by Dick Yaeger
A half dozen hands shot up.
“Look here, folks. Bill’s the expert, so ask your questions of him after the meeting.”
Bill waved and the hands went down.
“That’s all I have right now. We’ll talk more in a few days. For those of you who are members of the rally committee, stick around for a few minutes. Leonard has a few things to say.”
Half the room followed Bill to a back corner. The other half moved to the front rows. Pablo and I joined them. Lenny stood beside the podium.
“We’ve got a new attendee,” he began, “who thinks we’re doing a lousy job. Sara Ward, hold up your hand.”
Shit. He called my bluff.
I raised my hand. Ten people turned toward me. Now I recognized a few from the Guadalupe River Park rally.
“Sara, tell us what we’re doing wrong.”
The bastard smiled warmly.
I stood up and cleared my throat. “Well . . . you all got no press coverage. I’d never have known you even existed if I hadn’t bumped into you at a little-known park beside the river. First off, you need more people, lots more. Get the campaign donor lists and call everyone. Start a Facebook page promoting upcoming events and their locations. Call the press and TV. Let them know what’s happening and how important it is.” I paused, thinking. “A few of you playact the opponents. Make some gun-rights and NRA posters. Yell at each other. Hell, stage a few simple fights. Don’t hurt anyone, but make it lively enough to warrant thirty seconds on the late news.”
Everyone was nodding. Maybe I was in the wrong job. Should help to put me in the good graces with Lenny, however.
“That’s terrific, Sara. Who would like to follow up with Sara’s ideas?”
They looked at me. I shook my head vigorously and waved both hands, palms out.
“I’ll do it,” one girl said, her hand waving in the air. It was the girl from the Altman shooting.
“No, Carol,” Lenny said. “You’ve done enough already, and you shouldn’t be talking with the press anyway.”
Someone in the front row held a hand up halfway, seeming reluctant. “Thanks, Manny,” Lenny said, anointing him before he could change his mind.
The meeting dissolved as people gathered around the poor schmuck. Never volunteer, I reminded myself.
“Nice to have met you,” I said to Pablo as we stood to leave. I put out my hand.
“Me too, Señorita.”
We shook, and I pointed to the Toga and Dagger on his forearm.
“I like your tat. Leonard has one just like it.” I held his hand and examined it closer.
“It is sign of Frumentarii, protectors of Julius Caesar.”
“Fascinating.” Not quite right, but close.
“All of Senator Evans’ security have one.”
“But you said you worked for Jacob Horowitz.”
“I do, but sometimes I volunteer to work part time for Captain Guillory.”
Captain Guillory! Holy crap.
“Were you a policeman in Guatemala?”
“No, but the captain is training us.”
I could imagine how that was going—hobnailed jackboots and batons.
“That’s exiting. What are your duties?”
“Right now, our job is simple. We keep lookout for people who might harm the senator.”
“Right now?”
“Later, when the law passes and everyone must register their guns, it will be a full-time job that pays good money.”
“Because?”
“The police will not enforce the law. The Frumentarii will work underground to find guns and report criminals.”
So this was Lenny’s motivation—to be the head of Senator Blake Evans’ very own Gestapo. The ghost of Heinrich Himmler was alive in Silicon Valley. Hell, it probably explained the connection to Jewish schools.
“I wish you luck, Pablo.”
“Thank you, Señorita.”
I felt sorry for Pablo. Because he’d lost his sister, he’d been duped. I wished I could help, but I feared the worse.
I hurried into Evans’ suite and interrupted him talking with his secretary.
“A few seconds, Senator?”
“Sure, Sara.” He dismissed his secretary with a flick of his wrist, and I followed him into his office.
“How are things going? Is Maria being helpful?”
“She’s wonderful, but knew nothing of an expense item on the books for CAIV.” His face was expressionless. “She said it was a favorite charity of yours.”
“It is. The Committee Against Indigent Violence.”
“I could find no public reference to it. What does it do?”
“It lobbies against indigent violence.” He didn’t crack a smile.
Perfect political doublespeak. I raised my eyebrows and tilted my head, asking for more. He said nothing.
I pursed my lips. “I see.”
“You know, Sara,” he said, “one of the reasons I hired you was because your background suggested you wouldn’t pry into trivial matters of no consequence.”
I forced a grin. “I understand, sir.”
“Please ask Lily to come in as you leave.”
I turned to walk away, and then stopped.
“One more thing, Senator.”
“Yes.”
“I was talking with Pablo, one of your security volunteers.”
“Is he? I don’t know him personally. Leonard takes care of all that and does a fine job.”
“I wanted to ask . . .” I saw nothing in his face that suggested he gave a shit about what I might have learned from Pablo. “I wanted to mention how loyal Pablo seems. If you could possibly—”
“Good idea, Sara. A personal touch. I’ll ask Leonard to arrange a reward of some kind.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I walked into the hallway and stopped, replaying the conversation. No doubt in my mind that Evans was a crook of some kind. Misuse of government funds? Phony charity? Embezzler? It didn’t matter. I made a mental note to gather more evidence and expose him when the current job was finished. Was he also the mastermind behind Lenny’s gang of secret police? He had to be.
“You surprised me, Sara,” Lenny said from behind, startling me. “You’re gonna be a big asset to Blake’s goal.”
“I ain’t gonna be anything to anyone, pal.”
“You looked like there was more you wanted to say.”
Right. I wanted to say what an asshole he was, but it offered an opportunity to appeal to Lenny’s violent history.
“I thought for a moment about suggesting that the best way to get the press’s attention is to break some windows, set a couple cars on fire, beat up some opponents, maybe send a couple to the hospital.”
He smiled and walked away.
I had just settled into my car when my cell rang—Frank O’Farrell.
“Hi, Frank.”
“Sorry about cancelling dinner yesterday. We were pretty busy.”
“No problem. Bubba stood in for you.”
“Your tip about the school staff replacements sent us all scurrying about for hours.”
Damn. I hadn’t made the connection.
“Did you get them?”
“Yes and no, but they’re not in custody yet.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“Why don’t you let me collect a raincheck for dinner, and I can fill you in on everything.”
I felt somewhat guilty about not recognizing he had a good reason for cancelling.
“Okay, but let me cook.”
“Uhhh, I feel like I should—”
“Something simple. More wine than food.”
“All right, then. I’d like that.”
An air of easiness in his reply encouraged me.
“See you at seven.”
A romantic dinner with shoptalk of terrorists and murdered children was untenable for most citizens, but seemed typical of my social life. Candlelight and soft music were inappropriate. My personal life blended
too much with my work. I’d often thought about changing the conflict. If I ever found a guy without his feet encased in the cement of law-and-order, it would have to change. I wondered where the engineers that swarmed Silicon Valley hung out?
I had stopped by The Fish Market on the way home and purchased three pounds of littleneck clams, intent on steaming them. After a shower, I selected a simple skirt and blouse. Leaving the top two buttons undone with no bra were my sole concessions to feminine allure. With my hair down, minimum makeup, and barefoot, I felt uninhibited when the front bell rang.
Frank held out a mixed bouquet of pink and red roses in his right hand. Were FBI guys even required to wear a suit and tie on dates?
“I read that pink roses carry a message of admiration,” he said, grinning. “They also say, ‘Thank you.’”
“And what about the red ones?”
“They say, ‘You’re looking lovely tonight.’” He paused for a moment before continuing. “I made that one up.”
“I bet they teach you that at Quantico?”
“No.” He pulled a bottle of red wine from behind his back with his left hand. “But they do teach us to party.”
I rummaged through bottles of cleansers under the sink until I found my lone flower vase. Frank opened and poured the wine while I arranged the roses on the kitchen table. We sat down.
“To terrorists,” he toasted. “May they never cross our path again.”
“Unless they’re in our crosshairs.”
Our glasses clinked.
“So what’s happened in the last forty-eight?” I asked.
“Well, your tip was terrific. We had both names from the schools within minutes.”
“You get them?”
“The Canadian Border Service caught the Altman shooter trying to cross the border in a wooded area northeast of Seattle. It’ll be thirty-six hours to clear the paperwork and transport him to San Jose. The First Commandment guy, however, is in the wind. It’s been ten months, so he’s had plenty of time to go underground, maybe leave the country.”
“You sure they’re the right guys?”
“The Altman guy is a slam dunk. Lots of fingerprints and DNA prospects in the janitor’s quarters at Altman. A .223 round found under an old sofa will nail his coffin shut when the forensics are finished.”
“And First Commandment?”
“Nothing. He came and went without talking to anyone. Probably western Asia. Speaks okay English with a heavy accent. Muslim. Prayed at regular intervals. School wasn’t too happy with his performance as a gardener. He used the school’s tools, broke a shovel, and left no prints. Crime scene guys are still working, but doesn’t look promising.”
“Is he in your database?”
“Not on the watch list, and no record of entering or exiting the US, so he’s bona-fide illegal. Only social media presence was a couple blog comments on a neo-Nazi website. If he’s using a phony name, even that’s worthless.”
I sighed. This wasn’t going to make Aaron Horowitz happy.
“Did you get the Cal Trabajo connection?”
A deep crease appeared on his forehead. “The placement agency?”
“Yeah, both shooters were placed from Cal Trabajo.”
He stared at me, speechless, for what seemed an eternity. “How’d you know about that?”
It took a while to tell the story of how I came to work for Cal Trabajo, my obsession with Lenny, and his goal to become the head of Evans’ secret police. I left nothing out, giving my opinion of Maria’s innocence and speculation that the senator was transferring public money from Cal Trabajo to CAIV, probably for campaign financing. We finished the wine. I started the clams, prepared the salad, and sliced a loaf of sourdough.
“That’s quite a story,” he said, opening a German Riesling that I’d chilled.
“Braklin’s following up with Cal Trabajo, I assume.”
“Right, but I don’t know the current status.” He stopped, a forkful of Caesar salad halfway between his mouth and the plate. “You said Altman Elementary was the last client that Cal Trabajo placed?”
“It was near the end, but not last.”
“Any schools after it?”
“Oh my God!” I knew what he was thinking. “I only checked for those with ‘school’ in their name.”
“Did you find others, even before Altman?”
“Yeah, several.”
“How far before? Days, weeks, months?”
“I didn’t pay attention.”
He poked a number on his phone and waited. “Pick up . . . pick up . . . pick up.” I saw the veins in his neck throbbing, and hear the muffled ringing. Then it stopped and someone answered. He jumped up from the table and began pacing. “You been to Cal Trabajo yet? . . . Well, get over there now,” he barked. “Check if they’ve placed anyone else at schools . . . Shit, wake her up, knock down her fucking door, and drag her out of bed . . . Check back at least a year for sleepers . . . And call me tonight. Any time—it’s important.”
He hung up and sat down at the table. Our eyes met. I felt ill.
“I screwed up bad, didn’t I?”
“We’ll see.”
There was nothing else we could do. I washed the dishes and threw out half the uneaten dinner—our appetite had vanished. Thoughts of romance went into the garbage as well. A third bottle of wine remained untouched after opening. We waited, made small talk, and took a walk around the block. We turned the TV on for the late news and then a late network comedy guy who wasn’t funny. We sat on the sofa, glassy-eyed, watching early morning, black-and-white reruns of I Love Lucy.
Sometime between one and two a.m., Frank’s cell rang. He turned on the speaker and held it out so I could hear. I clicked the TV off as Lucy stuffed her mouth full of chocolates.
“I’m here with Hunter. Go ahead.”
I held my breath.
Braklin paused. “Cal Trabajo placed temps at eight schools over the last year. We woke up a lot of pissed-off school principals and administrators by phone or banging on their front doors.”
“And?”
“They all said the temps had left and their regular staff were back at work.”
“Thank God,” Frank mumbled.
“It seems there was a rash of flu the last few months.”
I exhaled.
“Thanks, Dick,” I said. “I knew about Cal Trabajo yesterday. Should have told you then. I’m sorry.”
“You and O’Farrell hanging out together?”
“Right. I wanted an update, so I made dinner.”
“Steamed clams?”
I smiled. “Yeah.”
“Thanks again, Dick,” Frank said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I sank into the sofa and laid my head on his shoulder. He put his arm around me and whispered, “We dodged a bullet.”
“Don’t talk to me any more about bullets.”
We sat in the quiet, both wide-awake, not moving, listening to each other breathe.
“Damn,” he suddenly said, sitting up straight. “I forgot something in the car.”
He rushed out the front door, leaving it open to the cold night air, but returned quickly and handed me two gift-wrapped boxes.
“For you.”
“Wow. Flowers, wine, and now presents. Must be my birthday.”
The larger box was a dark blue FBI jacket.
“You remembered,” I said and gave him a light kiss and hard hug.
The other box was an FBI ball cap.
The trauma of the evening was forgotten. I put both on and spun around, modeling them for him. The jacket was big, but the cap fit perfectly.
He smiled broadly, nodding. “They look a little out of place with that short skirt.”
“Easy to fix.” I scurried into the bedroom and returned quickly, standing in the bedroom doorway, feet spread with hands on my hips. “Is this better?”
“Absolutely perfect.”
“Maybe needs a gun as an accessory?”
&nb
sp; “Don’t add anything.”
I was wearing only the jacket and ball cap.
T he sound of my cell phone vibrating on the wooden bedside table was deafening. My head throbbed. I wasn’t ready to get out of bed. I rolled over on my stomach and pulled the pillow over my head hoping, it would stop. It didn’t. It vibrated off the nightstand and kept buzzing, but quieter on the carpet.
I squinted over the edge of the bed at it lying next to an empty bottle of German Riesling and an FBI ball cap. It glared back at me with bold white numbers—9:36 a.m. Damn, how could I have been that dead asleep this late in the morning? I picked it up and tried to focus my thoughts.
“Yeah, hullo” I grumbled, my eyes closed against the sunlight flooding the room.
“Sara, this is Leonard Guillory,” the unexpected voice said. “You sound a little funny.”
My eyes opened wide. I ignored the ache in my eyeballs to look closer at the phone. Sara Ward’s number had been forwarded.
I sat up on the edge of the bed.
“Mouthful of oatmeal.” I cleared my throat. “How the hell did you get my number, Lenn . . . Leonard?”
“Senator Evans gave it to me. He said you wouldn’t mind.”
O’Farrell moved. I turned to see him struggle onto his elbow, facing me. “What time is it?” he whispered in a rasping tone.
I gave him a stern look, shook my head, and put my index finger to my lips.
“Someone there with you?” Lenny asked.
“Yeah. A friend.” I could almost picture him grinning, but my thinking wasn’t out of first gear long enough to conjure up a snarky response.
“Why the call, Leonard?”
“I need your help.”
I leaned toward O’Farrell and held the phone away from my ear so he could hear.
“I ain’t gonna be your rally chairman.”
“Nah, not that. This is simple. One of our other members was gonna do it, but she got the flu and I need a replacement kinda in a hurry.”