉXICO, DISTRITO FEDERAL, MEXICO

  After his interview with Holmes, Joe had told Dale about what he’d learned. He went to his office to plead his case.

  “I need to talk to the attorney in Mexico.”

  “Are you nuts? No way
. You want to start an international incident. We go through State. Actually, Andi can go through State.”

  Since learning that it had been Stretch and not Joe that had been leaking information to Othmann, Dale’s attitude toward him had improved. But suddenly they seemed at loggerheads again.

  “And you’re on leave anyway,” Dale said, shaking his head. He made a shooing gesture with his hand. “Go home and rest. Take it easy. And find yourself a job. You’re a hero now. The offers will be pouring in.”

  “Grace Edgerton and Senator Holmes both went to Mexico a short time before this Cedro Bartolome opened the account. He needs to be tracked down. He might talk.”

  “There’s no reason for him to help you. You can’t do anything to him. He knows that.”

  “Maybe,” Joe said.

  “Fine, take leave. Put it in. I want paperwork. And be careful.”

  Now Joe was in Mexico City, fighting his way through the airport to reach the exit. Outside, he found a taxi with a driver who spoke decent English. He flopped down in the backseat, pulled out a folded printout of a Google map showing Cedro Bartolome’s law office address, and handed it to the driver.

  “Andale, por favor,” Joe said, reaching hard for his college Spanish.

  The driver took off. Traffic here was worse than in D.C., all the drivers dark-haired Helena Newridges. If a single word could describe a city, the word for Mexico City was crowded. Cars on top of cars. People on top of people. And buildings sprouting up everywhere. He’d never experienced claustrophobia before, but he felt a pressure in his chest and an inability to expand his lungs to their fullest. He wondered if this was his first anxiety attack.

  He turned on his phone. Two messages. The first was from Chris Staples. “Did you leak that story? Four days before the election. You couldn’t wait four fucking days? We needed closure, not this. Not this, goddamn it!” Staples had banged the phone on something. “And I hope your arm hurts.”

  The second message was from Andi. Joe had called her from the phone on the plane and told her about his plan. She’d been pissed, but after she cooled off, she’d agreed to help him—unofficially. In the message, she gave him the name and number to the FBI Legat, the legal attaché in Mexico City, but she wanted absolute deniability. “Lose my number,” she’d said. He wrote down the information and tucked it in his wallet. Then he stuffed his pen in his breast pocket. It was a fine pen, gold-plated, a gift from Christine many Christmases past, like his tailored dark blue suit. Everything on him right now said class and, he hoped, money. It was part of his plan. He closed his eyes. It shut out the rush of life outside the cab’s window.