The Dirty Secret

by Brent Wolfingbarger

  Thinking about Jack made her eyes water. Republican or not, he was a good man who would never betray his convictions by switching sides.

  Even though Melanie Wilson would be a better president than Jonathan Royal could ever dream of being. Jack might not have agreed, but I know it’s the truth.

  Then, Rikki’s thoughts led her to a place that made her blood turn cold.

  Jack would have refused to switch his vote. Tabatha, on the other hand…

  A quick Internet search yielded five stories. Four had been published in the last few days, but the fifth was from the West Virginia Republican Party’s convention last summer, designating Tabatha as one of their five alternate electors.

  Would Mazniashvili have known about that? Or is Tabatha smart enough – and heartless enough – to cook up a scheme where he got the Electoral College vote he wanted, while she got a big bag of money and a dead husband?

  Rikki quickly answered that question in the affirmative. But thornier issues remained: For instance, even if her worst suspicions proved true, could the county’s police officers crack a murder case in 72 hours? The Electoral College convened on Monday.

  Probably not, but stranger things have happened.

  And since she fervently believed America would be best served if Melanie Wilson became its next President …

  Why should I even try to stop Tabatha from voting for her on Monday? Don’t bad things sometimes happen to good people because God has a greater plan we can’t see or understand? Didn’t that old Mason at Jack’s funeral say something like that? Who can say God didn’t use Tabatha’s machinations and Jack’s death as a means to put Melanie Wilson in the White House?

  She was strongly tempted to delay investigating her suspicions. If they could build a case against Tabatha, Beria and/or Mazniashvili for murder next month, what would it matter? The criminals would still go to jail, while the country would get a better president. Everyone would win.

  And if I try to stop their little conspiracy, wouldn’t they put a bullet in my head like they did Jack’s? What’s one more dead body to these people?

  As she absentmindedly fingered her pen, her eyes were drawn to a framed photograph on her desk. It was a 5x7 picture taken when she was six years old. Perched atop her father’s right thigh, her feet dangled between his legs. Rikki smiled and softly brushed her fingertips across the glass. In the picture, her dad’s black hair was neatly parted and devoid of gray. Never a fashion expert, Dr. Gudivada wore a green bowling shirt and black Bermuda shorts. Even more appalling, he wore sandals and black socks that stretched almost to his knees.

  Studying his face, she was struck by the serenity in his eyes. Sure, he looked happy; and proud, too, balancing his daughter on his lap. But he exuded an enviably peaceful glow that was instantly recognizable.

  Throughout her life, Rikki’s father had been her ethical role model. When he said he would do something, he did it. Although tactful, he would express opinions that ran contrary to general wisdom if he felt they were warranted. And when a child needed medical treatment, he gave that patient the best care he could, regardless of the parents’ ability to pay. While he may have earned less money than many of his peers, he probably slept a lot better.

  He looks serene, because his conscience is clean.

  For some reason, she recalled an incident from the seventh grade. She had just started junior high school and her intelligence was widely regarded. Another girl in her class – popular but not smart and a bully, to boot – had been successfully pressuring Rikki to share her homework, and she brought the situation to her father, asking for his advice.

  Dr. G had listened carefully to her dilemma. “You know, daughter, when I was a little boy in India, we had a saying, ‘The person who holds the ladder is just as guilty as the thief.’ If you are letting this girl cheat off of you, you are just as guilty as she is. Plus, you’re not doing her any favors. How will she learn to do her math problems if you keep doing them for her?”

  She recalled how fear had gripped her. “What if she gets mad and beats me up, Daddy?”

  Her father had smiled patiently and stroked her long black hair. “Doing the right thing sometimes comes with risks, child. A wise man once said, ‘All that is required for evil to prevail is for good men to do nothing.’ That holds true for beautiful young ladies, as well.”

  Staring at the picture, Rikki desperately wished she had the benefit of her father’s wisdom today. He would know what to say. He would know what to do.

  Then, a profound sense of calm settled over her. The anxiety that had previously saturated her thinking gave way, unexpectedly, to clarity and tranquility.

  I took an oath to uphold the Constitution when I became the prosecutor of this County. Not just those parts I like, but the whole thing, even though I might not agree with it. Everyone has their burden to bear, and some lucky or unfortunate few are given an important role to play.

  For better or worse, I now know both my burden and my role.

  Rikki pulled out her cell phone and made the call she knew destiny demanded she make.

  The die is cast. Let’s roll.

  CHAPTER 87

  FLYING M FARMS

  NEAR COMUS, MARYLAND

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 12, 2:55 P.M.

  “Back already?” the proprietor of the private airfield asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” Dave replied. “What can I say? I’m suddenly feeling important.”

  As he submitted his flight manifest and prepared to jump in his Cessna, his phone rang. It was Jonathan Royal.

  “Good afternoon, Governor,” Dave said.

  “Your message sounded like you were about to have a coronary. What’s going on?”

  “I’m flying back to West Virginia. We may have a faithless Elector on our hands.”

  After a moment of silence, Royal asked, “What do you need?”

  “You can’t do anything right now. It’s a miracle I know anything at all, and the woman who asked me to help investigate the situation is both stubborn and prideful. And a Democrat.”

  “No offense, but that’s one fucked-up state you came from, where a Democrat is warning you about one of our Electors going rogue on us.”

  Dave chuckled. “You don’t know who I’m dealing with. She’s one-of-a-kind. In any event, I have to tread very carefully. I might be able to convince her to let me bring our resources to bear, but if I suggest that too early, she could easily tell me to climb back on my plane and get the hell out of her sight.

  “She never likes to admit she needs help,” Dave continued. “Especially from a stinking Republican and particularly not from me. I know, without a doubt, she believes or at least wants to believe she can handle this situation alone. And bringing in helicopters full of Republican operatives, turning them loose on her little county, will not promote her continuing cooperation.”

  “So who the hell is she?” Royal asked.

  Dave sighed. “She’s the prosecutor in Pleasants County, and she thinks someone killed Jack McCallen because he wouldn’t turn traitor and cast his electoral ballot for Senator Wilson. She thinks his replacement may be in on the fix.

  “Oh, yeah, she’s also my ex-fiancé.”

  Royal chortled. “If my presidency wasn’t hanging in the balance, I’d say that is the single most ironic, hysterical, fucked-up thing I’ve ever heard in my life. After everything I’ve went through to get elected, you’re saying my fate is in the hands of a woman that you pissed off at some point in the past?” He laughed caustically. “Unbelievable. If that’s the case, you need to get down on your knees, kiss every square inch of her ass, and beg her to marry you.”

  “I did that a long time ago,” Dave grumbled. “It didn’t turn out so well.”

  “Then let her kick you in the balls, if that’s what she wants! I can’t afford to have even one Elector go south on me. If this ends up in the hands of Congress, I’m probably cooked.”

  “Trust me, I know. I’ll try to get to the bot
tom of this. And I’ll try to convince her to let us play a bigger role in the investigation.”

  “Why don’t we send some people in anyway?” Royal bristled. “It’s a free country.”

  “Two words: Prosecutorial discretion. She’s not a big fan of yours, and if she thinks we’re pushing her to do something she hasn’t decided to do on her own, she’ll get riled up. After all, even if a crime was committed, she could easily sit on it until after December 15th. She’s holding all the cards, and we can’t force her hand. We have to play by her rules.”

  Royal sighed loudly. “Fine. I don’t like it, but I don’t have to like it. I’ll keep my fingers crossed and put my faith in you and The Big Guy Upstairs. Call me.”

  The desk attendant motioned at the flight paperwork. Dave nodded and signed where indicated. “I will. Talk to you later.”

  Hanging up, Dave walked across the tarmac with his suitcase, tapping buttons on his phone. “Have to take a raincheck tonite,” he typed to Monica Boley. “Sorry. Duty calls.”

  Strapping into the Cessna, he suddenly remembered to call his parents.

  “Hello?” his father answered.

  “Hey, Dad! I’ve had a change of plans. Could you meet me at the airport in 90 minutes? I’m on my way back home.”

  “Homesick already?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  CHAPTER 88

  PLEASANTS COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 12, 3:30 P.M.

  I wonder what dirty secrets might be hidden in here, Rikki thought to herself.

  Staring at her monitor, she browsed through the files from Tabatha’s cell phone company, focusing on the calls made between December 4th (the day Jack’s deal with Petromica apparently disintegrated) and December 8th at 3:05 p.m. (when the disc was burned).

  On December 4th, Tabatha called Jack at 11:05 a.m. The call lasted 12 minutes, and then she immediately called a 703 area code number and spoke for 20 minutes.

  703 is a Virginia area code. It covers the Northern Virginia suburbs of D.C.

  There were five calls between Tabatha and this 703 number on December 4th and 5th. The longest was on Friday around 2 p.m., lasting 31 minutes. At 10:30 on the morning Jack died, an incoming call lasted just three minutes. Four additional calls to/from that number occurred on December 7th and 8th.

  Who were you talking to, Tabatha?

  Rikki logged into her email account and scanned through her inbox. Locating the first email from Beria that Jack had forwarded to her, she re-read it.

  Beria’s cell phone number is (703) 925-1420. She double-checked Tabatha’s cell phone records. Bingo. Same number. On a hunch, she went through Tabatha’s calls and found none were to or from Beria before December 4th.

  Hmm … interesting.

  Returning to her own email inbox, Rikki reviewed the emails between Jack and Beria, looking at the documents that were attached to each, hoping to find this so-called Addendum.

  No such luck. I don’t even see the purchase agreement in here. Maybe Jack just printed it off and brought it in the day before Thanksgiving.

  A loud ring interrupted her thoughts. Scowling, she answered the phone. “Hello?”

  “Sorry to bother you,” Martha said. “But this call is from the Virginia DMV. I thought you’d want to take it.”

  “Absolutely. Patch it through.”

  A man’s voice came over the line. “Is this the prosecutor?”

  “Yes,” Rikki replied. “Thanks for calling me back. I take it you received my fax.”

  “I did, and I have some bad news for you.”

  Rikki’s brow creased. “What’s that?”

  “Our database indicates we’ve never issued a driver’s license for anyone by the name of Aleksandr Sergeivich Beria.”

  “What about a non-driver’s license state identification card?”

  “That answer would be nyet, as well,” the bureaucrat cracked.

  Rikki sighed. “So if someone had shown one of our officers a Virginia license with that name on it …”

  “Fake. As a four-dollar bill.”

  “Shoot! Thanks anyway. Could you fax me a letter confirming that?”

  “Within the hour and the certified original will follow via snail mail.”

  Very efficient. “Wonderful,” Rikki said. “Have a great day.”

  She hung up and immediately dialed the Sheriff’s office.

  “Sheriff’s Department,” the receptionist answered.

  “Hi, Lucy. Is the Sheriff around?”

  “He’s out in the hallway jabbering at somebody. Hold on.”

  The receptionist put her on hold and country music began to play. Thirty seconds later, Sheriff Vaughn picked up. “Hey, Rikki. Whatcha need?”

  Rikki smirked. Getting right to the point, as always. “Could you come help me draft a search warrant for Jack’s cell phone and email records? I’ve only been on the job three weeks, and I don’t want to make any rookie mistakes.”

  Vaughn chuckled. “Good thinking, Madam Prosecutor. I’ll be right over.”

  The line clicked dead, and five minutes later, Silent Doug walked into her office. “So whatcha got cooking here, Rikki?”

  “Sheriff, I don’t know what’s going on, but I think Dave might be right: It’s looking like the guy from Petromica may have been involved in Jack’s death.”

  At that moment, Dave walked in, smiling ear-to-ear. “I must have died and gone to heaven, because I think Sarika Gudivada just admitted I might be right about something.”

  Rikki scowled. “Quit crowing. I told you that on the phone. Why else would you be standing here with that stupid grin on your face?”

  Still grinning, Dave lightly elbowed Vaughn in the ribs. “Did you hear someone spotted that boy from Petromica in the woods near Bart’s farm on Saturday?”

  The sheriff cast his good eye toward Rikki. “Is that true?”

  “As much as it pains me, yes it is.”

  “And I bet Virginia’s DMV has no record that a license for Aleksandr Sergeivich Beria was ever issued, huh?” In saying the name, Dave gave his best impression of a Russian accent.

  “A Russian?” Vaughn asked with a tone of disgust. “In our woods?”

  Rikki nodded. “Yes. And again, the smug bastard to your left is correct … a DNR officer cited a guy by that name for hunting without a permit on Saturday two miles from Bart’s farm. The guy’s license apparently was fake.”

  Vaughn shook his head rapidly. “So are we talking about a real Russian with a fake ID? Or some Joe Schmo using a fake ID with a Russian name on it?”

  Rikki shrugged. “Could be either. We just don’t know.”

  The Sheriff’s face twitched. “Give me that Roosky’s name. I’ll run an NCIC report on him to check for criminal records.”

  Rikki handed him a folder. “Just have Martha make you a copy of the entire file.”

  Vaughn smiled dangerously. “Excellent. Gun-toting Rooskies in the woods of Pleasants County do not make me very happy. And I’m not very nice when I’m unhappy.” Then he bolted out the door like a man on a mission.

  CHAPTER 89

  VIENNA, VIRGINIA

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 12, 5:30 P.M.

  Petrenko was watching ESPN and eating a sandwich when his phone rang. “Hello?”

  “How are you, Yuri?” Dmitri Mazniashvili asked.

  “Not bad. And you?”

  “Not good,” the billionaire answered.

  Yuri sat up straight. “What’s wrong?”

  “I just got a call from AIS. Are you sure there were no loose ends with Aristocrates?”

  “Almost certain of it. Why?”

  “Some law enforcement officials in West Virginia are asking questions about a certain Aleksandr Sergeivich Beria. Virginia’s DMV ran that name through its database and the local sheriff’s department just ran an NCIC report on it.”

  Petrenko winced. “Shit. Maybe someone found McCallen�
��s emails.”

  “I’d be greatly displeased if our hard work fell apart now. I don’t take failure lightly.”

  That’s like saying Adolf Hitler was a man who didn’t take Jews lightly.

  “Don’t worry, vozhd. I’ll fix it.”

  “Good. Have a good evening. I’ll be following your progress closely.”

  The line fell silent. Petrenko shut off the TV and trashed the rest of his sandwich.

  Mazniashvili did not get to the top of the food chain by tolerating failure. And thinking about his likely reaction to failure in this situation made Petrenko sick to his stomach.

  CHAPTER 90

  PLEASANTS COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 12, 7:05 P.M.

  Dave and Rikki sat on opposite sides of her desk, each staring at a laptop, combing through Tabatha’s phone records.

  “Even if we can’t link them with Jack’s death yet,” Dave theorized, “can’t we charge them with bribery?”

  Rikki scrunched her face. “It’d be hard. They’ll claim the $25 million is just an investment. It’s the perfect cover story. Unless this Addendum calls for Tabatha to switch her vote, we have no evidence that’s their deal. What’s more, until Tabatha casts her ballot for Senator Wilson on Monday, we can only speculate she has been bribed.”

  “And from my standpoint,” Dave said. “Waiting until Tabatha has given Wilson the vote she needs to forge a tie is unacceptable. It’d be too late to stop it and keep Mazniashvili from getting what he wanted: A ‘Get-Out-Of-A-Firing-Squad Free’ card.”

  “Good point,” Rikki said. “Plus, bribery only carries a jail term of one-to-ten and a fine up to fifty grand. I bet Tabatha would think that’s a small price to pay for 25 million.”

  “If she can get her hands on it, since Jack died and left you in control of his company.”

  Rikki grinned. “That was pretty far-sighted of him, huh?”

  Dave cocked an eyebrow. “And people say I’m the paranoid one. If nothing else, this situation shows that just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean people aren’t out to get you.”