by David Lender
Stark picked up the bags, said, “My pleasure,” and walked in with her. Stark continued chatting while the woman waved to the concierge. They got into the elevator. When she saw he pushed the button for the 24th floor himself, she asked him to deposit her bags outside the elevator on the 21st floor and continue on his way. Stark got off on 24, then took the elevator back down to 17, McCloskey’s floor. He put on his gloves and knocked on the door of 17D.
“I need to speak with you about David Maguire,” Stark said when McCloskey opened the door. Stark flashed a fake police badge.
McCloskey’s eyes were wide, his jaw slack with alarm. “No one called.”
Stark reached into his jacket and pulled out the Ruger. “Inside. Now,” Stark said. McCloskey backed up, his mouth open and his eyes glassy. “Anyone else here?”
McCloskey shook his head.
Stark motioned with his head toward the center of the apartment. McCloskey stumbled over the coffee table and collapsed on his back in front of the sofa. He scrambled up and sat. Stark picked the chair across from him, the gun still pointed at McCloskey’s chest. “Yell, do anything stupid and you’re dead.”
McCloskey nodded.
“What did Maguire tell you he was gonna give the girl?”
“Nothing. I didn’t even know he was meeting with her.” McCloskey licked his lips; his mouth had obviously gone dry. He was right where Stark wanted him to be. Stark took a moment. Then he got up and walked over to McCloskey, the gun pointed at his face.
McCloskey started to shake. “I’m not lying,” he said in a whisper. Stark slapped him across the forehead with the Ruger. The guy went down sideways on the sofa and started sobbing like a scared kid.
“We’ll see,” Stark said, standing over him. “Open your eyes.” Stark slid the Ruger back into his shoulder holster and pulled out his knife. “Sit up and quit blubbering.” McCloskey stayed where he was, but put his hands out to protect his face. Stark grabbed him by his wrist and slashed the inside of his forearm. The guy let out a scream of pain and grabbed the cut with his other hand. “That’s right. Apply pressure. It’s just a surface wound. You’re not gonna bleed to death. Unless you don’t cooperate.” He stabbed the knife into McCloskey’s other forearm. Another scream, and then the guy pulled his feet up underneath him and curled up sideways in a ball. He’s ready. Let’s see what he really knows.
“Okay. Open your eyes. Look at me.”
The guy did.
“What else do you have to tell me?”
“Dani,” he stammered. “Dani North was here.”
“And?”
“She had a computer USB flash memory drive.” He winced, panting. “Maguire gave it her. She wanted me to help her look at it. See what was on it.”
“Does she still have it?”
McCloskey nodded again, trembling.
“Did you see what was on it? Did you copy it?”
“No!” he insisted. “I told her I didn’t even want to see it. After she showed it to me I told her I couldn’t help her. I told her to leave, I swear!”
Stark lunged forward and jabbed the knife deep into McCloskey’s thigh. He howled.
“I said don’t lie to me.”
“For God’s sake, I’m not!”
“So that’s it? She left?”
“Yes. I think she may have been going to Washington.”
“Why there?”
“I told her I didn’t think it was a coincidence that Maguire gave her what was on the flash drive just after she won the Tribeca Film Festival.” He’d closed his eyes again. “And immediately before the Senate vaccine hearings. I don’t think she saw any other way to figure out what was on that flash drive.”
Stark waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, he said, “Is that it?”
McCloskey opened his eyes, nodded, then closed his eyes again. Stark picked up a pillow from the sofa, held it over the muzzle of the Ruger and shot McCloskey three times in the chest. The pillow didn’t muffle the Ruger much, so he got the hell out of the apartment and ran down the stairway.
When he got to the street he pulled out the cell phone and called the client. “McCloskey said the girl had a computer flash drive with her. He thinks she’s headed to Washington.”
“She is. Our people just spotted her boarding an Amtrak train to DC.”
“Get me on it.”
“Too late. It leaves in a few minutes. Get to the 34th Street heliport. I’ll have a chopper waiting for you to get you to Philly. You can board the train there.” He hung up.
Stark hailed a cab. First-class treatment. A chopper to Philly. This guy doesn’t screw around.
Dani got to the Amtrak train with about ten minutes to spare. She had to walk through two cars before she found an available seat next to a man in a suit, mid-to-late 30s, in good shape, dark hair. A Wall Street Journal sat in his lap but he was staring out the window, seemingly at nothing, distracted. Dani sat down and glanced at the man to nod a hello, but he didn’t turn his head.
Richard Blum had just heard an announcement over the PA system that the train was short two cars this morning when a woman—he could see her reflection in the window—sat down next to him. He could smell some shampoo or hair product, like she’d just stepped out of the shower. What a relief. She didn’t look like some teenybopper about to spend most of the trip on her cell phone. Today he needed peace and quiet. On the way to the station this morning he’d stopped at his lawyer’s apartment to sign his final divorce papers, and now scenes from the unraveling of his life with Kathy were assaulting him in a way they hadn’t for months. Should’ve figured. Mike Bickford, his friend, now a Senior Vice-Chairman at BofA who’d recruited Richard as head of their Healthcare Group and who had been through the process a few years ago, had told him, “You’ll be crazy for about two years. Nothing you can do about it.”
He wanted to read his Wall Street Journal, in the hope it would cancel out the images, but he knew better. So he just stared out the window, and watched himself creep into the master bathroom while Kathy was in the shower the morning after she returned from Los Angeles a year ago. The last stop in a fivecity roadshow culminating a six-month process to raise a $1 billion real estate fund for her client, a guy with a Napoleon complex. The arrogant runt with whom she’d undoubtedly spent the night—Richard and Kathy’s anniversary night—in the Beverly Hills Hotel, because she hadn’t answered either the room phone or her cell phone until Richard stopped calling at 5:00 a.m. West Coast time. Now Richard reached the sink in their bathroom, lifted Kathy’s travel toilet kit, still packed from her trip, and carried it out to the bedroom, his throat burning and his heart pounding as he reached in to find her diaphragm case. Then, knowing the answer but needing to have it tattooed onto his psyche, he went through the sadistic ritual of opening the case to confirm the diaphragm had actually been in it when she was on the road. He mocked himself now: right, like she just would’ve brought the case and left the diaphragm at home. He watched himself carry the toilet kit back into the bathroom and place it on top of the sink, then back out and close the door, all the while hearing his pulse pounding in his ears.
He turned back to stare at the Journal. “Stop it,” he said under his breath. He saw the woman next to him turn her head as if startled. He looked at her and shrugged. “Not even nine o’clock and I’m already talking to myself. It’s going to be a long day.”
She smiled.
“You want a section of the paper to read?” he said.
“Thanks. I didn’t have time to stop and get one.” Richard slid the New York Times out from underneath his Journal. The woman looked relieved at seeing the Times. “Just the Sports section would be great,” then added, “and the first section, too, if you don’t mind. I like to read their Op-Eds.”
“I’ll swap you in an hour or so.” She was unusual looking. Maybe in her late 20s, early 30s, and petite. Her short haircut didn’t seem to fit her. He turned back to his Journal.
In a few moments the wo
rds on the page dissolved and rematerialized as a newsreel of Kathy and him on the porch of their South Hampton house. Kathy’s face rigid and angular, like some death mask, talking in clipped sentences. “I love you but I can’t live with you.” Richard felt a numbing weight, like someone was standing on his chest as she continued. “I don’t know how else to put it, and I can’t describe to you what I’m going through.” Richard was thinking, what you’re going through? but remained silent. They’d been married for six years, during which time they’d both left investment banking, she to do a magazine startup with two friends from Harvard Business school, he to do deals with Harold Milner, the preeminent takeover artist of his generation. Then six months before the South Hampton ambush Kathy left the magazine and went back into investment banking.
Now at last the train was moving and Richard had something to look at out the window. But the pictures were still there. Dust. Ashes. “Nuclear waste,” he said aloud. He turned back from the window.
“You’re doing it again,” the woman said. “And it’s not even nine-thirty.” She extended her hand. “I’m Danielle. Danielle Jackson.”
“Richard Blum.” He shook her hand.
“Sounds like your day is starting like mine did yesterday.”
“I’ve had better. I stopped at my lawyer’s apartment on the way to the station to sign my divorce papers. The only reason I didn’t go to her office yesterday was because I was interviewing some kid for a job and learned her uncle was a priest. Turns out he was the one who married us. Go figure. I was afraid I’d get struck by lightning if I went uptown to sign them yesterday.”
Danielle laughed. “Smart man, dodging the wrath of an angry God.”
“Yeah, but I think he’s getting his revenge after all. Scenes from a marriage flashing back. It may take all day to clear out my head.”
“That would account for the comment, ‘nuclear waste.’”
“I must be baring my interior monologue.”
“I’ve been there.”
“Why is it you only remember the bad stuff at times like this?”
“Because at times like this it hurts more to remember the good stuff.” Her eyes searched his face as if trying to read him. She seemed young to have the wisdom to make that statement.
“Was yours recent?”
She shook her head. “Eight years ago.” Her voice was flat. A painful subject, no doubt.
Richard turned back to his newspaper.
Dani dug into the Sports section of the Times, got lost in it. A half-hour later she looked over to see that Richard was still engrossed in his Wall Street Journal.
“Are you ready to swap?” he finally said.
“Please, take your Times back, but I’m afraid there’s not much in the Wall Street Journal I’d be interested in.”
“Well, I’ll take the front section back. I haven’t read the Editorials or Op-Eds yet. Even for a ‘suit’ I’m interested in their point of view.”
Dani thought back over their initial conversation. “I didn’t call you a ‘suit’ did I?”
“No, but your face said it.”
“You’re either paranoid or very perceptive.”
She watched his face soften. Some of the tension she’d seen earlier seemed to flow out of him. He looked more handsome that way. He had chiseled lips and a firm jawline, and no puffiness in his face that said he ate badly or drank too much. Dani had learned a long time ago to look for those things. That was part of what she’d seen in James: somebody who didn’t overdo it. Now Dani laughed at herself. Why was she noticing this stranger? Because the man was print-model good-looking and his dark brown eyes were focused on her in a way that said he was interested. At that moment she realized she’d been taking him in for way too long, and that a moment had passed between them without her even intending it.
She felt a swell of something in her chest. Discomfort or desire? She looked down at the paper in her lap, then back up into his eyes, which were still observing her. She said, “Maybe a little of both. And a little paranoia isn’t necessarily a bad thing, is it?” Yes, he was really good-looking.
He nodded. “I see you’re a serious sports fan. Even most guys I know don’t spend that much time on the box scores.”
“Dad was a Yankees fan. We used to score the games together.”
“I’m impressed.”
“You should see me during football season. That’s what really gets me going.”
“Jets or Giants?”
“Are you kidding? Even when they both moved to New Jersey they still called it Giants Stadium.”
“So I gather your dad was a Giants fan, too.”
“You might say that.” She felt herself smirking.
He leaned back, took her in for a moment. “Care to let me in on the private joke?”
“No private joke. It’s just that dad played for the Giants.”
His eyes showed a dawning recognition. “Danielle Jackson. As in Ray Jackson?”
“Yes.”
“He had a career game in Super Bowl twenty-one. Got his ring, big time.”
Dani felt a swelling pride. “You got it. What Parcells learned about attacking quarterbacks on defense he applied to his offense. Dad was his secret weapon at left tackle in protecting Simms that season.”
“Well, certainly in that Super Bowl. As I recall, Simms was MVP with some astounding completion record—”
“Twenty-two of twenty-five passes completed, two hundred sixty-eight yards, three touchdown passes. Simms said he never could’ve done it without Dad protecting his blind side.”
“Your dad retired after that game, didn’t he?”
“Yes. He was thirty-three, feeling the aches and pains, but even if he hadn’t been on the decline, he said he could never have topped that win. ‘Nothing like going out when you’re on top,’ he said. He did color commentary for CBS after that.”
“I remember. He was one of the best.” Richard seemed to sense her emotion. His eyes grew sympathetic. “How long ago now since he passed away?”
“Seven years, as of yesterday. And it still hurts.” Oh, Dad. She felt her throat go lumpy.
“Sorry.”
“Thanks. He was a great dad.” She looked down into her lap, then back up at Richard. “Mom has a Mass said for him every year on the anniversary of his death. This makes two years in a row I’ve missed it.” A wave of remorse followed.
“You get busy, things like that happen.”
Dani had made up her mind that if she got herself out of this mess she’d never miss Dad’s Mass again. “Yes, but still it depends on where you set your priorities.”
Richard didn’t respond. They rode in silence for a while. Later, he said, “So what are you up to in Washington?”
Dani felt flustered for a moment; she hadn’t prepared anything. “Every year I come down to look at the cherry blossoms, chill out, do some sightseeing. I’ve had a rough few weeks and I need it. What are you up to?”
“Client meetings today and Monday. I figured I’d get out of town and relax for the weekend, too.” He paused a moment, then added as if as an afterthought, “If you’re traveling alone, maybe we can take in a museum together.” She realized she had no idea what her agenda was. And now she wondered just what she expected to accomplish, other than addressing the vague notion that the answers to her situation resided in Washington. When he said, “I’m not being pushy, am I?” she realized she was staring at him, with nothing to say.
She laughed. “No, of course not. I just hadn’t expected you to say anything like that. I’m meeting a girlfriend, but I’ll have lots of free time. Yes, that might be nice.”
“Where are you staying?”
Another dilemma: she hadn’t a clue where she’d be staying. She laughed again. “Some dive I’m sure you’ve never heard of. I travel on the cheap.”
“And light.”
She looked at him, confused.
“You don’t have any luggage with you.”
She f
elt her face color. “I used to do the youth hostel routine in Europe. Wash out your underwear in the sink every night and hang it up to dry by the morning. You should try it sometime. It’s liberating.”
“No thanks. I grew out of that in college. I stay at the Willard.” He grinned. “It’s got rooms with your own bathroom, your own bed and everything. They even have a restaurant downstairs. So if you don’t feel like eating peanut butter sandwiches with the other students, I’d be happy to buy you a real dinner.”
Dani thought for a moment it was a bad idea, then shrugged. “Let me call my girlfriend when we get closer to Washington. I don’t think she has anything planned for us this evening. If she doesn’t, I would enjoy that. Thanks.”
He said, “So what do you do, Danielle?”
She felt a flutter of nervousness. She didn’t want to reveal who she was but couldn’t think of anything to say except, “I’m the Chief Operating Officer for a doctor in New York who has an Internet business selling vitamins, wellness and alternative medicine-related products. I also produce and direct documentary films that he finances.”
“Impressive. What are your films about?”
Dani paused for a moment, again not sure what to say. “Health-related issues. My last film was called The Drugging of Our Children, about all the crap the pharmaceutical industry crams into our kids today. And you?”
She saw his eyes narrow, as if with recognition. “I’m an investment banker. I run the Healthcare Group for Bank of America.”
Dani felt her jaw tighten, her stomach muscles constrict.
“So I’m the enemy?” he said.
“What makes you say that?”
“Your body language.”
“A ‘suit’ with a sixth sense?”
“Your back arched like a spooked cat. Besides, reading reactions like that is part of my business.”
Dani didn’t know how to respond. She paused, feeling awkward with it. “You say you’re meeting with clients?”
“Yeah. Some are attending the Senate hearings next week. I’m working on a few deals with them, so it’s a good chance to catch them out of the office for meetings where they can focus.”