The Greater Good

by Casey Moreton

  Olin had explained to her that they only had to stay in New York until he had finished up a little business. Then they could jet off to Las Vegas and have a quick wedding. Neither of them had any desire for a big, family-style wedding. She hadn’t heard from her mother in ages and no longer knew if her father was alive. The only members of Olin’s family who had mattered to him were long dead. There were some relatives somewhere out there among the world’s vast population, but none that he cared to see. Besides, his past required him to stay low. There were countries with bounties on his head, and the fanfare that accompanied a big public wedding is not the best way to keep your face among the shadows.

  Part of what worked for them as a couple was the fact that they were bound only by each other. He had no ties to friends or family, and her few acquaintances were chums she’d met at art school. It was a perfect fit. Certainly, her lack of familial ties had attracted him to her. Families tended to be protective and were often leery of outsiders. Olin St. John could not afford to be analyzed this way. Megan would believe the lies he’d told her concerning his past; parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, and siblings very well might not. She had come with no baggage, and this made all that he saw in her that much more worth possessing.

  So they would be together for another day or two in New York, and then fly out to the desert. Maybe he’d even do some gambling. With $5.9 million as good as in his pocket, he had money to burn. They could spend without thinking.

  Megan finished her drink and was ready to go. Olin had barely touched the Heineken. They planned to catch a movie matinee before having a nice dinner back at the hotel. All they had was time and each other.

  Getting up from his seat at the end of the bar, R’mel paid for his tonic water and followed the couple outside. While they waited for a cab, he fetched the motorcycle parked nearby. He was aware enough of Belfast’s reputation not to get careless and follow too closely, but the two were clearly so enamoured of each other that they seemed oblivious to everything.

  The girl was an interesting development. He now knew where Belfast was staying, and whom he was with. R’mel was certain that his employer would be pleased.

  The movie started at three, and they’d have to rush to catch the coming attractions. The theater was sparsely filled. They settled into their seats and Olin wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He stared at the screen, but his mind was far away.

  He worried about the money. Until it was safe and sound, transferred to his holding account, it would be difficult to rest or relax. There were simply too many things that could still go wrong. In his experience, there’d rarely been any sort of complication when it came time to collect his fee, but no one let loose of this amount of money too enthusiastically.

  As important as the money was, the chance at a future and having peace of mind were more important. That was the driving force behind his retirement. He was still young and healthy, with a chance to grow old with the woman he loved. He wanted to walk the streets with his wife, shopping and talking and laughing. Maybe he would grow a garden. Or build a boat. He had the money to buy a yacht, but within him was the desire to have calluses on his hands, to sweat in the heat of the day, and to take pride in accomplishing something.

  And he was certainly free to do any or all of these things. But if he had to worry that someone from his old life might be hiding in the shadows ready to pounce, if he had to glance over his shoulder wherever he went or wake from sleep at the slightest sound—he’d never be a whole man.

  Even though it might take another decade of his life to outrun the ghosts of his past, there was enough time ahead of him to slowly become a new being. He thought that perhaps if he stayed out of the game long enough to forget about them, they would forget about him.

  That would likely be many years away, but he could make it. He was sure of it. In the meantime, he would sleep with his gun within easy reach.

  24

  ACATCH IN HER BREATHING WOKE BROOKE.SHE UNWOUNDherself from the precarious and terribly uncomfortable position her body had twisted itself into during sleep. Her head was on her backpack. She sat up, feeling a crick in her back and neck. A patch of warm, bright sunlight was full in her face. She squinted into the light and looked ahead at the rows of seats and into the distance. She had no idea where they were. It had to be afternoon by now.

  Raising her arm to check the time, she realized her watch was in her backpack. She lifted the pack onto her lap, twisting it around, unzipping the small outer compartment where she thought she remembered stashing her cheap Timex. The digital readout confirmed that it was 2:00P .M. She fastened it on her wrist.

  As she fussed with the zipper on the outer compartment of her pack, a bubble of realization caused her to dig her hand into the compartment and pull out the two envelopes she’d retrieved for Darla from the V.I.P. box.

  “Great,” she muttered to herself. She put her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. Darla was gonna kill her. She didn’t plan on heading back to the city for at least a week. So if there was anything inside the envelopes that might be of immediate interest to Darla, there was little doubt that her boss would be screaming bloody murder very shortly. She opened her eyes and stared at the back of the seat in front of her.

  “Smooth move, Brookster,” she said, sighing. She fanned herself with the envelopes, shaking her head in disgust. “Sometimes I amaze myself with my stupidity.”

  A middle-aged man in the seat ahead of her stuck his head between the seats and gave her a concerned look. She glared at him. He faced forward again.

  Then she remembered the package she’d crammed into the bottom of her pack. She tucked the two envelopes between her thighs, peeled back the flap on her backpack, and unzipped the main compartment. Her pullover was stuffed on top, and below that, just as she remembered, was the parcel wrapped in heavy brown paper. Everything was now accounted for. And each second that she sat there with them in her lap, staring at them like a dumb ape, she was creeping farther away from her boss.

  Brooke chewed her lower lip, restraining the impulse to curse aloud. It was very likely that all that would happen was that she’d phone Darla, explain her lapse, and Darla would either have her hold on to the items until she returned from her parents’ place, or she’d have her FedEx the stuff overnight. If the latter were the case, Brooke would offer to cover the shipping charges out of her own pocket. In either case, Darla would hold the incident over her head indefinitely. That was her way.

  She looked at her watch again. It seemed impolite and unprofessional not to give Darla a heads-up. Surely she was still at the office. She quickly dialed the number. Voice mail. She hung up and tried again. Voice mail. She hated voice mail. She needed to talk to her boss directly. Either Darla wasn’t in the office or she wasn’t answering the phone.

  She dialed a third time in the hope that Darla might get sick of the incessant ringing and answer the blasted thing. Again, the voice mail picked up. Brooke took a breath and waited for the curt recorded message to finish. Then she spoke into the phone. “Hi, Darla, it’s me, Brooke. Listen, I need to talk to you. I’m still on the road, call me when you get this. I guess I’ll try to get ahold of you this evening. Okay? Bye.”

  She pressed the End button, and set the phone on her knee. This had accomplished nothing. Her message had told Darla absolutely nothing. But she didn’t feel comfortable discussing the V.I.P. box on voice mail. Perhaps Darla had taken off for home already. Of course. She’d called it a day and run home to get things ready for the party tonight. And even if she hadn’t made it home just yet, Brooke could leave a more specific message on the machine at Darla’s apartment.

  She paused for a moment, tapping the phone against her chin, straining to recall Darla’s home phone number. Then she dialed. It rang three times, then the machine picked up. Brooke winced, gritting her teeth in frustration.

  The recorded message was followed by a beep. Brooke thought for a second, then said, “Hey, Darla. It’s
Brooke. I’m still on the road. I, uh…I picked up your mail from the box yesterday…and completely forgot about getting it to you before I took off this morning. Ireally apologize. I feel pretty stupid about it. Anyway”—she glanced at the small pile of mail on top of her backpack—“you’ve got three different items here. Two envelopes. Neither with a return address. One of them has a cheesy little sunflower design in the corner. And there’s a parcel wrapped in brown paper—looks and feels like a book or something.” She squinted at the word written in the upper left-hand corner. She said, “And it’s got the wordBeacon jotted on it.” She shrugged, not really knowing what else to tell her boss about the items. “If that stuff rings a bell, leave a message at the number I left with you. They’ll be happy to talk your ears off, believe me. Either way, I’ll give you a call as soon as I arrive. You can give me eighty lashes when I get back. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” She pressed End, vaguely satisfied, though still plagued by guilt.

  Darla Donovan had that effect on you. No matter how out of your way you went to please her, you always felt as if you’d missed the mark.

  It was a harmless accident. She’ll get over it,she thought.No big deal. Whenever I talk to her next, tonight or tomorrow or the next day, we’ll laugh about it.

  More than anything, there was a great sense of relief that all the secrecy was over. Miriam Ettinger was finally free to grieve. She had watched the president’s short statement on the major networks just like everyone else in the nation. She could now act like the widow she was.

  The president himself called less than ten minutes after he’d finished his televised statement. It had not been scheduled, but she’d expected the call. Again, it all had to do with protocol.

  “I’m sorry we had to wait so long, Miriam,” Yates said.

  “Me too.”

  “I have asked Anthony Philbrick to assume the office of vice president.”

  “Yes. I heard your speech.”

  “Ah, of course you did,” Yates said, sweating bullets.

  “I have no ill will toward you or anyone else with involvement in the investigation, Mr. President. There is a job to be done. An important job. James would have understood that, therefore I must as well. Under the circumstances, there would have been no pleasant way to handle it. There is only one person to blame here, and I want you to find him, Clifton. I want you to give me your word that you’ll exhaust every available resource to find the man who murdered my husband.” Miriam Ettinger spoke with very little emotion. At this point, four days after the assassination, she was simply numb. She hadn’t slept, and she’d lost weight.

  “I vow to you that the responsible party will be hunted down and brought to justice. I will make it my personal mission, by whatever means necessary, Miriam,” the president lied with absolute sincerity. “James contributed more to my administration than I could ever hope to repay. And for that, I will be eternally grateful. He was a leader, a public servant, and a true man of the people. No one in this city or this country will soon forget him.”

  She had heard him speak these words already today, on television, and she wondered if he was even aware of the repetition.

  “Thank you,” she said, only vaguely aware that she’d spoken at all.

  “I’m always available if you want to talk, Miriam. My door is always open.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Please, Miriam, I mean it. Let me know if you need anything, or if there is anything I can do.”

  “Yes. Of course.” She was hearing him but not hearing him.

  “And give Bradey and Jude my condolences.”

  “I will.”

  “Good-bye, Miriam.”

  “Oh, Clifton?”

  Startled, he replied, “…Yes?”

  “Has anything come of that email James sent his brother?” she asked. “You said you would look right into it.”

  His mouth went dry. His tongue turned to putty.

  “Clifton?”

  He managed to work up enough saliva to speak. “Nothing has come of it, Miriam. We did our best. Everyone’s perplexed by it, I’m afraid.”

  “Hmm. I thought perhaps James had tried to tell us something. Perhaps we’ll never know. Or perhaps we will,” Miriam said.

  Yates attempted to speak, but nothing came out. He sat frozen in place, afraid to make the least little sound, lest he betray himself.

  Miriam hung up the phone.

  They knew what Donovan looked like. They knew where she worked and where her office was inside the NBC studios at Rockefeller Plaza. The woman with the blond wig, Carmichael, had loitered for hours on a bench just outside the entrance to the NBC studios, watching and waiting. She spoke into the mike on her coat lapel when Donovan walked out the door well after dark.

  “Here she comes,” Carmichael said.

  Lewis and Porter were waiting inside the van, parked several blocks away. Carmichael followed Donovan on foot. She spoke into her mike, updating their movements. The van appeared at a corner where Donovan was headed. Just short of the corner, she turned into a liquor store. In a matter of minutes, she exited the liquor store with a paper bag in her arms. She stepped to the curb and flagged down a cab. Carmichael jumped in the van, and the van fell into pursuit, several car lengths behind the cab.

  Lewis spoke into his radio. “She’s in a cab, and looks to be heading in your direction.”

  “Roger that,” Desmond said, seated behind the wheel of his Ferrari. He snatched his bag from the passenger’s seat and locked the doors, heading to the office building on the corner. It was after dark, and many of the offices had been abandoned for the remainder of the evening. The business card was still wedged in the doorjamb, precisely as he’d left it. He jiggled the metal instrument into the lock, making quick work of it. Inside, he left the lights off. He opened his bag, removed the field glasses, and set them on the window ledge. Next, he removed and assembled a standing tripod. He mounted a telescoping microphone to the bracket at the top of the tripod. He picked up the field glasses, adjusting the focus until the window to Donovan’s apartment came into clear view.

  Darla rode with her head back against the seat, nearly asleep. She was exhausted. The day had turned into much more than anyone could have expected. Her repeated calls to her most dependable sources had gotten her nowhere. Tomorrow would be a new day, and perhaps with a decent night’s sleep and some food and champagne in her system, she’d be better prepared for the endless hours of work ahead of her.

  She had stopped at a favorite liquor store for several bottles of champagne for the get-together tonight. Given the day’s developments, tonight wouldn’t have quite the festive holiday spirit that they’d all counted on. There would be a constant buzz about the news—what it could mean, who might be responsible for Ettinger’s death, and how orif they, as a production team, would go about putting together a big piece on the story.

  She’d spent most of the day in meetings. The higher-ups were going nuts. The network’s stars—the so-calledtalent —were fighting tooth and nail for the big interviews. They wanted Miriam Ettinger, the widow. They wanted Clifton Yates. They wanted to dissect the FBI’s investigation. They wanted shots of the Ettinger children, looking weepy and distraught. And of course, there would be a trillion profiles of Anthony Philbrick to assemble; he was now number two, and the world would demand to know every last detail of his life.

  The day had left her in disarray. He desk was now piled high. The other story her production team had worked on for months would now suffer. There were dozens of Post-it notes across the surface of her desk, messages requiring her immediate attention. She had not checked her voice mail since early morning. Her email, she didn’t even want to think about.

  Riding silently in the back of the taxi, Darla wondered if she’d even stay awake till the guests arrived. She opened her eyes, her head canted against her shoulder. The taxi was at a dead stop in traffic. She didn’t know what time it was and didn’t care. There was a throbbing behind her ey
es. The rest of the gang would be over momentarily. She’d be lucky to have ten or fifteen minutes of peace before they arrived.

  Desmond’s people managed to stay close. The taxi was in the next lane over, two cars ahead. The view of Donovan’s head was slightly obstructed by part of the cab. But they knew she was in there. Lewis sat in the driver’s seat in the van. Carmichael leaned forward between the seats. Traffic inched forward, ten or twelve feet, then halted. Donovan had come out carrying a handbag. They were very interested in the contents of that bag. They radioed this detail to Desmond up in his crow’s nest.

  Desmond thought about this. If Donovan had, in fact, picked up mail from the postal box at some point prior to the beginning of their surveillance late last night, she apparently hadn’t found the time to take a look at it. If this were the case, they were in a good position to snuff this fire out free and clear. The president’s announcement had sent the media into a frenzy. The talking heads on CNN and elsewhere had prattled on endlessly since that morning, and Donovan was part of that same universe. In fact, he was somewhat surprised she’d even left work tonight.

  Desmond tested his equipment. He placed a headset over his ears and aimed the telescoping microphone at the window of one of Donovan’s neighbors. He tuned the sensitivity level until he could hear even the slightest nuance of any conversation. There were sounds of dinner being prepared, of ice being dropped into glasses, of channels changing on a television.

  The liquid crystal displays on his equipment glowed red and green in the darkness of the office. When he was satisfied, he pivoted the tripod mount, aiming the long, cone-shaped microphone directly at the window of Donovan’s apartment. He’d be able to hear everything. He raised the field glasses to his eyes.