Jake nearly threw the table over. “This investigation will go nowhere with these incompetent assholes involved!”
“Easy!” shouted Cooper.
Norris sneered. “And what is this bullshit about the wig? Garrett’s wife is claiming it’s hers?”
Jake was on his feet, leaning across the table. He spoke as calmly as he could. “Let me remind you that Mrs. Garrett is very likely going to become Congresswoman Garrett sometime in the next few weeks. You might want to think about who you’re pissing off.”
Norris actually stopped in his tracks, standing stock-still. The expression on his face said he hadn’t considered this possibility. He blinked at Brewer, who shrugged.
“So, he’s protected when the widow’s around,” said Brewer, not looking up.
“But you’re on your own when you’re not peeking around her skirt,” finished Norris triumphantly.
Jake lost it. “This is bullshit!” he roared.
Materializing as if by magic, Alana Sutter was suddenly at Jake’s side. She touched his arm.
“Hang on,” she whispered smoothly. “Let’s go outside. Just for a minute.”
Seething, Jake allowed Sutter to lead him into the hall.
“I’m not going to be squeezed out by a couple of fed pricks,” fumed Jake.
“Suzanne wants you involved, and you have my word, too,” reassured Sutter. “You won’t be shoved out. But you’ve been through a lot today. I know what Porter meant to you.” She looked at Jake intently. “He meant a lot to me, too.”
Jake didn’t want to get into it. He felt his temper flare again.
“And I know what you meant to him,” pressed Sutter. “He trusted you. Don’t worry. He’s not up there keeping score on what you’re doing now.”
Jake was still irritated, maybe even more so now. It killed him that Sutter may have known about Porter’s affair, may have even been helping him cover it up.
“Seems you’ve gone from one campaign to another.”
Sutter had the decency to look chagrined. “She’ll carry on his agenda.”
“How could this have happened?” asked Jake, changing the subject.
“Porter asked for a light detail, and I told security to give it to him,” said Sutter. “That’s what I have to live with.”
“Did you know that … ? Did you know he was … ?”
“Did I know he had a woman on the side?”
Jake nodded. Sutter examined her fingers and then looked at him.
“I’m telling you this because I like you and to show you I mean it about keeping you in the loop—if you lay off those FBI agents. They’re annoying little pricks, but they have a job to do, and we need Washington’s help with this. Alright?”
Jake nodded again.
“Porter never said anything. But he had been asking for space more and more often lately. I didn’t see anything, but I had a feeling something else was going on. I’d also felt him distancing himself. Like … a pulling away.”
Jake silently exhaled. It sounded like Sutter was covering her ass.
She continued, “Like I said, he asked for a light detail last night, and I gave it to him. That was my mistake, my role in this. Once we get through this investigation, I’ll have to make my own amends with that. Until then, we’ve all got jobs to do.”
Jake nodded and returned to the meeting considerably quieter but no less agitated. He had never really liked Sutter, but had always found her accountable. Now he wasn’t so sure. Suzanne had always seemed disinterested in Porter’s career, yet here she was poised to take it over. The case was being handled by bureaucrats who were trying to shut him out. His best friend had had a terrible secret that may have been what killed him. Jake was feeling as though he couldn’t trust anybody—not even the dead.
CHAPTER 5
“MARCO!”
“Polo!”
“Marco!” yelled Kelly and Libby together.
“Polo!” shouted Kevin.
“Let’s get him!” cried Kelly, lunging toward Kevin with Libby on her back. Libby shrieked, and Kevin dove for the bottom of the pool. Kelly’s hand grazed his foot as he swam by.
“Gotcha!”
Kevin came up laughing in a spray of water droplets that arced through the air like a scattering of diamonds. Kelly watched as the drops seemed to freeze and turn in the sun against the blue sky. A perfect, unrepeatable, irreplaceable moment in time. She spent her life searching for these moments, these suspended instants of joy that shimmered among the despair, fear, hatred, and loneliness. She gazed at her kids, their faces bright with water and sunshine. They were her salvation, her hope, her entire reason for being.
It wasn’t an overstatement. If not for them, she would make any number of different choices right now. She would gladly risk her own life to serve the higher purpose of putting her husband in jail. But she would never do anything that would put her son and daughter at risk. And so that meant Plan B. Porter’s death—she couldn’t bring herself to admit it was murder—changed things in a big way. She had been working out an idea. But first she needed to get some information.
“Okay, kiddos, out of the pool,” sang Kelly, sliding out of the water and grabbing two towels. A glass door off the patio surrounding the pool opened directly into their motel room. Kelly showered the chlorine off the kids and set about helping them dress in clean clothes.
Kevin looked up from tying his shoes. “Where are we going, Mom?”
“Library, then dinner. You ready?”
The Nogales, Arizona, library had been recently remodeled with, it appeared, the bulk of the budget going toward a comfortable children’s section and computer terminals with Internet access. Kelly had no trouble installing Kevin and Libby on two fat purple pillows, a stack of books next to each of them. She found a computer in an adjacent area where she could watch the children while she searched. Sliding into the chair, she typed Jake Brooks in the Google search template.
First things first: Find out more about Jake Brooks, and understand why he was speaking on Porter’s behalf. She remembered Porter laughing joyfully when he spoke of Brooks. But she had to get to know him for herself. The first dozen results were transcripts of, and references to, TV appearances: Entertainment Tonight and Larry King Live, among others. Kelly clicked on one.
Announcer’s voice-over: Trouble in paradise tonight as the on-again, off-again relationship between British supermodel Alva Mayhill and attorney-to-the-stars Jake Brooks seems to be on the rocks again. The couple was spotted leaving in separate cars after an argument outside a Los Angeles restaurant.
The forty-two-year-old Brooks, who has been voted one of People magazine’s “Sexiest Men Alive,” was recently in the news for his gutsy defense of Julie Groton, the notorious textiles heiress accused of killing her brother. Brooks won the case, called “unwinnable” by many observers.
Mayhill and Brooks met last winter at the Aspen home of Randy Carlen, a Nevada billionaire. Friends say the pair have a fiery relationship but are very much in love.
Kelly checked the date. The transcript was two years old. She lingered on a still picture of Jake, noticing his intense eyes, high cheekbones, and salt-and-pepper hair. He was holding a door open for a beautiful woman who was flashing a dazzling smile at the camera. Jake’s expression was more serious than the model’s, but it was not shy. Kelly could tell he had a love/hate relationship with attention, but one thing was for sure: He knew his way around the front side of a camera lens.
She opened a dozen more links and scanned the articles. According to them, Jake’s mind was “brilliant,” “formidable,” “razor-sharp,” “photographic,” “prodigious.” He combined “the cunning of a coyote, the guts of a Navy SEAL, the retention of a supercomputer, and the training of a rocket scientist.” His face was “rugged” and “handsome”; his eyes “bedroom” and “prescient”; his body “lanky” and “toned by running and riding horses”; and his hair “run-your-hands-through-it thick” and “calculatedly mes
sy, as though he wants you to think he has just rescued a little old lady’s kitten from a tree.” His personality was described as “elusive,” “aloof,” and “lone-wolfish,” although the articles referred to his many friends and clients, and pictures showed him at parties and premieres and on private islands with beautiful women.
Kelly scrolled through a few more references, a pensive look on her face. Then she quit the search and returned to the Google template for the second search she needed to make: a bank. She typed American Capital Investment Bank into the prompt box. A corporate-looking website opened when Kelly clicked on it, a boring graphic making the introduction.
American Capital Investment Bank: We grow when your money grows.
For nearly two decades, ACIB has been the safe haven of choice for prudent investors in the United States. Our stellar team of financial advisors combines years of experience in money markets with skilled know-how and shrewd risk-taking. Our new corporate headquarters in Las Vegas’s burgeoning commercial center puts us in the heart of the fastest-growing population of investors in the country: the warm desert climates of the Southwest. With branches from Texas to California, and new branches planned for northern California, Oregon, and Washington, ACIB is fast becoming the dominant investment bank in the U.S.A.
The key to our success is our people. We hire only the best and brightest, the friendliest and the fastest-thinking. If you aren’t investing your money with us, then we aren’t doing our job.
Kelly ran her cursor over the section headings and hovered over OUR PEOPLE. She glanced at Kevin and Libby, who had moved their heads together and were reading from the same book, Libby pointing at the pictures and Kevin following the words with his finger. Kelly’s heart gave a tug. She clicked on the chosen link, and a picture of a handsome man filled half the screen. A title next to the photograph read:
Todd Gillis, Founder and President of American Capital Investment Bank.
Todd Gillis’s driving passion is making money for the investors in his bank. As president, he has been a tireless advocate for every customer, small or large. His many donations and countless hours given to charities—in particular, the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation and Meals on Wheels—show his belief in supporting the community on every level.
After earning an MBA from the Wharton School of Business at the University of Pennsylvania, he pursued a PhD in economics from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Mr. Gillis is the recipient of numerous awards and citations, including a Meritorious Achievement Award from the Department of Commerce.
Mr. Gillis and his family live in Houston, Texas.
Kelly studied the photo for a moment, as if memorizing the man’s features. Then she closed the window and clicked on BRANCH LOCATIONS. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, choosing the information she needed. She plugged in her Sidekick and downloaded a list of ACIB branches in Arizona as well as a list of the branches in Southern California. She downloaded a map to each location. When she was done, she folded up the Sidekick and slid it into her purse.
She glanced at her children. They were still engrossed in their books. She had some time. The third and final search: the mark. Kelly brought out her Sidekick again and Googled Joan Davis, Beverly Hills. Three listings came up, and she saved them all. She repeated the search, typing Los Angeles in place of Beverly Hills. The computer paused, then came up with seven entries. Again Kelly saved them. She snapped the Sidekick shut. Enough for now.
She tiptoed over to the children. “You ready to get something to eat?” she whispered.
“Read to us, Mommy,” begged Libby. Kelly glanced around the library, which was quiet and nearly empty. She sighed.
“Okay. But only for a few minutes.”
She settled in between the children, sitting so she could see the front door. Then, scanning the entrance and the parking lot beyond every thirty seconds or so, she read aloud for a half hour before setting out to find dinner.
CHAPTER 6
AFTER THE DISASTROUS MEETING WITH THE FBI, Jake had spent the rest of the day wrangling the media, working them like a prostitute works a john—giving only the story he wanted them to hear. Now it was nine o’clock, and he was driving back to the hotel from the NBC affiliate studios. He knew he needed to sleep, but his brain wasn’t showing signs of shutting off. He needed something to flick the switch. Not alcohol, though. Nothing that would leave him hungover and blurry.
All day he had been trying to process Suzanne’s reaction to this whole mess. She seemed to be so composed—hardly grieving at all. She also appeared to be mad at Porter instead of at the killer. Infidelity or not, was that normal for the circumstances? Maybe. Could she actually be a step ahead of Jake in the grieving department? Jake snorted. Knowing Suzanne, she’d already gotten a diploma in Getting Over Your Husband’s Murder, and it was at the frame shop, ready to be picked up. On the other hand, maybe she was just genuinely worried about the world learning about Porter’s affair and the effect on his legacy—and hers.
Jake knew the love had been missing from Porter and Suzanne’s marriage for some time. Suzanne spent most of her time in Los Angeles, with what she called “her” people. Jake had often wondered why Suzanne had married Porter at all. She was a Southern Californian, born and bred—fifth generation and uselessly proud of the fact. Why she had agreed to give up the smell of eucalyptus and the sight of flammable brown hills to follow him to Nevada and later to Washington was beyond Jake. Through campaign after campaign, they had settled into a certain camaraderie: Porter rarely demanded her presence in DC or at his appearances, and she, appreciative of his light touch, helped him as much as she could tolerate. Eventually they were on their own more than they were together, and what romance they’d had in the past had inevitably cooled. Even so, Jake had never once heard Porter even fantasize about cheating on her.
Jake’s phone buzzed.
“Brooks, it’s Carlen.” Jake tapped the brake as he approached a red light. Randy Carlen had been a faithful and generous donor to Porter’s campaign and had hosted the fund-raiser where Porter had given his final speech, the night before the murder. Last night, thought Jake, barely believing it. Carlen’s fortune had come through his grandmother, who had built a chain of Nevada hotels that doubled as brothels. As the sole remaining heir, Carlen now spent his time managing the hotels and his fortune, proud never to forget a working girl’s name. In fact, he loved them all. “Bad girls gone bad,” he’d say.
“What can I say?” continued Carlen without waiting for Jake’s greeting. “I’ve been trying to call you.” Carlen broke off into an emphysemic hack, ending with an enormous, mucus-clearing gargle. Jake had heard the cough often enough to know that the pause that followed it was Carlen taking another drag on his Cuban cigar. The man was short but stocky, and the lifts in his shoes (as well as the constant halo of smoke around him) gave the impression of his being a much bigger man. “Fucking pisser about Garrett.” Jake nodded his agreement, knowing Carlen couldn’t see his affirmation but wouldn’t be waiting for it anyway. “What can I do to help? Anything, just ask.”
Jake hesitated. As with Suzanne, he knew that his frustration with the investigation needed to be played carefully. “You meant a lot to him,” Jake said. “Your support meant a hell of a lot.” He accelerated out of the intersection when the light turned green. “He’d have wanted you at the funeral.”
“I’ll be there,” drawled Carlen. “I’ve been talking with Suzie. But you let me know if you need anything else. You hear about anything you need, I’ll get it for you.”
“I appreciate it,” said Jake. “See you in LA.”
“Oh, one other thing,” pressed Carlen. “I have an associate who’s starting out in TV. She’s doing a feature about Garrett and says you folks aren’t getting back to her. I know it’s a busy time, but I’d be much obliged if you could call her, give her a few minutes of your time.”
Out of habit, Jake said, “Of course. Have her call me,” forgetting that his n
eed for men like Carlen was now virtually nil. It was the sort of favor Porter used to do routinely without complaining. But now that Porter didn’t need them, Jake didn’t need them.
The phone rang again almost as soon as Jake hung up. Carlen’s “associate” introduced herself and begged Jake to come down to the station. Jake cursed to himself for having promised Carlen he’d help out, but agreed to do it.
* * *
The “station” turned out to be the student TV station in the basement of the Theater Arts Department of Las Vegas Community College.
The collection of rooms at the student TV station smelled like a wet dog. The furniture looked as though it had been donated by a homeless shelter: tattered couches in 1970s orange and brown lined a long hallway, their cushions long ago worn shapeless, the varnish rubbed off their wooden arms. Undergraduates were draped across them in assorted stages of sleep and wakefulness, tattoos blossoming across various exposed body parts. The walls were lined with cheaply framed posters of news shows and radio plays.
Jake saw a student heading down the hallway toward him. Purple corduroy jeans hung from her slender hips; a vintage black Kiss T-shirt rode just high enough to offer a juicy slice of her flat belly. Her eyes flickered with recognition.
“Jake Brooks? Well, welcome to our lair. All hell has just broken loose in what the diehards here call the newsroom. Logan asked me to apologize and tell you she’ll be here ‘shortly.’” The girl drew air quotes around the word. “You can wait in here.”
Jake followed her to a dingy room with fluorescent lights and a peeling Formica table. The smell of scorched coffee rose from the belching drip machine in the corner. On the counter sat a plastic dish next to a note card with the words COFFEE—50 CENTS/CUP. ON YOUR HONOR written on it in blue Sharpie.
The Gray Zone Page 5