by Misty Evans
She knew LARPing. Interesting. At least his erection thought so.
“Live action roleplaying.” Brice went back to Teeg. If Joel showed a violent tendency in the bedroom… “So kinky roleplaying? BDSM stuff?”
Hope made a face and paced away from the computer, half-covering her ears. “So don’t want that image in my head. I have to see him in the halls!”
“Nah,” Teeg answered. “More like Lord of the Rings and Twilight shit with...you know, married women, probably a few senators’ wives who don’t want anyone to know what they do in their spare time, etc. That’s why these sites are on the Deep Web. They’re not easy accessible or widely known.”
Now Brice felt like uttering an eww. “So no violence of any kind in his past?”
“None. I’m sending you a file containing the emails I snagged. As soon as I have the rest, I’ll send those.”
Brice’s computer dinged with an incoming email dump. “Thanks, man.”
Teeg disconnected and Brice waited for the information to finish downloading. Then he pulled up the file. There were hundreds of emails, some short, others pages-long. Didn’t the guy ever clean out his inbox? Brice sent the files to his printer and faced Hope. “You ready for another long night?”
Her face was a mix of emotions, some of which were a cinch to read. Her inner government worker bee, who believed in privacy and the American way, was at war with the journalist who wanted the scoop on Joel, regardless of his sexual adventures, and wasn’t about to give Brice a leg up on her by letting him do the dirty work in order to keep her perky nose clean. He hated to burst her bubble or put her in an awkward position, but he wasn’t about to sit up all night reading Mr. I Love Glittery Vampires’ emails alone. And the faster they got this leg of the investigation over, the faster they could get back to his couch.
“Of course. Should we start with the one Teeg flagged?”
“Teeg is a hacker, not an investigator. We’ll start with the flagged email, but we’re going to read them all.”
He snagged the bag of food and Hope followed him into the kitchen. He set it on the table, grabbed plates from the cabinet, and they dug in. “Besides,” he continued, “a background check isn’t enough. We need to get to know Joel, and if we start asking his friends about him, they’ll tip him off. There may not be anything in those emails, but we might get lucky. The guy may just be a regular Joe with no direct tie to the accident or the bridge or this lobbyist, but we need to check them to be sure.”
He returned to the living room and snatched up the first batch of emails the printer had spit out. They could read while they ate.
The flagged one was on top, so he divided the stack in half, handing Hope the bottom.
As he stuffed his face with an eggroll, his eyes skimmed the email.
He stopped chewing.
Scanned it again.
Holy shit.
He swallowed half the eggroll, took a gulp of water. “Ah, Hope? You’re gonna want to see this.”
“It’s not Joel in an Edward Cullen costume, is it?” She grinned, proud of her joke.
“No, no costume.”
He spun the paper around and tapped a finger next to the email’s recipient and then to the body of the text. “Something much more damning.”
Hope dropped her fork, quickly wiped her hands and snatched the email from his grasp. She scanned the recipients address. [email protected].
Oh, boy.
Winslow and Skirka, being one of the top lobbying firms in D.C., should not be communicating with the clerk of a U.S. Supreme Court Justice, particularly via his Supreme Court email.
Unless there was some mundane, ethically acceptable, reason for it.
Which, given Hawk’s reaction to the document, she didn’t believe.
Could have been a mistake. Maybe Joel utilized an email organizing system that dumped all of his emails, personal and professional, into one location and when he responded he forgot to click the pull down to change the address. She did that all the time.
Either way, a Supreme Court clerk was communicating with a lobbyist and that, in most cases, wouldn’t fly. In the world of Supreme Court Justice clerks, talking any sort of court business with outsiders, particularly a lobbyist, could get a clerk ostracized. Careers were made during a clerkship and navigating the waters could be tricky. Back in the day, lobbyists spent millions wooing politicians and judges with expensive gifts, dinners and yes, trips, in an attempt to win favors.
After a lobbying scandal in the 1990’s where a lobbyist bribed public officials, laws were enacted to govern just how far lobbyists could go in terms of their gifting. Lobbyists themselves were barred from buying gifts for legislators, something easily manipulated by having a third party purchase the gifts, but how far the laws extended in terms of judges, Hope wasn’t sure. What she did know was that if it went on, it went on behind closed doors.
She perused the rest of the email and…whoopsie. Her gaze shot to Hawk’s. “Did you read this?”
“I did.”
“What do you think?”
He gave her the you’re-such-an-infant look. “Hope, seriously? He’s telling him the trip to Barbados was excellent. Why would a clerk tell a lobbyist that?”
“Maybe they’re friends? They vacationed together?”
“Have you seen Charley Winslow? He’s got at least twenty years on Bigley. Somehow I don’t see them as frat buddies.”
As much as Hope wanted to argue, to find the positive spin, even she had to admit this looked, as Teeg had said, suspicioso.
She dropped the email and eyed Hawk. “Let’s roll with this for a second. Joel is communicating with Winslow about a trip that maybe Winslow, via one of his clients, sent him on. I’m not a lawyer, but I think companies, not their lobbyists, can still pony up gifts.”
Hawk made a note on a scrap of paper. “I don’t know the specifics on the rules. I can look into that.”
“A few years back, there was a clerk who wrote a book about his experiences after he’d left the court and he was lambasted by the legal community. And that was after he left the court. Joel has to know speaking with a lobbyist can wreck his career.”
“Of course he does.”
“Which makes me wonder if his boss—Justice Turner—knew he was talking to Winslow.”
And, wow, did she just imply—to a blogger—that the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court might have been not-so-squeaky clean on the bribery front. She’d always been a chatty one, but this? Even for her this was risky. In her own defense, so far, Hawk hadn’t let her down. He’d delivered on whatever he agreed to. Something that made it awfully easy to be open and honest with him.
To trust him.
A blogger.
Who’d have thunk it?
“You’re assuming,” Hawk said, “they had a plan and maybe they were leaking information?”
“I’m not assuming anything. Spitballing here, Hawk. That’s all. None of this leaves this room, got it?”
Way too late for that warning, girlfriend.
His head jerked back and he opened his mouth. Closed it again and frowned. “I’m...yeah...of course. We’re in this, Hope. You and me. You don’t screw me and I won’t screw you. Right? Or did I misunderstand this quasi-partnership thing we have going?”
“No. You didn’t misunderstand. I just wanted…” she shook her head. “Never mind.”
He shot out of his chair, leaving the dishes scattered on the table and headed to the other room. “I know what you wanted. You were going on record that I can’t put any of this in a blog post. Fine. You’re on record.”
Darn it. In her attempt to protect herself, she’d insulted him. Great work, Denby.
“Hawk?” She caught up to him, grabbed his elbow and spun him back. “This is new territory for me. I’m not sure where the boundaries are.”
He looked down at her hand on his arm, pressed his lips together, then slowly eased out of her grasp. Not a jerking tug. More of a subtle
message—subtle as in a sledge hammer to the head—that he might be the teensiest bit angry with her and didn’t necessarily want her hands on him.
Understood. Message most definitely received. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Fine. Whatever. Let’s just agree right now that everything, no matter what, is on the table. We share all information and then discuss what can be ‘on the record’”
“No boundaries?”
“No boundaries.”
Eeeshh. For him, that no boundaries thing might not be an issue. He was a freelancer, so to speak. He didn’t report to a woman appointed by the President of the United States. But, if this was going to work, this working together to find out if the Chief Justice was murdered, she’d have to roll with it.
“Okay. No boundaries. With the caveat that if something comes up and I’m not fully able to discuss it, I will tell you. I’ll be as honest as I can.”
“Agreed. Now, back to this thing about Joel possibly leaking info. I don’t know if I’m buying that. If all they wanted was to leak a tip, there were a hundred different ways to do that.”
“And none of them included accepting a trip to Barbados.”
“Good point.”
Brice’s computer dinged with an incoming email. He held up a finger. “It’s from Grey. Maybe he found something on our cabbie.”
A couple of clicks and he read in silence.
Killing me here. “What does it say?”
“The cabbie is a dead end.” Brice let out a deep sigh. “Grey got hold of the police report. Cab driver’s name is Lamar Kostas. He claims he never saw the guy before and the man hailed him from a street downtown, so there’s no link to his home address or job. The description Kostas gave is so vague, the FBI’s sketch artist couldn’t do much with it.”
He clicked out of the email and just sat there for a moment not moving.
Hope knew the feeling. Numb. She dropped her head back and closed her eyes. Even with food in her system, her brain wasn’t fully engaging and she breathed in, concentrated on the link between Joel and Charley Winslow. What they needed was someone close to the justice.
Lucky for them, they might have that person.
She held up a finger. “We need to call Anthony Gerard. He was probably as close to Turner as anyone. He might know something about Winslow. At the very least, he could debunk this theory about Turner talking to lobbyists. If he can do that, we know Joel has gone rogue.”
Chapter Ten
Brice pulled up outside the Corner Tap, the bar Joel was known to hang out at.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Hope said. “Are you sure this is the best way to approach him?”
Hope had volunteered to call Bigley. Brice had said no, he wanted to look the kid in the eyes when he started asking the hard questions. Instead, Hope contacted another clerk who’d volunteered that Joel was out drinking, like usual, at the Corner Tap.
Oh, the life of a spoiled Supreme Court clerk who thinks he has the world by the tail.
After acquiring the kid’s location, they’d called Gerard and asked if Turner had been cozy with anyone from Winslow and Skirka, particularly the famous, or infamous, depending on your viewpoint, Charley Winslow.
Gerard had ranted for ten minutes over the phone about the annoying lobbyist and how he’d dogged Chief Justice Turner so much, the judge had threatened to bring stalking charges against him. When Hope had told the cop that Joel Bigley may have accepted a vacation to Barbados from Winslow, Gerard had nearly stroked out. “That little weasel,” he’d said. “No telling what information he offered up in exchange for that. Winslow-Skirka was the group hired by Kenton to push for the hearing.”
Winslow, Bigley, and the hearing on the Kenton drug that could cost the company billions—what a conspiracy this could add up to be. Brice knew they needed to put heat on the kid and fast. Even if he was innocent of any wrongdoing in Turner’s death, he might point them to whoever was involved.
And Gerard had insisted on coming with them for the interrogation.
Now they sat a block from the bar in Brice’s truck. Gerard could barely fold himself into the extended cab.
“I’ll go in and get him,” Gerard said, reaching for the door handle. “He knows me.”
Probably the big guy just wanted to stretch his legs.
“He knows me, too,” Hope said. “I’ll come with you.”
“No,” both Brice and Gerard said in unison. Brice grabbed her arm before she could jump out. “Let Gerard handle it.”
She gave Brice an annoyed look and reluctantly said over her shoulder. “Be careful.”
Gerard climbed out and they watched him cross the street. Night had fallen and the streetlights gave off a yellowish glow. The air was heavy with unspent rain.
A group of young women burst from the doorway as Gerard reached for the handle. They’d obviously tipped a few beers or shots or whatever the drink of the night was, their raucous laughter reaching across the street to Brice’s ears. Two of the women tangled feet when they nearly ran into Gerard, sending one of them smack-dab into his chest.
More laughter and apologies as Gerard righted the gal and made his way into the bar. Brice climbed out of the driver’s seat and into the back.
Hope looked at him over the seat. “What are you doing?”
He shifted to see the door of the bar again. “Ever interrogated anyone?”
“I’ve interviewed plenty of people.”
“Not the same. Interrogating takes it up a notch. I gained a lot of experience working for Uncle Sam. You gotta put pressure on your suspect if you want them to break. Gerard and I sandwich Bigley between us back here and go after him, he’ll be more likely to tell us what we want to know.”
“Is waterboarding next?”
Funny. “Thumb screws.”
“Ha, ha. You’re assuming he’s guilty before you even talk to him.”
“I know you want to see the best in everyone, Hope, but Bigley may have accepted a vacation from a lobbyist who was trying to get his boss, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, to hear a decision. It very well may have been a bribe of some sort, and where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
Her face mirrored the incredulity in her voice. “But you don’t seriously believe Joel shot Justice Turner, do you?”
The kid had no connections to anyone with a violent past or a criminal record. There was no record he owned a gun, nor did he have a violent history himself. “It’s improbable, but like any other story, you follow every lead. That’s all we’re doing here. If you’re uncomfortable with this, go inside the Corner Tap and wait for me to come get you when it’s over.”
She huffed as if dealing with a spoiled three-year-old. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m staying, numbskull. I just want to make sure you’re not going overboard.”
Gerard emerged from the bar with the man of the hour. Brice winked at her. “Guess we’re about to find out.”
The cop led Bigley to Brice’s truck. Brice scooted over and motioned for him to get in.
“What’s going on here?” Bigley said. His gaze darted between Brice, Gerard, and then locked on Hope when he saw her through the window. “Hey, I know you. You’re that happy chick.”
Hope rolled her eyes. “Hope, not Happy.”
Bigley’s speech had the slightest slur to it. His gaze returned to Gerard. “I thought you said you had my briefcase.”
“Dumb kid.” Gerard hustled Bigley into the backseat, taking up residence on one side as he pinned Bigley in.
Well, wasn’t this cozy? Two guys over six foot and one just under, all crammed onto the bench seat built for children under ten.
Gerard managed to mash himself against Bigley and slam his door. Bigley flinched. “I don’t understand.” He shot a confused look to Hope as she turned and looked at him over the front seat. “Hope? What’s going on?”
She was smiling, all sweet and flirty, at Bigley, and Brice’s hackles rose. But then he saw the kille
r journalist reflected in her eyes. “It’s okay, Joel. Just tell my friends why you accepted a trip from a lobbying firm here in D.C. The same firm pushing hard for the Kenton Labs court case that Turner was set to give an opinion on.”
Bigley’s lips moved but nothing came out for a second. “Wha… What?”
Fumes of alcohol emanated from the kid’s pores. Brice leaned in—didn’t take much since they were practically sitting on top of each other anyway—and got in his face. “Let me make this easy for you, Joel.” Taking a move from Hope’s playbook, he smiled at the guy. “Charley Winslow, Barbados. You accepted a bribe from him. What we want to know is, what did you offer in return?”
Bigley hesitated a second too long. Brice felt him tense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Gerard leaned in from his side, creating a tighter sandwich. Bigley had about an inch of personal space left. “I could arrest you right now.”
“For what?” the kid practically yelled. He looked at Hope again, pleading. “I don’t know what they’re talking about.”
Her smile kicked up a notch. “Sure you do. The vacation that Winslow-Skirka provided for you back in December. Maybe you’ve graduated from leaking info to conspiracy to commit murder?”
Bigley’s face fell. “Murder! What the hell? The trip was...”
Yep, guilty. Brice wiggled so he could grasp the back of Bigley’s neck, putting a little pressure on it. “Answer my question. What did you give Charley Winslow in return? Was it information on Turner? Or did you do a little dirty work for him and shoot the Chief Justice yourself?”
The clerk reared back. His speech suddenly improved. “Oh, my God. Are you serious right now? Turner was shot in a road rage accident, and I was nowhere near that bridge Monday morning. What does that have to do with Winslow?”
“Show him, Hope,” Brice said.
Hope pulled the printed copy of the damning email from her pocket, flipped on the overhead light, and held it up for Bigley to read. “Ring any bells?” She let him skim it. “Were you feeding classified information to Winslow-Skirka? All we have to do to get you fired is take this email to…”