WINNER TAKES ALL: A Dylan Hunter Justice Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers Book 3)

by Robert Bidinotto

  The perfect politician, Trammel thought with contempt. Yet opinion surveys revealed most Americans saw him as “too slick” and “untrustworthy.” The party’s progressive base certainly held that view. Despite the hypocrisy of his own personal life, Ash at least could be relied upon in office to advance progressive ideals. By contrast, for Spencer, ideological pronouncements were merely manipulative tools for self-aggrandizement. The spoiled son of a wealthy Hartford insurance CEO, he loved attention from adoring crowds and ego strokes from compliant women. When not pursuing these directly, he was in the gym, working hard to maintain his chiseled physique, or attending parties where he could show off by performing classic rock riffs on his Fender Stratocaster.

  “Thank you for the courtesy, Senator.”

  “Come on, now—it’s ‘Carl,’ my friend,” he chuckled, poking him playfully on the arm. Trammel felt his forced smile wilt; the politician’s familiarity grated on him.

  Spencer turned to introduce him to his party, which filled the second row. His invitation was not social, of course. No gathering in this city was ever actually social. With the death of his sole rival for the Democratic nomination, Spencer now hoped to inherit Trammel’s formidable political clout and financial support. And because perception was power, their meeting here would communicate that implication to everyone present.

  “My wife, Jill,” the politician said, placing his hand on her shoulder. She remained seated, and Trammel leaned in to take her offered hand.

  He knew all about Jill Dawson, of course. A former Miss Connecticut, now a morning-show anchor for a New York network affiliate, she had become Spencer’s second trophy wife. Even marriage to a gorgeous TV celebrity failed to stop Spencer’s womanizing. However, equally ambitious, she turned a blind eye to his wandering one, demanding only discretion as his political star ascended. As her part in the arrangement, the ambitious, aspiring First Lady contributed glamor, a son from her previous marriage, and a daughter of their own.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Spencer—or shall I call you Ms. Dawson?” he asked, alluding to her television name.

  “Mrs. Spencer is fine, Mr. Trammel,” she replied with her own bright smile and a light squeeze of her hand. She clearly knew her role here. Trammel had seen her on television a year earlier, before her diagnosis of lung cancer. He could see now that her suit had been tailored to disguise the weight loss from her treatments, still evident in her slightly sunken cheeks. He wondered if her short brown hair was a wig. Even so, she remained remarkably attractive.

  “You look wonderful,” he said. “I trust that means you are feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you. My doctors believe I should have a full recovery.”

  “Excellent,” he said, patting her hand. Trammel meant it. Her condition, and her husband’s public fawning over her, had generated some of the only positives in his otherwise poor polling. But it also represented Spencer’s greatest vulnerability: The man’s political career would be finished should his infidelities during his wife’s illness become public knowledge.

  “Let me introduce you to some of my staff and colleagues,” Spencer interjected. They exchanged the expected pleasantries. Then he took the aisle seat next to Spencer.

  Trammel waited him out. After a moment, the politician leaned in, speaking softly.

  “Such a shame, what happened to Ash. Sure, I wanted the nomination, Avery. And your support, of course. But not like this.”

  “I know exactly how you must feel.”

  Spencer nodded slowly, oblivious to the sarcasm. “So terrible, all this domestic terrorism,” he went on. “None of us can feel safe anymore.”

  Trammel remembered the sight and smell of his own incinerated Gulfstream on the tarmac at Dulles.

  “And that nutjob, Zak Boggs,” Spencer went on. “My God, he’s still out there somewhere.” He lowered his voice further, barely above a whisper. “Avery . . . you don’t think there’s anything to what he claimed, do you? I know the FBI says there’s no evidence of any association between Ash and Boggs. But you knew Ash as well as anybody. What do you think?”

  Trammel had thought about that, a great deal. “Ash represented the progressive mainstream of the environmentalist movement, and he believed in reform politics. Boggs led the ‘Deep Ecology,’ ecoterrorist fringe. To him, Ash was a moral coward, a traitor to the cause. Which I believe was ample motivation for Boggs to assassinate him—then try to tar his reputation with the malicious slander that they had conspired together.” He shook his head. “I find any association between the two to be preposterous.”

  Spencer turned away, sighing. “I just wondered. Because it’s so hard to really know someone. To know what really motivates them, deep down, and what they may really be up to.”

  Trammel kept his face blank. “It certainly is.”

  He heard a noise and turned. To his right, Conn’s family and relatives had just entered the south transept entrance. They were led by an usher who guided them into the first two reserved rows, directly across the aisle.

  The usher seated Emmalee Conn, the senator’s striking widow, on the aisle in the front row, a short distance away. She wore a tailored black jacket over a snug black dress. Trammel noticed strain in her eyes.

  He felt Spencer’s elbow nudge him.

  “Even after what she’s been through, she still looks hot, doesn’t she?” he whispered. “Ash was one lucky man, huh?”

  Trammel was taken aback. It was so inappropriate, in so many ways. He glanced at the senator: seated beside his gorgeous, accomplished, but ailing wife, yet with his eyes narrowed and fixed on the blonde across the aisle. He turned away before Spencer could notice his shock.

  “She is a lovely woman,” he replied, keeping his tone neutral.

  “Wonder who’ll get to her first, now that she’s available?”

  At that instant, Trammel realized all the hopes he had entertained in coming here were doomed. How could he have ever imagined trying to control this undisciplined, rutting adolescent?

  Then, watching Emmalee tug at the hem of her skirt, he had a faint thought.

  During the next eighty minutes, as a procession of Washington’s political and social elites mounted the intricately carved stone pulpit to speak, Avery Trammel began to expand that idle thought into a plan.

  4

  At the end of the service, the ushers returned to dismiss the congregation, beginning with the family members. To the somber organ recessional of Handel’s “Largo” from Xerxes, they filed out, led by Emmalee, heading back toward the south transept doors.

  Trammel turned to Spencer.

  “Senator, I do wish to chat with you, but I have a prior commitment. Please contact my office and I shall be glad to arrange an appointment.”

  Spencer looked disappointed, but forced a grin. “I look forward to that opportunity, Avery. Thanks once again for joining us.”

  Trammel said his farewells to the others. When the usher dismissed his row, he headed after the departing family. He crossed in front of the altar area and passed beneath the tall arches supporting the south balcony, backlit by majestic stained-glass windows. He had to jostle his way through congregants mingling at the doorway.

  Emmalee was standing outside a black limousine parked at the bottom of the steps. She was surrounded by a small group hugging her and offering their sympathies.

  He hastened down and approached, waiting patiently until she finished with the last of those around her. Then he stepped in.

  “Mrs. Conn, I am Avery Trammel. Your late husband introduced us early this month, at the social you hosted in your home.”

  He saw the look of recognition. “Oh, yes. Of course I remember you, Mr. Trammel.” Her face looked drawn and pale, her eyes clouded with a faraway look. “Was that this month? It seems like it was years ago.”

  “I cannot begin to know how you must feel. I am so terribly sorry. Please accept my most profound condolences. Your husband was a long-time friend and colleague. I shall mi
ss him terribly.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Trammel. He—”

  “Please—Avery.”

  The faintest of smiles. “Thank you, Avery. Ash spoke of you often. He was . . . we were both grateful to you for your generous support.”

  He took her hand, held her eyes, and lowered his voice.

  “I wish to speak to you about that, Mrs. Conn. I can only imagine the enormous challenges that this tragedy has left you to face. And if possible, I would like to offer you my assistance.”

  She looked startled; her eyes came back to the present.

  He looked around, concerned about the people hovering nearby. He spotted the entrance into the Bishop’s Garden, just across the driveway.

  “I realize you are preoccupied with your guests. But if I could have just a moment’s word with you, privately?” He pointed. “Let us go over there.”

  She told her driver and a couple of waiting friends that she would be right back, then allowed him to draw her along by the hand.

  The thick wooden doors in the stone wall of the garden stood open. They stepped through the arched entranceway onto the flagstone pathway. He led her a few yards inside, out of earshot of anyone lurking nearby. At this time of year, the boxwood trees stood barren, the fountains were idle, and a distant stone gazebo looked empty and forlorn. Still, there was a somber beauty here. Shielded by its stone walls, the garden was a private, peaceful sanctuary amid the turmoil of the city.

  “Please let me be frank, Mrs. Conn. I—”

  “Emmalee.” Another tentative smile.

  He answered with one his own. “Very well, Emmalee. As you may know, I shared several investment interests with your husband. In his last days, Ash and I discussed the difficult financial position in which he found himself because of recent events.”

  “You mean our CarboNot and Capital Resources stock. Yes. It’s all worthless. We lost it all. And the explosion badly damaged our house, too.” She shuddered slightly; the faraway look returned. “So I can’t live there. And I just found out that Ash had borrowed a lot of equity from the house and poured it into the stock purchases . . . I don’t know if his pension will even begin to cover what we owe.”

  This was better than he had dreamed.

  “How terrible for you,” he said. “Where are you living now?”

  “I’m . . . staying with a friend.”

  He made a face. “Well, that is simply unacceptable.” He looked away briefly, acting as if he were pondering the situation. Then he faced her again.

  “Emmalee, I feel the weight of personal responsibility for your plight. No—I mean that. You see, it was I who encouraged your husband to participate in these investments. Had I not done that, you would not be facing your current difficulties. I would like to discuss with you how I might help you, going forward. As a first step, please allow me to arrange for you to stay at the Watergate. My wife and I—”

  “Oh!” The shock in her face was almost comic. “But I couldn’t accept—”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “No, consider it done. My wife Julia and I maintain an apartment there, and it would be no trouble at all for me to obtain a residence for you, too. As I said, under the circumstances, your current problems are largely my responsibility. Besides, I am sure you and Julia will get along splendidly.”

  “Julia ? . . . oh! You mean Julia Haight? That’s right—you’re married to her.”

  It amused him, the stunned look on her face. “Yes, that Julia. Once you are settled in, we shall have you over for dinner. Perhaps take in some shows. Anything to help you through this difficult period.”

  He watched her shudder. Then her eyes filled with tears.

  “I . . . I don’t know how . . .”

  He waved his hand again. “Please. Think nothing of it. I am just relieved that I am in a position to help.”

  He reached into his overcoat and drew out a small gold case, from which he retrieved his business card.

  “Here is my number. Please call my secretary at the beginning of the week. I should like to meet with you very soon in order to make all the arrangements. And perhaps to chat a bit about your future.”

  She was crying openly now. “Avery. I just can’t . . . I don’t know what to say. I’ve been so scared . . .”

  He opened his arms wide and she fell shaking into his embrace. He inhaled her perfume. Felt strands of her blonde hair tickle his cheek. Felt the woman’s full curves pressed tightly against him.

  Felt himself stirring with anticipation.

  He left her at her limo with a final hug, then walked around the cathedral to where his own stood idling. Lucas was waiting inside when the driver let him in.

  “So how did things go with Spencer?”

  As close as they were, some things not even Lucas Carver could ever be told.

  “Better than I had dared hope.”

  “Really? You really think we can recruit him? Control him?”

  Trammel pressed once again into the smooth, warm leather, raised his foot rest, then his waiting glass of whiskey.

  “I have already taken the first step.”

  EIGHT

  Hunter stepped out of the shower, wrapping the towel around his waist. Then moved before the bathroom mirror.

  The scratches—three angry red streaks—started above his left eyebrow, then raked down across his cheekbone.

  He tried to think of some plausible explanation other than the obvious one. And came up empty.

  They looked exactly like what they were.

  “Mrrrrooowww.”

  The cat sat at his feet, her mottled black-and-white face turned up toward him. She seemed to be scowling, too.

  “I know. They’ve scabbed over. I couldn’t hide them with makeup.”

  “Rowwwrrr?”

  “Not that I would try. No, Luna, I’m not going to spin her some fairy tale. She’d never buy it.” He traced the deepest scratch with his forefinger, feeling the raised welt of the track. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter if she’d buy it. I wouldn’t do that. I promised her ‘No more lies.’ Even though she won’t like the truth one bit.”

  The cat got up and began stropping back and forth across his bare calf.

  “Glad you admire my impending act of martyrdom.”

  He sighed, peeled off the towel and started drying his hair.

  2

  She pulled her Toyota into his driveway and rolled up to the garage. She turned off the engine. Then felt herself smile as she picked up her overnight bag from the passenger-side floor. Remembering the first time she’d brought it with her.

  Their first time . . .

  That amazing weekend tryst in the Shenandoah Valley. The wineries. The incredible dinner at the inn’s restaurant.

  Then the charming little cottage with the big stone fireplace.

  The canopy bed. That endless first night.

  The jetted tub . . .

  An image flashed in memory of how he lay on his back beneath her, and raised her with his thighs from the hot churning water, revealing her body in the mirrored ceiling above them, golden and naked in the candlelight . . .

  She listened to the faint shrill cry of a seagull over the marsh behind his home.

  So much had happened since that day, so long ago . . .

  Then, startled, she realized that it had been only last September. September 20th . . . and today was—what?—March 21st.

  Six months? It couldn’t be possible.

  Then other images from the intervening weeks began to rise in her consciousness. She unsnapped her seatbelt and left the car quickly, then went around to the passenger side.

  “Okay, Cyrano, we’re here now.”

  With her free hand, she picked up the pet carrier from the seat. The pup began squeaking eagerly. She bumped the door shut with her hip, then hurried up the short flight of brick steps to the front door.

  She held in anticipation the memory of his face—strong, craggy, with intense hazel-green eyes. She had her keys in hand and
was reaching for the knob when the door opened before her.

  He stood there, waiting for her. Looking serious.

  She saw his face and gasped.

  “Dylan! What happened?”

  “Shhh,” he whispered. “Remember—out here, it’s ‘Vic.’ Come on in.”

  He held the door wide as she swept past him, then closed it behind her. He turned to face her as she stood in the foyer. He made no effort to approach her.

  “Your face,” she said, taking in what looked like some animal’s claw marks.

  “I’ll explain. First, let me take care of Cyrano outside, and I’ll leave him on the porch. Just drop your bag right there, and go on into the den. I’ve poured some wine for you there.”

  When he returned, she was sipping Chardonnay in her favorite chair, a leather recliner near the blazing fireplace. He sat before her on its ottoman.

  “I had to take care of a bit of unfinished business yesterday, Annie,” he began. “Up in Baltimore. It’s all over the news today.”

  She set the glass down on the side table carefully, because her hand was shaking. She was remembering the news radio story she’d heard only a few minutes earlier, while crossing the Bay Bridge.

  “That was you?”

  He nodded. He held her gaze openly, calmly, not looking away. Without the slightest bit of remorse.

  “A few days ago, you heard me tell Bronowski I had a loose end to take care of. You remember the people at the Vigilance for Victims meeting in Susie’s home last fall. Kate Higgins, George Banacek, Susie herself—at the time, the killers of their family members were all out on the streets. I saw how broken they were, how those monsters had wrecked their lives. So right then and there, I made a silent promise to them: to give them the justice the legal system didn’t.

  “Morgan and Lila Jackson were at that meeting, too. And the other night at the banquet, I could tell they were upset about something, so I spoke with them afterward. They told me about the boss of a drug gang—a piece of crap named Reginald Dixon. He’s the animal who raped and killed their young daughter, Loretta. The reason they were upset was because on Friday, Dixon was released from prison on a technicality—a screw-up by the prosecutors.”