by C. G. Cooper
Lockwood shook his head, wondering if maybe he should have and that’s what the last minute meeting was all about. His knees knocked together twice before he placed a firm hand on each to stop the shaking. “No. It sounded like even Southgate was in the dark. He’s busy now, though, doing what he does best, mobilizing his crew like an obedient little army.”
“What about Zimmer? How’s he doing?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t get as much access as…”
McKnight caught himself before he slammed his palm onto the table, gingerly picking up his knife instead, twirling it slowly between his fingers like a drumstick. “I didn’t pull those strings and get you back in the White House for you to pull this lame ass shit,” he hissed, so only Lockwood could here. “You stay on top of your job or--”
“Isn’t what I’m doing enough? I mean, if I get caught they’ll throw me in jail, or worse.”
McKnight laughed at the look on Lockwood’s face. “The only way you get caught is if you run to the president yourself and someone catches you in the act. You’re the one who told me you couldn’t get caught, right?”
Santos Lockwood silently cursed the day he’d met Tony McKnight. He cursed himself for completing McKnight’s assignments so the distracted college student wouldn’t fail out of school. He should have let it happen. Hindsight. But at the time, he’d felt sorry for McKnight, whose own father was a drunk, and had spent most of his son’s life making him and his mother miserable. College had been McKnight’s escape, through a minority scholarship he’d rightfully earned, but the freedom and the memories plagued him. On some level Lockwood had seen himself as his friend’s guardian angel. On another, he knew what McKnight might become if given the chance. Lockwood had always been smart, if a bit pudgy and more than a little awkward. The thought of riding McKnight’s coattails had been too much for the straight A student to pass up.
“I promise I won’t get caught. What I’m doing is untraceable, I told you.”
McKnight shook his head. “Sure would be something to see you thrown in prison. I’ll bet they’d put you with a big bull…”
Just then the waitress appeared with their food, balanced expertly on a brown serving tray.
“Waffles?” she asked.
McKnight raised his hand and gave her a dazzling smile. Her battle-hardened scowl turned into a broken grin, one that rarely saw the light of day. Lockwood was always amazed at the power his old roommate had over people. It was what made him such a good politician.
“Egg white omelet?” asked the waitress, her scowl returning, as if the mere mention of the healthier fare disgusted her.
Lockwood raised his hand, and their meals were served.
Once the waitress had made her way back to the L-shaped bar, McKnight looked across the table with an evil smirk. “Trying to get healthy on me, Panchito?”
Chapter 30
The Peninsula Hotel, New York City, New York
8:38 a.m., March 7th
Clouds hung low over the city, obscuring the normally expansive view from The Peninsula Suite. It looked like the weather was going to take another nose dive, the news calling for scattered flurries and more flight delays. What could be seen of the flittering cars below showed the on-again off-again anxiety of New York City winter drivers, always with somewhere to go, but never seeming to get there on time.
Cal, MSgt Trent, Daniel and Leo Martindale had just finished their room service breakfast, the remnants of which now lay in piles on the coffee table.
Due to the obvious security risk should he leave, Leo Martindale had taken Cal’s suggestion and stayed the night in their spacious suite. Hotel management had been more than happy to wheel up an extra bed, not that it looked to Cal like Leo had slept. The extra bed was still made to the hotel’s exacting standards. He hadn’t mentioned it yet, assuming the billionaire was a) scared, and b) always busy.
The mogul didn’t talk any more about the murder, pleading to have the night to get some much-needed work done and that they could start investigating in the morning. It wasn’t SSI’s style, but Cal went along with Martindale’s wishes, knowing they’d be able to get more done in the daylight.
“Leo, I’m just curious, how much did this suite cost?”
Martindale didn’t look up from his phone. Between that and his laptop, he hadn’t stopped working even through breakfast. “Nothing. The owners are friends of mine. I’ve also done some work for them in the past.”
Trent whistled appreciatively. “Sure must be nice to have friends like that. Hell, my boss won’t even pick up the tab at the bar sometimes.” He flashed Cal a huge grin, receiving a roll of the eyes in response.
Cal turned to Leo, who finally looked up from what he was doing. “Let’s go over this again. You got back to your home in the Hamptons two days ago and found your head of security strung up in your garage. Was there any sign of forced entry?”
“No. Even the alarm was still on. Hell, my wife and kids were in the house!”
“How big is the house?”
“Twenty one thousand square feet, give or take a few.”
Cal resisted the urge to whistle. Twenty-some thousand square feet was large by anyone’s measure. No wonder his family hadn’t heard anything. “Did it look like he was killed there or just strung up after they carted in the dead body?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say they did it there.”
The air in the room seemed to go cold. None of the men were novices to death, but the fact that someone had been brazen enough to kill the poor guy while the Martindales were but a few feet away sent prickles down Cal’s arms. What he wouldn’t give to get his hands on the culprits.
“And where’s the body now?”
“It’s being prepared for the funeral. I was the one who called his wife.”
Cal didn’t envy the man. He’d had to make similar visits in the past, events that would forever be etched in his memory. “Where’s your family now?”
“They’re at our place here in the city with round-the-clock security. I’m looking for a place for them for the next few weeks.”
That was good. Cal didn’t want to have to worry about watching the family too. If he had, it probably would’ve meant calling in a new team to do that part. “And what about the police? What are they doing to investigate?”
Martindale hesitated for a moment, looking slightly embarrassed, as if wondering how much he should say. “I…pulled a couple strings. I know some guys high up in the department. They understood my need to keep things under the radar. Lucky for me it happened in the Hamptons and not in the city. NYPD probably would’ve been all over me. Anyway, I told them that I’d like to keep it discrete until I could have my people look into it, citing federal financial law and possible security breaches within our system.”
Cal was having a hard time believing the authorities would give Martindale, despite his billions, the latitude to skirt the law. It was turning a blind eye to a heinous crime. “What’s the deal you made with them? Obviously they can’t just let it go.”
“No. They gave me four days.”
“And then what?”
“Then they’ll take over the investigation, which will be all over the news before you can say bootcamp.”
Cal could see why Martindale wouldn’t want that to happen. For a man whose business was based on trust and the money of thousands of investors, word of a security breach, let alone the murder of Dale & Moon’s security chief, could send clients into a panicked frenzy. Cal looked to Daniel and Trent, who both nodded. “Okay, so where should we start?”
+++
Paris, France
The hotel dining area was packed, each table expertly arranged to maximize the bulging space of the low lit room. Mostly aristocrats, with a smattering of Asian tourists, the diners kept their voices at a comfortable murmur, the sound of soft classical music floating along its edges, piped in from some unseen source.
It felt stifling to Jonas Layton. Preferring the la
id back air of open sidewalks and gabby coffee shops, he did his best to keep his cool, focusing instead on his phone and the never-ending influx of messages from around the globe. He had already turned down two European firms who’d done their best to recruit Layton for extended jobs. Citing an ongoing transition back home, he’d expertly maneuvered his way around a flat out no, instead offering a few free tidbits that could help their respective companies immensely, the insight alone probably worth upwards of hundreds of thousands of dollars. The executives had left looking somewhat sad, but Layton knew they were acting. He’d let them off the hook without paying a dime, and had even been kind enough to give them something valuable in return.
Truthfully, Jonas Layton didn’t want any more work. He already had enough on his plate, and if the thing with Dryburgh worked, he and his company could be set for quite some time. The thought made him smile, wondering where he’d take his next extended vacation, something he’d instituted for himself five years earlier after a near nervous breakdown.
Now he worked two months and took the third off. He’d found that it kept his mind agile, creative and engaged. Most importantly, it kept his genius brain from tanking like so many other ambitious CEOs who’d crashed and burned after taking a start-up to market. If the world knew the climbing suicide rate of successful CEOs, many of whom were considered rock stars in their respective industries, Layton believed fewer and fewer up-and-comers would seek the stardom of the highest level of the corporate kingdom.
His phone pinged, alerting him through the tiny Bluetooth earpiece he always wore in his ear. It was a stock alert he’d set up the night before. Layton’s eyes widened as he pulled up the numbers. From $50 a share down to $27 in half a day! He quickly scanned the rest of Dow, looking for similar plunges. Nothing out of the ordinary. How did they do it?
Early that morning, Dryburgh had stopped by his room to give Layton the ticker symbol of the stock with a cocky, “Keep an eye on this one.” Layton had been confused by the tip, especially after doing a little research into the company. Strong cash reserves. Healthy patent life. No executive turnover. Nothing to indicate any abnormalities.
He didn’t get a chance to think on it further as two men approached the table, each looking the clone of the other in their cookie cutter Armani wardrobe, topped off with matching baby blue bow ties. Layton rose to meet his courters, already knowing that he’d deny their invitation, instead ready to focus on whatever Geoffrey Dryburgh was concocting.
Chapter 31
Grounds of the United States Naval Observatory
1:20 p.m., March 7th
The Vice President’s quarters were in orderly chaos. Movers and staffers dodged each other as they ran to and fro, some placing antique furniture in areas appointed by Southgate, others coming and going with tasks delegated by the new Vice President. To a visitor it might have looked like a mess, but Southgate was like a veteran conductor, each piece of his orchestra within a flick of his switch or a point of his finger. It was how he liked things and he would never change.
“What’s the status on the list of the candidates for the Secretary of Commerce?” Southgate asked, taking notes on a yellow lined legal pad as he’d done for decades.
“We’ve got the backgrounds done on half of the list and the other should be done within the hour,” answered one of his underlings.
“And you made sure it was exactly who I told you to put on the list?”
“Yes, sir.” The harried staffer had wondered about the candidates who seemed to be pretty scattered across the spectrum of liberals and conservatives, something he hadn’t witnessed during his time with his boss in the Senate.
“Good. Any word from the President?”
“Yes, sir,” barked another staffer over the din of hammering as the contractors installed the multitude of pictures being brought from Southgate’s former home.
“And?” asked Southgate, slightly annoyed, whether at the answer or the hammering no one could tell.
“He said he’d like for you to start thinking about nominees for attorney general.”
Southgate winced. The current attorney general was a friend, a close friend in fact. It had been Southgate who had proffered the man’s name to the last president. But it didn’t matter. He knew his place. It was a hard pill to swallow, but he was obeying his marching orders from the president and taking an unbiased look at prospective candidates. “Very well, I’ll have you a list by the end of the day,” he answered, already jotting down candidates he thought might be suitable to Zimmer, the stronger the better.
“Sir, can I ask you a question?” asked one of Southgate’s senior aides, a matronly woman who’d been with him for over ten years.
“What is it, Helen?”
Helen hesitated, the others looking at her like she was about to make the biggest mistake of her life. Gulping, she asked, “Sir, we were just wondering why the sudden change? I mean, a lot of these names we’re researching now were on your, well, let’s just say a couple days ago they weren’t on your nice list.”
Southgate’s hand paused in mid pencil stroke. The gathered men and women held their breaths, having all been present for their fair share of Southgate’s infamous outbursts. Slowly, his head rose, a strange thin smile spreading as he focused on Helen.
“I will say this only once, ladies and gentlemen. I am now the Vice President of the United States. I take orders, and may I say willingly, from the President of the United States. If any of you have a problem with that, I suggest you hand in your resignation by the end of the day.”
No one said a word. No one moved.
Southgate nodded, and then looked back down at his notes. “Good. Now, where were we?”
+++
The White House
President Zimmer looked up from his desk, trying to focus on the ever-present Travis Haden sitting hunched over the piled-high coffee table, another fresh cup of coffee throwing a thin plume of steam into the air. “Is it hot in here?”
Travis looked up. “I’m okay. You want me to turn the air up? I can kill the fire too.”
Zimmer wiped his brow with a cotton handkerchief embroidered with the presidential seal. “Maybe. I think I’m coming down with something.”
“Want me to call the doctor?”
Shaking his head as he loosened his tie, Zimmer said, “No. I think I’ll go for a walk, get some fresh air.”
“Want me to come with you?”
Zimmer stood, maybe a little too quickly, because he had to grab the desk to steady himself. He took a shaky breath.
Travis was up and on his way over, concern marked clearly on his face. “Are you okay?”
The President nodded and waved his advisor away with a wan smile. “I’m fine, probably just hungry. Can you check on lunch while I take a quick walk?”
Studying his boss with the practiced eye of someone who’d seen all manner of ailments from malaria to smallpox, Travis asked, “Are you sure you’re okay? You lost a good bit of your color a second ago.”
Zimmer chuckled. “What are you my mom now? Seriously, I’m fine. Should’ve had more breakfast and less caffeine.” Now looking steady, Zimmer moved to the door. “Make sure they put an extra helping of pecan pie on my plate. I think I deserve it.”
Travis waited for his boss to go then left out of the side door, opting to run down to the kitchen instead of call. It might be the only chance he’d have to get any exercise today, a thought that bothered him as he walked past the silent Secret Service agents.
The White House kitchen was a bustle of activity as Travis entered, deftly dodging a chef wheeling in a cart of flour. “Sorry, Mr. Haden.”
“No problem. My fault.”
Travis looked around for the butler, Lester Miles, one of the only faces he knew. Miles was in the corner, stacking silver domes neatly after wiping them each down with the care of mother tending to her newborn. Travis headed that way, careful to stay out of the heaviest lanes of traffic.
“Hey, L
ester.”
The former Marine looked up. “Good afternoon, Mr. Haden. Can I get you something?”
“I called down for the president’s lunch a few minutes ago. Hadn’t seen it so I thought I’d take a walk and grab it myself.”
Miles looked annoyed. “I gave your lunch to Mr. Lockwood after handing it to the taster. He said he was headed to the Oval Office to deliver some paperwork and offered to help.” Miles looked around the kitchen, soon spotting Santos Lockwood in the opposite corner, facing the opposite direction. “There he is over there.”
Travis had met the staffer on more than one occasion, although he hadn’t remembered the man’s name. Lester and Travis headed to where Lockwood was now bent over, maybe picking something up from the floor. By the time they got to him, he was once again standing and looked to be adjusting the tray holding the president’s lunch. Travis noticed the beads of sweat on the hair at the base of Lockwood’s neck, his collar partially soaked.
The White House butler tapped Lockwood gently on the shoulder. Lockwood jumped, turning and fumbling with something in his bad hand, the one with the missing fingers, the story of the shark attack already having run its course through the staff grapevine. The item fell to the floor. Travis bent to pick it up, an apology already on the tip of his tongue. Just as his hand reached to grab the tiny paper packet, it looked like an old-fashioned medicine pouch from a pharmacy, Lockwood said, “Oh, I’ve got that.”
With his foot he slid it over and swiftly picked it up. Before he could stand all the way up, Travis’s hand clamped down on Lockwood’s wrist, immobilizing the man’s arm. He stared at the small white packet for a moment, and then, ever so slowly, raised his gaze to meet the wide-eyed terror in Lockwood’s eyes. “You want to tell me just what in the hell this is?”
Chapter 32
The White House
2:03 p.m., March 7th