SIXTY-TWO
After a brief discussion in Maddy’s hospital room, it had been decided that she was fine right where she was. The discussion had centered on moving her mostly for security purposes. Cal Simpson had plenty of contacts he could reach out to and take another shot at her. Sheriff Goode had offered protection, but his department was a little small for it. Instead, Vivian had hired a highly reputable security firm she knew. They would provide two armed guards for her around the clock. Maddy being Maddy got a little angry about it, but when Marc persisted she acquiesced. At least until she got home.
Monday turned out to be disclosure day. Marc and Carvelli both appeared on Gabriella’s show. The station had agreed to a live, hour-long show leading into the early-evening news. The video of the deceased Congressman Del Peterson’s confession was shown in its entirety without comment. The rest of the show was taken up with a Q & A between Gabriella, Marc and Carvelli.
Ten minutes after the show was over the FBI were in the building demanding the video. News people being who they are would only agree to give them a copy within twenty-four hours. Channel 8 was a Fox News affiliate and Fox wanted a twenty-four hour jump on the competition.
The FBI did not wait twenty-four hours to jump-start their investigation. That evening they obtained federal search warrants for Cal Simpson’s Lake Minnetonka home, his place in Foster County, and an office he kept in downtown Minneapolis.
They hit every one of them that night and came up with absolutely nothing. There wasn’t a computer, bank record or even a scrap of paper remaining in all three places. In fact, the downtown office never did have anything in it. Cal would go there from time to time for show, but that was all. The building management and occupants had never seen a single employee in the office space.
Everything else, anything that could even remotely give the Feds information, had gone up in smoke. Literally. Aidan had bribed a couple of employees of the Hennepin County downtown incinerator. Aidan oversaw the work, just to be sure, when several boxes of computers and records were fed to the flames.
By the end of that week, there was a howl inside the D.C. beltway. A couple of dozen members of Congress and senators did damage control televised denials. Even though Peterson had specifically named them, none of them ever met anyone named Calvin Simpson. As for Del Peterson, a couple of house members admitted casually knowing him, the rest swore they had never spoken to him. Besides, as tragic as his death was—they all uttered the usual pious palaver about their thoughts and prayers going out to his family—obviously he had serious, unresolved problems. Quite deluded and mentally ill.
Eventually, of course, a special prosecutor with the usual impeccable reputation, a D.C. lawyer and total insider, was appointed. His staff would eventually grow to twenty lawyers and another two dozen investigators. They would take eighteen months, spend seventy-five million dollars—mostly on first-class airfare, five-star hotel suites, lavish expense accounts and salaries—then come up with three unrelated, minor convictions of congressional staffers.
Since Cal’s pals came from both sides of the aisle, neither party was in a big hurry to cooperate. The special prosecutor found no records of money being transferred to any members. Of course, he did find records of a significant number of them, including over thirty, who were not named in the video, receiving unusual stock windfalls. It seemed quite a number of them made out by buying Cannon Brothers and Morton Aviation stock. They sold it off at the shares’ peak then made another nice piece of change on short sales. Since Congressional members and staff are not subject to inside trading laws, nothing could come of this curious coincidence.
The Cannon Brothers executives, Dane Cannon and his brother, Greg Cannon, ended up walking away unscathed. Without Cal Simpson, there was nothing to tie them to the conspiracy. They did use their position inside the company to enrich themselves at the expense of their shareholders which is the classic definition of insider trading. Except the government obviously cares little about this since it goes on daily and virtually no one is ever pursued for it.
“Norah, I told you I would take care of this,” Mason Hooper quietly said into his personal cell phone.
“The OPR called me again ten minutes ago,” Norah McCabe screamed loud enough to be heard outside her office.
“Calm down,” Hooper said. “I’m seeing him in ten minutes. I have the photos. Don’t worry.”
“They asked me about the bank accounts. What the hell am I supposed to tell them?”
“Nothing,” Hooper said. “Just sit tight and keep your mouth shut. I’ll see him and get back to you. We have to let the dust settle.”
It had been three weeks since Sean O’Rourke had passed on the bank account information to his FBI pals. They had verified the information and taken it to the Department of Justice’s Office of Professional Responsibility. The OPR had assigned an investigator and Norah McCabe had some serious explaining to do.
Hooper entered the Assistant A.G.’s outer office and one of his assistants told him to go right in. He was having a meeting with his boss who was expecting him.
The Assistant Attorney General, H. Kimball Abbott of Connecticut was a powerful lawyer and party elite. POTUS could barely stand being in the same room with him. Since their first meeting, POTUS had a bad feeling there was something amiss about him. Being a good and faithful party hack, Abbott had assured the then President-elect he would be as loyal as a dog and protect him from any scandal. Of course, this was a blatant lie and both of them, professional political liars each, knew it.
“Come in,” Mason’s boss said to his number one deputy. He walked around his massive desk to greet Hooper with a handshake.
Hooper was carrying a thin, manila file folder in his left hand. The two men sat down at a table and Hooper said, “Thanks for seeing me on short notice, Kim.”
“What’s up, Mason?” Abbott smiled.
Hooper took a couple of minutes explaining about Norah McCabe’s predicament. When he finished, Abbott had a serious, somewhat puzzled expression.
“I don’t know what I can do about it. If the OPR has it, I can’t interfere,” Abbott said.
“Okay,” Hooper replied. “That’s what I’ll tell her. Like I said, I knew her when I was in Philadelphia and I said I’d look into it.”
“It’s damned inappropriate for you to even bring this to me,” Abbott finally said.
“True,” Hooper said, “But in a minute, you’ll see why I don’t care. Now, let’s talk about me. I’m going to retire, effective immediately. Norah McCabe, and maybe some others, could make some allegations about me. I’d appreciate it if you’d cover them up and make sure nothing comes of any of it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
It was at that point Hooper opened the manila folder. In it were a half-dozen photos lying face down. Taking his time, Hooper turned each one of them over so Abbott could see them. In each one, Abbott was naked and there was at least one very young boy or girl, or both, also naked in each photo. POTUS was right, H. Kimball Abbott, from old-money wealth, was one sick puppy.
“You can keep these. If you lie or don’t provide cover for me, I have more.”
Part of Mason Hooper’s plan all along was to retire, get divorced and dump Norah McCabe. Unknown to Norah, Hooper had over twenty-million stashed overseas from Cal Simpson’s friendship.
It would take another eight months to resolve Norah McCabe’s case. It ended with her surrendering the money in the bank accounts in her children’s names. She was allowed to resign and keep her pension and the rest was quietly covered up.
A few months later, based on information McCabe had given her about the money Hooper had stashed that he didn’t think McCabe knew about, Hooper was dragged back to the U.S. He would eventually make the same deal as McCabe. His bribery attempt of Abbott came to naught when Abbott got drunk and put his car over a cliff.
The old man, the one the locals knew as a Canadian expatriate, carried his gear
onto the beach. As usual, he went down to the water’s edge and set up. With him he brought a small cooler with two bottles of a Costa Rican beer he favored and two bottles of water. He also had his fishing equipment and a beach chair.
Cal Simpson, according to his impeccable Canadian passport, was now Burt Labrosse, a retired, well-to-do Canadian. He was also almost unrecognizable. Cal/Burt had grown a beard and stopped coloring his hair. Both were eighty-percent gray. Despite being in his mid-fifties, he looked at least seventy. If an FBI agent with his previous picture in hand saw him, the agent would walk passed without a second look. His only connection to his old life was the battered Boston Red Sox ball cap he wore on the beach.
When Cal drove away from his lake place that night, he felt an odd, deep regret about Maddy. But the practical Cal knew it had to be done. He drove into Foster to get to the highway to Duluth. As he drove by the sheriff’s office he saw the cars pulling out of the driveway and turn toward the lake. Somehow, he knew they were headed toward his place. He hoped Aidan would get away but if he did not, Cal knew he would keep his mouth shut. It didn’t really matter though since Cal had lied to Aidan about his escape plan.
A couple of hours later he was on a private airplane lifting off from the Duluth airport. Three and a half hours after that he was in Toronto. From there, with the Canadian passport under his new name, Cal flew to Amsterdam. A day later, using a British passport, he was in Lisbon. He then went back to the Canadian passport and flew to Bogota, Columbia. From there Cal hired a private plane which got him to Costa Rica.
The entire trip had taken almost a week, but the cover it provided was worth it. He had settled in a villa he had purchased through a cut out in Samara on the Nicoya Peninsula. The nightlife was enough—he was already entertaining a married woman with an indifferent husband—and his days were quite sedentary. He was even learning to enjoy quiet time fishing on the beach.
Cal had read about Aidan and Maddy on the internet. Aidan’s death oddly made him a little sad. He actually liked him and had come to trust and rely on him. Even more oddly, he was not at all upset that Maddy had escaped his wrath. She amazed him. Without a doubt an impressive combination of intelligence, beauty and ability.
For a couple of days, fueled by anger at her escape and Aidan’s death, Cal had considered going after her. Eventually, he gave up on the idea. They had their shot at her, Cal and Aidan, and had missed. Time to let it go and move on. There was nothing to be gained by it and as good as she was Cal could easily miss again.
After casting his line into the ocean, Cal settled back in his chair. It was not even 9:00 A.M., but a beer would not hurt. A short while later he put the empty bottle in the cooler and noticed some motion to his right. He looked around the beach and figured maybe twenty or so people were on it. Still a little early.
The motion he had seen was the honeymooners from France. They had been out on the beach about the same time as now for the past four days. A very nice, very attractive couple.
Standing behind Cal, the husband said in his French-accented English, “Good morning. Are they biting this morning?”
“Not so far,” Cal answered in his English accented French. Continuing in English he said, “The Sea Bass and Red Snapper were abundant yesterday but not so today. How are the lovebirds this morning?”
“Exhausted,” the husband replied. “She’s wearing me out. I’ll be your age in another week.”
When the laughter died down, the wife handed her husband a metal object from her bag. The husband bent down behind Cal and whispered, “Au revoir, Cal Simpson.”
Between the wind coming off the ocean and the waves on the beach, there was enough ambient noise. The husband—the French couple were lovers but not married—pulled the trigger of the silenced .22 revolver twice. The two shots were a barely audible pop, pop. The soft, hollow point bullets shattered as they passed through his skull and shredded his brain. Cal’s head started forward but the shooter caught him and gently laid him back in his chair. He handed the gun to the woman, she slipped it back into the bag she carried and they continued their normal stroll.
By the time anyone on the beach noticed the old fisherman was not asleep, the assassins were boarding separate planes. They were a team of professional contract killers who worked out of Marseille. This was their first contract outside of Europe and the pay was double their normal rate. Before boarding his flight, the man had sent a short, three-word text in English to the person who hired them.
On a popular, clothing optional Mediterranean Sea beach in the south of France, eight hours ahead of Costa Rica, Samantha Simpson was resting under an umbrella. She had removed her bikini top to work on her tan. She looked at the young, Italian boy toy on the next lounge chair and made up her mind he had to go.
Samantha heard her phone buzz in the beach bag next to her lounge chair. She dug it out and looked at the text message she had been waiting for. It was a very brief, three-word text from Costa Rica: It is done.
Samantha deleted the text and decided to call it a day. As she was putting her top back on, the sleeping boy toy stirred. Samantha ignored him as he tried to reach for her. Instead, she finished packing up to go back to her small, rented villa above the beach. Before leaving, she looked at the young man and in flawless Italian said, “Go home, Carlo. I won’t be needing you anymore.”
“Stronza,” he angrily muttered as she walked away.
Samantha showered then made a light supper salad for herself. While she ate, she thought about Cal. She had warned him all along that he was becoming too greedy. The politicians will let you steal a lot as long as they are in on it. But over three billion was entirely too much if you screwed them out of their share.
Being the far more intelligent and savvy of the two Simpsons, Samantha knew she had to make a deal. There was no way the feds would stop looking for them. Through an international lawyer she had come to know in Geneva, she had made a deal with the U.S. Government. Samantha would send the money into the U.S. Treasury and deal with her father in exchange for ironclad immunity.
It was now the next spring, five months after Cal had fled. A few days ago, the lawyer in Switzerland had received the grant of immunity. The government, the A.G.’s office, had readily agreed to it, but nothing moves quickly in Washington. The day before they sent the written grant of immunity, as a good faith gesture, Samantha had surrendered half of the funds.
With the fate of Cal now resolved she needed to finish her end of it. Samantha finished her salad then picked up her phone. Although it was almost ten o’clock in Geneva, she knew the lawyer would be expecting her call. Before she started dialing, Samantha quietly said, “Sorry, Daddy. I warned you not to be so greedy. You should have done what I did. Settle for a hundred million.”
The rest of Cal’s theft would be back in the U.S. the next day. Samantha Simpson would buy a presidential pardon two years later for a paltry five million. Two months after that she would move into her small mansion on Maui.
SIXTY-THREE
“Foster County Sheriff,” Deputy Todd Lester said, answering the phone.
“Good morning,” he heard an authoritative voice say. “My name is Dan Stone and I’m the Chief of Police in Michigan City, Indiana. I wonder if I might have a word with Sheriff Goode.”
“Sure thing, Chief,” Lester replied. “I know he’s here, but I’m not sure he’s in his office. Give me a minute and I’ll track him down for you.”
“You got it,” Stone said.
Deputy Lester found Sheriff Goode in the breakroom chatting with two other deputies. He told the sheriff about the call from the chief of Michigan City.
“That’s a little odd,” Goode said as he got up to go to his office. “Did he say what it was about?”
“No, sir,” Lester replied. “Just asked for you.”
“This is Sheriff Goode,” he said into the phone on his desk. “What can I do for you, Chief?” he asked. While he did this, he also pulled up the website for the Mic
higan City police. He found the chief’s name and the phone number matched the caller ID.
“How’s the fishing up there, Sheriff? Is the ice off the lakes?” Stone asked.
“Yeah, we’re all set for the opener on Mother’s Day,” Goode answered wondering if this guy really called to ask about fishing.
“I’ve been up there a couple times. Beautiful country. But that’s not why I called. I have some information for you on a hit and run homicide that happened in your town last July.”
By the time Chief Stone finished telling the sheriff what he knew, Goode was scanning through an email attachment Stone had sent.
“You’re sure about this?” Goode asked.
“Oh, yeah, no doubt about it. You’ll see confessions in the report.”
“I didn’t mean to doubt you, Chief, but…”
“Don’t give it another thought,” Stone said. “I’d be surprised, too, if I were you. Here’s my direct number,” he continued as he read his phone number to Goode. “If you have any questions, feel free to give me a call.”
“Well, yeah, I’ll, ah, do that. And listen, thanks a lot. This answers some questions,” Goode replied.
“No problem. You take care, Sheriff.”
Goode spent the next forty minutes reading through the case file and reports Chief Stone had sent. During the course of this, he shook his head in wonder at least a dozen times. When he finished, he retrieved the copy from his printer and went to another office.
“You two don’t seem too busy,” Goode said to Chris Newkirk and Abby Bliss. “You getting itchy feet yet?” Goode said to Newkirk.
“Shut up, Sheriff. He doesn’t need any ideas,” Abby said.
During the winter, after having worked together for two years, the love bug had bitten both Newkirk and Abby. The wedding was set for mid-June.
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