Damage Control

by Robert Dugoni

  She had not gone back to meet with Brian Griffin. “No.”

  “James left his entire estate in a trust for you and Molly. He wanted you to have the same opportunity he had to start over and do whatever you want. So do I. Your father was not a lot of things, but he was one hell of a provider, and I’ve invested what he left prudently. I can give you your inheritance early. You’ll be fine.”

  Dana sat back. “You invested.”

  Her mother smiled. “I may not be the smartest woman alive, but I am fiercely protective of my children and that little girl upstairs. And I would do anything for either of you. Anything.”

  Dana exhaled. She sat back and took a deep breath. “There are some things happening. Some things that could involve some very important people.”

  “Whatever I can do to help, I will. But first, go on up and look at your little girl and get some rest. You’ve been through so much. You’re exhausted.”

  Dana stood, hugged her mother, and kissed her on the cheek. She continued to wipe away tears as she walked to the staircase. The mail sat opened on the hall table. On top was an invitation. Dana picked it up, read it, and felt a surge of adrenaline. She pulled the cell phone from her pocket, flipped it open, and dialed the number. It rang once before he answered.

  “Mike? I know how to get to her.”

  50

  SATURDAY EVENING, white lights bathed the front of the Fairmont Olympic Hotel at Fourth and University in downtown Seattle. Built in 1924 and considered one of the finest hotels in Seattle, the Fairmont Olympic maintained much of the original brick, terra-cotta trim, and granite that made it look part southern mansion, part Italian monument. At the curb, beneath the white colonnade and arched Palladian windows, elegantly dressed men in tuxedos and women in long evening gowns exited a stream of limousines, Mercedes, and luxury SUVs making their way along the circular driveway and center island of manicured dwarf maple trees, boxwood hedges, and ferns. They handed their keys to young men dressed in dark gray wool topcoats and hats.

  Dana watched the spectacle from the back of a taxi inching toward the front entrance. In the intervening two days, her body had recovered enough that she no longer needed the painkillers; the pain in her joints and muscles had become a numbed ache. Makeup helped to hide most of her facial bruises and long white gloves hid the scrapes and cuts on her arms and hands. Her mother had braided her hair into a weave, and she wore a white gown with a plunging neckline adorned with a diamond necklace. From the necklace dangled the large blue earring with the teardrop diamond.

  As she waited to reach the designated drop-off point, Dana pulled out her cell phone and retrieved Michael Logan’s number. Logan had initially been against the idea when Dana called to tell him she potentially had a way to get to Elizabeth Meyers, but his protest had been tempered by the acknowledgment that it was a good idea and they had no other immediate options.

  “You said yourself there are only two people who can identify the earring, and one of them is dead. That leaves Elizabeth Meyers,” she had told him.

  Logan had remained skeptical. “If you can even get close enough to talk to her, and if she’ll talk to you.”

  “I’ll talk to her. I’m not going to sample the champagne and hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Let me escort you.”

  “Nothing will happen. It’s a public function. Besides, there will be people there I know—friends of my mother and father. It would raise questions for me to walk in there with you. I have to do this alone. I have to find a way to get close to her without her feeling threatened. I can only do that by myself.”

  Sitting in the taxi, Dana contemplated what Logan had told her about his wife and the home Sarah had designed. Was it possible for a woman afflicted with a debilitating disease to know there was another person out there for her spouse to love? Could Sarah Logan have loved her husband so much that she knew there was another woman for him to spend his life with after she had passed—a woman who had grown up loving tree houses? A week ago Dana would have scoffed at such a suggestion. Now she was no longer certain.

  One of the young men standing at the entrance pulled open her door and offered his hand. Dana stepped out. She felt the energy pulsating from the building as she stepped through the doors between the bronze cheetahs sitting at attention. The crowd was abuzz with anticipation. Dana handed the embossed white invitation addressed to her mother to a man wearing a tuxedo and a no-nonsense expression. The wire of a small earpiece disappeared beneath the collar of his coat. He motioned for Dana to put her purse on a belt to be scanned in an airport-type security machine, and directed her to move forward through a metal detector. She had read somewhere that while it had once been considered an insult to be subjected to such scrutiny, the wealthy establishment in Washington, D.C., had turned the inconvenience into a status symbol. The ultimate prestige of a function was now judged by the degree of security to which invitees were subjected. The dinner to kick off Robert Meyers’s presidential campaign was apparently ranked very high on the prestige meter.

  She retrieved her mother’s black Gucci handbag from an equally grim-faced man on the other side of the machine and pressed forward with the line. She didn’t know if the security detail was Robert Meyers’s personal security, provided by the government now that Meyers was a candidate, or some combination of both. If the security detail was expecting her, they gave no indication.

  The interior escalator rose to an expansive lobby of carved oak walls, white marbled floors, and long-leafed plants that made the room look as if it had sprang from an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. Staircases descended from the second-story mezzanine on either end of the lobby, where guests stood on the balcony, glasses in hand, looking down on those continuing to arrive. Dana turned toward the wrought-iron staircase to the Spanish Ballroom. She had the sudden urge to look behind her, a feeling that someone had followed her, but she resisted anything that would make her stand out. At the top of the stairs, as she neared the tall mirrored doors leading to the ballroom, she felt a hand on her arm. Her heart skipped a beat, and she started.

  “Dana.”

  Harry Block, her father’s former law partner, stood with a statuesque, significantly younger woman who was holding his left arm. Dana surmised her to be Mrs. Harry Block III. It had been Block, a large contributor to the Democratic Party, who had sent the invitation to Kathy Hill. Block had apparently not been so embarrassed by his abandonment of Kathy after her husband’s scandalous death that he couldn’t solicit her for a five-thousand-dollar donation to the cause.

  Dana recovered, smiling brightly. “Mr. Block, how are you?”

  “No ‘Mr. Block’ anymore,” he said. “Please, call me Harry.” His eyes drifted to her plunging neckline and stopped on the blue stone. “Don’t you look lovely,” he said, speaking directly to her cleavage. “I didn’t take you for a Democrat. I was thrilled when your mother called to tell me you would be coming. I haven’t spoken to her in so long.” Block paused. His expression changed. “I was so very sorry to hear about your brother, and even sorrier that I couldn’t attend his funeral to offer my personal condolences. Have there been any developments in the investigation?”

  “Nothing yet,” Dana said. She held up the invitation. “Thank you for facilitating this. I know my RSVP was last-minute. It was very kind of you.”

  “I’m happy to accommodate you.” Block spied someone out of the corner of his eye. “I look forward to chatting with you later,” he said, taking another look at her cleavage before departing.

  Dana looked up to find that while talking with Block the line had moved forward. She had reached the main doors to the ballroom and recognized what was akin to a receiving line at a wedding. At the front of that line stood Robert Meyers.

  She stopped. This was not what she had expected; she had hoped to mingle freely through the crowd until she spotted an opportunity to speak with Elizabeth Adams in private. But Meyers was not about to pass up the personal touch—the chance to shake a hand and m
ake everyone in the room feel important enough to contribute financially to his campaign. If he recognized Dana’s name and knew she was in the room, it could make him ever more diligent about his wife’s whereabouts. She considered making an excuse to step out of line, then told herself to remain calm. Stepping out of line would make her look even more conspicuous.

  The couple in front of her handed their invitation to a man standing to Robert Meyers’s immediate right. The man reviewed the name on the card, deftly turned his head, and whispered the name in Meyers’s ear. Meyers greeted the couple without missing a beat. He took each hand in his customary two-handed grip, smiling warmly and looking them directly in the eye as he thanked them for coming. Then he removed his right hand and placed it on the man’s back to shuffle them down the line to his wife, who stood at his side.

  Elizabeth Meyers wore a white sequined gown, in sharp contrast to the deep rich color of her hair, which had been pulled back in a clip to reveal the lobes of both ears, each adorned with a teardrop-shaped diamond earring.

  “Ma’am?” The man on Meyers’s right extended his hand, waiting for Dana’s invitation.

  She handed him the card, and he turned and whispered her name in Robert Meyers’s ear. His expression did not change, but his robotic movements seemed to hesitate, if only for an instant—a glitch in the circuitry. Then he turned toward her. Dana raised her gloved left hand and pulled her silk wrap together to cover the earring dangling from her necklace. She held out her right hand.

  Meyers took it with charm and grace. “How do you do, Ms. Hill? Thank you for being here tonight and for your support.”

  Dana smiled, though inside she felt repulsed at the touch of Meyers’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to be here, Senator Meyers.”

  The couple in front of her lingered. Elizabeth Meyers laughed out loud, a full, husky chuckle. Meyers looked to Dana’s left. “Tell me how so beautiful a woman can be unescorted.”

  Dana smiled again. “The flu, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, and even more thankful you would come. Please enjoy yourself tonight. I hope this is the start of four years of change.”

  Meyers released his right hand and turned to Elizabeth. Dana felt his hand on her back. It made her skin crawl. Elizabeth was still laughing when she turned to acknowledge Dana. The smile did not diminish. Her eyes showed no sign of recognition, even when her husband introduced her.

  Dana continued to work through what had happened. Could William Welles have somehow been wrong? No. They’d sent someone to kill him. He’d designed the earring for Meyers. When Robert Meyers turned to greet the couple behind her, Dana lowered her left hand, revealing the earring.

  “Hello, Elizabeth.” The informal tone found its mark.

  “Good evening, do I—”

  Dana gently fingered the earring on the chain. “Those are lovely earrings.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes drifted to Dana’s neck. The smile vanished, replaced by an uncertain grin.

  Dana went on. “William Welles was a remarkable artist. I understand they’re one of a kind.”

  Elizabeth’s expression froze. In her peripheral vision, Dana saw the sweep of Robert Meyers’s right hand, an indication that he had finished greeting the couple behind her and was prepared to pass them to his wife. Dana turned. “James was my brother,” she said softly. Then she stepped down the line.

  AN ELEVATED ORCHESTRA of tuxedo-clad men and women from the Seattle Symphony played under soft white lights, the harmonic sound mixing with the drone and hum of voices. Tables and chairs draped in white linen with gold trim surrounded a parquet dance floor. Overhead hung a fishing net filled with hundreds of black and white balloons and a shower of confetti to be released at some predetermined moment. Men and women in white coats glided among the guests, carrying trays of champagne glasses and hors d’oeuvres. The lighting in the room from the glass-bead Spanish chandeliers was muted, giving the candles on the tables a chance to glow. The room had been squeezed tight, every seat another five thousand dollars toward the Democratic effort to elect a president. At the front of the room stretched an ornately decorated, elevated table for the senator and his wife and a few privileged guests. Only a podium and microphone in the middle disrupted the elegance.

  Dana mingled with the crowd, recognizing faces she’d seen in the newspaper, in magazines, and on television and movie screens. She sipped champagne and found a corner of the room near a potted fern not far from the receiving line where she could study Elizabeth. Elizabeth seemed out of step, like a dance partner uncertain of the next move. Her smile no longer looked radiant. It appeared hesitant and forced. Her eyes had lost focus and occasionally wandered, searching the crowd. Robert Meyers must have noticed that his wife was out of step. In between heavy hitters, he turned his head and whispered something in her ear. She nodded once, almost imperceptibly, then continued with a more polished routine. But it didn’t last.

  Dana continued to ponder the situation. Judging from the look of astonishment on Elizabeth Meyers’s face when Dana revealed the earring, she had no idea that she’d lost it. That meant one of the earrings she wore was a forgery. Somehow Meyers had learned that his wife had left the earrings at her brother’s home, and Boutaire had sent King and Cole to retrieve them. When they failed, Meyers must have had an earring quickly crafted to conceal the absence of the mate while waiting for Boutaire to recover the original. Everything was being orchestrated to eliminate suspicion that her brother’s death had been anything other than a brutal act during the commission of a robbery.

  After another thirty minutes, the receiving line split apart, and the doors to the room closed. The orchestra stopped playing. Two men dressed in medieval costumes—red and white skirts with black stockings and hats with plumage—stepped forward, raised two long horns, and greeted the guests with a short blast. Dinner was served. Dana located table twenty-nine and found her assigned seat. Harry Block had treated her well. Her table was in the center of the room, not far from the elevated dignitaries. Though each table seated ten, and Dana was unescorted, her table was full. A handsome man with a dark complexion pulled out her chair and introduced himself as Leonard Berdini, a director of films for National Geographic.

  With the guests seated, the conductor raised a baton, and the orchestra broke into what sounded very much like the President’s March. The crowd stood in unison, applauding as the doors once again opened. Robert and Elizabeth Meyers emerged, waving and smiling like a newlywed couple at their reception. The applause continued long after the guests of honor had found their places, and increased each time a dignitary attempted to quiet the throng. Finally, Robert Meyers stepped to the podium amid the wave of adulation.

  “Your dinner is going to get cold,” he said, “though your reception warms my heart.” A minister blessed the food, and the sound of voices again mixed with the clinking of silverware and glasses. Throughout dinner, Berdini’s eyes frequently found Dana’s neckline, as if he were considering it for one of his films. He told her of his most recent venture in South America, filming in Brazil. Dana provided polite interest but focused much of her attention on Elizabeth. It was clear Elizabeth was doing the same thing, listening politely to the dignitary to her left while searching the tables.

  Dinner was salmon and filet mignon, potatoes, and green beans. As waiters cleared the plates and brought chocolate mousse and coffee, the same dignitary who had opened the evening stood again to robustly introduce “the next Democratic candidate for president of the United States, Robert Meyers.”

  The crowd again stood and burst into applause as Meyers stepped to the podium and basked in the spotlight. When he raised his hands, the applause increased. He looked to the table of dignitaries with a sheepish “What can I do?” grin and shrugged. After another minute, the crowd regained composure and settled back into their seats.

  “I take it from your response that you enjoyed the meal. I told you that you would.”

  The audience laughed.
r />   “Tonight we begin the first step together toward what we all hope will be four years of change.” Everyone stood and applauded, then stayed standing throughout the remainder of Meyers’s thirty-five-minute speech. Dana paid little attention to his words; her focus remained on Elizabeth. When he had finished, Meyers stepped back from the podium, took his wife by the hand, and led her to the dance floor. The conductor initiated a waltz. After several minutes, others joined them. When the song ended, Meyers moved in the direction of a large group. This would not be a night for dancing. Meyers would not waste an opportunity to speak to as many guests as possible. The flow of guests and well-wishers soon separated Meyers from his wife. This was Dana’s chance, perhaps her only one.

  She worked her way toward the front of the circle of guests surrounding Elizabeth. As she emerged from the pack, Elizabeth made eye contact with her, politely ended a conversation, and turned toward her, but not before she scanned the room, presumably to locate her husband. “Dana,” she said softly.

  “You remember me.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “It was only one Thanksgiving dinner many years ago. Is your memory that good?” Elizabeth just stared at her. “I’d be flattered to think you remembered me from that one dinner, but I think we both know that’s not the case.”

  Elizabeth looked down at the earring attached to the chain and unconsciously fingered each earlobe.

  Dana lowered her voice. “I found it in my brother’s home beneath his bed. William Welles told me the rest. Then someone killed him.”

  Dana watched as Elizabeth processed the information—James’s death, Dana’s knowledge of William Welles, the fact that she was wearing one of the earrings. It couldn’t have come as a total surprise; Elizabeth must have at least suspected that James Hill’s death was not a random murder. Yet her blank stare indicated she either had not considered the possibility or had not wanted to.

  “My God,” she said softly.