by Ellen Butler
I’d read about Yondr cases in the Wall Street Journal, and this was the second event I’d attended using the system. Before entering, phones were dropped into lockable cases to create a technology-free experience. Individuals kept control of the case, and on the way out there would be stations to unlock the phone and recycle the case. More and more schools and organizations were beginning to Yondr phones to keep them off social media and the proceedings out of the press. With our late arrival and Rodrigo’s compliments, the brunette taking our tickets must have forgotten to jail our phones in a Yondr bag.
Since all eyes were turned toward the podium, I surreptitiously snapped a picture of Finley accepting the award, and a few photos of the general assembly, then set my phone to silent, lest it ring and give me away.
Finley’s truncated acceptance speech consisted of a short and sweet, “Thank you.”
Harold’s face showed surprise, probably expecting something more from our esteemed congressman. Nonplussed, Finley returned to his seat. Not to worry, Harold shook it off with aplomb, making a joke about short speeches from politicians, and announced that lunch would now be served. Hotel staff, waiting in the wings, bustled around the room, distributing the first course.
The woman on my left smiled and introduced herself as Cecily. “Is this your first time at a C2ARM event?” she asked.
“Yes, it is.” Her silver tiara reminded me of one buried somewhere in my closet, a relic from my twenty-first birthday pub crawl. Stymied for conversation, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “That’s a nice tiara you’re wearing.”
Her pink, lacquered nails reached up to adjust it. “Thank you, I received it during a blessing ceremony last year.”
“It’s . . . nice,” I bumbled. Cecily’s companion turned to the other couple and started a conversation about a new handgun he’d recently purchased. The conversation was completely out of my league. The most lethal thing I was packing was a small pink stun gun that fit handily in my purse.
To my relief, a waiter’s arm reached in front of me and I leaned out of his way as he put down a plate of crisp green salad. “Goodness, this looks lovely,” I said to Cecily. “Would you mind passing the salad dressing?”
After handing over the gravy boat of vinaigrette, Cecily must have decided I was a lost cause, because she turned away and joined the handgun conversation. Which was fine, because I wanted to keep an eye on Finley.
Rodrigo tucked into his salad, and under the hum of conversation, I whispered, “Turn off your phone, or they’ll force you to lock it in a Yondr bag.” I nodded to Cecily’s imprisoned cellular.
Rodrigo furtively stuck a hand in his right pocket to do as I suggested.
Our salad plates were removed, and a dubious gravy-covered chicken and mushroom course arrived. Before I could fork my first piece of fowl, a waiter came up to the congressman and whispered in his ear. Finley cumbersomely rose, tucked the plaque under his arm and, after a brief discourse with Buzz and Harold, exited the dais stage right.
I shoved my chair back. “Excuse me, I must go to the ladies.”
None of our tablemates acknowledged my leave-taking because their heads were crammed together, admiring Cecily’s husband’s handgun. So intent on the congressman, I’d missed the introduction to show-and-tell. However, Rodrigo’s mute gaze speared me.
“Feel free to continue eating. I’ll only be a moment,” I assured him.
His face turned to panic as he watched me seize my coat and purse.
I burst out of the ballroom into the wide empty hallway and took off at a fast clip. On the drive over, I’d had Rodrigo contact the hotel to see if Finley had taken a room. He was often known to do so during fundraisers in order to have a private space “to conduct business,” code for: get his palms greased. The front desk claimed to have no guest under Finley’s name, however it wouldn’t be unusual for him to use a nom de guerre or book it under one of his staff members. I jogged around the corner and spotted a large bank of elevators. As I hurried toward them, the congressman came from the opposite side and pressed the button. My arrival coincided with the elevators and I followed Finley into the gaudy orange box.
He pressed twelve, stared down at his phone, and mindlessly asked, “What floor?”
“Twelve.” The doors closed. “It’s nice to see you again, Congressman Finley.”
He drew his gaze away from the phone to give me a puzzled look. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall.”
“Karina Cardinal. I work for NHAA.”
“Oh, right, you were working on the healthcare bill. Shame it didn’t pass,” he said without an ounce of sympathy.
“Yes, shame,” I murmured in a fadeaway voice. “I was just in the C2ARM luncheon and saw you receive their Humanitarian Award. Congratulations.” Looking pointedly at his empty hands, I wondered if he’d ditched the plaque in the closest trash receptacle he could find.
“Did you?” He cleared his throat and tucked the phone in his pants pocket. “Not the type of organization I’d expect you to be a member of.”
“Oh, I’m not. I stumbled across it by accident and didn’t realize I was in the wrong room until after the speeches started. But I found them so thought-provoking, I simply had to stay.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.”
“As a matter of fact, I was able to get a picture of you accepting the award.”
He paled. “But . . . it . . . it was a technology-free event. There weren’t supposed to be any—”
“Electronics?” I finished his sentence. “Yes, I noticed the Yondrs on my way out. I guess since I arrived late, they forgot to have me lock it up.” My grin bordered on evil. “Shall I share the news? Send around a tweet? I think your constituency would be interested to hear about such a distinguished honor.”
He licked his lips, adjusted his glasses, and pierced me with his shrewd, blue gaze. “What is it you want?”
“Twenty minutes of your time.”
“I can have my scheduler—”
“Let’s bypass all the formalities, shall we?” I checked my watch. “I’m free now. What about you?”
The elevator doors opened, and we were met by a slender man of average height, his crew cut hair sprinkled with grays, and his face sharpened by hawk-like features. “Congressman, I did as you asked . . .” I followed Finley off the elevator, and the man’s voice faltered.
“Nick, I’d like to introduce you to Karina Cardinal, she works for NHAA. Miss Cardinal, my Chief of Staff, Nick Ross.”
“Mr. Ross.”
“Miss Cardinal.” His grip was strong and firm and the veins around his wrist bulged as we shook hands.
“I’ve agreed to give her a few minutes of my time.”
Nick frowned. “You’re stretched for time; the NTSB conference call has already started.”
“Contact Sheila and let them know I won’t be on it today and push my next meeting.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Miss Cardinal, I have a suite. If you’d like to join me there, I can give you your twenty minutes.”
“Lead the way.”
The room was your average hotel suite. It consisted of a neutral beige couch, two navy blue slipper-style side chairs surrounding a coffee table, and a television. The window curtains were open wide, and a standing lamp lent a soft glow to the rain-darkened room. A door to the separate bedroom was partially open. The coffee table in the suite was scattered with papers, a laptop, and Nick’s half-eaten lunch. My stomach rumbled. The small salad had not been very filling, and the scent of Nick’s steak and potato meal almost had me wishing I’d had time to eat the gelatinous-covered chicken. Almost.
Finley went directly to the wet bar and, reeling off the options, offered me a drink from the minifridge. I accepted a diet cola, and the congressman poured himself a club soda. Meanwhile, Nick sorted the papers on the table, shoved them into an attaché case, put the computer on top of the case, and his lunch on top of that. Balancing the items, and without another w
ord, he retreated into the bedroom. The door barely made a sound as he closed it.
I took one of the slipper chairs while the congressman man-spread across the couch, adjusting the yellow, striped tie across his rotund belly. “I suppose you want to discuss the recent legislation I voted against. I’ll tell you, there were a number items I agreed with. However—”
“Actually, that’s not what I want to talk with you about.”
“Then . . . how can I help you?”
“First, I wanted to say how sorry I am about what happened to your grandson.”
The genial look he’d plastered across his face fell. “I don’t know—”
“Come now, Congressman, you don’t need to play coy. I spoke to Harper. As a matter of fact, we talked about the pharmaceutical legislation you were discussing, right before he died. I don’t know if you’re aware, but I was with him when he passed.” I figured I’d get a better reaction if I claimed Harper gave me the information rather than a staff member. It did. For every sentence I spoke, Finley produced a variety of facial expressions ranging from disbelief, to surprise, to disconcertment.
He shifted uncomfortably and tugged on the tie. “He told you?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, NHAA would be very interested in working with you on this initiative. However, before he died, the senator wasn’t able to tell me how many votes you thought you’d be able to get.”
“The idea is moot.” Finley shrugged. “Harper’s death saw to that. He was supposed to supply Tottengott, Goldman, and Tucker along with half a dozen other hard liners. Without him . . .”
“What if we got a Democrat to sponsor the bill? Or maybe, I’ll work on Tottengott, Goldman, and Tucker and get one of them to sponsor on the Senate side.”
“Forget it. It’ll never work. The pharmaceuticals are very close to the Republican party, got them wrapped around their finger.” He sipped his drink.
Shocked by his confession, I watched his Adam’s apple dip as he swallowed, and decided to try a different tactic. “But what about your grandson? Doesn’t that make you angry?”
“Of course, it makes me angry.” His face reddened, and he slammed his glass onto the coffee table hard enough for the clear liquid to splash over the side.
“Then let’s do something. You and me. If you can deliver the House, I’ll do everything in my power to deliver the Senate. Let’s call it the Harper Pharmaceutical Bill.” I leaned forward, slamming my fist onto my palm. “Do you want to see the same thing that happened to your grandson and your daughter happen to other families? We need to take back the power and give it to the people. Why are we the only developed nation with this problem? Hm? Does that make you proud, Congressman?” My voice rose, and Finley jerked back. “No? Then stop taking the handout. Stand up to the oppressors!” I ended the speech with my fist in the air. I’ll admit, I got a little carried away on my soapbox. If I hadn’t been wearing heels, I might have jumped up on the coffee table.
Nick stuck his head through the bedroom door. “Everything all right?”
The congressman’s expression could only be described as thoughtfully bemused. “We’re fine.”
Nick retreated. I sipped my diet soda as Finley scrutinized me, rubbing his chin. “You’re very passionate. I suspect it’s your passion that makes you good at your job.”
“Aren’t you?”
He gazed past me. “I was . . . once.”
“If you can’t be passionate about your children . . . what can you be passionate about, Congressman?”
“Nick!”
The stern features of his chief of staff popped out again. “Sir.”
“Join us, will you?”
Nick came to stand next to the couch. I began to wonder if I’d pressed him too far and was about to be ignobly thrown out on my keister.
“That legislation you were working on with Harper’s people . . .”
“The pharmaceutical one?”
“That’s it. I want you to reach out to them. Start working on the language.”
“But—” Nick’s eyes slid back and forth between his boss and me.
“What?” the congressman barked.
“Without Harper . . . ” Nick eyed his boss warily. When Finley didn’t respond, he cleared his throat and continued, “I was communicating with Christy Manheim. I’m not sure how much longer she’ll be in the office.”
“At least until the governor appoints someone. Let’s move it forward. Have something to me by Monday.” Finley got to his feet. “Will that make you happy, Miss Cardinal?”
I took my cue and stood as well, donning my raincoat. “It’s not about my happiness, Congressman. It’s about the health and happiness of the children in this nation.” I couldn’t resist one last punch.
“Leave your card with Nick, and we’ll be in touch.”
I fished one out of my purse and handed it over. Nick accepted it without a glance and stuffed it in his pants pocket.
“Thank you for your time, Congressman.” We shook hands and Nick escorted me to the door. As I exited, my purse handle caught on the lever-style knob, bringing me to an abrupt halt. Turning to unhook it, I found those hawk-like features scowling down at me. He wiped the glower off faster than a hare escaping a trap, but I’d seen it and it left behind a feeling of foreboding. Christy had been correct, Nick was not on board with the agenda. I’d have to figure a way around him.
I checked my messages on the way to the elevator. There were a dozen texts and two voicemails from Rodrigo. He wasn’t happy with me and expressed his frustration using some choice words.
I cannot BELIEVE you left me here with these wack-a-loons. You better get back here soon.
A few minutes later, he’d sent another.
It’s been a while. Where are you? Tacky Tiara lady is asking.
He’d waited barely two minutes before texting again.
WTF? Where are you? And WTF is in this chicken dish? It’s disgusting, dripping with brown slime. This is so NOT gravy.
Another only a few minutes later, and then a rash of them one after the other
Finley’s gone. Did you follow him? Are you with him now? Tell me where, I’ll join you.
OMG, I think I just ate a gravy covered roach. Mushrooms should NOT be crunchy.
That’s it. I’m done. I’m leaving this gun-loving, crown-wearing quack party. Meet me in the lobby.
I’ve been in the lobby for 10 minutes now. Where are you?
I am SO going to get you for this defection.
His final message was sent less than a minute ago.
I need to get this gravy covered cockroach taste out of my mouth. You can find me in the bar.
I didn’t blame him; it’d been a dirty trick I pulled, leaving him behind, although I figured he’d make his own escape sooner than he did. However, even Rodrigo’s annoyed texts couldn’t kill the excitement buzzing through me. It was time for a celebratory drink. I texted him.
On my way to the bar. Drinks on me.
Chapter Fifteen
The euphoria lasted less than forty-eight hours. One week after I attended Harper’s memorial service, I awoke to the news that Congressman John Finley was dead. All the major channels plastered it across their morning talk shows. Just past midnight, his Lincoln Town Car was hit by a freight train in Northern Virginia. He and his driver had not survived the impact. Investigators had yet to make an official statement, which led to an array of speculation by talk show news anchors and so-called experts as to how such a tragedy could happen.
Coffee forgotten, I sank down onto the couch. My hand blindly searched the cushion for the remote, and finding it, I cranked up the volume as Channel 7’s Sam Cactus introduced onsite reporter, Linda Lorelei. Police cars and flashing lights lit up the background as she delivered her report, but no footage of the train or smashed up car appeared on screen. I paused the newscast and searched the area surrounding Linda to see if I could get some clue that would identify the location of the accident. Train tracks in
Virginia ran southwest out toward Manassas, or directly south paralleling the Route 1 corridor and Potomac River. Over the reporter’s shoulder I could make out a warehouse and the last three letters of a company name—ERS. I pushed play and waited to see if the camera would shift to pick up more of the name. Linda took a moment to turn and describe the scene behind her and—boom—TOLVERS flashed across the camera’s line of sight.
In an instant, I had my computer open. It emitted a low whirring as it booted up. A Google search revealed Tolvers Trucking Company and, zooming in on the map, I found it located south of D.C. in between Route 1 and the north-south train tracks.
The broadcast moved to a split screen between Sam and Linda. Sam asked, “Linda, do we know what the congressman was doing there?”
“No, we do not. The statement from the congressman’s office simply said their thoughts and prayers were with the family during this dreadful time and asked that the public give the family privacy to mourn.”
Sam posed an excellent question, considering the congressman rented an apartment a few blocks from his office; it seemed an odd place for him to be at midnight.
Morbid curiosity had me searching social media sites. A few minutes on Twitter, and I found what I’d been looking for—wreckage. The body of Finley’s Town Car was a crumpled mess of steel, practically unidentifiable. Damage to the car was far worse than the high-speed accident that killed Princess Diana back in the 90s. One picture revealed a collapsed roof, doors crushed, all the glass blown out. The train must have been traveling at a fast clip; another photo revealed yards of debris from the initial impact to where the train finally stopped. Surprisingly, it didn’t derail. The front engine showed minimal damage, and Linda said the engineer had been taken to the hospital for minor injuries. Train 1, Car 0.
