by Robin Spano
“On Saturday morning, this money was transferred out of Switzerland to an HSBC account in Argentina.”
“Your point?”
“HSBC doesn’t allow numbered accounts,” Bert said. “The Argentina account had a name attached — Stuart Norris.”
“Stuart Norris . . .” Ted tapped a finger to his mouth. “Oh! The cop in Whistler. So he’s your man. Convenient, since he’s already arrested.”
“Yes. And he was paid by you.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Ted met Martha’s eye. She did her best to keep her return gaze steady. “Martha, can you tell them this is ridiculous? Even if the funds left our campaign, everyone with access to the bank account has a unique login ID. Are you saying whoever sent Norris the money used my ID?”
“No, actually. You used Senator Westlake’s password.”
“Come on. I tried to frame Martha for murder? Her campaign was everything to me. Still is — because I refuse to go down for this murder. And I refuse to allow her to be framed, too.” He turned to Martha again. “Don’t worry — I’ll grill every member of our campaign, figure out who could have used your password to try to throw you under the bus like this. If it’s not the Kearnes campaign — which I still think is way more likely — it means we have a traitor in our midst.”
It was killing Martha, watching Ted. Washington put so much pressure on youth — to conform, to compete, to win. Would Ted have become a killer if he’d never worked in politics? Martha doubted that, highly.
Bert said, “When you made the money transfers, you used the computer in the senator’s constituency office — which has timed security footage. The undercover you found and exposed to Whistler police — she’s been up overnight figuring out your game.”
“Wow.” Ted’s face was blank. “You guys need to go back to cop school, work on those deductive reasoning skills. I have some Sherlock Holmes books I can lend you, if you like. I read them as a child, of course, but they’re probably around your level.”
Martha suppressed a laugh. Her part was coming soon, and she was nervous as hell.
“We’re impressed, Ted. You successfully convinced Inspector Norris that he was working with the DEA.”
A slow grin spread across Ted’s face.
“Is that funny?” Bert said.
“A little,” Ted said. “It’s from left field, that’s for sure.”
“You were smart. You had him convinced he needed to read and destroy all correspondence — emails, voice call logs from his cell phone. Of course, he did start saving things once he realized you weren’t DEA. Plus, we went to the cell phone company and retrieved records, and of course we can retrieve deleted messages from his computer. But if everything had gone as planned — and it nearly did, until the senator here asked for further investigation — it would have worked. You would be walking free.”
Ted snorted. “Have you been listening to me at all? Or do you just have this predetermined notion of what happened, and you’re sticking to it no matter what?”
“Will you stand up, please? We’d like to put you in handcuffs.”
“No, I won’t stand up and be handcuffed. You can’t treat me like a common criminal.”
The man in the suit frowned.
“Tell them, Martha. I’m like a son to you. I’m like Sacha — not a common criminal.”
Bert locked eyes with Martha, her cue to pick up as he’d coached her to.
“Ted, can I ask you something?” Martha’s voice came out more softly than she’d realized it would. Which was a good thing — her true emotion was fiery rage.
Ted shrugged one skinny shoulder.
“Did you think killing Sacha — staging her suicide — would help my shot at the presidency?”
Martha watched Ted’s jaw clench.
“You’ve always stunned me with your brightness. I just think — if we were in a moral vacuum — it was a really intelligent move. My popularity went through the roof.” Martha nearly choked on the words she’d been told to say. “We’ve had to build this campaign up from the ground three times now — it’s been a roller coaster. The lows are my fault, and you’ve just kept on going, building me back up without complaining. I don’t think I’ve ever worked with someone quite as smart as you, quite as devoted.”
Ted’s mouth was doing funny things. The corners were jerking involuntarily.
“But we’re not in a moral vacuum. What you’ve done has made me very sad.” Martha spoke as if to a five-year-old child, as per Bert’s instructions when it came to the emotional parts.
Ted’s eyes went wide. Martha hoped she was getting through to him.
“They know you had Sacha killed,” Martha said gently. “It will be much easier for you if you come clean, let them help you.” Considering the times Ted had spoken about his own mother and about his replacing Sacha — the FBI believed this was part of his pathology — it seemed he had a true belief that he belonged in higher circumstances, that he should have been born to a more elite family. “Let me help you,” Martha finished.
And then Ted’s face turned sour. He gave Martha the most disdainful look she’d ever seen — even more disdainful than Sacha arguing politics.
“Who the hell wants to help some dirty kid from Queens?” He was practically shouting. “Not you. You were just using me for my brain. Telling me, ‘Ted, go here. No Ted, we don’t need you here — stay home with your computer and be my slave.’ Who’s looking out for me? Only me. Man, you’re worse than my real mother. She never pretended she was anything but selfish.”
My real mother. Martha realized that the FBI was right. She said, “The cleaner you are with us now, the better your chance for surviving the system. I’d be devastated to see you done in by the death penalty. It would be like losing both my children.” Martha choked back bile — playing into the alleged mental illness made her feel physically ill.
“Why would I care if they electrocute me? If I go down for this murder, my life is over anyway. I’ll never be president. Hell, I’ll never even be a lowly senator.”
Martha used the next line the FBI had fed her: “Ted, there are psychiatric facilities that can take care of you. They can help you sort this out, return to society afterward and thrive.”
“Why would you care?” Mixed with Ted’s scorn, Martha thought she detected hope.
“Sometimes we do things that aren’t really who we are — things we think we have to do because we’re temporarily misguided, but when we come back to our senses, we’re filled with regret.” Things like raising your child with a string of nannies, saying no to the circus, to DisneyWorld — to almost every fun thing Sacha had suggested because it would have taken Martha’s time away from her career. “But if you want your life to have meaning — and I know that’s what you want for yourself — you’re so bright, you have so much to offer — then you have to take control now. Confess to what you did, and we’ll get you psychological help.”
Ted shook his head a few times quickly. It was more a spasmodic movement than a deliberate negation of what Martha had said. “These men set you up; they’ve prepped you in advance,” Ted said, his tone even. “If you were learning about all this now — I killed your daughter, for Christ’s sake — you’d be raging.”
Martha was silent. She’d elicited the confession. The FBI could take it from there.
But Ted kept going. “You’re just so clueless. You’re nothing like my mother. You don’t deserve to be president.”
“Was it my constituents’ money? I don’t think you have any of your own. I’ll need to know so I can repay it on your behalf.”
Ted actually spat at Martha. It shocked her — again, she’d seen it in movies, but it had never happened to her in real life. The spit landed on her shoes. “Of course it was their money. It was your constituents I was protecting. You’re not even grateful at all, are you?”
> Martha’s eyes felt like they popped out of her head. It was only because she could still see that she knew they were still in their sockets.
“Sacha was trying to take you down,” Ted continued. “She was in Whistler filming an exposé of your hypocritical drug war. It’s only because I was on your side, because I got rid of the obstacles that were standing in the way of the White House, that you’re probably going to get there. You know you’re in first, now? That kid you’re trying to save — the addict in Detroit? Michigan loves you for that.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, wow is right. Didn’t know your daughter was a traitor, huh? Whereas I was true to the end. Too bad you made the wrong choice.”
“No, I was thinking wow, it’s a good thing your mother’s dead. It would be horrible for her to see who her son grew up to become.” Martha snatched a tissue from the box on the desk and bent to wipe the gob of saliva from her Louboutins.
EIGHTY-NINE
CLARE
The phone rang and Clare jumped. She hoped it wasn’t Roberta, calling to say her dad had died.
“Hello?” Clare heard her voice come out small and tentative.
“What’s wrong with you?” It was Bert. “Pick it up, Vengel.”
“Sorry.” Clare was relieved. “Did everything go okay with the arrest?”
“Yup. Even got a confession.”
Clare felt a grin spread across her face. She’d maybe gotten two hours of sleep, but it was worth it.
“Meet me at the Coffee Shop in twenty,” Bert said.
“Is it bad?” Clare knew she’d fucked up with that acid hit. They’d left her in place for the assignment, but she could still lose her job over a bad decision.
“Just be there. And don’t dress like a slob.”
If she were losing her job, Clare wanted to wear ripped sweatpants and a sleeveless heavy metal band T-shirt. But maybe this wasn’t going to be that. She chose some jeans that were fairly clean from the pile of clothes on her hardwood floor, and she rode the rickety elevator down to street level.
She walked six blocks north to Union Square and sat in a window booth to wait. The Coffee Shop was way too trendy for its own good, but Clare ignored the sullen service and ordered a black coffee. She itched for a cigarette but had managed without one so far — even when pulling the all-nighter.
In less than five minutes, she spotted Bert lumbering along the street in his trench coat. At over six feet tall, with a build that was somehow thick and lean at the same time, he looked like a Russian mobster’s bodyguard. He was with a shorter man — maybe five-eight or five-ten — who looked quiet and smart, like a professor.
The two men entered the diner.
“This is Alistair Patko,” Bert said.
Clare reached a hand across the table, where Patko had slid into the booth. His grip was good — firm, but not bone-crushing.
Bert slid in beside Clare. “Alistair works with the CIA. He’s been following your career with some interest.”
“He has?” Clare’s career was short and spotty — this didn’t make a lot of sense.
“You’re not conventional,” Patko said. “Which works well for the team I’m trying to assemble.”
“I’m already on a team like that.” Clare glanced at Bert. “A team I like.”
“I’m looking for undercover operatives to do pretty much what Bert here has been doing with his team internally. Except my domain is international. So you’d be going to different countries on assignment. Sometimes for months on end.”
Clare wasn’t sure if this was an offer or just a discussion. She tried to keep her hopes down as she continued to listen.
“Assignments would be riskier. You would need to spend time learning new languages, being trained with different weapons, different martial arts. There are a lot of academics, which I’m not sure is your strong suit.”
Clare swallowed.
“The pay would be good. Double your current base salary plus a hefty stipend when you’re in the field.”
Clare didn’t care about salary, but she knew enough not to say so in a job negotiation.
Bert poked Clare in the ribs. “You going to say something, Vengel?”
“Why me?”
Bert snorted. “That’s a damn good question.”
Patko smiled. “I know that several of your superiors have questioned your decision-making skills. Including Amanda Payne on this assignment — she wrote a scathing report, actually. But then she added a paragraph, an addendum highlighting your intelligence and adaptability. And you did some nice work at the end, getting evidence on the Westlake murder. That combination happens to be what I’m looking for. I don’t like working with people who take authority too seriously. Their minds tend to be creatively closed.”
“Don’t tell her that,” Bert said.
“I want resistance, not defiance. She’ll learn the difference.”
Clare met Patko’s eye with a small grin.
“Have you ever had formal undercover training?”
“For, like, three days in the police academy.” Clare mentally kicked herself for sounding like a valley girl.
“So you’ve been fighting uphill. Are you interested in learning more about the craft?”
“Of course. Like what, specifically?”
“Like clear decision-making skills. So you won’t be playing guessing games about whether you should drop LSD with suspects — you’ll know with more clarity that you most definitely should not.”
Clare groaned, and Bert chuckled.
“You would learn how to palm that tab of acid and act the whole trip. Do you have shooting experience?”
“I was trained as a cop. I was the second-best shot in my class.”
“Well, if you’re the second-best on our team, my hat will go off to you. I’d be happy with second worst.”
“Is everyone on your team some kind of superstar?”
“That’s the idea. But superstars aren’t born — they’re created through years of hard work. I see that potential in you, too, or I wouldn’t be making you this offer.”
Clare gulped. “So this is an offer? I can accept it, then I’d have this new job?”
Patko slid out of the booth and stood up. “I’ll leave Bert to go over particulars. I’ll need an answer by Friday, if that works for you.”
“Sure,” Clare said. “I’ll think it over.”
NINETY
MARTHA
Martha sat back in her chair across the desk from Bill Maher. It wasn’t even a pose — she felt relaxed and comfortable. Cameras were rolling. Polite introductory lines were out of the way.
“How do you run a campaign while grieving for your daughter?” Maher asked.
“With help,” Martha said. “My team has worked their asses off — you can swear on this network, yes?”
The crowd tittered, and Martha remembered how great it felt to have a live audience laughing for her. It was a smaller crowd than usual, since they were taping on an off day. The rest of the show — the political panel — would be taped on Friday.
“Yes,” Maher said. “You can fucking swear on this network. We’re not Fox. Sorry if Fox is your best supporter — I know they love their Republicans.”
“They like Republicans like Geoffrey Kearnes. You know, the kind who like to fly private on their constituents’ dime.”
“I like to fly private,” Maher said. “Why do you think I invite all these celebrities on my show? I want invites on their planes, man. But I’m interrupting you — your staff have been working their motherfucking asses off . . .”
Martha smirked. “Yes — they’ve even taught me to be savvy with social media. I’m lucky with the team I have working for me. Except, of course . . .” Martha let the sentence trail, temporarily, then grabbed back her strength and said, “Ted
Mitchell aside.”
Maher’s eyebrows lifted. “How do you feel about Ted Mitchell now?”
“Sad,” Martha said. “He was smart. So much potential. But his mental illness has taken him over.”
“Do you know what that illness was?”
“The best guess is Narcissistic Personality Disorder.”
“Is there a high success rate, curing narcissism? If there is, we should send the cure to Hollywood.”
Martha smiled along with the laughter from the audience. “No, there’s very little success curing NPD,” Martha said. “But talk therapy occasionally works. Which is maybe why people in Hollywood talk so much.” Martha was pleased when the audience roared even harder. It was off the cuff — none of her assistants had written that line and she felt like she was in her element.
“Are you angry with yourself for trusting Ted? You two worked closely together — there must be signs you see, in retrospect. Are there any that are eating at you now?”
“Dozens,” Martha said. “But evil isn’t something that most of us can see. We shut that part of our brain off because it’s too scary, or we don’t want to indulge our own evil. Ha — can you tell I went to my first therapy session today?”
Maher laughed, maybe too politely. Maybe Martha should leave the therapy part out of her transparency platform.
“So you’re staying in this race?”
“I’m in it more than ever.”
“Good. Because if you win the ticket, I’m voting Republican for the first time in I can’t even remember how long.”
Martha felt a tear form in her right eye — her first in the eighteen days since Sacha had died. She brushed it away, but not before Maher saw her.
“Sorry. Does my vote make you sad?”
“This was Sacha’s favorite TV show. Your vote would make me happier than you know.”
NINETY-ONE
CLARE
Clare looked at Noah. She moved a pawn forward on the chessboard. “I should grab my toothbrush before I go.”