Ties That Bind aj-2

by Phillip Margolin

  "What do you want?" Whipple asked, genuinely puzzled and anxious for Northwood to leave before Jerry arrived.

  Whipple's visitor looked grim. "I'm afraid that I'm the bearer of bad news. May I come in?"

  Whipple hesitated, then led Northwood into the living room and motioned him into a seat. The lawyer leaned back, crossing his right leg over his left to expose freshly polished wingtips.

  "It's Mr. Freemont," Northwood said. "He's not coming."

  Whipple was confused. The lawyer looked solemn. "He was a fine investigator, Senator. He found the memo proving that several biotech companies contributed millions to a secret slush fund that Harold Travis is using to defeat the anti-cloning bill. Mr. Freemont also had pictorial and audio evidence that would have made a very persuasive case for criminal charges against Senator Travis and others. Unfortunately for you, he no longer has this evidence--we do."

  Whipple was truly bewildered. He had no idea how Northwood knew about Jerry Freemont's assignment.

  "It's all very perplexing, isn't it?" Northwood said. "You're expecting your investigator to bring you the key to your presidential nomination, and I show up instead." He dipped his head in mock sympathy. "But surely you didn't think that my principals would just stand by quietly while you put us out of business?"

  The lawyer's condescension sparked Whipple's anger. He was a powerful man, feared by many, and he was not going to be patronized.

  "Where is Jerry Freemont?" he demanded, rising to his full height so that he towered over the lawyer. Northwood was not fazed.

  "I advise you to sit down," Whipple's visitor said. "You're in for a fairly strong shock."

  "Listen, you two-bit shyster, you've got ten seconds to tell me where Jerry is before I beat it out of you."

  "Let me show you," Northwood said as he pulled a snapshot out of his pocket and set it on the coffee table that separated him from the senator. "He was very brave. I want you to know that. It took several hours to convince him to tell us where he was hiding the evidence."

  Whipple was stunned. The photograph showed a man, barely recognizable as Jerry Freemont, suspended in air by a length of chain that bound his wrists. It was impossible to tell where the shot had been taken, but the bare beams and peaked roof suggested a barn. Only Freemont's torso and head were visible in the shot, but the cuts and burns on his body could be seen clearly.

  "Not a pretty sight," Northwood sighed. "But you need to know that my clients are very serious when they say that they will stop at nothing to achieve their ends."

  Whipple could not tear his eyes from the photograph. Jerry Freemont was a tough ex-state trooper, a dear friend who had been with the senator since his first run at political office twenty years earlier. Whipple's features suffused with rage, and his muscles bunched for action. Then he froze. Northwood was pointing a gun at his heart.

  "Sit," he said. Whipple hesitated for a moment. Northwood dropped two more photographs on the coffee table. The blood drained from the senator's face.

  "Your wife is a very handsome woman, and your granddaughter looks charming. She's five, isn't she?"

  "What have you . . . ?"

  "No, no. They're perfectly fine. If you cooperate, there will be absolutely nothing to worry about."

  Whipple's hands curled into fists but he stayed where he was, seething with impotent fury.

  "Please don't force me to shoot you, Senator. That wouldn't be good for you or my principals. And it certainly wouldn't save your family. If you think we'll forget about them once you're dead, you're mistaken."

  Whipple felt his strength and anger drain out of him. He slumped back onto his chair.

  "If you do as we say, you and your family will be safe."

  "What do you want?" Whipple asked. He sounded completely defeated.

  Northwood stood up. "Twenty years is a long time to be in politics, Senator. Maybe this would be a good time to retire so you can spend more time with your family. And you can do something for mankind as well by making certain that the anti-cloning bill doesn't make it out of your committee. There are some very fine companies trying to develop cures for disease through the use of cloning technology. When you think about how many sick people those companies can help I'm sure you'll see that your previous position on the bill was a mistake."

  Northwood pocketed the photographs. "Do we understand each other, Senator?"

  Whipple stared at the top of the coffee table. After a moment he nodded.

  "I'm glad," Northwood said, sounding genuinely pleased. "Good evening."

  Whipple listened to the clack of Northwood's shoes as he crossed the parquet floor of the foyer, undid the latch, and stepped outside. He heard the front door swing shut--a sound that signaled the end of a lifelong dream.

  Chapter Two.

  Amanda Jaffe stroked hard and felt her body rise as she cut through the water in the YMCA pool. This was the final fifty of a two hundred-meter workout leg, and she was going as hard as she could. For a moment, she felt like she was flying instead of swimming, then the far wall appeared and she jackknifed her body into a flip turn. Amanda came out of it perfectly and dug in for the final twenty-five meters. She was a tall woman with broad shoulders and well-muscled arms that moved her forward with grace and speed. Seconds later, she crashed against the wall and came up gasping for air.

  "Not bad."

  Amanda looked up, startled. A man crouched on the edge of the pool with a stopwatch in his hand. He had messy auburn hair and looked to be in his early thirties--somewhere around her age. His build marked him as a competitive swimmer. Despite his cheery grin and pleasant features, Amanda backed away from the wall to put space between them.

  "Want to know your time?"

  Amanda tried to ignore the sliver of fear that cut through her gut. She was still too winded to speak, so she nodded warily. When the man told her the time, Amanda couldn't believe it. She hadn't swum that fast in years.

  "I'm Toby Brooks." He motioned toward the first two lanes where several men and women of various ages were churning the water. "I'm with the Masters swim team."

  "Amanda Jaffe," she managed, fighting to tamp down her fear.

  "Nice to meet you." Suddenly Brooks looked puzzled. Then he snapped his fingers. "Jaffe. Right!" Amanda was certain he was going to mention one of her cases. "UC Berkeley about 1993?"

  Amanda's eyes widened from surprise, relieved that Brooks was not going to make her relive the recent past. "'92, but that's pretty good. How'd you know?"

  "I swam for UCLA. You won the two hundred free at the Pac-10s, right?"

  Amanda smiled despite herself. "You have some memory."

  "My girlfriend at the time was one of the women you beat. She was really upset. You sure ruined my plans for the evening."

  "Sorry," Amanda said. She felt uncomfortable with Brooks so close.

  Brooks grinned. "No need to be. We weren't getting on that well, anyway. So, what happened after the Pac-10s?"

  "Nationals. Then I quit. I was pretty burned out by my senior year. I stayed away from pools for about five years after I graduated."

  "Me, too. I ran for a while until my joints started to ache. I just got back into competitive swimming."

  Brooks stopped talking and Amanda knew he was waiting for her to continue the conversation.

  "So, do you work at the Y?" she asked for something to say.

  "No. I'm an investment banker."

  "Oh," Amanda said, embarrassed. "I thought you were coaching the team."

  "I swim on the team and help out. Our coach is out sick today. Which reminds me. I put the clock on you for a reason. Ever thought about competing again? The Masters program is pretty low-key. We've got a good spread in our age groups--late twenties to three swimmers in their eighties. We could use someone with your experience."

  "Thanks, but I have no interest in competing."

  "Could have fooled me, the way you went at that last two hundred."

  Amanda knew that Brooks was just t
rying to be friendly, but he just made her anxious. To her relief, he glanced over at the far lanes where a group of Masters swimmers had gathered along the wall. He stood up.

  "Duty calls. It was nice meeting you, Amanda. Let me know if you change your mind about joining the team. We'd love to have you."

  Brooks walked back to his charges. Amanda sank low in the water, leaned her head against the edge of the pool, and closed her eyes. Anyone watching would think that she was recovering from her swim, but Amanda was really fighting to keep her fear in check. She told herself that Brooks was just being friendly and that she had nothing to worry about, but she still felt anxious.

  Little more than a year ago, she had almost died solving a horrifying series of murders committed by a surgeon at St. Francis Medical Center. She had never fully recovered from the experience. Before the Cardoni case, swimming was a sure way to relax. That didn't always work now. Amanda thought about trying another hard two hundred, but she didn't have the mental or physical energy to swim another lap. The encounter with Brooks had drained her.

  Chapter Three.

  The caterers were packing up and the band had already left when Harold Travis said good-bye to the last of the guests who were not on the special-contributors list. Those four men were lounging in the den, smoking Cuban cigars and sipping 1934 Taylor Fladgate port. They were also making the acquaintance of some special ladies who were going to give them an erotic thank-you for their illegal campaign contributions to the man who would soon be the Republican nominee for president of the United States.

  The fund-raiser had been held in the countryside, miles from Portland, in a seventeen-thousand-square-foot octagonal house; one of four owned by the chairman of the board of a California biotech company, who was in the master bedroom with a stunning Eurasian beauty. Moments after the taillights of the caterer's van faded away, Travis nodded to one of several bodyguards who had moved among the guests inconspicuously during the evening. When the guard began speaking into his cell phone, Travis crossed the lawn and lay down on a lounge chair at the edge of the swimming pool. The house lights reflected in the dark water, floating ghostlike in the ripples caused by the breeze. It was the senator's first moment alone in hours, and he savored the quiet.

  All of the party's biggest contributors were lining up now that Chester Whipple was out of the race. If the newspapers had been caught off guard by his sudden withdrawal, they were stunned by the vote he'd used to block the anti-cloning bill, which he had supported with religious fervor. Whipple's supporters were forced to back Travis now, if they wanted to have any influence in the White House. The senator was making it easy for them. He had fought the anti-cloning bill behind the scenes, using front men to do the dirty work, and he was solidly conservative on most of the other issues Whipple's people favored.

  Travis closed his eyes and imagined his victory in November. The Democrats were in disarray. They didn't even have a clear front-runner in the primaries, let alone someone who would threaten him in the general election. The presidency was his for the taking.

  "They're pulling up, Senator."

  Travis had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had not heard the bodyguard approach. He followed the man to the front of the house. A black Porsche was just rounding the last turn in the long driveway. Travis grew hard with anticipation and did not notice Ally Bennett, a dark-haired woman in a short black evening dress, who also watched the arrival of the Porsche from the front door.

  When the car stopped, the bodyguard opened the passenger door, and Lori Andrews, a slender blonde, got out. She looked around nervously. The heat rose in the senator's cheeks and groin, making him feel like a horny teenager who was about to get laid for the first time.

  Jon Dupre, a handsome young man dressed in jeans, a tight black T-shirt, and a white silk jacket got out of the driver's side of the Porsche and walked over to Travis. Ally Bennett walked to his side and smiled at Lori.

  "Special delivery as requested, Senator," Dupre said, flashing a cocky smile.

  "Thank you, Jon."

  When Lori saw the senator, the blood drained from her face. Andrews was frail and tiny, and looked as if she'd just recently hit puberty, even though she was a mother in her early twenties. Lori's parents were hard-nosed farmers who had kicked her out when they learned that she was pregnant. She hadn't finished high school, she was not particularly bright, and her looks were all she had going for her. Jon Dupre had taken her off the streets, cleaned her and fed her, and added her to his stable, because he knew that she would do anything to keep her daughter, Stacey, safe and warm. Fear and necessity had made her Jon's slave, but that was going to change. She knew that she and Stacey would be free soon. Until that happened, she had to do what Jon commanded, but she never dreamed that Jon would make her go with the senator again, especially after the last time.

  Lori grabbed her pimp's sleeve. "Please, Jon."

  "What's the matter?" asked Ally Bennett as she slipped a miniature cassette into Dupre's hand. He pocketed it quickly.

  "He's the one," Lori said.

  Ally looked blank for a second. Then she understood. She stepped in front of Dupre, blocking his path to the senator.

  "You can't, Jon. Please," Ally begged.

  "It's out of my hands," Dupre answered.

  "You're a real bastard."

  Dupre looked embarrassed. Before he could answer, Travis said, "Aren't you supposed to be in the den?"

  Travis nodded to one of the bodyguards. "Get her out of here."

  The bodyguard took hold of Ally's elbow.

  "Let go of me," Ally said angrily. She tried to pull away but the guard's grip was too strong.

  "I'm sorry," Ally told Lori as she was led into the house.

  "I thought you were bringing your best girls," Travis snapped.

  "Ally is great," Dupre assured him. "She'll be terrific."

  "She'd better be," Travis said. Then he nodded to another man who had been quietly smoking in the shadows at the side of the house. The man walked into the light. He was dark-skinned, wiry, and of average height. His short-sleeved shirt showed off muscular arms covered by threatening tattoos. The man's face was flat and pockmarked; his brown eyes were lifeless. A slight mustache covered his upper lip.

  " Buenos noches,Lori," he said in a sweet voice that belied his hard looks. "Once again, I will be your driver."

  Lori's hand flew to her mouth.

  "Come, chiquita. "

  She cast a pleading look at Dupre, but he would not meet her eye.

  "What about one of the other girls," he suggested to Travis, a slight quaver in his voice.

  "Don't you have enough trouble without pissing me off?" the senator answered angrily before turning his back on Dupre and walking into the house.

  "Manuel," Dupre said to the man who was standing next to Lori, "can't you do anything?"

  "Who am I to stand in the way of true love?"

  "He's a fucking psycho," Dupre said, lowering his voice so that only he, Manuel, and Lori could hear. Manuel nodded his head toward Andrews.

  "She's just pussy, man. Harold is gonna be the head of the FBI, the CIA, the DEA, and a lot of other letters in the alphabet that can fuck up both of us. That's not a man you want to annoy."

  Reality set in and Dupre swallowed. When he turned to Lori, he tried to look reassuring.

  "I'm sorry, kid. There's nothing I can do."

  Lori looked sick. Manuel took her by the arm and led her toward a waiting car. As they faded into the dark, Dupre touched the cassette through the fabric of his coat. Manuel was right. He was out on bail, and his lawyer wasn't too sure about the outcome of his case. He needed friends in high places, and there wasn't any place higher than the White House.

  Harold Travis uncurled his clenched fists and noticed that they were covered in blood. How had that happened? He remembered the girl fleeing the bedroom. My, she was fast. Her little rump had been tight and her little breasts had jiggled when she jumped across the bed. H
e'd let her think she could get away before catching her in the living room. He remembered leaping over the couch and grabbing a fistful of hair, but the rest was a blur. Now, Andrews was sprawled on the floor, her head turned at an odd angle and surrounded by a halo of blood. What a waste.

  Travis closed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths. When he opened his eyes, he felt calmer and better able to evaluate the situation. No need to get excited, he convinced himself. This was just a tragic accident. The girl must have hit her head on the baseboard and snapped her neck or some such thing. Accidents happened every day. It wasn't his fault if the girl met with an accident. The phrase itself flooded him with relief. "Met with an accident" was exactly what she'd done. The little blonde was in the living room, and an accident was in the living room, and they'd met, that's all. It had nothing to do with him.