by Rick Pullen
He’d been sitting at the computer terminal in the middle of the records room for so long running the details through his head that the screen went blank and he failed to notice.
What was he missing? It couldn’t be just a coincidence that both brothers were tied to the senator. He’d been a reporter for too long to believe in coincidences.
Was there another possibility? What if Oliver wasn’t tied to the senator at all? Beck didn’t want to consider that possibility. He trusted Fahy, yet he had only Fahy’s word to go on that Oliver was trying to kill the Bayard investigation. What if that was all a lie? But a lie to accomplish what?
Did Fahy have some ulterior motive Beck hadn’t considered? Maybe he wasn’t such a Boy Scout after all. Could there be something more sinister?
Beck didn’t like where his mind was going. He decided to walk it back to the beginning.
He’d never met Fahy before all of this began. He’d never even heard of him. Was he being honest when he said he wanted an investigative reporter to go after the Bayard scandal, or could Fahy be targeting Beck for some reason? But why go after a reporter? Maybe Fahy was leading him on some wild goose chase in hopes he’d publish a bogus story that would quickly be discredited and ruin Beck’s reputation. Many a reporter had been misled by a source, but not Beck. Oh sure, he understood his sources may not have the most honorable intentions in mind when leaking a story to him. That’s why he always tried to verify his facts with a second source. Boy Scout or not, surely someone as politically savvy as Fahy would know that. After all, Beck had not only seen the redacted memorandum on the investigation, but Geneva verified it with her story of the visit from the FBI.
And Fahy’s suspicions about Bayard were turning out to be true. The more Beck dug, the more dirty dealings he uncovered, just as Fahy suspected. So he was on the right track, and his political corruption radar was still strong. So Fahy really was the Boy Scout the papers said he was. Beck just didn’t have the complete story yet on Jackson Oliver. That would come. And Geneva was right. He had a story, even if Oliver wasn’t part of it. Beck needed to stop doubting himself and go with his gut. Oliver had to be involved. Beck was sure of that. He just couldn’t figure out how.
Beck jumped when he felt two hands suddenly rubbing his shoulders.
“You okay? You seem tense and you’re . . . staring at a blank screen,” Geneva said softly. She leaned into him and ran her outstretched fingers down his chest and kissed him quickly on the cheek. As she stood, he could feel her breasts hidden under her lightweight dress press against the back of his head, her hands again kneading his tight shoulders.
She was trying to make up, he thought. But his focus was elsewhere. Right now he was more interested in the relationship between Jackson Oliver and David Bayard than his own with Geneva. He hated being misled, even if it was unintentional, and he did not easily forgive.
28
Beck again sat in the waiting area of Kindred’s dark-paneled law office. This was going to be awkward. He had his normal pregame jitters. It thrilled him to pound an adversary with the most stinging questions. It was college debate team all over again. But for the moment, he kept his game face on and revealed nothing.
Kindred strode into the room in a pale blue long-sleeve shirt, dark tie, and rimless reading glasses. He greeted Beck with a warm handshake and pat on the shoulder, then invited his new client back into his office.
“So you’re interested in some real estate,” he said as he showed Beck to a seat and settled behind his desk, polished to a high sheen. An antique brass lamp with a dark green shade sat at one end, and an expensive pen set resided at the other.
Kindred leaned back in his big leather chair and placed his hands behind his head, his posture a bit too casual for a first meeting, thought Beck. The only thing missing was propping his feet up on the desk. Then Beck understood. Kindred was putting him in his place. Showing him who was top dog.
Beck noticed the sweat stains in the armpits of his shirt and immediately felt at ease.
“What can I do for you?” Kindred asked.
Beck surveyed his prey. This was always the most difficult moment, his journalistic Kabuki dance before he moved in for the kill. He looked at his unsuspecting prey. Kindred was short and overweight with a graying, receding hairline.
That was it, thought Beck. Kindred’s legs were too short to prop up on his desk. Otherwise, he’d be getting the full treatment. Beck was all too familiar with the god complex. The shorter the god, the bigger the complex. This was going to be tough.
Time to drop the pretense and weigh in. He had to lay out his facts carefully and give Kindred the opportunity to respond to his findings. Beck could not afford to have him complain later that a reporter had misled him. That was Journalism 101.
“I’m a reporter with the Post-Examiner in Washington, DC, and I’m looking into some land deals you’ve been involved in.”
“Really?” It wasn’t a question, but a challenge. Kindred’s upturned smile went horizontal. His eyes narrowed and zeroed in on Beck. The hands came down and took a defensive stance atop the glistening desk.
“I’m interested in Senator David Bayard’s relationship with Sunrise Meridian and its parent company, Lamurr Technologies.”
“As you no doubt have found in the public records, I have provided legal services to Mr. Bayard. You’re entitled to anything you can find in the public records. Beyond that, I don’t discuss my client’s private business affairs, and I have no idea about any relationship with a Lamurr Technologies. I don’t know the company.”
Clever move, thought Beck. Complete ignorance about the source of all of the funds. Beck explained what he had uncovered. Kindred leaned back and then edged forward in his armchair again.
“You’ve never heard of Lamurr Technologies?” Beck continued.
“No, and again, I’m sorry, but I cannot go into detail about any client’s business dealings.”
“But it’s all there in the government records.”
“Government records are public. You’re welcome to read anything you want into them. Just be sure you are accurate. We have libel laws in Grand Cayman that reach across the ocean. I would be very careful about anything I published if I were you.”
Threats, thought Beck. Good, he was agitating the little man. “What about incorporating both Jersey Shore and Sunrise Meridian?”
“I’m a lawyer. It’s what I do. Again, be careful with what you try to read into public documents.” Kindred’s voice was curt. The warm lilt of a gentlemanly English accent had disappeared.
“Was Sunrise Meridian originally set up as a solar power company or a real estate investment company?”
“You’ll have to contact the company and ask them. I only do the legal work.”
“But you are the company in Grand Cayman. According to legal documents, your office is the address for Sunrise Meridian.”
“I’m only an attorney. I have nothing to do with the company beyond providing legal services. Again, be careful, Mr. Rikki.”
This wasn’t going anywhere, Beck thought. Kindred had found his defense and was adorning it with a forced smile and civil demeanor. The lawyer leaned his elbows on his desk and grasped his hands.
The sparring continued. Beck made three more attempts to get Kindred to open up, reshaping the same questions each time, trying to attack from a different angle. Kindred was no amateur. He dodged and weaved, citing attorney-client privilege each time and always referring Beck back to the public records.
Kindred was very sure of himself and grew more confident as the conversation volleyed back and forth and Beck failed to chip away at his armor. Beck sense Kindred could tell he was running out of revelations to serve up and was trying to toy with him. A hint of sarcasm perforated the lawyer’s speech.
Finally, Beck decided to drop his big bomb. “I understand Jackson Oliver is your half brother.”
Kindred paused and then spoke slowly. “There’s no secret about that,”
he said as he adjusted his position in his chair.
Beck could see in Kindred’s manner he had finally hit a nerve.
“What is your brother’s relationship with Senator Bayard?”
“You’ll have to ask him. I don’t really know. Do they even know each other? You tell me.”
Damn. Kindred had recovered almost as quickly as he had stumbled. Back to the old singsong rhythm of ignorance and attorney-client privilege, thought Beck.
“And like I told you,” Kindred said, “I represent Mr. Bayard, and I do not discuss my client’s private business affairs.”
Beck could hardly hide a smile as he scribbled in shorthand on his notepad. He felt like he was back in college in the middle of a tournament. “Is your brother involved with Sunrise Meridian?”
“As I’ve told you before, what’s in the public documents is public. Be careful, however, what you try to read into them.”
A nondenial denial, thought Beck. “We’re going to run a story with these facts. Would you care to comment on any of them? I want to be fair and give you every opportunity you need to explain what you know about these deals.”
“Your offer is very generous, but I must decline to discuss my clients’ business.”
Beck thanked him for meeting with him.
“I feel like we have met under false pretenses,” Kindred said. “My assistant said you wanted to talk about purchasing some real estate.” “And that’s exactly what we did,” Beck replied.
Kindred shook his head. He’d left himself open for that one—an unusual foot fault in their word tournament. A hint of a smile crossed Kindred’s face. Score one for Rikki—a meaningless point in this game of gotcha.
They shook hands, a forced gesture of civility this time. Kindred locked his eyes on Beck, silently daring him to turn away. Beck squeezed Kindred’s hand a little tighter and smiled broadly, signaling he had the lawyer by the gonads. The best part of it—Beck knew Kindred fully understood.
29
When Beck entered the penthouse, Geneva was in her normal state of undress, lounging beneath one of the large umbrellas on the terrace, reading a novel. Her body glistened from perspiration. She turned to him when he stepped out into the sunlight.
She stood and walked toward him. Even though she was naked most of the time, he still had not gotten used to her allure. Her breasts jiggled and her hips swayed as she eagerly padded in his direction over the stone terrace. Normally, that would set his desire on fire. But this time, he felt little. He still wondered if he could forgive her.
“How did it go?” she said, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her wet bosom against his chest. She gently kissed him.
He explained Kindred’s defense. Not totally unexpected, but clever, he said.
“So you really didn’t learn anything new?”
“I learned he’s a good lawyer. The purpose of the meeting was to lay all my cards on the table and let him respond.” “I don’t get it.”
“I confront the subjects of my stories and give them a chance to respond to my findings. Even if they say nothing, that’s a no-comment response I can use. The worst thing I can do is blindside somebody in print. That opens me up to attack for failing to get their side of the story.” “You have so many rules.” She shook her head from side to side. “That’s the way the game is played. We try to be fair.” He paused and looked at his surroundings, restless. Beck wondered how long it would take for Kindred to be on the phone with his brother. One of them would contact the Bayard campaign. Beck had just fired the opening salvo. He had poked his cell shortly after leaving Kindred’s office to warn Nancy that Bayard’s people would soon be alerted. She said she would notify the city desk to route any calls to her. They were armed for a fight. All Beck wanted to do now was get back to Washington and finish his story.
“I think we’re done here. It’s time to head home,” he said. “I’ll make the arrangements for a flight tomorrow. There’s no more work here that I can see.”
“Our last night in paradise. Let’s make the most of it.” Beck looked at her and forced a smile.
THEY STARTED THEIR EVENING at the cigar bar near Kindred’s office. It was after five, and Beck could see the law office was closed. They progressed to a nightspot on the roof of one of the other hotels on Seven Mile Beach and gazed out at the Caribbean as they sat at a small table nibbling on fresh sauteed grouper. The sun slowly descended behind scattered clouds. The evening was pink with brilliant streaks of orange piercing the pastel sky as it arched from the blue-green water.
There was nothing he could do about his story until he returned to DC tomorrow, so Beck decided to enjoy his last evening with this beautiful if confounding woman. Her beauty was without question. Those eyes and that lush brown hair that sculpted the perfect contours of her cheekbones made his heart skip. But just how candid was she? Was she deceptive or simply ignorant of the rules of his profession? He very much wanted to believe the latter, but his suspicious nature, honed over many years of reporting, still left him doubtful.
She was, after all, a lobbyist and a player in Washington’s political merry-go-round. But he had to give her some benefit of the doubt. He didn’t think she had had many dealings with the press before she had met him except to comment to some style reporter about a sexy dress she had worn to a charitable event. He wanted to shake her as hard as he could to find the truth, but what good would it do? There were no easy answers to finding this complicated woman’s core.
She sipped her martini, and then grabbed Beck’s hand. “Let’s dance.”
The band was reggae, something not easy to find on the island. The British and US cultural influence permeated the Seven Mile Beach clubs and bars. American rock and roll and new generations of British music dominated the club scene.
“You know a lot of Latin steps,” Beck said after they returned to their table to catch their breath.
“I’ve visited the Caribbean a lot.”
“Whereabouts?”
“I was here probably five years ago. We stayed on the east end of the island. It’s much quieter there. I like this though. It’s nice we can walk to some nightlife. And I’m with you, which makes it even nicer.”
Beck smiled broadly.
“I’ve also been to the saints—Saint Martin, Saint Bart’s, Saint John—and to Tortola and Abaco,” she continued. “Favorite?”
“Abaco. It’s less commercial and more private than here. Less touristy.”
“Nightlife?”
“It’s more local island rake and scrape music and limbo dancing, which creates a more authentic island feel for me. But most of all, it’s serene, quiet. That’s what I love. It’s as far from the Washington scene as you can get, but with all of the comforts of home. Of course, it was nice that we were on a private island across the harbor from the main island so I could have my. . . ah . . . privacy.”
“You mean a place to skinny-dip and sunbathe in the nude.”
“You’ve got me pegged. Enough rest now. Will you dance with me again, Mr. Kemper?”
He laughed. “Ms. Rikki, I would love to.”
As they danced, Beck glanced at his surroundings—the view of the lights nearby and distant along the oceanfront. He twirled Geneva around and changed his position, now facing the bar on the other side of the dance floor. Only a few people sat there. A white straw hat sat atop the bar in front of an empty stool. Beck thought it odd and immediately thought of the man with the binoculars who had spied on them a few days before. Only an elderly couple was seated while a fat man in a flowered shirt stood with drink in hand at the rail watching the band. There was no white suit in sight. You really are getting paranoid, Beck thought.
He twirled Geneva again, but this time even faster and with more intent. She reacted with a puzzled look, and then went along, picking up her pace. Their dancing grew more intense, until the song finished. She stood still gasping for breath.
“That was quite a workout,” she said. “Where did you lea
rn to dance like that?”
“Let’s go,” Beck said softly. He paid the tab, and they headed indoors for the elevator. Beck looked back at the bar. The hat was gone.
WHEN THEY RETURNED to the penthouse, Beck nearly tore off Geneva’s clothes. They grabbed at each other and were naked in seconds. He mounted her with little foreplay. He pounded her, mercilessly. He was rough, squeezing her breasts and thighs until she yelped from the pain. His aggressiveness, however, excited something inside her she had never experienced before. She grabbed his body and held tightly as he slammed into her. The spontaneity of the moment excited her, and she exploded with an orgasm while he continued his relentless pursuit. But then his unyielding siege of her flesh began to sting and surge through her body. She pushed back, pressing both hands against his chest, but her effort only exaggerated the fire of her throbbing pain. He either did not notice or did not care. He kept going until finally, finally, a husky growl thundered from his lungs, and he was done.
Beck collapsed on top of her, his head turned away. His full weight pressed against her, and she could not move. Finally, he rolled over on his back breathing heavily. She closed her eyes and said nothing. Then Beck shifted onto his side with his back to her, never kissing her good night, and fell asleep immediately.
She listened to the soft cadence of his slumber as she lay awake now staring at the ceiling. Her body ached from the rough sex. She understood now his work had come between them. He had never expressed his ire to her other than at the beach bar, but it was obvious he was still very angry. She’d hoped the episode had passed, but his aggressive lovemaking proved otherwise. She realized she did not really know this man. His rage, drive, and ego were bottled up behind a veneer of calm, wit, and gentle charm—the side of him she adored.
She had wounded his ego and endangered his story. If she’d only understood better, maybe she would have reacted differently. If only she could take it all back and start over.