The Money Trail

by J. C. Fields

  “But they are on the boards of their respective banks, Mr. President. They offer a diverse view of world economics.”

  “Oh, for gawd sakes, Don, they’re figureheads at best. If you say anything like that to a reporter, you and this administration will be crucified by the media. The Attorney General is taking all of this information to a grand jury. Were you aware of that development?”

  Pittman paused and took a deep breath. “No, sir.”

  “Well, he is. Be in my office at 7:30 a.m. tomorrow. We have damage control to do.”

  The call ended abruptly without any pleasantries.

  “Sir, I could hear him this far from the phone,” Rector said. “He sounded angry. Is there a problem?”

  Pittman waved his hand and replied, “A misunderstanding. I’ll straighten it out in the morning.”

  “I hope so, sir. This sounds serious. Do I need to be there with you?”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Are you sure? I can clear my schedule.”

  “Positive.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s late, Colin. Go home, be with your family and get some sleep. Tomorrow might be a long day.”

  Rector stared at the vice president and after an awkward half-dozen seconds, replied, “Very well. You sure you’re okay?”

  Smiling, Pittman stood and walked around the desk to put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

  “Yes, Colin, I’m fine. There is obviously a major misunderstanding.”

  As soon as his Chief of Staff closed the door to Pittman’s office, the vice president walked to a credenza. He opened a door in the middle and extracted a bottle of Jack Daniels and a short crystal glass. He poured two fingers and downed them in one gulp. He poured two more fingers and returned to his desk with the bottle and glass. After sitting down and taking a sip of the bourbon, he opened the lower left-hand drawer of his desk. At the bottom of the drawer, under a thick stack of bound reports, resided a black metal box with a numeric lock. After extracting the reports, he punched in a six-digit code. When the box popped open, he withdrew a Glock 26 with a full clip next to it. He studied the gun for several minutes, then slowly loaded the ammunition and chambered a round. He twisted it left and then right in his hand. While he stared at the gun, he took several more gulps of his drink. Without thinking, he poured more of the amber liquid into the glass.

  Finally, after downing the rest of his third drink, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  Placing the barrel of the pistol under his chin, he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

  ***

  Sean and Stephanie strolled hand in hand, barefoot on a beach. The sound of waves coming ashore could be heard. A gentle breeze rustled her hair and he felt the sense of warm sand between his toes. The distant sound of a cell phone made itself present as he turned to her, “Do you hear a phone…?”

  The impression of holding her hand dissipated as the persistent sound brought him out of the dream. Glancing at the digital clock on the nightstand, he groaned. A call at 2:36 a.m. could not be good news.

  He grabbed the phone and croaked, “Kruger.”

  “Sean, it’s Ryan. Sorry to wake you.”

  “What happened?” The sound of a siren could be heard in the background. “Why the siren?”

  “I’m running Code 3 to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Yeah, from what I was told, Pittman committed suicide at his office desk. Cleaning crew found him about an hour ago.”

  Kruger heard the beep of another incoming call. He took the phone from his ear and glanced at the caller ID. Paul Stumpf’s personal cell phone number showed on the screen.

  “Ryan, I’ve got Stumpf calling. Get back to me after you know more at the scene.”

  “Got it.”

  Kruger answered Stumpf’s call. “I just heard.”

  “Clark?”

  “Yeah, he’s Code 3 heading to Pittman’s office. I can catch a plane in the morning and be there by noon.”

  Though Kruger couldn’t see the expression, Stumpf smiled. “Not why I called, I think you can be more helpful where you are.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, I want you and JR to dig deeper into Pittman’s finances. I believe it will take someone with JR’s talent to find the truth. Someone of Pittman’s stature doesn’t blow his brains out over having three Russians on a study group. I briefed the President yesterday with what you provided. However, I did leave the account in Dubai out of the conversation. He indicated he would discuss the advisory board members with Pittman. There’s something else there, Sean. It may be the money or it could be something totally different. I want to know.”

  “JR’s already on board.”

  “Good. Put him back on retainer. He can dictate his terms. I really don’t care what it costs.”

  “He’ll be reasonable.”

  “Like I said, I don’t care. I need you two working as a team again.”

  Kruger chuckled, “Consider it done.”

  The call ended and he laid back down, all thoughts of getting back to sleep gone as his mind raced on to next steps.

  Stephanie rolled over and put her arm over his chest. “That didn’t sound good. What happened?”

  “Vice President Pittman committed suicide in his office.”

  “Oh, dear. You’re not going to Washington?”

  Smiling, Kruger put his hand on her arm.

  “No, I’m staying here for a while. Paul believes there’s something in Pittman’s past that resulted in his taking this way out. I agree with him. JR doesn’t know it yet, but he’s just become one of those men in black suits he used to complain about.”

  Stephanie snuggled up to him and his arm automatically embraced her. She said, “Irony can be humorous sometimes.”

  “Yes, it can.”

  ***

  Most mornings found JR at his cubicle next to the conference room on the second floor of his building by 6 a.m. Today was no exception. While the Keurig spewed coffee into his mug, he turned on the three flat-screen monitors on his desk and started the process of bringing his computer terminal out of sleep mode. He was the only person in the building, or so he thought.

  As he turned to get his coffee, he saw Sean Kruger navigating the cubicle farm comprising the second floor. His presence did not surprise JR. The FBI agent possessed his own security access code to enter the building. And like JR, Kruger’s name and phone number were registered with the local police department as a contact to call should there be a break-in or emergency.

  JR sipped his coffee and then tilted his head at Kruger. “You here at six in the morning can’t be good.”

  “It isn’t. You’re on retainer again. Director’s orders.”

  “Huh.”

  “VP Pittman ate a bullet in his office last night. The director wants to know why.”

  “Huh.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like me.”

  “Annoying, isn’t it?”

  Kruger ignored the jab and continued, “Stumpf doesn’t believe someone like Pittman would commit suicide just because he got caught with three Russians on a committee. I agree with him. There has to be something more in his background besides the money.”

  Staring at a point on the far wall without blinking, JR sipped his coffee again. Kruger had seen this look before. JR was deep in thought. He walked past his friend to make his own cup of coffee.

  “Where’s the Mr. Coffee?”

  “Inside the credenza. No one except you cleans it and I got tired of looking at it.”

  “Huh.”

  Kruger picked a coffee pod, placed it in the Keurig’s receptacle and pushed the flashing blue light for a large cup of coffee.

  JR turned to watch his friend. “We missed something, didn’t we?”

  Kruger nodded without comment as he watched his coffee mug fill with the dark liquid.

  Sipping coffee again, JR sat down at his now-awake computer. Settin
g his mug aside, his hands flew over the keyboard.

  With the coffee mug full, Kruger took a sip, grimaced, turned and leaned against the credenza. He watched as JR did his magic.

  “What’re you thinking?”

  “Let’s start with the three Russians.”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

  Chapter 7

  Washington, D.C.

  Two Days Later

  Roy Griffin’s office resided on the third floor of the Hart Senate Office Building. Despite his wife’s distaste for Washington, she was responsible for its décor and appearance. Natural wood, leather and black steel composed the main features of the senator’s work space, making it comfortable and inviting to visitors and his fellow senators. More than a few legislative proposals were negotiated on the two leather sofas facing each other in the center of the room.

  Approaching fifty, Roy stood a bit over six feet tall. Male model handsome, he wore his blond hair longer than current fashion, causing certain pundits to proclaim him to be the next John F. Kennedy. Even by California standards, he was wealthy. Keenly aware his looks and money were the reason he now occupied a United States Senate seat, he strived to make a difference for the citizens of California. His rise to the Senate was meteoric. Originally elected by his image-conscious Northern California district as a member of the House of Representatives, he was drafted by his party to unseat the previous junior senator from California. After being caught taking numerous overseas trips, paid for by a huge California defense contractor, the previous senator lost in a landslide to Griffin. Now in his fourth year as a senator, he held several chairmanships, including the Homeland Security and Government Affairs Committee. With this responsibility, he became privy to information most senators were not.

  The phone rang on his desk as he looked over the schedule for his committees in the coming weeks. Glancing at the caller ID, he frowned and picked up the handset.

  “Good morning, Mary.”

  Mary Stewart was the president’s scheduler and a frequent caller to his office.

  “Good morning, Senator. The President has requested a meeting with you. How soon could you get to the White House?”

  Griffin was old fashioned and liked a written calendar more than a computer generated one. He glanced at the printout for the day and replied, “Looks like I have an hour mid-afternoon.”

  “Uh…” She hesitated for just a second. “The President would like to meet with you now, Senator. Is that a problem?”

  “Why, no. Tell him I can be there in thirty minutes. Will that be soon enough?”

  “I’m sure it will. Thank you, Senator.”

  Frowning, Griffin stood and retrieved his suit coat from a wooden coat tree his wife picked out. As he entered the reception area of his office, he turned to his young assistant, Jerry Fender, who looked up as Griffin appeared.

  “What’s wrong, Senator?”

  “Emergency meeting with the president. Reschedule my morning appointments and tell our Chief of Staff what happened. I have no idea what this is about or how long it will take.”

  “Very good, sir.” He half-smiled. “Have fun.”

  Griffin shook his head. Fender knew his boss hated meetings with the president. They were usually long and unproductive.

  Thirty-five minutes later, Griffin sat across from President Richard Bryant in the Oval Office. Shorter than Griffin by an inch, Bryant’s age approached the beginnings of his eighth decade of life. He possessed a solid head of silver hair, a feature he cultivated as that of a wise and caring man. In public, he wore contacts; in private meetings, he wore rimless glasses sitting on a noble nose in front of hazel eyes. He was not heavy, but he could lose a few pounds and be healthier.

  A steward poured coffee for Griffin and the president. When finished, he exited the room and the president took a sip from his mug.

  “Roy, I have a problem and I need your help in solving it.”

  “I hope that I can, sir. What’s the problem?”

  “As you know, the Vice President’s funeral will be private with only family in attendance.”

  “Yes, sir. I heard.”

  “Not a fitting way for this to end, is it?”

  “No, sir.”

  The President smiled slightly. “I need a new vice president.”

  Griffin stalled by reaching for his coffee. After taking a sip, he replied, “I’d be more than happy to chair a search committee for you, Mr. President.”

  “Not what I was thinking, Roy. I want you to be my new vice president.”

  Clearing his throat, Griffin stalled again. Finally, after setting his coffee cup down, he looked the president in the eyes.

  “I am sure there are individuals far more qualified for the position than me.”

  “Maybe, but the 25th Amendment allows me to choose a new VP. I get to pick anyone I want and I pick you.”

  “I’m flattered, sir. But I’m just a first term Senator. You need someone with more experience.”

  “Bullshit,” chuckled the president. “I need someone who will help me get re-elected in two years. You’re that someone.”

  Griffin was silent as he prepared another rebuttal.

  “Roy, Pittman’s death was a blessing in disguise for this administration. He was an embarrassment, forced onto our party’s ticket by hardliners and I didn’t want him as my VP. I knew too much about him and it wasn’t good. But he brought in support we needed to get elected.”

  “Still, Mr. President, I’m not sure I fit your needs.”

  “Listen, Roy, I’ve already addressed this with leadership in both houses. You will be confirmed on the first vote. You are the only person in the Senate, or the House for that matter, who can be confirmed quickly. Your reputation is spotless, you’re well-liked by the public and your peers, plus you get shit done. Who else in this town has those qualification? Besides, I know you are thinking about running for president after my second term is up. So, don’t be coy with me. Accept my proposal so we can get this Pittman mess behind us.”

  Griffin stared out the window behind the president’s desk. He remained silent for a while. Finally, he turned back to look at the president.

  “Very well. I accept.”

  Bryant stood and offered his hand. Griffin followed suit and shook it.

  “We’re going to make a great team, Roy. Plus, this will assure your election for President of the United States after I’m out of office.”

  “We’ll see.”

  ***

  Kruger’s cell phone vibrated as he walked back to his Mustang after spending the morning with JR. Glancing at the caller ID, he accepted the call.

  “Kruger.”

  “Sean, it’s Roy Griffin.”

  “How are you, Roy?”

  “I need your counsel.”

  Kruger paused. He had never had a phone call from a sitting senator asking for advice.

  “Uh, sure, what about?”

  Five years earlier, Kruger and Clark saved the lives of Griffin and his wife during an attempted assassination. They had both stayed in touch with the senator over the years and each felt loyalty to the man and considered him a friend. Griffin felt the same way.

  “Are you out of town on an investigation right now?”

  “No, why?”

  “I would prefer not to discuss it over the phone. Cheryl and I are taking the weekend off and would love to visit you and Stephanie. Would you two be available?”

  “By all means, we’d love to see you two as well.”

  “Good, invite JR and his lovely wife.”

  “I will.”

  “Sean?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The location of our meeting will have to be secluded and away from the media.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I’ll explain when we see each other. You know where Joseph’s place is, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Steph and I have been there on numerous occasions.”

  “Good. Saturday after
noon at four.”

  “We’ll be there.”

  ***

  Kruger drove his wife’s Jeep Cherokee. It offered higher ground clearance and four-wheel drive versus the Mustang’s low ground clearance and rear wheel drive. Joseph’s property was rural, very rural and the Mustang did not play well with off-the-beaten-path roads like the one leading to Joseph’s. JR sat next to Kruger in the front passenger seat with Mia and Stephanie chatting away in the back seat. The children were under the watchful eye of Kruger’s oldest son Brian and his wife Michelle. It was a rare treat for the two couples to be together without kids.

  JR turned to Kruger and asked, “What do you think this secluded meeting is all about?”

  Shrugging, Kruger shook his head. “No idea. Like I told you earlier, he wouldn’t talk about it on the phone.”

  “Huh.”

  Kruger shot a glance at his friend and grinned. “There you go again.”

  As he said it, they cleared the trees on the one lane road leading to the rural property.

  Joseph’s home sat on a sprawling parcel of land in Christian County five miles south of Sparta and a half mile west of Fairview Road. To the north, Fork Bull Creek ran through the property. Trees were the main feature of the twenty acres behind the house. The only access to the structure was by a single one-lane dirt road barely accessible by anything other than a four-wheel drive vehicle.

  As they emerged, Kruger and JR said in unison, “Uh-oh.”

  The house was a modern rustic log structure with two stories and a wrap-around wooden deck with a massive front door as the main feature. Rock pillars supported the deck with rough-hewn railings. From previous visits, Kruger knew the sleeping quarters were on the second floor with the living and kitchen areas on the first. A gazebo-like structure containing a breakfast nook featured prominently on the right side of the house.

  Parked in the circle drive in front of the home were Joseph’s dark gray Land Rover and the reason for their comment, two armor-plated black Chevrolet Suburbans with heavy smoke tinted windows.