“What about Abrianna?”
Tomi’s gaze skittered around. “What about her?”
“Have you talked to her about any of this? I mean, can she move shit around too with her mind?”
Tomi hesitated.
Castillo leaned forward. “She can, can’t she?”
“Not only that. She knows Dr. Zacher. He’s been masquerading as some homeless guy in the park for the past six years. No doubt monitoring her process. When the whole Reynolds murder thing blew up and she disappeared on him, that’s what made him seek me out.”
“And you heard him talking to you in your head?”
Tomi nodded. “Shit freaked me out.”
Castillo cocked her head. “Can you talk in people’s heads?”
Tomi’s expression twisted, but before she could dismiss the question, Castillo added, “Have you ever tried?”
“Well, no. But—”
“Try it.” Castillo kicked back in her chair with a grin.
“What? Now?”
“It’s as good a time as any,” Castillo challenged with a grin. Why shouldn’t they some fun and experiment with this? It was better than trying not to be weirded out over it.
Tomi stared. “I wouldn’t know how.”
“Try to think of something really hard, I guess. Give it a try.”
“Okaay.” Tomi fidgeted and took a deep breath.
Castillo braced herself and waited.
And waited.
“Are you doing it?” she asked.
“I’m thinking loudly.” Tomi asked. “You can’t hear anything?”
Castillo listened and then concentrated. “I . . . don’t think so.”
Tomi gave up. “I feel stupid now.”
“No. It was worth a try, right?”
“I better go. I’ve wasted enough of your time. I don’t know why I brought any of this to you.”
“No. I’m glad that you did. I . . . don’t know what to do with this information now.” She thought about it, and then her gaze swept to the children pinned up on the corkboard. “Do you think that they could still be engaged in doing this?”
Tomi followed Castillo’s line of vision and then looked horror-stricken. “But . . . they’re so young.”
“We’ve got to find out more about these people. And we need to talk to Abrianna.”
Tomi shook her head. “I think we need to hold off on telling Abrianna any of this. I talked to her briefly about that Charlie dude, and she didn’t take it well. Maybe we hold off until we know for sure what’s going on and whether we’re still being monitored.”
* * *
Abrianna woke up in an empty bed. After she sat up and looked around, she heard the television on in the living room. Quietly, she climbed to her feet and wrapped the top sheet around her body before shuffling into the living room. She smiled at Kadir sitting on the couch, but then saw what had captured his undivided attention. “Catching up on the news?”
Startled, Kadir snapped to attention and shut off the television.
Abrianna leaned against the wall at the junction of the living room and hallway.
He looked as if he’d been caught watching porn in the middle of the night by a nagging wife. “Hey, I didn’t know that you were up.” He stood. “I was getting ready to come back to bed.”
“Please. You don’t have to on my account.”
They stared at each other for a long moment.
Abrianna lowered her gaze to her feet.
“I’ve spent a long time trying to get away from that man, and it hasn’t worked. I’ve done everything that you can imagine to blur him out and numb him away, but . . . he’s one of the monsters that never go away. He laughs at me. He taunts me. But most of all, he hurts me. I’m not surprised that they dug him and his bullshit up. At least they managed to save those kids—something that I was too chickenshit to do.” Abrianna sniffed, but didn’t bother drying her tears.
Kadir took care of those with the pads of his thumbs. He half expected her to push him away and insist that she was fine when she was everything but. Instead she surprised him by melting against his chest and sobbing like a little girl.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. He had no idea whether that was true or not, but he was going to do his best to protect her.
PART FOUR
Daddy Dearest
40
Scandal-riddled Capitol Hill kept political pundits working overtime. Everyone acknowledged that the time clock was ticking for whether the President Kate Washington would issue a blanket pardon for former President Walker, or would she allow a murder trial to move forward and wait until after a jury’s decision before issuing the pardon? No one took the long odds bet on believing that an actual former president would be thrown behind bars.
No one.
James Crystal, a former political campaign manager who had never actually won a campaign, remained a staple on the Sunday morning talk shows spewing out predictions that never came true; he wasted no time telling the world that Walker would never see the inside of a courtroom.
“The feds have no case,” he said, as he laughed at everyone’s hysteria. “They aren’t going to waste taxpayers’ time by building a case around the word and supposed evidence produced by an ex-stripper-slash-call girl. What world are we living in?”
“But what about Judge Sanders’s confession?” host Chuck Horton asked.
“The judge confessed that she killed Speaker Reynolds. She offered no proof other than her word that the White House was involved. And note that she never mentioned President Walker by name. She said the White House. Hell, there are hundreds of folks who work at the White House. It could be any one of them who didn’t want to see the president impeached because of his alleged dalliances in Brazil. I’m telling you, the attorney general is probably pulling her hair out on this one. If President Washington goes ahead and pulls the trigger on a pardon, she can move on to the real big fish like Cargill Parker—father of said ex-stripper-slash-call girl.” He laughed. “No one can make this stuff up.”
Horton shook his head. “I’m going to have to agree with you on that one.”
* * *
In the private quarters of the White House, Kate jabbed the mute button and bolted out of bed with a huff. “That damned James Crystal. He’s always spouting off!” She paced angrily around the bedroom.
Davidson, reclined in the bed, slid his right arm behind his head and flashed her a goofy smile. “Will you relax? No one listens to Crystal’s ass. He’s the master chef of word salad. You’re in the clear.”
Kate shook her head, unable to ease the knot in her chest. This was usually a sign that she’d forgotten or missed something.
After watching her for another minute, Davidson huffed and climbed out of bed. He stepped in the path of her pacing and then pulled her stiff body into his arms. “You’re overthinking things again. We’re the only two people who know the truth. Relax. I say wait another week and issue Walker the pardon, and then focus on gathering your team for the election campaign in a couple of months. It’s over. We did it.”
She desperately wanted to believe him, but she was too much of a realist and perfectionist. She didn’t want a single string left dangling. “I don’t know about issuing that pardon so soon.”
“Soon?” He laughed. “The whole world is wondering why you haven’t done it already. Myself included.”
Kate clamped her jaw tight.
“Now I know that you and Daniel used to have a thing that went sour and you may be reveling in a bit of schadenfreude right now, but if you ask me, it’s time for you to get off of Team Petty and stop dangling Daniel in the wind.”
Kate firmly pushed out of Davidson’s arms. “Oh. Are you feeling sorry for your boy?”
He dropped his arms and sighed.
“Where was this prick of consciousness when you were worming your way into my bed?”
“My bad. I didn’t know that you revered your
position as the president’s side chick so much, especially since so many were already wearing that uniform.”
Kate slapped him.
Davidson sighed. He let the assault slide, but still spoke truth to power. “That right there is going to be your downfall,” he warned.
Her chin came up. Was he threatening her?
“Your emotions,” he added. “You need to get your emotions out of this and go back to thinking logically, strategically, and politically. Walker is defeated. Even if he lives to be a hundred years old, he will die in disgrace. That has to be enough.”
Kate heard him, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to listen.
41
Office of the Washington Post
Editor Martin Bailey looked up from his desk the moment Tomi’s foot crossed into his office. “What do we know about Cargill Parker?”
“Excuse me?” she asked, caught off guard.
Bailey removed his reading glasses. “Cargill Parker—the escort girl’s father? Next to your president’s murder conspiracy—he’s the second hottest story in D.C.”
“Adoptive father.”
He frowned. “Are we splitting hairs?”
“No . . . I was clarifying.”
Bailey nodded. “Uh-huh. Anyway, like I was saying, hot story. We need to get on it.”
Tomi sighed.
“What? What am I missing?”
“Don’t you think that’s it’s a hell of a coincidence that all of this about Cargill Parker happens to come out now?”
“Nothing surprises me in this town, especially not some entitled billionaire running a child sex-trafficking ring at an exclusive boy’s club.”
“Allegedly,” Tomi said.
“You are splitting hairs with me,” Bailey said. “Stop it. I need for you to put on your reporter’s cap. There’s another story here. You should tell the whole thing before somebody else does. Mrs. Parker was here yesterday, right?”
“Yeah.”
Her editor waited for her to connect the dots.
“I’ve already asked Marion Parker for an interview.”
“And?” he asked anxiously.
“And . . . she didn’t say no. I have to do something for her first.”
“Great!” He slapped his hands. “You’re on a roll, Ms. Lehane. Keep it up. You’ll be the first rookie reporter to win a Pulitzer. Every outlet wants to talk to Marion Parker, and she just waltzed in here yesterday and you didn’t tell me anything. But I should’ve known that I could count on you.”
“The story is the White House attempting to muddy waters by launching a character assassination. They wanted to shift public opinion on Abrianna—to something sick and seedy. If they can do that, then maybe you can cast doubts on her version of events. It’s so transparent.”
Bailey winked. “See? Now you’re talking like a reporter instead of a lawyer. Get on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But interview Marion Parker first,” he added before she could slip out of the door.
Tomi gave him a mock salute. “You got it, boss.”
* * *
FCI Petersburg Low prison
An angry Cargill Parker strolled into a lime-colored cinder-block room in his bright orange jumpsuit to meet with his long-time, expensive lawyer, Peter Lautner.
Lautner, a mid-sixties Italian-American, met his stone-faced client with an affable smile and firm handshake. “Glad to see that you’re in good health.”
Cargill lifted a brow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Lautner blanched even though his two-shades-too-dark spray tan did its best to cover it up. “I mean, the guards are treating your fair, right?”
That wasn’t what he meant. Inmates who were accused of abusing children were pariahs and targets. Both were well aware of that. However, Parker’s billions provided a hell of a protective layer.
“Why am I still here?” Cargill asked. “It’s been two weeks.”
“Politics,” Lautner answered. His client always wanted shit straight, no chaser. “The climate is bad with this presidential murder scandal. Everyone is covering their asses to appear tough on crime and they aren’t showing special favors toward a billionaire donor who put a few coins in their election pockets.”
“I give them coins for special favors. That’s the whole point. That’s the system.”
“I know. I’m working on it. The prosecution is getting a lot of mileage on your being a flight risk. You owning a jet and homes in countries that don’t extradite to the U.S. also doesn’t help.”
Cargill was not accustomed to not getting his way. Heat rose and colored his face bright red. “The last time I checked your itemized overbilling, I don’t pay for excuses or incompetence. If the prosecutor is the problem, then you get me another one. I don’t care what it costs. I don’t give a damn if you have to go all the way up to the U.S. attorney general. If it’s the judge, you get me another fucking judge. I want a fucking successful bail hearing, or I’ll get an attorney who can.”
Lautner’s chin came up from the verbal attack and threat.
Cargill wasn’t finished. “And don’t get too cocky thinking because you know where a few of my secrets are buried that you’re irreplaceable. There is no such thing.”
Conceding and tucking his pride back between his legs, Lautner flashed another smile. “Message received.”
“Good. You have twenty-four hours.” He stood, ending the conversation.
Lautner waited until Cargill reached the door before asking, “Aren’t you interested in the latest with Abrianna?”
Cargill stopped short of knocking for the guard. “I saw her on TV for about ten minutes the other day.”
“Yeah. She’s been waging a press campaign to get this Muslim guy who helped her out while she was on the run released.”
“I read about him in the paper. An ex-con, right?”
Lautner nodded. “He’s supposedly some sort of computer genius turned hacker.”
“I’m already bored,” Cargill said. “Where is she?”
“Right now, she’s with the Muslim. Her campaign was successful. He was released yesterday.”
“Fuck. She’s a better lawyer than you, Lautner. Maybe I should enlist her to get me out of here.”
Lautner chuckled. “No offense, Cargill, but you have a better chance of seeing pigs fly. I’ll stay on it, especially since she’s alluding that abuse took place in her childhood. Surely it’s a matter of time before prosecutors on your case are going to try and rope her in as a character witness.”
“She wouldn’t dare,” Cargill dismissed.
“How on earth can you be so sure? She’s not a child anymore. And not to speak out of turn, she hasn’t been under your thumb for a while.”
“I know my daughter. We share a special bond . . . whether she likes it or not. She’ll keep her mouth shut because I’m not the only person in the family with buried secrets.”
42
Tomi put all thoughts of T4S away and focused on her work. Right now she debated whether to tell Abrianna about doing an interview with her parents. It was her job to follow the story wherever it led. Every reporter in town was digging into the Parkers’ luxurious closets. However, there was such a thing called loyalty, but did she owe it to Abrianna?
Tomi researched Abrianna’s mysterious and allegedly criminal father. She learned that the oil tycoon Cargill Parker had earned his wealth and prestige the old-fashioned way: He inherited it. However, Cargill’s father, Duke Lynnwood Parker, founder of Parker Petroleum Industries, was, up until he passed away, the richest man in Houston. Duke Parker was the embodiment of the American dream. After serving in the Korean War and putting himself through college on the GI bill, Duke took his first job in the energy industry in the late fifties. A decade later, he left the company with fifteen thousand dollars, two propane delivery trucks, and a dream.
When Duke died, his vast fortune was passed down to his son. Cargill owned a number of homes around the world and ha
d all the billionaire toys: private islands, private jets, yachts, and privates country clubs. The one thing that interested him, outside of his big boy toys, was politics. Tomi found articles where Cargill entertained running for the highest office, but she couldn’t figure out what had changed the oilman’s mind to instead play political sugar daddy to politicians who advanced his political interests. When Tomi researched Marion Parker, she hit a brick wall. There were numerous trophy-wife pictures of her attending a fund-raiser or charity, some of her pleading for her daughter Abrianna’s safe return, both six years ago and recently during the Reynolds murder manhunt. Other than those, there was nothing. She wasn’t even included in Cargill’s Wikipedia page . . . but neither was Abrianna.
The Parkers had six homes across the country and three outside of it. Cargill Parker had vast investments in companies and holdings, and then there was the ton of philanthropy and charity work that made him look like an upstanding citizen. There were reams of articles relating to his and Marion’s desperate search for Abrianna. Tomi clicked through the sad pictures and press conferences they’d held over the years. But she could find very little on the exclusive Lynnwood Club and nothing at all on the Dragons Templar.
Tomi turned away from her computer, frustrated.
“No luck?” Jayson inquired.
“Nothing interesting that I can use.”
“Go and interview the wife. I don’t get what the problem is.”
“Marion wants to see Abrianna first. That was the deal—and I can’t get her on the phone.”
“C’mon. You can bullshit your way through that.”
“Yeah, but I can’t shake the feeling that it would be crossing a line of trust with Bree.”
“So you’re not doing a hot story because you don’t want to upset your friend?”
“We’re not friends,” Tomi corrected.
“Oh yeah? Then what are you?”
“We’re . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Something in between acquaintances and friends? I have no idea what that space is called.”
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