Power Blind

by Steven Gore

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know yet. But in the last five years each fake contributor put in between fifty and one hundred thousand dollars in small increments.”

  “Do the math for me.”

  “I would guess between two hundred and three hundred million dollars.”

  Anston took a sip of water after the waiter left, thought a moment, then asked Brandon, “Why the sudden interest in my side of things?”

  “I keep getting chills up my spine, like I’m about to get blindsided.”

  “That’s your lifelong problem. You never look around until it’s too late, and your brother, too. I’m thinking we may need to change horses in the presidential race. I created him and I can dismantle him in a heartbeat. I’m not sure I want to blow our last couple of hundred million on somebody with what may be a genetic weakness.”

  Brandon didn’t answer.

  “You know what my wife calls me?” Anston said. “Machiavelli’s Machiavelli. It’s ironic that everybody reads The Prince when they’re in college and thinks he was some kind of immoral genius. In fact, he was an idiot savant.” He peered into Brandon’s eyes. “You ever read Machiavelli’s Art of War?”

  Brandon shook his head.

  “He didn’t have a clue it was the rifle, and not the pike, that would determine the outcome of wars for the next three hundred years.” Anston grinned. “See? The prince needed a Machiavelli, and Machiavelli needed somebody like me to fight his wars for him.”

  Viz recognized the gait before he spotted the face.

  “Oh shit.”

  Gage’s head snapped toward Viz.

  “It’s Socorro,” Viz said. “She just slipped around the corner and ducked through the crowd into the restaurant.”

  Gage flipped open his cell phone. Joe Casey’s number was set for redial.

  “We’ve got a problem,” Gage said. “Socorro just went in to confront Anston and Brandon.”

  “With what?” Casey asked.

  Gage looked at Viz. “With what?”

  Viz spread his hands and shrugged.

  “What do you want to do?” Casey asked.

  “It’s up to Viz.”

  Viz turned toward the window and scanned the sidewalks and cars on the street. “I’m pissed she lied to me, but it’s contained, and it took a lot of guts to walk in there and try to set things right—and for her that’s what this has been about from the beginning.” He locked on to the diners gathered at the entrance. “And they can’t do anything to her with that kind of big-money crowd around her.”

  Good evening, Judge. Marc.”

  They looked up.

  Socorro made a show of glancing around the restaurant.

  “You two really are creatures of habit. Don’t you ever get bored with this place? Maybe you should try Mexican food sometime.”

  Her voice had a sense of self-satisfaction neither Brandon nor Anston had heard from her before.

  Anston stood and extended his hand. Socorro didn’t accept it.

  “It’s not that kind of visit.”

  She reached behind her and pulled an empty chair up to the table. She and Anston sat down. She was the only one in the restaurant wearing jeans, and the only Hispanic except the busboys.

  Anston tried again. “To what do we owe—”

  “Money,” Socorro snapped. “You’ve got money belonging to other people.”

  Anston smirked. “You have it backward, my dear. You have money belonging to other people.”

  Brandon looked around the restaurant, then cut in. “I’m not sure this is the place to discuss this.”

  Socorro reached into her purse, pulled out a DVD, and set it on the table. Its cover showed Henry Fonda, arm extended in accusation.

  “You’re right,” Socorro said. “Let’s go watch a movie.”

  “I’m sure it’s a fine film, but we have better things to do than spend an evening watching Advise and Consent, no matter how timely.”

  Socorro opened the case and turned its contents toward Anston. It was labeled Charles Palmer Investigations, Meeting with Marc Anston re: Pegasus.

  Anston’s eyes fixed on the DVD.

  “I like what you’ve done with your study,” Socorro said. “That Rothko hanging on the wall must’ve cost a pretty penny.” She grinned. “Of course it did. I checked. One point two million. Sotheby’s. Last year.”

  Anston reached for the case. She pulled it away. “Not so fast.”

  “What do you want?” Anston lowered his hand to the table and drummed his fingers.

  “Little nervous there, Counselor?” Socorro said, closing the DVD case. “Don’t you want to know what’s on it?”

  “If it’s really from last year, then I know.”

  “What’s on it?” Brandon asked, voice shaking.

  Anston shook his head. “We’re not getting into that. She may be wired. Like husband, like wife.” He peered at her sweater, with his eyes coming to rest on her breasts.

  She smiled. “You want to check? Unlike your little amigo here, I doubt whether your bony little hands have touched anything like them in a generation.”

  “You surprise me, my dear. You sound like a different woman.”

  “One finally with power.”

  “Or with somebody behind you.” Anston cast a glance toward the entrance. “Did Gage put you up to this?”

  Brandon spoke fist. “He wouldn’t . . .”

  Anston’s eyes shifted toward Brandon. “He wouldn’t what?”

  “He wouldn’t . . .” Brandon knew panic showed on his face. He bit his lip, hoping it would fade. “He wouldn’t send an amateur.”

  Anston paused, then nodded. “That’s true.” He looked at Socorro. “What do you want?”

  “I told you, money.”

  “Sounds like extortion.”

  “It’s not for me. It’s for the TIMCO families and Moki Amaro’s mother and for all the other families you cheated.”

  “If all you want is a little contribution to a charity of some kind . . .”

  “I want all of it.”

  “Are you going to throw in the nine million Charlie stole?”

  “Every penny.”

  “How generous.” Anston eyed the DVD. “Why don’t we get together at my office tomorrow to talk about it?”

  Socorro’s face went blank. In that instant, they all recognized she hadn’t thought through what came next. And they all also recognized that was the difference between her and Charlie. She manipulated characters in children’s books, while he moved real people in the directions he wanted in real life, and they all knew she’d been too impulsive.

  Anston smiled. “You didn’t expect me to pull out a checkbook right here and now, did you?”

  Socorro returned the DVD to her purse. “Let’s go type up an agreement.” She looked back and forth between them. “And I want both of you to sign.”

  Anston caught Brandon’s eye and nodded.

  “That’s fine with me,” Brandon said.

  “And don’t try anything. I’ve hidden two other copies of this thing.”

  “And we get all three once you have your money?” Anston asked.

  “I won’t need them anymore.”

  Anston’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his coat pocket and glanced at its face. “It’s my office. My secretary is working late.” He connected, then listened and said. “Sure, I’ll be right there. And check to make sure your assistant is standing by to do the thing we talked about.”

  This has gone far enough,” Gage said. “Let’s get her when they come out of the restaurant.”

  “She’s out of her mind,” Viz said. “What was she thinking?”

  Viz crawled past Gage, then into the cab and climbed down from the van. Gage slid to the rear and watched him cross the street. Viz walked down the block, then positioned himself against the brick wall ten feet west of the Tadich Grill entrance, on the route toward Anston’s office three blocks away.

  Gage heard shuffl
ing as Socorro, Brandon, and Anston rose from the table.

  My car is just outside,” Anston pointed at the crowd gathered in front of the reception station, blocking the entrance. “We’ll have to go out another way.”

  Gage heard “excuse mes” and “sorrys” as they worked their way through the restaurant. Then a cacophony of sizzles, dishes clacking, and pots rattling.

  Gage hit redial. “Joe, they’re going out the back through the kitchen.”

  He then punched in Viz’s number. “They’re coming out on the Halleck Street side.”

  Viz sprinted west to circle the block as Gage pushed his way through the curtain into the cab and started the engine.

  The passenger doors of the silver Lexus SUV were already open in the alleylike street behind Tadich Grill.

  “I didn’t know you had a driver,” Brandon said.

  Anston ignored the comment. “You sit up front. Socorro and I’ll take the back.”

  The driver’s face made Socorro uneasy, somehow familiar, and somehow frightening. She decided it was just nervousness, then climbed in.

  The driver turned toward the back. “Everybody got their seat belts on?”

  The Texas accent. That’s it, Socorro thought, he looks like that country singer.

  Boots started the engine and began rolling toward the intersection. He jammed down the accelerator when he spotted a huge man at the end of the block trying to see inside the SUV.

  “Stop,” Socorro yelled.

  Boots reached into the console, pulled out a .38 revolver, and then passed it back to Anston, who pointed it at Socorro. “Shut up.”

  Brandon swung around in his seat as Boots charged down the alley.

  “What are you doing?” Brandon’s voice rose to a desperate squeak. “Let her go. My God, Anston, I’m a federal judge.”

  Anston didn’t take his eyes off Socorro. “Not another word, Brandon. Not another word.”

  Then Socorro’s voice: “Take your hands off me. Take your hands off me . . .”

  Viz held his ground as Boots bore down, then dived and rolled when the SUV hit the intersection, turning and skidding until it was pointed south. It blew past Gage stuck at the cross street, trapped behind cars and by oncoming traffic.

  Gage called Casey’s cell phone.

  “They didn’t come out my way,” Casey said.

  “They went south. Boots Marnin was driving.”

  “You want me to call Spike?”

  “Hold on.” Gage conferenced in Viz. “You get a plate?”

  “No. But I’m almost sure it’s the same SUV I saw after the burglary at Socorro’s.”

  Gage’s phone signaled an incoming call. He switched to it. It was his office, where Tansy, Alex Z, and Shakir were standing by.

  “A man just called,” Tansy said, her voice wavering. “He told me to tell you that you can have Socorro back tomorrow night. If you call the police, he’ll kill her. What’s going—”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  Gage reconnected to Viz and Casey and passed on the message.

  “It’s my fault,” Viz said. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “No, it isn’t,” Gage said. “Any one of us could’ve closed this thing down.”

  Gage punched in Faith’s cell phone number. “Where are you?”

  “At home. Is everything okay?”

  “Things have gone sour. They’ve got Socorro.”

  “Is she—”

  “She’s all right for now. I need you to—”

  “Hold on, there’s a knock—”

  “Don’t answer it. Get out the back way. Take the trail down to Tully’s place, but stay connected to me.”

  Gage put her on hold and called Casey.

  “Contact the Oakland police, tell them there’s armed burglary in progress at my house.”

  He reconnected to Faith. He heard her feet thudding on the narrow path, then caught his breath at the sound of crashing branches, fearing it was the crook catching up.

  “Faith?”

  He heard a distant explosion of wood and glass. He knew it had to be the crook kicking out the back door.

  “Graham? I’m okay,” Faith’s breathing was heavy. “I slipped.”

  More footfalls on the dirt and then on wood, pounding on a door, and finally Tully, the ex-cop, asking Faith, “Are you okay?”

  A quick, gasping explanation, “Burglar . . . broke in . . . chasing me.”

  Tully’s voice came on the phone, “What’s going on?” he asked Gage.

  “There’s too much explain.”

  “Shit, what was that?”

  “What?”

  “Sounds like he’s found the trail and is on his way down. I’ll handle him.”

  Gage heard a rustle had he handed the phone back to Faith, then the pump action of Tully’s shotgun ripped the silence.

  Five minutes later, Gage walked toward Casey and Viz in an underground garage near the restaurant. They looked at him, arms spread in expectation.

  “She made it,” Gage said. “My neighbor scared the guy off, but OPD got there too late to catch him.”

  “That means they were planning to kidnap Faith just to make sure you kept your mouth shut.” Casey shook his head. “If we hadn’t spotted them grabbing Socorro, they would’ve gotten her.”

  Gage took in a breath, then exhaled. It was the sort of trade none of them wanted to dwell on.

  “Where do we stand?” Gage asked.

  “Nowhere,” Casey said.

  The obvious hung in the air, unsaid. Anston needed all the copies of the DVD, whatever was on it, and Boots possessed the techniques to find out where Socorro had hidden them—he’d proved it with Hawkins.

  Gage leaned back against the van.

  “What are they going to do?” He tried to visualize the moves. “Anston doesn’t know we have Brandon and just wants to get through tomorrow. He’s a survivor. He’ll take one problem at a time.”

  Gage pointed at Casey and said, “I’ll take your truck.” Then at Viz. “You better ride in the back of the van. If Anston sees you . . .”

  “Then my sister’s dead.” Viz shook his head. “Damn. I screwed up.”

  Gage reached over and gripped Viz’s shoulder.

  “We’ll find her.”

  He lowered his hand and his mind searched for a lead.

  Finally, he said, “You remember the night you followed Boots after I spotted him watching me and Faith at Cal?”

  Viz jerked his thumb toward the van. “My surveillance log is in the laptop.”

  “You and Joe hit all those places. I’m going to go lean on someone.”

  Chapter 86

  The uniformed Secret Service agent waved Landon Meyer through the northwest gate onto the White House grounds. Ten o’clock and Landon still hadn’t had dinner. CNN and other cable news reporters and their crews were packing up after filing their final stories for the night, all of them reporting on the same thing: the following day’s full Senate confirmation vote.

  Landon had thought about calling Brandon during the drive from the Dirksen Building, but he decided he wasn’t in the mood for Brandon’s kind of glee, not with Senator Lightfoot’s death so heavy in his heart.

  President Duncan and his chief of staff, Stuart Sheridan, both raised highball glasses toward Landon as he entered the president’s study. Duncan pointed at the buffet along the far wall where a silver tray bearing decanters of bourbon and Scotch lay next to a matching ice bucket and crystal glasses.

  Landon shook his head and took the only unoccupied seat in the room, an upholstered wing chair set at one point of an equilateral triangle.

  Duncan tilted his head toward Sheridan.

  “The brain trust here says you’re ten points ahead of everybody else in New Hampshire, Republican or Democrat.”

  Landon’s first thought wasn’t satisfaction. It was a question that had bothered him since he’d arrived in Washington: Why were taxpayers fronting the salary of a political operative like
Sheridan?

  “Give or take three percent,” Landon said.

  Duncan smiled. “Ever the realist.”

  “The Supreme Court nominations may have hurt me a little.”

  “Americans have short memories. They’ll have forgotten about them in a month. But if they haven’t”—Duncan grinned—“just blame me. Everybody else does. And remember the old Nixon rule: Run to the right in the primary election and to the center in the general.” He laughed. “Not everybody can do a Bill Clinton or John McCain and run in all directions at once.”

  Landon didn’t respond. It was exactly what Duncan had tried and failed at. The Supreme Court nominees were his last chance to save his presidency.

  “It may help if you make yourself scarce for the swearing-in tomorrow afternoon,” Sheridan said. “A face in the crowd. Give yourself a little distance.”

  Landon grasped what Sheridan was really saying: Let Duncan be seen alone planting the flag to mark his legacy.

  “Won’t having the ceremony an hour after the vote seem a little rushed?” Landon said. “Maybe we should wait a day and make it look stately.”

  “I want it to be more like a door slamming,” Duncan said. “You can do it your way when you live in this house.”

  Landon’s peripheral vision caught Sheridan stir in his chair.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the campaign,” Duncan said. “A deal is a deal.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “But instead of making some kind of explicit announcement, I’ll do it a little at a time. Each week the endorsement will get a little stronger. Sort of massage the base until it’s lined up behind you.”

  “It’ll collapse if we move too quickly,” Sheridan said. “They like to see themselves as a voluntary army, not conscripts.”

  Maybe a deal wasn’t a deal after all, Landon thought. It would be easy for political winds to blow away an endorsement written in sand. Impossible if it was etched in stone. He wondered what would be the quid pro quo that would bring out the chisel.

  Duncan turned his body fully toward Landon. “I had a thought I’d like you to consider . . .”

  The pause at the end of the sentence revealed Duncan’s timing at its best. It forced Landon to ask, “What’s that, Mr. President?”