White Diamonds (Capitol Chronicles Book 2)

by Shirley Hailstock

  "Thank you, but I think we'd better go."

  At that moment someone knocked on the door. Sandra pressed herself closer to Wyatt.

  "It’s only the bellman," Suzanne said. "He's returning your clothes."

  Jordon went to the door and accepted the laundry, signing the receipt but not allowing the man to enter the suite.

  "Sandra, what did you mean when you said Dad is involved?" Annie asked when Jordon returned, laying the cellophane-covered clothes over the back of a nearby chair.

  By mutual consent the four of them moved to sit on the facing sofas. Wyatt had his arm around Sandra on one sofa, while Annie and Jordon sat close but separated on the facing seat.

  "I'm not sure." She felt the warning pressure of Wyatt's hand on her shoulder. "I talked to him yesterday." A tremor ran through her. She was sure Wyatt felt it. "He was . . . different." Sandra didn't want to tell Annie about their father. She knew about the feud between them and she didn't want to add fuel to the fire.

  "How . . . different?"

  "Annie, I won't give you ammunition to use against him."

  "I'm not asking for ammunition. I don't even talk to the man." Her voice was high-handed as if discussing the man who'd taken her into his home and loved her as his daughter was distasteful.

  "When I've had time to talk to him and find out the truth, I might be willing to tell you everything, but I really think the two of you should work out whatever differences you have."

  Annie closed up like a vault. Sandra knew if they talked the rest of the night nothing more would be said. She was glad for once. For the first time in years, she didn't want to talk about their father. She had doubts. Had Wyatt done this to her? Had yesterday really meant anything or had she written more into it than was there?

  She wanted to talk to her father, wanted to ask him why strangers with guns had shown up at the motel, why he hadn't called her as promised, and was he really involved in Project Eagle.

  "Annie, why don't you have her call the man you introduced me to the other evening?"

  "Lance?" Suzanne's voice interrupted her thoughts.

  "Who?" She hadn’t heard her sister. She had been concerned about her father.

  "You remember Lance Desque." She eyed Wyatt. "You must know him, too. I saw him a few days ago."

  "Of course I remember Lance," Sandra said.

  Wyatt nodded. "I've met him once or twice."

  "I'm sure he knows as much if not more about defense as the joint chiefs."

  Lance might not be a bad idea. Sandra wondered why she hadn't thought of him before. He'd worked with her father. If there was a way to get at the truth and she couldn't reach Bradford Rutledge, then Lance Desque was the next best thing.

  "I can call him. Does he still work in the Pentagon?"

  "Why don't you have lunch with him?" Jordon suggested. He looked at Suzanne then back to Sandra. "He invited Annie to lunch. Why don't you go in her place? He won't expect you, so you'll be relatively safe."

  Sandra gazed at her sister who was staring at Jordon as if he'd grown an extra head.

  "That might not be a good idea," Wyatt interjected. "An open restaurant is much too public a place. People we don't even know could recognize us and call the police."

  "Well, Annie can't make it anyway. We have to shoot tomorrow since we lost today."

  Annie still hadn't said anything. Sandra's state of shock wasn't paralyzing enough to miss the jealousy in Jordon's comments. He didn't want Annie to have lunch with Lance. Finding a substitute would solve both their problems.

  "We'll have to think about it," Sandra said. "I will call him and find out if he can help us."

  "If you decide to go, it's The Charter Club at one." Jordon gave the information.

  "We'd better go," Wyatt said. They all stood. Wyatt pulled their coats from the plastic covering. Sandra was grateful they were dry. She looked through the windows and found the rain had stopped.

  Wyatt and Jordon moved toward the door. They spoke softly, and Sandra couldn't hear what they were saying. Then Annie called her.

  She turned back and looked at her sister. Annie had a smirk on her face, but Sandra ignored it. She was afraid for her sister.

  "Annie, be careful," she whispered. "I've had the feeling that I'm being followed and I don't want anyone to hurt you."

  "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

  Sandra tried to smile but failed. "I know you can," she said. "You were always good at getting yourself out of situations." Sandra still wanted to warn her to be careful. "Just check that you're not followed when you go out. If possible, go out with someone." She glanced toward Jordon. Instinctively she liked him. "Watch out if any accidents start to happen, anyone suddenly gets hurt and needs to be replaced on the shoot. Any strangers that show up, be leery of them."

  "Sandra, you're inventing ghosts," she told her, laughing her concerns off.

  "I hope so." Sandra gave her a long look and started for the door.

  "Don't forget this," Suzanne said. She picked up the thick envelope and slid it across the table. Sandra reached for it. Her hand stopped the forward motion, but knocked the neat stack of mail to the floor. She bent down and picked up the invitations. She recognized several embassy emblems on the expensive paper; Thailand, Japan, Republic of South Africa, Great Britain.

  "I don't know why I'm telling you this," Suzanne said when she straightened. "I hate you."

  "Annie—"

  "Don't interrupt." She held up her hand. "You're in this deep, so deep that you don't know if you'll ever get out of it. But. . ." She paused. Sandra knew it was for affect. "But if you end up with your back against the wall, call Grant Richards."

  The name sounded familiar. "Who is he?"

  "Don't worry who he is and don't call him unless you're desperate."

  "How can I find him?"

  "He's listed in the phone book. His wife's name is Brooke. You'll like her. She's good with computers."

  Suzanne also grabbed a small leather bag no larger than a briefcase. She stuffed the dry clothes in it and handed it to her sister. They were moving toward the men at the door when the telephone rang.

  Sandra jumped at the sudden noise. As Annie picked up the receiver, Sandra joined Wyatt and Jordon.

  The strange air of hostility that took over the room like a tangible hand as Annie spoke into the receiver then stopped caused conversation to cease. They all turned to look at her. She held the phone stiffly in her hand and her face was as ashen as it was when Sandra told her Jeff was dead.

  "It's for you." She pushed the phone through the air toward Sandra as if it was thick and heavy enough to cut. "It's Dad."

  ***

  Suzanne stood looking through the windows at the ground below. Taxis pulled in and out of the sheltered canopy. She couldn't tell if Sandra and Wyatt were in one of them or if they'd walked away from the hotel and taken a taxi on Independence Avenue.

  She followed several yellow cabs as they moved like toys on the wet road below. Suzanne couldn't believe he'd called here. Her father. Sandra's father. He hadn't even asked how she was doing, only if Sandra was there and was she all right. Why was it always Sandra? Why couldn't he for once give her a little of his love?

  "So," Jordon said, drawing out the word in a drawl. "You don't really hate your sister."

  "What makes you think that?" Suzanne stepped away from the window and faced him.

  "Why did you give her the money?"

  Suzanne tossed her head. "It wasn't my money. All I did was go get it."

  Jordon came toward her. He stopped about two feet away. Suzanne didn't like the way he looked at her, as if he was looking into her mind. "Let me get this straight." He paused. "You go out of your way to get money to help a person you couldn't care less about if she died."

  "I never said I wanted her dead." She walked away from him, from those piercingly knowledgeable eyes. Sometimes she hated Jordon, hated the fact that with him she couldn't completely hide beh
ind the mask she erected for the world. Jordon stripped it and she had no power to prevent him from doing so.

  "The pearls were a nice gesture, too. If they run out of money they can sell them."

  Annie sank into the plush dining-room chair. The debris of the meal they'd eaten was scattered over the table. Annie spied the newspapers. She shuddered at today's story. She thought about how she'd feel if Sandra did die. She felt nothing, only a numbness that sapped her arms and legs of their strength.

  "What was it, Annie?" Jordon dropped down next to her and took her hand. "Tell me. I promise not to judge you and not to repeat anything you tell me, but I need to know why you're so estranged from everyone who loves you and why you won't let anyone love you."

  "Loves me? He doesn't love me. He's never loved me. Only her!”

  ***

  The Capital Beltway spans a circle around Washington, DC. It traverses southeastern Maryland and northern Virginia, crossing the Potomac River in two spots, but never touches the ten-square-mile tract that houses the U.S. government. Sam Parker left the Pentagon and entered Route 395. He bypassed the city of Alexandria and picked up the beltway. For the last hour and a half he'd driven full circle around the capital keeping a keen eye on the rearview mirror.

  He'd driven the fifty-five miles an hour legal limit, careful to not waver from the constant speed as other cars weaved in and out of lanes in a rush that both defined and produced the rhythm and pace the made the capital a unique city. Nearly convinced that he wasn't being followed, Sam took Interchange 30 at Silver Spring. He drove through the streets turning one corner after another to make sure he was not being pursued, before finally heading for his destination—Wyatt Randolph's town house in Georgetown.

  Sam parked in the lot on Wisconsin and walked to the house. He let himself in the back door and disabled the alarm system. He remembered the code from one poker night when Wyatt’s dexterity was a little off -- well more than a little off. He kept punching the wrong numbers and finally Sam put in the code, stopping the alarm..

  Whoever had done this place was good, Sam thought as he looked around. This was no merely professional job, but a government-authorized military bugging. Few men could do this land of work. Few people could ever afford this kind of surveillance. Wyatt Randolph had needed the best. Sam was better. He had a jamming device. Timing was critical if he wanted to be in and out and only have the watchers think the system received a power surge.

  Before he'd been confined to a computer desk, he'd been in Intelligence. He could string a site that would throw pictures sharp as a laser disc to a satellite thousands of miles above the earth and print them on a home computer. God, he'd like to talk to the guy who'd strung this. For several moments Sam admired the handiwork, the quiet instruments recording, registering, and transmitting every move made in the space below. Anyone living on the three lower floors wouldn't hear anything more than the steady operation of a refrigerator motor, in fact, the entire setup was synchronized with the refrigerator. Even if the motor wasn’t running no one could discern the low hum of these state-of-the-art devices. Wyatt should be proud.

  Sam sighed quietly. He'd better get what he needed and be gone. Being found here wouldn't be good for his health.

  ***

  "Don't argue with me, Wyatt. I have to do this." They were back in Virginia. Sandra found a motel near the airport and they had a room directly under the incoming flight path. Planes approaching the airport for a landing made conversation impossible.

  "You don't have to do anything.''

  Wyatt grabbed her shoulders and forced her to look at him. "You could be walking into a trap and you won't even know it."

  Sandra wrenched herself free. "Like you did when you went to the Pentagon and neglected to tell me anything about it. At least I'm telling you where I'm going."

  Wyatt took a deep breath. "I'm sorry about that. It couldn't be helped. I sincerely thought I could find something to help us in Chip's office."

  "Well, I feel the same. The man is my father, Wyatt." She raised her hands to stop him from saying anything. "I know what you think of him, but I don't believe it."

  "Even after what's already happened to you? What do you want . . . him to stand up and say I'm a traitor?"

  "If that's what it takes, yes." She calmed herself, lowering her voice before she spoke again. "Wyatt, he won't hurt me. He's my father. He won't lead me into a trap."

  Wyatt took her into his arms and caressed her back. "I just want to be there." He wanted to believe her, but he was scared. She scared him the way she made him feel. He wanted to be there to protect her if he could. He squeezed her closer. She smelled like scented soap, probably from the shower in her sister's suite.

  "I'll go tomorrow night and find out what he wants. Maybe we can have everything cleared up by this time tomorrow."

  "Maybe," he agreed, but didn't feel any confidence in the hope. He kissed her quickly on the mouth and went back to holding her close. What was Brad up to? Why was he meeting his daughter at the Quantico FBI facility? What was wrong with a restaurant in the District, where she could get up and grab a taxi if the need arose? He didn't like this at all. It smelled rotten, but he couldn't convince Sandra there was any reason she should refuse to meet her father.

  Sandra hugged Wyatt. She knew some of what he said was right, but Brad Rutledge was her father. In the past two weeks she'd only heard about him from Wyatt. She had to give her own father time to tell her the truth, or at least his version of the truth.

  Then it was up to her to decide which of them she'd choose to believe.

  She closed her eyes against Wyatt. She wanted him in her life. She also wanted her father. The way things stood now, she was bound to lose one of them tomorrow night.

  "Sandra?" Wyatt pushed her back and looked into her eyes. "No matter what happens tomorrow, we have to find those stones. Maybe we should try to find out what Jeff was trying to tell us."

  She smiled and released him. They'd found a small hotel room in Arlington, Virginia, and for the better part of the day, when they weren't arguing over her father's phone call and invitation to dinner, they were trying to find something that would tell them what 95147 meant.

  "What about part of a phone number?"

  "There are many possibilities. He couldn't have begun with an area code. There is no 951 area code, which would mean it would have to be a local number."

  "The 9 could be the number you dial to get an outside line."

  "In that case the area code would be 514. There is no 514. Five one six is on Long Island and 519 is in the Midwest, but so far the phone company hasn't assigned 514."

  Wyatt cocked his head, wondering how she knew that.

  "I've always been able to remember numbers." Sandra grinned. Her father had thought it uncanny when she was a child and could add columns of numbers in her head.

  "All right, it could be part of a phone number, but not a local one. The metropolitan area doesn't have any 951 exchanges."

  "What about zip codes?" Sandra asked.

  "95147." Wyatt thought about it. "It would have to be out west. Any idea where?"

  Sandra shook her head. She grabbed the phone book and looked up the number of the closest post office. "San Jose, California," she said, as she hung up the phone.

  "Do you think there's a connection?"

  "I don't know what to think. Jeff wasn't the kind of person to talk in riddles. He liked the direct approach. The easiest route was always the most efficient, he used to say."

  "Then whatever or wherever 95147 is, we should be able to find the diamonds."

  Sandra nodded.

  "You're a numbers person, Sandra," The tension showed in Wyatt's voice. "Think! What could they mean?"

  She tried. 95147 could be anything. San Jose was too far away to have any connection. "Safety-deposit box number, post office box number, shipping numbers, receipt number, bill of lading, part of a credit card, the possibilities are endless. Without more information, we
're dead in the water."

  "Dead being the operative word."

  "I didn't mean that."

  Wyatt sat down at the circular table. Her backpack with books she hadn't looked at since they left the mountain sat there. He let his head fall back against the upholstery of the wing-backed chair and sighed. Long and slow, it had the sound of defeat in it.

  She came to him and began massaging his shoulders. "Wyatt, we're not beat yet."

  "We're awfully close. We have nothing. We don't even know who’s looking for us. So far we've run from the District police, a man I thought I could trust bombed the car we were riding in, we've lost the stones, and another man is dead. I spent time uploading gibberish to my email account. We've got a number that could mean a thousand things. We're sitting pretty, that’s for sure."

  Chapter 11

  The Washington Post was established in 1877 as a four-page arm of the Democratic Party. Since then it has gone through financial difficulties, been a conservative paper, a chronicler of the sensational and the world of society, merged with its competition and evolved into one of the best papers in the United States. Residents of Washington, northern Virginia, and southeastern Maryland wake up to the Post each morning.

  Wyatt Randolph loved the Post. It rivaled his states’ Philadelphia Inquirer, but as a news reporter, it equaled The New York Times. For the past few mornings Wyatt had dreaded reading accounts of his life sprawled across the thirty-six ounces of printers ink used to produce the two-and-a-quarter pound paper. This morning he expected to read the story of the death of Jefferson Taylor III. He knew he and Sandra would be implicated if not accused of a direct connection to his murder. He wasn't disappointed. Their names came up in the first paragraph. Sandra's photo, a grainy gray that did no justice to her beautiful ethereal features, sat next to his. Everett Horton and his reception for the Japanese ambassador had been pushed to the bottom section of the paper. Wyatt gave the story a cursory scan. He didn't read the rest of the front page.