by Ellen Butler
“And the last?”
“Lars Dillon.”
Nick and I sucked wind.
Rodrigo leaned in. “Who is Lars Dillon?”
“Lars is Karen’s stepbrother. He’s also one of the president’s private financial lawyers. Probably one of the reasons Karen got the job at HHS.” I turned back to Joe. “Are you saying this goes all the way to the White House?”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m telling you what’s on the drive.”
I had no doubt Joe knew he was sitting on an explosive story. It was also a dangerous story. “You need to pass that information to the FBI.”
Joe didn’t respond.
My gaze cruised the table, taking in each man. I began to realize the knowledge we each shared filled in the holes—the gaps—in the story. And the picture it created dripped in blood. I’d been feeling pretty comfortable with Rivkin dead. But here, Joe was telling us that a large group of powerful men and women were willing to purchase an assassin for hire to get rid of a senator and congressman based on a possibility. We were merely ants beneath their colossal boot.
I popped my head above the booth to make sure no one was within hearing distance before speaking. “Joe, I get it. You’re in the midst of uncovering a massive conspiracy that might go all the way to the president. I’m assuming your editor is thrilled and safely sitting on the flash drive. However, if this meeting were to get out, before you publish, it puts us all in danger. You don’t understand the type of people Troika Star has hired. We’re sitting ducks. The hacker was able to kill Harper with the pacemaker in his own body. And it sounds like he was able to hack the CSX train lines. The assassin they hired was a disgraced Mossad agent with a million-dollar price on his head. A forty-five-million-dollar slush fund will go a long way to buying a couple of fly-by-night killers to take out the four of us.”
“That’s why I need you to go on record. Once I publish, we’re all safe.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. Nick and I exchanged wary glances. However, Rodrigo had no inhibitions. “I’ll go on record. You can quote me. Here, I brought my notes from the stakeout yesterday.” He pulled half a dozen tatty pages from his suit pocket.
“Wait a minute.” I planted my hand on the paper and stared at Nick. “We have no choice. We’ve got to do this.”
He gave a sharp nod. “With conditions.”
“Okay, Joe. We’ll go on record as anonymous sources. None of us wants a damn parade of reporters hounding us for the next month. Got it?”
“Agreed.” Joe turned on the cell’s recorder and flipped to a fresh page of notes. “Mr. Ross, let’s start with you and your relationship to Karen.”
I judged Nick’s testimony mildly forthcoming, Rodrigo, an open book, and I . . . well, I told most of my story. I kept the fact the FBI was sweating the hacker under wraps. Joe would have to obtain that information from someone else. We were closing in on half past five when Joe finally wrapped our meeting. The dinner rush had begun, and we all became concerned about listening ears. Shockingly, Nick picked up the tab for the table. Rodrigo and Joe offered to pitch in, but I didn’t make a peep.
It’s the least he can do.
“I’m going to say goodbye to Alfonse before I head out. See you at work tomorrow.” Rodrigo waved and headed into the kitchen area.
Before scooting my way out of the booth, I offered to pass the flash drive on to the FBI for Joe.
Those hazel-brown eyes studied me for a minute. “I’ll take it under consideration.”
“Please do. Once you publish, you know they’ll be knocking at your door for it anyway. Why don’t we work something out?”
He gave the briefest of nods. “I’ll talk to my editor. In the meantime, I’m going to stay here and finish up my notes.”
Nick and I walked out together. A clammy mist kissed my face, and the smell of damp concrete rose to greet me. I pulled my hood up on my raincoat as I headed toward the Metro station.
Nick paused my steps with the slightest touch to my shoulder. “I know what you must think of me.”
“I know you know more than you’re saying. Talk to the FBI. Make this right, Nick. Then it won’t matter what I think of you.”
“I’m sorry you and your friend were put in danger. I didn’t know.” Those harsh features softened with contriteness.
“Or maybe you didn’t want to know.” I couldn’t help pushing the needle deeper.
He stared down at the wet sidewalk. “Maybe so.”
“She was in love with you, you know.”
“She was infatuated,” he returned.
“She was married.” A fact the four of us danced around in our discussion with Joe. However, I hadn’t forgotten that sometime last night, a man up in New Jersey was given some terrible news about a woman he loved. Once the story got out, the ramifications of her crimes would make his life hell. I wondered if he knew about his wife, or if he was simply the unwitting husband in this debacle.
Nick stared into the distance. “I know. Believe it or not, she pursued me. After we started the affair, I tried to break it off. . . . She told me her husband had a mistress too. Then I didn’t care, knowing she was using me to get back at him. Somewhere along the way . . .”
“Somewhere along the way–?”
His hooded gaze returned to mine. “She became infatuated with the excitement of sneaking around. At least, that’s what I told myself. Now I wonder if she stayed simply to garner information about the congressman from me.”
“And you willingly . . . spilled the beans.”
Nick cringed.
Men! Always thinking with their dicks. “Make it right.” I strode away without a backward glance.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Friday came and went with no bombshell headlines. Nothing under Joe Brock’s byline. All day, I felt antsy and on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I worried the greedy conspirators would get wind of the investigation or Joe Brock’s exclusive, and they’d empty the bank accounts, closing up shop and removing all the evidence before the FBI could investigate.
Mike left a brief message on my cell while I attended a fundraiser. Saturday, the security company arrived at eight o’clock sharp, and I left my own message on Mike’s phone letting him know the system was being installed. At nine, Mrs. Thundermuffin, wearing a peach turban and emerald green caftan, knocked at my door.
“Good morning, Mrs. Thundermuffin. What can I do for you?”
“Hello, dearie. I heard some noise and wanted to make sure everything was alright.”
“Everything is fine. I’ve decided not to get surround sound and chose instead to have a security system installed.” I opened the door wide, so she should see the installer working on the keypad in the front hall.
“I don’t blame you. A smart call indeed.” She leaned in close and whispered, “Those surround sound folks seemed a little dodgy to me.”
“I think you’re right.” If I had to guess, Mrs. Thundermuffin knew the parade of people in my apartment, the last time we met, were not surround sound installers. “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”
“Oh, no, thank you. It’s time to take Mr. Tibbs out for a walk. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Ever since that incident in the stairwell, I realized we must be vigilant in looking out for each other. I wouldn’t want anything like that to happen in our building again. Especially not to you.” She might be a bit strange, but Mrs. Thundermuffin’s heart was in the right place.
“You’re right, Mrs. Thundermuffin. We do need to watch out for dangerous characters. Would you like the phone number of the security company for your own apartment?”
“Yes, I think so.”
I wrote the number down on a piece of paper, and, clutching it in her veiny hand, my petite neighbor tottered away on her Hollywood-style feathered mules. She wore some wacky outfits, but I’d kill for a pair of mules like that. The next time I saw her, I’d have to ask where she purchased them.
Aro
und one, the installers packed up their gear and left. I hadn’t heard back from Mike, so I called again.
This time he answered with a grumpy, “Hello.”
“Did I wake you?”
“Yeah. I’ve been up half the night.”
“Getting a confession from your hacker, I hope.”
“No.”
“Could you tell me if he did?”
“No. He lawyered up.”
“I’m not surprised. You’ll have to make him a deal if you want him to talk.”
“I know.”
“And?”
My question met with a deep sigh.
“You’ve already made a deal,” I said.
“He wants to sweeten the pot.”
“I’ll bet.” My mind, of course, lingered around the conversation with Joe. Even if I told Mike what I knew, there was still too much conjecture. None of us had actually seen the USB drive. We were all going on what Joe had told us. I could tell Mike about the drive, but I was fairly sure the paper would stonewall until they were ready to print. Also, Joe seemed to be a good guy. I didn’t want to double cross him by throwing him into the FBI’s lap. I wanted him to give up the drive on his own, without forcing his hand. However, my antsy subconscious hadn’t rested since my meeting with Joe and something had to be done.
“Do you have enough to hold him?”
“Oh, yes, we’ve got DNA evidence on the threats to Congress and a link to another unrelated hack into the State Department website. But I don’t have enough to tie him to Harper’s murder.”
“How did you get the DNA?”
“He licked the envelope.”
“Rookie move.” I tapped a finger on my chin, pondering how to approach Joe.
“Enough about the case. Did you get your security system installed?”
“What? Oh. Yes, the guys came this morning.”
“And?”
“It seems fine. I’ll have to get used to turning it on before I leave the apartment or go to bed.”
“That’s the most important part.”
“Mike—”
“Yes?”
“Don’t sweeten the pot.”
“What?”
“Don’t make the deal with your hacker. Not yet.”
“It’s not really my call.”
“I know. But . . . tell them you’re working another angle and you’ll have more hard evidence on the hacker soon.”
“K.C., I can’t lie to my employers. Amir and I were up half the night working the hacker’s laptop, but so far, we’ve come up with nothing. We can’t even get in. We’re down to one more password try. If we don’t get it right, I’m afraid he’s set up the entire hard drive to melt down. Same with his cell phone. A search of his home has revealed nothing but a small arsenal of legally obtained firearms and a hell of a lot of porn.”
“Rivkin said to follow the money. Have you determined how he was paid?”
“Not yet. We’re going on the assumption it was Bitcoin on the darknet.”
“Which means you’ll never be able to trace it.”
“Precisely.”
“What if I told you I might be on to something?”
“K.C.,” his voice held that warning tone, “what are you into now? Does this have something to do with Silverthorne?”
“For once, no, it doesn’t. I need you to trust me. See if you can buy twenty-four hours.”
“What have you done?”
“Mike, please . . . I’ve done nothing. And I know this is hard for you because of what’s happened. But I think I’m in a position to help. Trust me.” I drew out the last two words.
“I’m so exhausted, I can’t think straight. Fine, I trust you. I’ll tell Leon to keep our hacker on ice for another twenty-four hours. Maybe a miracle will happen and the passcode will be revealed to me in a shining ray of light.”
“Get some rest. I’ll be in touch soon.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
I left a message on Joe’s cell and anxiously paced the apartment, waiting for him to call back. When the phone rang, I didn’t even bother looking at the caller ID before answering.
“Joe?”
“What? Hello? Rina? It’s Jillian.”
“Oh, hey, Jilly. What’s up?”
“Well, I haven’t heard from you in a few weeks. I was wondering if you wanted to go shopping or to the movies with me this afternoon?”
My sister lived in Falls Church, about twenty minutes away, without traffic. Normally, I’d take her up on a shopping trip just to get my mind off waiting for Joe to call me back. Which could be longer than I’d anticipated. However, Jillian had gotten tangled up in my past adventure, and I had no interest dragging her into the latest one. I also didn’t want an audience when Joe called, especially not one as smart as my sister.
“Unfortunately, I’ve already got plans.”
“With Mike?”
Well, my plans sort of had something to do with Mike. “Yup.”
“How are things going with you two? I mean, is it weird moving past the friendship phase into a relationship?”
“Um, I’m not sure I can say we’ve moved into the next phase.” I paced into the kitchen and absently cleaned the kitchen counters. “We’re kind of stuck.”
“Uh-oh.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, you’re going to have to move forward. You certainly can’t move back. And you can’t stay in the waiting place. So, forward is the only move to make. Right?”
“Yeah.” I had to agree.
“You’re sexually attracted to him? Right?”
“Yes.” No doubt.
“Then what are you two waiting for?”
“It’s complicated.” I tossed the sponge into the sink.
“Pshaw. It’s always complicated with you. So, uncomplicate it, and take that man to bed,” she admonished.
“If only it could be that easy.”
“Oh, for crying out loud. You all call me the drama queen.”
“Wha—”
“No. Don’t deny it. I know you and Tyler used to call me the drama queen. I’ll admit, there were some embarrassing teenage years to back that up. But, really, for you and Mike it should be easy. You’re already best friends. I’ve seen him around you. He’d take a bullet for you. Now get your shit together and move it along. Otherwise, you’re just marking time.”
I didn’t respond, and she added, “You know, you’re not getting any younger.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thank you for pointing that out, dearest sister.”
“Well, I’m just saying, don’t wait too long or you’ll miss the moment.”
“He’s not a shooting star. There will be other moments.”
“Nuh-uh. Not like this one. Trust me. I know.”
“Because you and Tony are in love? Instead of the drama queen, you’re now the queen of love?”
“Don’t be a brat. What Tony and I have is different. Ours was more like lightning. A love at first sight. What you and Mike have is a developed relationship that needs a push to move it into more.”
“Okay, Jilly. I understand what you’re saying. I’ll work on it.”
“See that you do. And say hi to Mike for me.”
“Will do. Take care.”
As much guff as I gave my sister, she had a point. When this stupid case wrapped, it was time to kiss or get off the pot, so to speak.
Speaking of the pot . . .
Of course, the phone rang the moment I sat down on it. This time I checked caller ID.
“Joe?”
“Ms. Cardinal. You called.”
“Yes, and call me Karina. Listen, I need you to turn over the USB drive to the FBI.”
“We will.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
I blew up my bangs. “When do you plan to publish?”
“Monday.”
“I have something to tell you, off the record.” I waited for him to acknowledge.
“Off the record, what have you got?”
“The FBI has a suspect in custody, but they need Karen’s financial files to make the case and anything in her emails that might implicate him.”
“That’s very interesting. But making the FBI’s case is not my job.”
My little hamster brain began running on the wheel. “What if I can get you an exclusive?”
“Keep talking.”
“What if . . . you can work together? What if, in addition to the story, you can report on FBI raids to arrest these turkeys?”
“I don’t know. The television media is already sniffing around the story.”
“You don’t want to get scooped. I get it. But, there is more going on than a good story. It’s putting away a conspiracy of murderers.”
“I know what’s at stake here. My job is to report the news. Not make the FBI’s case for them.”
“They’re going to get the information from you anyway. Why not help them now? And they would owe you. You’d have a chip to cash.”
He paused before answering. “I like your thinking, but I’m not convinced.”
“Joe . . . I’m trying to help everyone here, so I’ll lay it out for you. Three murders have happened, and I am both morally and legally bound to tell law enforcement what I know. If I tell them what you’ve got, they’ll come after you, and if you don’t give it to them, they’ll slap you with obstruction of justice. That will become the story. You’re sitting on a key piece of evidence, and you know it. Your boss knows it. I’m trying to do what’s right by you, and in the name of justice.”
“You make a compelling argument. What’s your plan?”
“A negotiation that benefits both you and the FBI and brings down Troika Star. I can set up a meeting.”
“When?”
I did some fast thinking. “Tonight, at five.”
“Where?”
“Your office.”
“See you then.”
AT FIVE ON THE DOT, Mike and I spun through the rotating front door of The Washington Post offices on K Street, a modern building the paper moved to in 2015, full of glass windows, black ergonomic chairs that contrasted with the white walls, and cubes for the journalists. It was a vast difference from the days of Woodward and Bernstein, when The Post was housed in an antique edifice with low ceilings striped by fluorescent lights, dingy carpet, and desks crammed practically on top of each other, built by the Graham empire.
