by Trust Fund
“Uh-huh.”
“Looks like the bottle got the better of you last night, Bo. I’m surprised. Usually you’re tougher,” he teased.
“I’ll be all right,” Bo said, rubbing his eyes. “Where did you find me?”
“In a dump of a motel on the edge of town,” Mendoza replied, his voice turning judgmental. “When my aides couldn’t find you at the ranch, they started looking around Libby and located your Jeep in the motel parking lot. What were you doing there?”
“How in the hell did your aides know what my Jeep looked like?” Bo demanded suspiciously, searching his brain for a memory of anything after the attack and ignoring Mendoza’s pointed inquiry.
“Your father gave me details. Color, make, everything. Right down to the license plate number.”
Bo tried to swallow. His mouth felt full and prickly, as if it were stuffed with cotton balls. “When did you talk to Jimmy Lee?” he asked, trying to generate saliva.
“Yesterday. He called me on the plane while I was waiting to take off from Reagan National in Washington. I talk to your father every few days or so. Right now, I’m advising him on Paul’s campaign.”
“How did my father know what my Jeep looked like? I’ve never told him about it. Jesus, I’ve only talked to him twice since he banished me to this place and neither call lasted more than a minute.”
Mendoza smiled and shook his head. “Bo, you and I have both known your father for more than forty years. He keeps close track of anything he holds dear.”
“Don’t give me that crap, Michael. My father doesn’t hold me dear, he just keeps track of me.”
“You’re wrong.”
“All I’ve ever been is a hardworking, loyal son and he sent me out here like he sent me to boarding school when I was twelve. To get rid of me because I’d become a nuisance and he didn’t want to have to deal with me anymore. It’s Teddy and Paul he cares about,” Bo said bitterly, “mostly Paul.”
“Jimmy Lee wants to see Paul become president,” Mendoza argued gently. “You can’t blame him for that. My God, it’s an incredible opportunity. It’s natural for a father to take every action and every precaution necessary to see his son achieve that goal. President, for Christ’s sake. Think about it, Bo. Don’t blame Jimmy Lee for doing everything in his power to keep Paul’s campaign headed in the right direction. A campaign that is going very well, I might add. Your father is a very savvy man.”
“You too?” Bo asked accusingly. “We’ve known each for so long, and now you’re turning on me as well.”
“You drink too much,” Mendoza said matter-of-factly.
“I have fun.”
“And look what that fun does to you.” Mendoza gestured at Bo, who was still sloppily clad in the untucked denim shirt, dirty khaki shorts, and sandals he’d been wearing in the Jeep. “You haven’t shaved in days, your hair is down to your shoulders, and you stink of liquor. Your father is worried about you, and from what I can see, he has every right to be.”
“I’m fine,” Bo retorted. “I’m a survivor.”
“I’ll give you that. If you survived last night, you can survive anything.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“There was an empty vodka bottle and an empty scotch bottle on the motel floor, as well as some other incriminating evidence spread around the place,” Mendoza answered in a low voice. “You drank enough to kill two men last night but you’re sitting here in front of me a few hours later and you’re reasonably alert.”
Bo hesitated. “I was attacked, Michael. My condition has nothing to do with alcohol.”
Mendoza leaned forward in his chair. “What?”
“I was on my way to see some friends and I had pulled the Jeep over to the side of the road to check directions.” Bo didn’t want to tell Mendoza about Tiffany. They had been close friends since Bo’s childhood, but Mendoza would still be suspicious if he knew there was a woman in the vehicle and it wasn’t Meg. Bo didn’t need the fact that he’d been alone in the Jeep with another woman getting back to Jimmy Lee—or Meg. “All of a sudden I’ve got this rag that smells like a hospital jammed up my nostrils. The next thing I know I’m here on this couch.”
Mendoza’s eyes narrowed. “Come on, Bo, do you really expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe,” Bo retorted, spying a wet bar in a far corner of the suite’s living room. He stood up and almost fell over from a sudden knife-in-the-eye pain searing through his head. The residual effects of the drug that had rendered him unconscious caused the world to blur once more, but he staggered to the bar. “I’m telling you the truth.”
Mendoza rose from his chair and followed. “You’re telling me you don’t remember anything about being at a motel?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
Bo held up the shot glass of scotch he’d poured himself, then consumed it in one gulp. “Hair of the dog, Michael,” he gasped.
Mendoza chuckled. “You’re incredible.”
Bo poured himself another shot. “Have you ever known me to lie, Michael?”
Mendoza shook his head solemnly. Bo Hancock would stretch the truth on trivial issues every once in a while, but when it came down to things that really mattered, Bo was the most honest man Mendoza had ever known. “No. There’s always a new rumor about you doing something crazy, but you’ve never lied to me about anything important. As far as I know anyway,” he added quietly.
“Then believe me now.” Bo sucked down the second shot. “Somebody attacked me last night while I was in my Jeep, knocked me out cold with a drug, and must have taken me to the motel where your people found me.”
“Was anyone with you in the Jeep when you were attacked?”
Bo grimaced. “Yes,” he admitted.
“Who?”
“A woman.”
Mendoza raised one eyebrow. “Not Meg?”
“Meg is back East visiting her family on Long Island. I’m sure you already knew that.” If he knew about the Jeep, he probably knew about Meg, Bo figured.
“Jesus, Bo.” Mendoza slammed the bar with his fist. “You’re out of control.”
“It was nothing, Michael, I swear.”
“Who the hell was the woman?”
Bo took a deep breath. He knew how this was going to sound. “A stripper.”
“A stripper,” Mendoza repeated incredulously. “A stripper in your Jeep and you say it was nothing.”
“I was bringing her up to Libby from Missoula. She was the boys’ entertainment for the evening.”
“The boys?”
“Some locals I’ve become friends with up in Libby.”
“What are you doing hanging around with locals?”
“Who am I supposed to hang around with out here?” Bo asked angrily. “You know me, Michael. I like people. I don’t like to be alone. They’re salt-of-the-earth guys who’ve provided me with companionship over the last twelve months when I’ve needed it.”
“They’ve let you pay for their drinks.”
Bo nodded. He knew there was some truth to that. “And let me bring them entertainment, but so what?”
Mendoza held up his hands. “All right, all right.” He could see how difficult the last year had been on Bo. “I guess I can’t relate to what you’ve been through.”
“No, you can’t.”
“I believe you,” he said softly after a few moments. “About the attack and the fact that the woman wasn’t anyone you were involved with. I know how much you love Meg.” He smiled. “What the hell? I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you anyway. I owe you my life.”
Bo poured himself another shot. “Don’t start with that again. It was nothing.”
“Nothing my ass,” Mendoza protested loudly. Years ago they had been climbing together in the Swiss Alps when Mendoza’s safety rope had snapped. “You were still in high school at the time. It was over your Christmas vacation from Deerfield, right?”
> “Something like that.”
“I was literally hanging by my fingernails and you free-climbed across a sheer rock face to save me. Another few seconds and I would have fallen. I had nothing left when you got to me.” Mendoza shook his head, remembering the mortal fear, which had remained vivid in his mind all these years. He’d been dangling a thousand feet above certain death. When Bo had reached him and secured him firmly to his rope so that he knew he was safe again, Mendoza had hugged Bo and cried uncontrollably. “Our guides said they’d never seen anything like it,” Mendoza whispered, the intense terror of the incident rushing back to him. “You could have been killed so easily, Bo. One misstep and you would have gone down. I’ll never be able to repay you.”
“I had to save you, Michael,” Bo said. “I needed you. You were always there for me when I was growing up. When Jimmy Lee would yell at me for something Teddy or Paul had done, you’d be there. It was a purely selfish act on my part.” Michael Mendoza had been more of an older brother to Bo than Teddy or Paul ever had. He’d been someone Bo could confide in about personal matters during his youth when the others didn’t care. “Tell me why you sent people all the way up to Libby to find me.”
“I already explained. I wanted to see you, and I was worried when I couldn’t get in touch with you.”
Bo took a slow sip of scotch. The first two shots had produced the desired effect and now there was no need to rush. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I think there’s more to it than that. You’re as close a friend as I have in the world, and I know you too well. There’s another agenda here. Tell me,” Bo prodded. “Come on, Senator.”
Mendoza brought his hands together in front of his face and bowed his head, as if he were about to pray. Now fifty-five, Mendoza was tall, trim, and honey-skinned, with perfect silver hair, a prominent nose, and a calm, confident demeanor. He was in his twentieth year as a United States senator from Connecticut and he owed everything to Jimmy Lee and Ida Hancock. As one of their many philanthropic projects, they had rescued Mendoza from a juvenile home in Brooklyn when he was twelve, placed him in private school, and funded his upbringing. Now he walked the halls of the Senate as an influential member of several powerful committees. He had attended Harvard and Georgetown along the way—all paid for by the Hancocks—and become an extremely influential man. An unlikely outcome for the child of a woman who had washed up on a Florida beach after a harrowing trip from Cuba in a leaky wooden boat, penniless and unable to speak a word of English already carrying the unborn baby in her womb. Mendoza had spent the summers of his high school and college years at the estate with the Hancocks. Despite their age difference, he and Bo had developed a strong bond. Jimmy Lee had guided Mendoza’s first campaign and his rise to prominence within the Senate. For a time Mendoza’s name had been bandied about as a possible presidential candidate, but that dream had never become reality and now his time had passed.
“Michael.”
“Okay.” Mendoza smiled sheepishly. “You always have been able to read me like an open book.”
“My father sent you, didn’t he?”
“We were talking about Paul’s campaign as I was waiting to take off in D.C., and I told him I was headed out to Wyoming for the summit,” Mendoza explained. “He thought it would be a good idea for me to see you.”
“I knew it,” Bo said triumphantly.
“He’s concerned about you,” Mendoza added quickly.
“If he’s so damned concerned, why didn’t he come himself and what am I still doing here?”
Mendoza hesitated. “Paul’s campaign is progressing well and Jimmy Lee—”
“Paul, always Paul,” Bo said disgustedly. He threw back the rest of the scotch. “I’m going home, Michael. I can’t stay out here any longer. It’ll kill me. I’ve got to get back to the East.”
Mendoza held up his hands. “That’s not a good idea, Bo,” he warned. “You know they don’t want you coming back with the convention getting close.”
“I don’t give a damn what they want.”
“Let Paul sew up the nomination first,” Mendoza urged.
“Then what?” Bo asked bitterly. “You think they’ll let me come back then? Not a chance. They’ll tell me I have to stay out here until the election is over. When that’s over, they’ll think up another reason for me to stay. I’ve been permanently edited out of the family script, my friend. The only option for me is to fight my way back in.”
“Bo, don’t go back East yet,” Mendoza pleaded. “It’ll cause so much trouble. Give it a little more time. I know you’re going stir-crazy, I know it’s been hell for you and Meg, but it won’t be long. I’ll work out something with Jimmy Lee when I get home, I promise. Give it a few more months.”
“It’s not just the boredom, Michael.” Bo hesitated. “There’s something else.”
Mendoza glanced up. “What?”
Bo didn’t answer right away.
“Come on, Bo.”
“You have to promise me you won’t say anything to Jimmy Lee.”
Mendoza hesitated, considering the pledge he was about to make. Jimmy Lee was his mentor and a man he found it difficult to keep anything from. “All right.”
“I have to get back to Warfield Capital,” Bo said quietly.
“Why?”
“There’s trouble at the firm.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dad hired a guy named Frank Ramsey a few months before kicking me out.”
“Sure, I’ve met him a few times. Seemed like a good man and from what I could tell, very intelligent.”
“Ramsey’s a prick, Michael. When I was booted out here, he got my job. From everything I hear, he has been taking liberties with the portfolio he shouldn’t be taking. He can’t be trusted.”
Mendoza sighed. “Are you sure this isn’t a case of misplaced resentment? Isn’t it your father who deserves your bitterness?”
“Frank Ramsey is out of control.”
“How do you know?” Mendoza demanded.
“I’ve kept in touch with someone at Warfield since I’ve been out here,” Bo admitted, thinking just how important a link Dale Stephenson had become.
“I thought Jimmy Lee had forbidden you to talk to anybody at Warfield.”
“There are still people at Warfield who are loyal to me.”
“I’m sure,” Mendoza said. His expression turned serious. “What is Ramsey doing with the portfolio that is so wrong?”
“Apparently he’s invested a great deal of money in some very risky ventures.” Bo didn’t want to reveal too much, not even to Mendoza. If Jimmy Lee ever found out who had been feeding Bo information, that individual would find himself in immediate peril. As it was, Stephenson had missed a scheduled call and Bo was concerned. “I need to get in there and see what’s going on.”
“Isn’t Teddy there?”
Bo rolled his eyes. “You and I both know that Ramsey could have transferred half the portfolio to Switzerland and Teddy would never know.”
Mendoza nodded. “Maybe you’re right. Teddy doesn’t much care for work. But I think you’re wrong about Ramsey.”
“I hate Frank Ramsey.” Bo reached for the scotch bottle again, but Mendoza grabbed it first.
“That’s enough,” Mendoza said firmly.
“Don’t treat me like a child, Michael. What’s your problem?”
Mendoza put the bottle down and pulled a Polaroid print from his pocket. “This is my problem,” he said, placing the photograph on the bar.
Bo gazed at the picture. He saw himself lying on a bed, naked. Tiffany, straddling him, was also naked. “That can’t be.” His voice was barely audible. “You can’t really see my face,” he protested lamely, glancing up into Mendoza’s judgmental eyes. There was no mistaking who was in the picture. Meg certainly wouldn’t have any doubt if she got a look. “I don’t know what this is all—”
“Here,” Mendoza interrupted, holding out a wallet and a set of keys. “These were beside t
he photograph on the nightstand of room seventeen at the Hilltop Inn. Your Jeep is still parked outside the door.”
Bo shook his head. “That’s impossible.”
“And this was in a pocket of your shorts.” Mendoza reached into his coat and placed Bo’s wedding band on the bar.
Bo picked it up slowly. It was the band Meg had placed on his finger so many years ago.
“Bolling,” Mendoza said paternally, “you need to get control of yourself. Meg would be destroyed if she ever saw that picture. I care very deeply about the two of you. I know how much you love her and how much she loves you. I understand that sometimes people stray, but—”
“I didn’t stray,” Bo said flatly.
“Then explain the photograph.”
“I was set up. I was drugged.” Bo gritted his teeth. “If I had strayed, do you think I’d let someone take a picture of me like this?”
“Maybe you didn’t know you were being watched.” Mendoza locked onto Bo’s eyes until Bo looked away. “Look, I don’t—” A telephone on the bar rang, interrupting Mendoza, and he picked up the receiver.
Bo saw Mendoza’s expression change. “What is it, Michael?” he asked as Mendoza hung up the phone. “Michael.”
“It’s your father. He’s sick, Bo,” Mendoza said quietly. “He collapsed at the estate yesterday evening. He’s in the ICU at St. Luke’s Hospital in New York. His condition is critical.”
Scully eyed the man moving through the night toward him. This was the target. He glanced around to make certain that the Georgetown side street was deserted.
“Excuse me,” Scully said quietly as they came together on the dark sidewalk.
The man stopped and looked up. “Yes?”
“I need to find K Street.”
“It’s three blocks that way.” The man jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks. Oh, one more thing,” Scully said quickly.
“What?” the man said, irritated at the imposition.
“I know what you did in Denver last month.”