Naked Ambition

by Rick Pullen

  Naked Ambition

  by Richard G. Pullen

  © Copyright 2018 Richard G. Pullen

  ISBN 978-1-63393-723-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published by

  210 60th Street

  VirginiaBeach,VA 23451

  800-435-4811

  www.koehlerbooks.com

  For Dad

  The best man I’ve ever known.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks, Red.

  Thanks to my editors, Barbara Esstman, Diane Krause, and Lorin Oberweger, whose advice and direction were crucial in developing this novel.

  Thanks to Ron Sauder of Secant Publishing and JJ McNabb for steering me in the right direction. And thanks so much to the Royal Writers Secret Society for your invaluable advice and an excuse to down another beer. This book is much better for it.

  I also owe a debt to Matthew Stennes, who explained how the Justice Department’s Public Integrity Section struggles to achieve the impossible in an underfunded, undermanned, cramped office high above Fourteenth Street. Now that’s a Hobbs Act violation if ever I saw one.

  Coletta Kemper—here’s to great conversation and Corona Lights over lunch on a hot August afternoon at Penn Quarter Sports Tavern discussing how to resolve the court scene. You were there at the beginning. And thanks to the Tavern staff for indulging our many requests for fish tacos and for placing my best side on your webpage.

  And thanks to my daughter Jill Howard, who read innumerable rewrites, always with a sense of enthusiasm, and texted corrections long after midnight. Thanks also to my daughter “Congressman” Kelsey Laye for your suggestions and meticulous read-through.

  And then there’s Dave Bayard, who fulfilled his lifelong ambition of becoming a sleazy politician without ever running for elective office. (It happens.) His liberal donation to First Children’s Hospital in Washington, DC, secured him naming rights and a villainous place in thriller lore. (I hope.) Thanks for your generosity.

  Finally, thanks to Cherie for putting up with this for so long and for reading so many unfinished drafts. There’s no past tense about you, Red.

  1

  When his secret was secure and his brain afire, Beck was alive. Fueled by a rush of adrenaline, his mind would not rest. But it was not always that way. Like now. Oh man, especially like now.

  Grateful to finally be home in the solace of his cluttered condominium after a turbulent morning flight back to Washington, Beck was cranking through a chilling novel and a second Corona Light. He’d suffered through five interminable days in a fleabag in Flyover, America. And for what? The stale beer? The stench of cigarettes? No, it was the lumpy bed and the low-pitched rumble of the sputtering air conditioner. Or maybe the all-night, ragtag symphony of truckers braking at the intersection just outside his hotel. Yeah. That was it. Had to be. The price of admission to his world.

  His cell phone rang. Not now, he thought.

  He’d just reached the climax, where the hero discovered his beautiful accomplice was an enemy spy. Finally, Beck would learn. . . The damn thing rang again.

  He glared at it, vibrating on his coffee table, willing it to shut up and stop dancing.

  The caller ID was blocked. Shit. He looked back at the page, determined to finish the chapter, but his eyes refused to focus. His DNA was nothing if not determined. God, he hated that about himself.

  “Yeah?” he grumbled into the phone.

  “Beck Rikki?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The reporter for the Post-Examiner?” “Maybe. Who’s calling?”

  “Daniel Fahy, head of the public integrity section at Justice. Your office said I could reach you at this number. I’d like to speak with you privately.”

  “About?”

  “I’d rather not say over the phone. Can we meet?”

  Not another crackpot, thought Beck. He’d just finished a frustrating week hounding false leads. He didn’t need this right now. “Got a thing about phones?”

  “It would be more appropriate to discuss what I have to say face to face.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me.”

  “Why should I? I haven’t a clue who you are.”

  “I just told you.”

  Beck groaned softly. He needed to talk to the city desk about giving out his number. “Look, I’ve had a bad week. Lost my appetite for wild goose chase. Throw me a bone.”

  “Are you always this difficult?”

  “Occupational hazard. You always this secretive?”

  “Occupational hazard.”

  Beck leaned back on his couch and stared at the ceiling, waiting. Not another smart-ass government bureaucrat whining about his abusive boss. Why do these loons always call a reporter instead of HR?

  Fahy fell silent, but Beck heard other voices and muffled laughter in the background. “You still there?”

  “I’m thinking,” Fahy said.

  Beck heard more laughter. “That’s okay. While you’re at your party, I’m sitting here quietly engrossed in one of the best novels I’ve read all year. I’ve got nothing better to do with my time than to listen to your silence on my end of your phone call.”

  “Okay. Okay. I think I’ve run across a bribery scheme involving a very important public official—a very important public official. Interested?” Beck sat up straight. “I could be. How important is important?” “Near the top of the Washington food chain.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He looks in the mirror every morning and imagines he sees the president.”

  “That’s half of Washington.”

  “He’s already taken the measurements of the Oval Office and ordered new carpet.”
>
  Beck felt his brain spark. It was like striking a match. Then just as quickly, the familiar refrain of his defenses jumped in to douse the flames.

  “Why tell me?” he asked. “I thought you Justice guys liked to do this sort of investigation in the shadows. You hate the press.”

  “I’ve got my reasons. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll not only give you what I think is a story, but I’ll explain my motivation for calling you when we meet. Fair enough?”

  “Not fair, but it’s enough.” Beck had to play ball. He’d just about gone crazy over the past several months. It had been too long since he had published a significant investigative piece. His editors had been hounding him. One even suggested he be assigned to a regular beat again. A beat? For the most decorated investigative reporter at the paper? How humiliating.

  Fahy suggested breakfast the next day and gave Beck directions to a restaurant south of Old Town Alexandria on US Route 1, a good ten miles outside of Washington.

  “How will I recognize you?”

  “Don’t worry,” Fahy said. “You will.” And hung up.

  2

  Beck eyed his cell phone. What the hell? Who was this guy Fahy? He’d heard a rasp, maybe a hint of an Irish or Scottish accent? Languages weren’t his thing. Even his exasperated journalism prof once told him English was his second language.

  No mind. He grabbed his laptop and googled Daniel Fahy. Sure enough, he was the director of the Justice Department unit that prosecuted dirty politicians. He graduated fourth in his class at Georgetown Law and, according to an old Nicky Allen Politico story, had a reputation as a Boy Scout—a government do-gooder. An oxymoron, at best, in this town, Beck thought.

  A couple of clicks later, he pulled up some old Post-Examiner stories from the newspaper’s morgue. Same thing. A feature a few years back mentioned Fahy’s reputation for prosecuting wayward politicians. His investigations didn’t make him popular in Washington, but they did make him politically untouchable.

  “Red?” Beck did not look up at his writing assistant sitting in the far corner of his living room but continued scanning his computer screen. “This guy might be legit.”

  He checked the article’s byline. Shit. Kerry Rabidan. Her newsroom moniker was Rabid Dog—she was that good. But lacking enough seniority to own her job, the paper downsized her a year ago. Union rules. She now worked for the rival News-Times, Washington’s other daily newspaper. Damn, he thought, can’t call the competition for background.

  “Red, why is the head of the Justice Department public integrity section really calling me at home?”

  Beck stood and walked back into his living room. He sank into the soft brown couch and felt the expensive speckled leather cushions sigh beneath him.

  He shoved a week’s worth of old newspapers into a pile atop his crowded coffee table and created a soft landing for his feet. He noted his Italian shoes were badly scuffed. Must have been from dogging dead ends around Flyover, he thought. It was all he had to show for a week’s worth of hard labor.

  Beck leaned into his neglected Corona Light and took a swig. Good. It was still cold. He wiped his mouth and mustache with his sleeve.

  Red faced the fireplace near Beck’s whodunit wall—a floor to ceiling collection of autographed Lawrence Block mysteries, as well as first-edition Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler detective novels. Beck especially liked his Michael Connelly novels, but he recognized himself more as a character in one of Carl Hiaasen’s offbeat beach capers. Five hardback copies of his own nonfiction work were scattered in no particular order on the bottom shelf along with several Jimmy Buffett books. Thank god the maid was coming tomorrow. She’d make order of his chaos.

  Beck stared at Red as she sat in silence. He thought about the possibilities of the phone call. If Fahy really did have the goods, Beck knew he and Red might quickly be back on top. He wanted nothing more. A big story meant he would not face the agony of backsliding into the mundane trappings of covering a beat like most of his newsroom colleagues. And most important, there would be no threat of anyone finding out about Red. Their secret would remain secure. A big story meant they could continue to work together in private, here, in his man-cave sanctuary. He had worked too hard with too little talent to get this far. He needed a big score, and he needed Red’s help to make it happen.

  God, he was glad they’d met. Even if they hadn’t collaborated in months, without her clandestine assistance, he would have never become one of Washington’s most successful investigative reporters. Beck had never shared a byline with her, but he credited Red with organizing his thoughts, helping him with two Pulitzer Prize nominations, and shaping his two books into New York Times best sellers. She was always the first one he acknowledged in his books.

  Twelve years ago, his career had been in the toilet. No Justice Department officials were calling then, requesting secret meetings. He had been a snarl of dangling participles and disjointed gerunds demanding industrial-strength editing from the city desk.

  But then, thanks to a half-price Labor Day sale on all-leather furniture, Red had entered his life.

  Their accidental partnership had begun about a week after he had brought her home. He’d paced the floor, wearing a path in his oriental rug and reading a draft out loud, struggling to craft a story for the weekend national news section. He had then turned his attention to Red for a moment, and something had suddenly clicked. The words had flowed easily. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but he had found his muse— and a half-priced one at that.

  Considering his level of writing talent, maybe that was appropriate. His writing wasn’t poetry, but it was close enough.

  Suddenly, he had been welcomed on the front page. It had been embarrassing—no, outright humiliating—but Red had saved his career.

  He gazed across the room at her—his empty leather reading chair nestled comfortably in the corner. Beck felt that queasy sensation in his stomach, the one he got when he wasn’t certain of his facts. “Red, you think Fahy could be setting us up?”

  3

  Daniel Fahy hung up and slipped his cell phone back into his suit coat pocket. He worried if he’d overstepped by calling a reporter. Then he glanced up, toward a commotion across the hotel lobby. The doors to F Street swung open, ushering in a whiff of steamy summer downpour, followed by a strong gust of Senator David Bayard. Bayard strode across the plush lobby of the W Hotel, two young aides drafting in his wake.

  Fahy felt desperate. He knew he was losing his battle to rein in Bayard before the senator won his party’s presidential nomination. If he didn’t do something quickly, Bayard would likely escape justice forever. Fahy took a big breath and felt helpless watching his target from afar.

  The lobby was unusually crowded. Dozens of bangle-laden tourists huddled boisterously near the first-floor alcohol supply to escape the violent afternoon thunderstorm that had cleared the rooftop terrace lounge. Halfway across the lobby, Bayard stopped suddenly to greet a designer couple dressed in black and white and clinging to martini glasses filled with unmet expectations. The trio created a traffic jam in the boutique hotel’s packed corridor. Bayard gave the woman a peck on the cheek and pumped the man’s hand, shaking his martini far more than the bartender had ever intended.

  Perched across the room, cradled in a cushioned velvet chair near the Fifteenth Street lobby entrance, Fahy felt silly at his feeble attempt at amateur sleuthing while he watched his prey with a bit of awe. The alpha male was establishing his exceptionalism.

  The senator stepped back from the couple, nodding in a well-practiced farewell gesture, and slipped away into the glittering, damp-haired crowd, heading in the direction of the lobby bar. Unlike the throng, he showed no signs he had just stepped from Washington’s summer steam bath. His groomed graying hair—turned premature blond at some high-priced salon—along with his crisp tailored suit hugging his slim, athletic frame belied both his age and the weather.

  Bayard shook three more bejeweled hands as he eased throug
h the throng of slinky summer dresses and brass-button sports jackets, each time grabbing a forearm and practically jamming its reluctant hand into his palm.

  Fahy recognized the insatiable urge for political sustenance. So far, he had remained immune to the Washington epidemic—the incurable need for recognition that seemed to accompany political power. He preferred to wield whatever power he possessed quietly and remain anonymous.

  He studied his quarry. Bayard appeared obsessed with grabbing the ultimate brass ring— preaching God, family, and lower taxes—all the while using his elective office to grow his personal wealth. Bayard’s government financial disclosure reports suggested it. Fahy needed to somehow prove it. And he needed to prove it quickly before Bayard took down the entire Republican Party.

  Bayard slapped another back and finally slithered next to a whale of a man sitting at the end of the bar. Built like a former college football player—former being the operative word—the Whale wore a crumpled, navy, chalk-stripe suit and hovered over his latest round. How many tumblers had it been? Fahy had lost count.

  The senator talked briefly with the man, and then motioned with his thumb over his shoulder toward the well-heeled couples behind him. Both men laughed, but Fahy could make out none of it above the genial roar of the raucous crowd, whose volume had risen with their alcohol consumption.

  The Whale stood, as big a man as Fahy had imagined. His belly cascaded over his belt as he reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a shimmering money clip. He extracted two bills and slapped them on the bar.

  Bayard turned briefly to his two young aides, told them something, and then swiveled, briefly resting his hand on the big man’s shoulder. The two men then walked together across the black-and-white marble lobby to the nearby elevator and slipped through its ornate doors, leaving the two young assistants at the bar.

  Fahy eyed the electronic display on the lobby wall above the elevator. The elevator did not stop until it reached the rooftop lounge. He rose from his chair, folded the newspaper he had used as a prop, and strode toward the elevator, dodging several small gatherings. It was not unlike his morning commute, darting in and out of traffic on the Beltway, always in a rush to get to the Justice Department.