by Rick Pullen
The waitress took their orders, two eggs over easy and a bottle of hot sauce. Beck remembered the strong coffee from their first meeting. He was no longer an espresso drinker, not since his younger days when he thought it cool to drink out of a demitasse cup in Georgetown cafes. Nor was he a fan of strong African-brand coffees. He asked for an inch of hot water in his coffee.
“You’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest,” Fahy said. “The FBI is now in Cayman aiding local officials with the murder investigation. The two murdered were US citizens from Hartford, so we’ve got reason to get involved, and the Cayman government has acquiesced.”
“Do you think they were after me?” Beck worried his question might make him appear vulnerable.
“You mean us, don’t you? You and Mrs. Kemper?”
Shit, thought Beck. Nothing is private anymore. In the back of his mind, he had to figure the authorities here would know everything. Geneva was a target too. He felt embarrassed that Fahy would know about his love life. He heard his old metal chair squeak as he shifted uncomfortably.
Fahy didn’t miss a beat. “Detective Tomlinson filled in the FBI.
We’re working to keep it as quiet as possible, but a murder can’t be swept under the rug. Let’s hope this doesn’t make the local newspapers. If we’re lucky, it will only make the news in Hartford, unless cable channels pick it up.”
“Was it tied to my story?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about Oliver’s half brother?” Fahy paused and struggled with his words. “I wasn’t sure of its relevance at the time.”
“What else haven’t you told me?”
“You know more than I do.”
“I guess I should keep it to myself.”
“That’s probably not a bad idea. The less I know, the better.” Fahy tipped his coffee cup to his lips, his eyes sweeping the room.
Beck’s coffee arrived in a heavy, worn porcelain cup. He waved off the creamer. The waitress had forgotten. He took a sip and felt the steam in his nostrils clearing his head. “Where does the Oliver thread of this story go?”
“That I don’t know. The FBI has found no shady deals involving him. I assume it’s totally political. He’s betting the odds. We’ve had eight years of a Democratic administration. The pendulum is likely to swing this year, and the Republicans may take control. He’s a survivor, and I assume he’s bet his money on Bayard.”
“And having his half brother do the dirty work gives him cover.”
“Precisely.”
“God, don’t you just love this town? Everybody’s on the take. Everybody’s frantically grabbing for their piece of the American pie.” Beck shook his head.
“It is what it is.”
“Am I in danger?” Beck looked into Fahy’s deep blue eyes and, for the first time, noticed large bags slumping beneath them, marring his otherwise taut and angular face.
“Can’t say. We haven’t a clue who murdered that couple, but you’re back in the States now. Whoever did it—and we’re assuming they were after you—has got to expect they can no longer stop a story from being published. If that’s the case, if it is Bayard’s people or someone trying to protect him, they will shift into some sort of defensive mode.”
Beck knew Fahy just might be trying to make him feel better, but he felt relieved anyway. “I’m not sure I even want to write the damn story. I feel awful about that couple. I feel responsible, and I don’t even know who they are.” Beck downed his coffee and grabbed the black plastic carafe the waitress had left on the table.
“It’s best you not know. And you need to keep going. Did you find a connection to Lamurr?”
“Yep. Got it solid.”
“Then you have an ethical obligation to go with the story. It’s important we have honest, honorable public officials.”
“God, you do sound like a friggin’ Boy Scout—just like all of those stories written about you.”
“I just don’t want to see you sidelined by some false sense of guilt. Whoever killed that couple is guilty. Not you.”
“Yes, but—”
“You are not responsible for their deaths. You did nothing wrong.”
“But if I hadn’t been there . . .” Breakfast was not sitting well. Beck blamed it on the hot sauce.
Fahy pulled a cheap burner cell phone from his pocket. He handed it to Beck. “If you need to reach me, use only this phone. It’s one of those prepaid jobs with three hundred minutes programmed into it. It can’t be traced back to you or me. I’ve got one that matches. Here is my number.”
“This is a bit of cloak-and-dagger, isn’t it?” Beck looked at him. “Is a burner really necessary?”
“Like I said, you’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest in Justice and on the Hill. Remember a few years back when the Croom administration secretly subpoenaed all those news service telephone records? Now we have the National Security Agency routinely looking at individuals’ e-mails and phone records. I don’t want us caught in that dragnet, if and when this thing finally blows up. I may work for Justice, but I can get caught just as easily in any inquiry as you can.”
Beck sat up straight. For the first time, he realized the risk Fahy was taking. Fahy could actually go to jail for talking to Beck, to say nothing of destroying his career at Justice if he were found out. Beck was not the only vulnerable one here. It made him feel more confident. Like it or not, they were in this together.
“Important people will be hurt by what you know,” Fahy continued. “I don’t think your life is in danger here in DC but be careful anyway. If I were you, I’d think twice about seeing Ms. Kemper in the near future, or at least until you’ve published your story.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem.” He thought about her and realized he missed her.
“Be safe.”
Beck tilted his head and looked at Fahy. “What?” Fahy asked.
“Funny.” Beck remembered now and felt a chill.
“What?”
“That’s what this complete stranger said to us as we were leaving the hotel in Grand Cayman, right after we’d learned of the murders. It struck me as odd then, and you just stirred something in my brain.”
Beck paused and pressed a hand to his temple. “He called Geneva by name—or at least the name he thought she went by—Mrs. Rikki. How would he have known that? And I thought I’d seen him on the island. He might have been following us.”
“You’re going after some of the biggest fish in all of government— hell, the world. Consider every possibility. You must be extremely cautious.” Fahy looked up and again surveyed the room.
Beck turned to look as well. The waitress stood by the lunch counter, talking to the owner. Maybe half a dozen patrons were scattered throughout the restaurant. The Latin music pulsed from the cheap radio behind the bar. No one was within earshot of their conversation.
“I’ve never been tied to a murder before,” Beck said. “I solve political puzzles. Destroy political careers. I don’t investigate murders. My job is to describe a game of political chess where the stakes are little more than someone’s reputation, not life or death.”
“Now it’s a game with big consequences,” said Fahy. “And you’ve seen what the consequences can be.”
“I don’t feel sorry for the people I expose. I’m shedding light on their crimes, their conflicts. But these murders take things to a new level. Two people are dead, for Christ’s sake.”
“Just to be safe, cover your tracks. Cover your butt. Make sure your editors know where you are at all times. Make sure they have the information you’ve collected for your story and it’s not all up here.” Fahy pointed to his head. “Write it down somewhere and hand copies to someone else. And let everyone know that other people know what you know. That’s your insurance policy.”
Beck sighed. He took a sip of coffee and contemplated Fahy’s advice. “You’re right. Even if I don’t publish it, I need an insurance policy. And then what?”
/> “If it’s Bayard’s people who came after you, they will say nothing and wait for your next move. They have to figure your paper already has the complete story. But if someone else is out to harm you, you must be on your guard. Change the locks on your door. Secure your windows. Be careful what you say on the phone. You and I might be under surveillance right now. If we meet again, be very careful to ensure you aren’t followed.”
“Jesus. What the hell am I involved in?”
“Right now you may be just a footnote in an FBI file. You’re either on the edge of their investigation or right in the middle of it. We don’t have answers yet.” Fahy pushed his cup out of reach.
“A couple from Connecticut was murdered. You were not involved. The hotel made an error in identification. That’s all. Oh, by the way, the couple was robbed of some expensive jewelry. Maybe that was an afterthought to cover the real motive or maybe that was the motive all along. If the FBI finds nothing else, the investigation will die just like the Connecticut couple.”
Beck wasn’t about to let this story die. He knew exactly what he needed to do. It was time to meet with Red and start writing.
33
The next morning, the headline on the front page of the business section of the Post-Examiner screamed the news. Just as Geneva had expected, Lamurr Technologies won the multibillion-dollar Pentagon contract to build unmanned aircraft, beating out the heavily favored Serodynne Corporation. An air force colonel in the Pentagon contracting office was quoted saying it was important for national security that more than one contractor be able to build its new drone aircraft program. The real news, she thought, was in the twelfth paragraph of the story where it noted Lamurr had strong political connections on Capitol Hill. Geneva shook her head as she finished the article. Typical reporter—he missed the real story.
Above the fold on the front page, she noticed a story about the Republican presidential candidates fighting for delegates now that the primaries were over and the national convention was nearing its end. Bayard was in second place in the delegate count behind Governor Ford Patten of Texas with convention voting set for today. She wondered what Harv was doing at the convention—and who he was doing it with.
THE MARKETS REACTED as Geneva expected. Serodynne stock lost 31 percent of its book value in a day. Lamurr stock shot up 22 percent. This was exactly what she had hoped would happen. Geneva laid her Post-Examiner on the desk and closed her office door. She called her favorite New York investment banker.
“Keith, you see the news?”
“Yep. We’re looking pretty good right now. Your plan is brilliant. The stock is still moving in our direction.”
“No one up there but you knows about us, right?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s take the money and run.”
She was stunned. “Keith, what are you not telling me?”
There was a long pause, then Keith spoke. “We’ve got a problem. Bernstein recognized one of the names among our phony brokerage accounts. It was one of his former clients.”
“Shit.” Geneva leaned forward, putting her elbow on her desk and resting her forehead in the palm of her hand. Her eyes squeezed shut, imagining the worst. She took a deep breath. Everything could fall apart. If it did, she would never escape her miserable Washington life. “Why did you use an old account name?”
“I had to use deceased clients’ information. It was the only way I could set up enough accounts in time to pull off our plan. I never dreamed the partners would remember a client from a decade ago. Who does that?”
“Is Bernstein suspicious?”
“I had to think fast. I told him it was just a coincidence the clients had the same name. Fortunately, I didn’t use the account’s real address. I don’t think he suspects anything, but it makes me nervous. I’m not sure I want to continue. We’ve done great. We’ve made millions. Let’s get out while we’re ahead. I can’t afford to get caught.”
This was not enough. She needed more to assure she could afford a new life away from Washington and away from Harv. “Keith, we can’t quit. Not now. We’re about to increase our winnings exponentially. You need to think bigger.”
“I don’t know, Geneva. I’m nervous. Bernstein might recognize other names.”
“Look. Cover your tracks. Even if you can’t change the account names, can you change other information without anyone noticing?” “I’ve already started.”
“Good. Don’t touch the money. Not yet. Let me check the lay of the land here in DC. If everything works the way I expect, you’ll be able to start your full-time writing career sooner than you could have imagined. This will all be over soon.”
He assured her he would do nothing until they spoke again. She hung up. Geneva had thought Keith was all in. Now he was getting cold feet just when she needed his expertise the most. She might have made a mistake pulling him in as her partner. But she really had no choice at this point. She had to figure out how to keep him onboard.
THAT EVENING, SENATOR DAVID BAYARD’S FORTUNES were no better than Serodynne’s. Geneva watched on television as he lost the Republican convention vote by fifty-seven delegates. She knew enough from talking to Harv that the California delegation screwed him at the last minute. Harv had urged Patten to promise several ambassadorships and government jobs to the state’s contingent in exchange for their support. Apparently Patten had taken his advice, Geneva thought.
Immediately after the final vote, she watched Bayard step to the podium in front of 2,286 screaming delegates, 2,125 alternates, and thousands of loyalists and members of the media. He asked that Ford Patten’s nomination be declared unanimous by acclamation. The red, white, and blue Atlanta convention center roared with approval.
In Patten’s hotel room that night, she knew Bayard would secure the nomination for vice president. Harv told her Patten’s presidential elector counters had determined winning New Jersey in November was the safest path to victory, so Patten was forced to put Bayard on the ticket. He wanted Diana Lee, the senator from Florida. But with less than two months to go before the election, polls showed Florida was already leaning toward the Republican nominee. New Jersey was now the biggest battleground still up for grabs.
Geneva wondered what had happened to Beck’s story. She had to believe he was still working on it, but she worried he might not publish it in time. That would mean Bayard’s influence over the Pentagon contract would only grow, especially if he were vice president. She needed Beck’s story to go public soon.
34
The next day, Harv was back in DC and smoking a Cuban on the penthouse patio in his lounge chair next to Geneva.
“Yes, I had an affair. Actually a couple,” he said. “You’re not to blame. I enjoyed the attention, dear. It doesn’t change how I feel about you. You know . . . men.”
Geneva was surprised how little his admission bothered her. She had known of his affairs for more than two years, long enough that she was done grieving over their relationship.
“Do you want a divorce?” She took a big gulp of her martini.
“No, dear. What I want is you—as long as you don’t mind my little trysts on the side.”
“If I did care, it appears it wouldn’t matter.”
He turned to her, brows raised, eyes opened wide.
“That’s right. Harv, this comes as no surprise.” She stared him down. She was probably the only human on the planet who could do that.
He looked away. “Oh . . . you have your trysts. I have mine. Fair enough?”
“Enough.”
Harv fingered the stem of his glass, looking intensely at his wine as if examining it for clarity. “I have my needs.” “And I have mine.”
“I still desire you, darling. In fact, I want to make love to you right now.” Without looking at her, he placed his hand on her bare thigh and inched it upward. Geneva placed her hand on his and stopped him. He turned to look at her, and their eyes met. “Can we a
t least keep up appearances?”
“Harv, I don’t wish to embarrass you,” Geneva said. She knew in her heart things would never be the same between them. There was nothing left for her here.
They sat in silence for several minutes, watching the sun disappear over the Smithsonian. A car horn blared in the background. Naked, Geneva stood and walked into the condo. She mixed herself another martini. As she stepped back through the door to the patio, she studied the smoke swirling around the back of Harv’s head. He held his cigar high in the air while sipping his favorite Australian red.
She shivered. It was as if their conversation had never taken place. She slowly spread her body on the lounge chair next to his. It bothered her that Harv did not notice. So this is how a marriage dies, she thought.
Her mind wandered to Beck. What was he doing? She wasn’t ready to deal with him. She needed to know when—or if—his story was going to be published. It would determine her future since its publication would likely make her fabulously rich. But the murder had rattled her and made her feel unsafe about approaching him. And their last night together scared her as well.
She looked at Harv, her cheating husband, puffing away on his cigar. He’d been unfaithful for years. Then she thought of Beck, who once got too rough in bed. Where was her perspective? It wasn’t the first time a man had gotten carried away in bed with her, but this was so out of character for Beck. That was the difference. He was loving, gentle, and funny—yet he was absolutely ruthless when it came to his job. Exactly, she thought. There was a line there, and she had crossed it and gotten a glimpse of both sides of this man.
Suddenly, she understood. It was so obvious. She was blinded by the loving attention Beck showed her. Of course that was it. Harv had ignored her for too long, and she was starved for affection.
She took another sip from her glass and felt better.