Daylight

by David Baldacci

  His father turned the photo on its face and settled back against his pillow.

  Puller glanced at the window and hurriedly changed the subject. “Your bird still around? Outside the window. There was a nest last time.”

  His father looked at him blankly. “Bird?”

  “Yes, I . . . Do you need anything, sir?”

  His father stared more intently at him. “You look familiar. You remind me of somebody.”

  Puller’s gut clenched. “Is that right, sir? Who might that be?”

  “Guy I went to school with, least I think. Didn’t like him very much. Can’t recall the name of the place right now.”

  “You went to West Point.”

  His father looked confused. “You sure?”

  “Pretty sure, sir,” said Puller quietly.

  “Yeah?”

  “You did very well there. You became quite the leader of men.”

  His father just grunted at this.

  Fighting John Puller had never lost a battle. He had taken enormous risks, thrown out the Army playbook when it suited him, demanded everything from his men and given even more of himself. He pissed his superiors off beyond belief, and then handed them one improbable victory after another to take credit for. There were two generations of warriors in this country who would fling curses at the mere mention of the name “Fighting John Puller,” and those who would go anywhere he would lead them, convinced of victory because of the man at the helm.

  And the two groups would be one and the same.

  “The men respected you, sir. We . . . we all do.”

  Another grunt was the response to this. And then his father curled up and fell back asleep while his son was standing at attention next to him.

  Puller would take the father he remembered, the screamer, petty and vindictive at times, relentlessly pushing his sons when he was home, which was almost never, the iron man of the Army, but also the man of smiles and encouragement and moments of pride in his sons, over this disoriented shell of a man.

  Puller covered up his father with a blanket and then marched out with his heart split right in half. But with his face unblemished by tears, his spine still straight, and his focus back on the mission at hand. Coming to grips with the fact of his rapidly failing father was the only enemy John Puller had ever been afraid to face.

  CHAPTER

  40

  PULLER VALETED HIS CAR at the front entrance to the Army and Navy Club on Seventeenth Street in northwest DC and headed inside. The building was old, with architecturally classic lines that mirrored the interior he was just about to enter. It was run efficiently and quietly by a devoted team, with many serving here for decades. There was a large dining room on the main floor, private meeting rooms and more intimate dining areas on the second, and, because this was a military outpost of sorts, a bar. Of course.

  He checked his watch. He was early, which he always wanted to be. A Confederate Army general had once said that you almost always win if you get there first with the most. There was definitely some truth in that. And maybe the person he was meeting here had thought the same thing. He went to the glass doors of the bar and peered through. Three men and two ladies were seated at the bar. Only two were in uniform. One woman and one of the gents. The man was a lieutenant colonel in the Army, the woman a Navy commander, an O-5, which meant she and the man were of equal rank. But Puller was looking for an O-6, a Navy captain, right below a rear admiral lower half. That had been what his brother had meant by the term “salt.”

  A captain in the Navy was of equal rank with a major in the Army, a senior officer.

  Puller headed up to the third floor, where there was a library. And in the library was a table that was full of bullet holes from when it was used as a shield by American soldiers during a firefight in Cuba over a century ago. This was Robert Puller’s reference to Remember the Maine. That ship had been blown up in Havana Harbor, prompting the Spanish-American War. The military led the world in historical props, Puller knew. And they made more of them with every battle.

  He looked around but saw no one, until a voice broke the quiet.

  “I see you like to be early, too, Chief Puller.”

  From behind a high-back chair turned away from him rose a woman. She was medium height with her dark hair done in a ponytail. Her dress whites rode well on her trim physique. Puller put her age at about forty, which was young for a captain. It normally took twenty years from graduation at Annapolis to get the four bars and a star and the full eagle spread on your uniform. That also explained Robert Puller’s reference.

  She walked over to him and put out her hand. He shook it and felt the strength in her grip as he looked down at her from nearly a foot gap.

  “Captain . . . ?”

  “Gloria Miles, Chief Puller.”

  “Please, make it John.”

  “Then you can call me Gloria. My father was a master sergeant in the Marine Corps. He named me. You know what his nickname for me was?”

  Puller shook his head.

  “Glory.” She smiled but her eyes held a wistful look. “Can you imagine the teasing and bullying I got with that one?”

  He looked her over. “It seems to have made you stronger. And if you’re as young as I think you are, then an overachiever as well.”

  “Right on both counts. I made O-6 three years early. But it felt six years longer than that.”

  “I can see that. How is your father?”

  “No longer with us. How is your father?”

  To that question Puller almost always answered, Hanging in there. But there was something about Miles that made him say, “He’s seen better days, unfortunately.”

  “It’s hard to see your father grow old,” said Miles. “It’s harder still when your father was a soldier, a leader, tough as nails. You expect him to live forever.”

  “Where are you deployed now?” asked Puller.

  “For now, I’m working out of the Norfolk Naval Station, so I can oversee my baby being born.”

  Puller looked confused for a moment and glanced at her unadorned ring finger.

  She noted this and laughed wistfully. “I’m waiting to take command of a Freedom-class LCS they’re just about to launch, the USS Seattle,” said Miles, referencing the acronym for a Littoral Combat Ship. “That’s my baby.”

  “Yes ma’am. That must be quite a thrill.”

  She glanced over his shoulder. “Why don’t we find a private place to talk?”

  Puller turned to see a group of suits and uniforms come into the library and take up seats.

  They found an empty room at the end of the hall on the third floor. Puller closed the door behind them, and they sat across from each other in fold-up chairs. Miles placed her cap on her lap, Puller did likewise with his.

  She ran her gaze over his rows of ribbons and her eyebrows hiked. This was the military’s equivalent of bragging rights. Guts and glory on full uniform display on one’s chest. The earning of them had been anything but uniform. Puller had endured violent intrusion of metal into his body and been thrown into hellish situations that no human being should have to endure. In other words, just a day’s work for a soldier.

  “The DSC, Purples, Bronze, twin Silvers, along with everything else. Very impressive, John. You’ve served your country faithfully and well.”

  “I do my duty, like everybody else.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with acknowledging exceptionalism.”

  “Why would my brother contact you?”

  “I think he contacted a number of people who he thought might be helpful to you.”

  “But you’re the only one he asked me to meet with.”

  She nodded. “I think my relevance to your investigation has nothing to do with my being in uniform.”

  “Okay.”

  “It has a lot to do with someone I know quite well.”

  “Okay.”

  “As I alluded to, I have no children. But I am a godmother to someone.”

&n
bsp; “Who is that?”

  “Jeff Sands.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “He’s the grandson of Peter Driscoll.”

  “Peter Driscoll, the Senate majority leader? Why would that knowledge be of use to me?”

  “Jeff just turned twenty-one years old. Because of his grandfather’s connections he got into Georgetown, where he’s a junior. He could not have gotten in on his own merit.”

  “Okay. Still not getting what this has to do with my case.”

  “Jeff is a drug user. He is also probably a drug dealer. I don’t know that for sure, but that is my best guess.”

  “So a drug dealer, maybe. Why haven’t I heard anything about that?”

  “Why would you?”

  “So Grandpa has kept it out of the courts and the news?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know about the drug-dealing part. But Jeff has a lot of wealthy and well-connected friends at Ivy League colleges who could be customers of his.”

  “So a network of elite drug users? And what have you done about it?”

  “I’m his godmother, which is usually an honorary rank. I knew his mother, Jennifer. She died when Jeff was eight. It was a big blow to him. His father is a hedge fund guy. He works and lives in New York. After Jennifer died, he married a much younger woman. They have two little kids. He’s written Jeff off. I tried to step into the breach, so I’ve spent a lot of time with Jeff over the years. Not as a second mom, or anything, but just as a friend, someone to talk to.”

  “Jeff have any other siblings?”

  “No.”

  “And what does he tell you when you two talk about his issues?”

  “I’ve confronted him a number of times. He tells me that things are fine. He had a problem but has it no longer. And that anything else I’ve heard about him is just wrong.”

  “Did he look like he was using?”

  “Not when he was with me.”

  “And did you tell my brother this?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he even come to contact you? Were you friends? You didn’t say.”

  “No. I knew of him. But he told me he had never heard of me. He said it had to do with the results of an algorithm he had come up with for the purposes of your investigation.”

  Puller cracked a smile. “An algorithm? Now that sounds like Bobby, all right. Are you sure Driscoll knows about his grandson’s wayward ways?”

  “I know he does. I told him, numerous times.”

  “And what did he do?”

  “He said he would handle it.”

  “And did he?”

  “I doubt I would be here talking to you if he had.”

  “When was the last time you spoke with Jeff?”

  “About two weeks ago.”

  “Did he ever mention a man named Tony Vincenzo?”

  “No, not to me. I would have remembered that.”

  “How about a penthouse on Billionaires’ Row in Manhattan?” Puller gave her the street address.

  Miles looked puzzled. “You know, I think I dropped him off there once when we were in New York together. This was about a month ago. He said there was going to be a party. I remember telling him that he needed to be careful. And I also remarked that he must have some really, really rich friends. Do you know who owns the place?”

  “We tried to track it and failed, which means it might be a global criminal enterprise with mega-deep pockets.”

  “Oh my God. Who the hell is he mixed up with?”

  “I intend to find out. But I need to talk to your godson, ASAP.”

  “Do you want me to reach out to him and arrange something?”

  “No, that won’t work.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’ll either disappear or someone will be sent to kill me. And since that’s already happened once very recently, I’d like to avoid it again if possible.”

  Miles had turned pale as he was speaking. “Then what do you want me to do?” she said in barely above a whisper.

  “Send me his contact info and a picture. I’ll take it from there.”

  “And what should I do in the meantime?”

  “Do not contact him. Go back to Norfolk, keep your head down, and when your ship is commissioned, get on it and don’t look back.”

  “You’re really scaring me, John.”

  “Then my mission is accomplished.”

  “Are you working this case all alone?”

  Puller took out his phone. “No. I’ve got a partner who I’m just about to call.”

  “I hope this person is good.”

  “She’s far better than good.”

  CHAPTER

  41

  THE NEXT EVENING Pine met Puller outside the Eighth Avenue exit from Penn Station in New York City. He had ridden an Amtrak regional train up from DC, arriving in about three hours. The weather was overcast and chilly as they walked along the street, Puller’s small duffel slung over his shoulder. His dress blues had been exchanged for jeans, a sweater, and a dark blue blazer. As they walked they filled each other in on their respective developments, including Robert Puller’s algorithm netting them Gloria Miles and through her, Jeff Sands.

  “So have you told Lineberry that Linda Holden-Bryant was his mole all those years ago?” asked Puller.

  “I should, but I haven’t. I’m not exactly sure how to go about it. Plus, he’s still recovering from being shot.”

  They grabbed a cab that took them up the West Side to a condo building in the Eighties, near Riverside Drive.

  As they passed the top-hatted and uniformed doorman and walked into the soaring marble-and-chrome lobby Puller asked, “What are we doing here?”

  “This is where we’re staying. Carol is in the condo now making dinner.”

  “Whose condo is it? I usually crash on a friend’s couch when I’m in New York. The CID’s per diem for lodging doesn’t cover anything in the city lodging arena, and that includes sleeping in your car in a parking garage.”

  Puller eyed the smiling concierge seated behind a desk that would not have looked out of place at Versailles and added, “And I don’t have to be the world’s greatest detective to deduce that this is also out of the Bureau’s lodging per diem.”

  Pine looked uncomfortable. “This . . . this is Jack Lineberry’s pied-à-terre. He generously allowed us to stay here.”

  “Weren’t you staying at a hotel in Trenton?”

  Pine thumbed the button for the elevator and said, “He called yesterday. I told him I was in New York and he insisted that we stay here.”

  “Was this before or after you spoke with his old flame?”

  “After. But I didn’t tell him that. He was just being kind.”

  They rode the car up to the tenth floor and she led him down a wide, luxuriously carpeted hallway lined with stout wooden doors and paintings that looked original. She used her passkey to enter the apartment. Puller followed, set down his duffel, and looked around.

  “Wow, Lineberry is really loaded.”

  “Yes. He has his own jet, a mansion in rural Georgia, a penthouse in Atlanta.”

  “And this place,” added Puller. “And he’s your father.”

  “He’s my biological father, but Tim Pine raised me,” she retorted. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s my father.”

  “I get that. But does Lineberry have any other kids?”

  “No, he never married. He had me and . . . Mercy.”

  “Well, don’t be surprised if he leaves all of this to you.”

  Pine looked surprised. “I never even thought about that. And I don’t want it!”

  “But he can still leave it to you. And you can do with it what you want.”

  “I’ll worry about that if and when it turns out I have to.”

  A moment later Blum walked into the room wearing an apron and a smudge of flour on her cheek. She was rubbing her hands on a cloth.

  “I thought I heard you come in. This place is deceptively la
rge, and very quiet. I hope you’re hungry. Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes.”

  “I am,” said Puller. “It was slim pickings on the train.”

  “Let me show you to your room,” said Pine.

  She led him down a hall to the last door and opened it. She stepped in and looked around at what was clearly a high-dollar, professionally decorated space, just like the rest of the apartment.

  “Lineberry has good taste, or hired someone who has good taste,” remarked Puller as he set his duffel on the four-poster bed.

  Pine sat in a chair in front of a reproduction desk all primed with stationery and pen and a large, leather-handled magnifying glass.

  “So, Jeff Sands?”

  Puller nodded and sat on the bed. “His grandfather is one of the most powerful men in the country. But his son-in-law has apparently written Jeff off and has a new family to focus on.”

  “So he might be a drug dealer in addition to being a user? How has that not hit the news?”

  “I did some research on it. Sands is one of sixteen grandchildren and he has a different last name. And from what I could gather, not many people are in the loop on this. And maybe folks don’t consider it newsworthy. I mean, Sands’s dad was the absent parent. I can’t believe many people will ding Peter Driscoll because one of his many grandchildren turned out bad. He raised his own kids and they all seemed to have turned out okay. It’s not exactly his responsibility to look after another generation.”

  “Okay, that certainly makes sense. So what do we do?”

  “I’ve got Sands’s address. We set up surveillance and see what we see.”

  “And why not go directly to question him?”

  “No. I want to reconnoiter this sucker a little bit first.”

  “The federal government and the Trenton police have come down on us like a ton of bricks. I can’t see how Jeff Sands could have made that happen. But I can see someone like Peter Driscoll having a hand in that.”

  “I can’t answer that one way or another. I hope to be able to shortly.”

  “But people have been killed. Sheila Weathers and Jerome Blake and Ed McElroy. Call me hopelessly naïve, but I also can’t believe that a U.S. senator would be involved in that.” When he didn’t answer she said, “Puller?”