Lady Liberty

by Vicki Hinze

  “I’m not teasing.”

  “Really?” She bit a goofy grin from her mouth.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Do you hate it?”

  “I did, but the idea’s growing on me.”

  Jonathan Westford vulnerable? She never would have believed it. Even seeing it, she had trouble believing it.

  He made a sharp left turn. “Regardless, now isn’t the time.”

  Time. The crisis. Good God, she’d forgotten about the crisis. “Of course it isn’t.”

  He braked for a stop sign and watched a group of teens cross the street, carrying skateboards and Roller Blades. “I’ve had about enough of this back and forth from personal to professional business.”

  “Me, too.”

  “First chance, we need to talk through some things. Figure out how we want to handle this and where we’re going with it.” He tapped the accelerator and moved through the intersection. “I’ll warn you right now, I’m going to be asking you how I fit into your plans.”

  That seemed to be a touchy point with him. Why? “Jonathan—”

  “Not now.” He clasped her hand and held it on his thigh. “After.”

  He didn’t seem angry, but something had pricked his pride. She’d rather discuss it now, clear the air, and put him at ease if she could, but he obviously needed a little breathing room. Heart-to-heart chats about feelings were probably about as alien to him as they had become to her. “All right.” She lifted her purse from the floorboard. “So where are we going?”

  “To do a little sleuthing.” He grabbed the neutral topic with both hands and a grateful heart. “Cap Marlowe’s alive. He’s taking his time at coming around, but he could be cognizant in a couple hours.”

  “Do you think Cap is in with Austin?”

  “I think it’s possible. They’ve been discreetly associating since you took office, and you were experiencing negative info leaks during the marriage.”

  “But Austin’s been gone for over a year and the leaks haven’t stopped. Cap still knows things that have to come from staffers.” She dug through her purse, pulled out a roll of cherry Life-Savers, and offered them to Jonathan.

  He took one, then passed back the roll. “That’s where Barber must come in. The night I threatened Austin—”

  “He was talking to Barber.”

  Jonathan nodded. “What if during the marriage, Austin passed Cap the leaks? After you gave Austin the boot, then Barber stepped in and fed the information to Austin and/or Cap.”

  “It’s possible. Easy enough to verify with phone records,” she said. “But why would Barber get involved with them?”

  “Sybil, the man spends half his day every day jockeying for his next job.” Jonathan draped an arm over the steering wheel. “He’s the brunt of dozens of staffers’jokes about it.”

  “He wants a key position in Cap’s administration.”

  “That would be my guess.”

  Sybil popped a Life-Saver into her mouth, tilted her head, and stared out of the windshield. “And Cap shows up at A-267 to pull a no-notice inspection right in the middle of this crisis.”

  “That’s what we need to check out. It strikes me as too coincidental.” Jonathan tapped the vent, directing the air away from his face. “I know we’re jammed for time, and these are tough questions, but we need to answer them.”

  “The Senate is bound to call for a complete investigation. If we don’t find the answers now, we probably won’t find them at all. They’ll be buried long before the official inquiry.”

  Jonathan nicked the turn signal. “Which is why we’re on our way to Cap Marlowe’s office now.”

  Foot traffic in the building was heavy. If Security found that odd for four on a Saturday afternoon when Congress wasn’t racing against the clock to wind up or down, the staff didn’t show it. Sybil and Jonathan were admitted with courteous nods and bored expressions.

  They took the elevator up to Cap’s office.

  Jean sat at her desk, twisting a gold earring dangling from her lobe. Obviously, she was waiting for them. “May I help you?” Her voice was terse, deliberately distant.

  Sybil wasn’t welcome here. Being as circumspect as possible, and about as warm as a butcher’s meat locker, Jean made that evident.

  Jonathan went to Cap’s office door. “We need the key.”

  “The senator doesn’t allow anyone in his office when he isn’t present.”

  Sybil had little patience and no time for this. “Open the door or I’ll get a warrant.”

  Beaming resistance, her lips thinned to a fine line, but Jean reached inside the top drawer of her desk, withdrew the key, and then unlocked the door. “I will have to report this, Mrs. Stone.”

  Refusing to address her by her title was an intentional slur, but Sybil let it slide. She actually admired Jean’s loyalty to Cap. Loyalty was a relatively rare treasure on the Hill. “Certainly”

  Jonathan looked around the office, then began a methodical search, ceiling to floor.

  Sybil checked the obvious: Cap’s calendar, the last number dialing in to his office, his desk drawers. Nothing had been scheduled on his calendar for Friday afternoon, which came as no surprise. A-267 itself was classified. He wouldn’t note an inspection on it. “When the senator left the office,” she asked without looking over her shoulder, “did he mention where he could be reached?”

  Leaning against the door frame, Jean bristled. “No. He usually does, but this time he didn’t. That’s necessary at times, as I’m sure you know. Right before he left, I reminded him to take his injection. He gets busy and forgets, so I track them on my scheduler and remind him. I—I don’t know where he was when he became ill. Actually, I wouldn’t have known he had become ill if Mrs. Marlowe hadn’t called me from St. Elizabeth’s.”

  Jean was afraid, carrying the burden of guilt, and she was obviously seeking absolution. Understanding all about that need, Sybil gave it to her. “It isn’t your fault, Jean.”

  “That’s what Grace said.” She shrugged, knocking her shoulder against the hard wood.

  Sybil’s assistant, Grace, had never hidden the fact that she and Jean were friends, and that never had concerned Sybil. Both were longtime staffers and professionals and, while there had been a steady flow of leaks from Sybil’s office and/or home to Cap, Sybil felt confident none of them flowed from Grace. “She’s seldom wrong about anything.”

  That comment seemed to surprise Jean. As if trying to hold in a sudden swell of emotion that felt too big to contain, she crossed her chest with her arms. “But I didn’t see to it that he took the shot. I just used the intercom. If I’d gone in…”

  “Why didn’t you go in?” Jonathan closed a desk drawer, opened another.

  “I—I don’t recall now.”

  Sybil frowned. The woman clearly did recall, but for reasons of her own, she elected to be evasive. “Have you spoken with Mrs. Marlowe in the last hour?”

  “Yes.” Worry haunted Jean’s eyes. “He still isn’t coming around.”

  “I hope he does, Jean.”

  She looked confused, torn. “Mrs. Marlowe phoned the medics to raise hell because they didn’t take him to Bethesda. They told her you ordered them to go to St. Es. Why did you do that? Bethesda would have been more private.”

  “Because I was afraid he would die. St. Es was closer.”

  Jean looked surprised. “Mrs. Marlowe was right. She said you saved his life.”

  “That’s not important.” What else had Mrs. Marlowe said? “He’s getting the care he needs. That’s all that matters.”

  “Ground Serve.” A man in the outer office elevated his voice. “I need a signature.”

  Startled, Jean jumped and then went out to him.

  “We’re not going to find anything here,” Jonathan said. “Or learn anything from her.”

  Agreeing with him, Sybil nodded. They walked out of the office and, when she passed Jean, she glanced at the messenger. He held his head down, keying something into
his tracker. Something about him seemed familiar, but the Ground Serve uniform didn’t feel right.

  She looked at Jonathan out of the corner of her eye but couldn’t tell if he had noticed the messenger. Unreadable expressions were an asset to Jonathan, and he had honed the skill to an art form. Unfortunately, guessing what he was thinking when he didn’t want anyone to know was impossible.

  “Thanks, Jean,” he said, then walked on at Sybil’s side to the elevator.

  On the elevator, he kept his thoughts to himself. When they got outside, she tilted her head. A sharp gust of wind plastered her gray slacks against her legs. “Where to?”

  He opened the car door for her. “We wait.”

  She slid inside. When he got in on the other side, she asked, “What are we waiting for?”

  “To see what Jean does.” He slid the key into the ignition.

  “You think she’ll report to Cap?”

  “I’d say the odds are good as soon as he’s conscious.” He spared her a loaded glance. “And they’re even better that he wasn’t at A-267 for an inspection.”

  There was something in Jonathan’s tone, a certainty that hadn’t been there earlier. “Did you recognize that Ground Serve messenger?”

  “Not specifically, but I have seen him before, somewhere.”

  Maybe it wasn’t just her intuition, pounding out warnings. “You’re suspicious of him.”

  Jonathan nodded.

  “Why?”

  “I smelled death.”

  First-Strike Launch 07:47:47

  The smell of antiseptic burned his nose.

  Flat on his back with his eyes closed, Cap Marlowe assimilated familiar sensations. A blood pressure cuff circling his upper arm tightened and slackened at regular intervals. A clip attached to his right index finger gauged his blood-oxygen levels. An IV dripped fluid into his left arm, and a heart monitor emitted a steady beep that assured him his ticker was fine and he was still in the physical world. Definitely in a hospital.

  He hadn’t yet opened his eyes or let anyone know he was awake. In the past, bedside remarks made over the unconscious had proven most honest. But how had he gotten here?

  He had been locked in the outer rim at A-267, and that young lieutenant—Gibson, his name was Gibson— had poured sugar water down his throat. After that… nothing. Nothing, until now. Had he told them about the key in the mail chute?

  “You go on to the cafeteria and get a bite to eat, Mitzy I’ll stay with him.”

  Jean, talking with his wife. Cap opened his eye to a slit and saw Mitzy leaving the room. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Damn, she’d been crying.

  Jean pulled a brown envelope out of her purse and then moved to Cap’s beside, her heels clicking on the tile floor. “Senator, I know you’re awake. Open your eyes and look at me.”

  Cap opened his eyes.

  “Good.” Jean scanned his face. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.” His tongue felt thick, too big for his mouth. “How did I get here?”

  She briefed him succinctly, then dropped her voice to a whisper. Worry clouded her eyes. “I think that same messenger was at the office today—the one who brought the key”

  Cap’s heart rate spiked. “What did he want?”

  “He brought this.” She held up the envelope.

  “Open it,” he whispered, feeling as if he were talking and seeing through a veil of fog. “Tell me what it is.”

  Jean ripped open the end of the envelope, slid out two documents and a small Ziploc bag. She scanned them, then cast Cap a puzzled look. “One is a DNA report. No name on it.”

  “What’s that?”

  She held the plastic bag where he could see it. “It looks like a used Band-Aid. There’s blood on it.”

  Still, Cap had no grasp on this. “Anything else?”

  “A handwritten note.” Her puzzled tone turned bewildered. “This is odd.”

  Chilled, he tugged the twisted sheet up over his chest. “What does it say?”

  “Flip Five.” She looked over at him. “Do you understand any of this?”

  Unfortunately, he did. “Not really” Whose DNA was it? Why had Faust sent it to him? “It could be a constituent’s profile,” he said. That had happened a couple of times before, when someone was embroiled in a parental custody suit or a paternity dispute. Jean would buy it.

  “Maybe, but this man fit the description of the key messenger, Cap.”

  What was Cap supposed to do with these things? He had no idea, and he damn sure couldn’t ask. “Are you certain it’s the same man?”

  “No, I’m not. Peggy signed for the key, remember? I didn’t see him then. But he matches the description she gave us and he was wearing the Ground Serve uniform. It looked new.” Peggy, Jean’s assistant, had noted the newness of the uniform during the original delivery.

  Matches the description. Did Cap throw away everything he had worked for in the past thirty years based on a “matches the description” ID and a nameless DNA report?

  Guilt stabbed at him. Sybil Stone had risked detonating the briefcase bomb to save his life. There was no way around that. Situations reversed, he wouldn’t have saved hers, and there was no way around that, either. He appreciated her taking the high road, but he didn’t want to needlessly throw away the presidential nomination.

  If this diabetic episode had happened anywhere except at A-267, squelching word of it would have been impossible. But luck had been with him on that. Now he had to move forward in a business-as-usual manner. That did not include being saddled with Sybil Stone on his ticket in the next election, and it damn sure didn’t include running against her. Not with her being a media hot commodity as a woman on a mission for her country who had just survived a plane crash.

  She was destined to rebound in the polls now, and he fully expected she would end up with higher ratings than she’d had before her divorce. Americans love scrappers and survivors.

  And they hate traitors.

  Cap looked over at Jean. “Get in touch with Sam Sayelle. Tell him I need to see him as soon as possible.”

  Marcus Gilbert had been retired for over five years, but he was still the best strategist on the Hill. Even more important to Sam at the moment, Marcus still had more connections in town than Ma Bell had phone lines.

  Sam left the Herald’s parking garage and stopped by Sniffer’s basement office. The young man sat at his desk, his tie hanging loose, his hair ruffled from finger-forking it, buried to his armpits in reports. “Any word on the Wall man?”

  “Nothing.” Sniffer expelled a sigh that could power a windmill. “I’m trying, Sam, but I’m a new kid on the block. I don’t have your connections. It’s just like I thought, though. While the veep was gone, he dropped off the face of the earth. Now that she’s back, well, maybe he’ll surface again.”

  Not likely, Sam thought. Once he broke the story of what was in the envelope, there was no way Sybil Stone would dare show her face anywhere in the city. “Keep checking.”

  Sniffer nodded and Sam walked on, heading upstairs for the meeting.

  “Hey Sam?”

  He paused and looked back. “Yeah?”

  A hopeful gleam lit in Sniffer’s eyes. “Any word on the Deans?”

  “Not yet.” Sam had the feeling there wouldn’t be any word on Linda or the kids. Not publicly. If what was in the envelope panned out as an accurate gauge, not for a long time.

  He went upstairs, then down the hall to the conference room. Carl Edison sat talking with… Marcus Gilbert? It was. Sam hardly recognized the man. Marcus and Carl were about the same age, same basic weight and height, but where Carl was meticulous about his appearance, Marcus had become a slob. His shirt and slacks had more wrinkles than fabric, and he didn’t just need a haircut and a shave, he could use a good shearing. And when had he grown a beard?

  “Thanks for coming in.” Sam sat down at the conference table and dumped the contents of the envelope onto the table. “Ground Serve hand-delivered the envelop
e. A note inside said the carrier had twenty more to deliver to different major media resources, but not until I authorize delivery.”

  “Why you?”

  “I don’t know, Carl. The source probably believes I have no respect for the veep.”

  Marcus arched an eyebrow and thrust out his lips. “Is that still the case?”

  How could Sam explain? His feelings about her were chaotic. Growing admiration, no trust, grudging respect. Reveal that, and he’d sound like an idiot. “Not exactly,” he hedged.

  “Who is the source?” Carl asked.

  “Austin Stone.”

  “Inflammatory material against his ex-wife. Raises serious credibility questions.” Carl lifted a photo of Sybil Stone talking with an unidentified man. “Who’s the guy?”

  “According to Austin Stone, Gregor Faust. But no one’s verified a positive ID on him.”

  Marcus examined the photo carefully and then tossed it down on the table. Whatever his opinions were, he kept them to himself.

  “I agree on the credibility,” Sam said. “Austin would love to see her spit-roasted.” His nose itched. He swiped it with a fingertip. “Cap Marlowe introduced us, but I don’t really know Austin, and, truthfully, I didn’t like him.”

  Marcus tapped at his lips. “Why not?”

  Sam wished he could be specific and exact. He couldn’t. “Gut reaction.” He hadn’t put it under a microscope, he’d just gone with his gut and stayed away from the man.

  “Your midwestern values maybe?” Marcus asked. “He was still married to the veep and talking her down.”

  Surprised, Sam nodded. That had annoyed the hell out of him.

  “He has a rep for it,” Marcus explained the insight.

  Carl reviewed the last of the evidence. “His lack of loyalty might be an issue, but he’s done an excellent job of making it look as if she violated their blind trust. What’s that about?”

  “Austin’s company,” Sam said. “Secure Environet works mostly with the federal government. Sybil owns fifty-one percent of the stock. When she got elected, she insisted all their holdings—hers and Austin’s—be placed in a blind trust to avoid even the appearance of a conflict of interest. He took exception but finally agreed.”