by Ellen Butler
“I don’t know what you’ve got up your sleeve here, K.C. I’ve got no authority or plans to leak information to the media regarding the case,” Mike warned.
“I don’t expect you to. What I’m hoping for is a conversation that creates a win-win for everyone.”
Joe’s Nikes squeaked as he crossed the marbled foyer. Mike and I were both dressed casually in slacks and polos. However, Joe seemed to have rolled into work wearing yesterday’s clothes—baggy jeans and a rumpled Washington Nationals jersey.
“Joe Brock, I’d like you to meet Agent Michael Finnegan.”
The men shook hands.
“Follow me.” Joe made a jerking motion with his head.
We took the elevator to the upper levels of the executive offices, and Joe led us down the hall to a room with more glass and a shiny conference table. Two men rose as we entered. I recognized the bearded Washington Post executive editor, and the man who stood next to him in a sharply tailored designer suit could only be one of their lawyers. A thick manila file rested in front of one of the empty chairs. After the introductions were made, Joe took the seat behind the folder.
I decided to get the ball rolling. “Joe, you know why we’re here. Let’s talk about Karen Ferngull’s flash drive.”
The lawyer blustered for a few minutes, spouting a bunch of legal jargon at Mike and declaring this meeting a bad idea. He was silenced by the prominent editor. “Joe and I are aware of your feelings, Marcus. With that being said, I’d like to turn the conversation over to Joe.”
Joe began with information he’d provided at Friday’s meeting. However, as I suspected, the reporter had been holding out on us at the restaurant, he was sitting on so much more. Over a thousand emails were spread across the drive. It was a treasure trove of information on the level of Lewinskygate. His team had been working day and night researching the materials. As a gift of good faith, Joe’s manila file held a packet of a hundred printed and highlighted emails and text messages. They implicated key players at the five pharmaceuticals and provided information about the hiring of NKBarbie and Naftali Rivkin on the darknet—how they were contacted, how much they were paid, and where the payments went. Rivkin was paid in diamonds, whereas, NKBarbie had chosen Bitcoin, as Mike suspected. However, emails sent to Karen identified Jamichael Teason as the mastermind behind Harper’s murder.
Frankly, I couldn’t believe these folks would be so stupid as to put all of it in writing. However, with so many players, perhaps the emails were the insurance they carried against each other. They must have realized, when Karen made threats—started bucking the system—that she had all the dirt she needed to put a dozen of the players behind bars for life.
Even though he hid it well, I could see Mike couldn’t believe his luck. The meeting devolved into a discussion about deadlines, deals for exclusives, front page news, etcetera. I, now as useful as the potted plant in the corner, barely spoke during the meeting. The men hashed out their agreements while I watched like “an Egyptian Sphinx”, as Mike framed it when we finally left the marbled halls of The Post at half past nine.
On our way out, Mike called Leon. “You’d better wake up Judge DeLawerence. We’re going to need some warrants.”
It was clear he wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight. He gave me an absentminded kiss when we reached my car before hurrying off to his own vehicle with the phone attached to his ear.
Chapter Thirty
Monday morning, I awoke to the sound of hammering on my front door. I checked the peephole and found Rodrigo on the other side.
“Karina, wake up! Let me in!” His knuckles continued banging.
I considered ignoring him and walking back to my snuggly, warm bed, but he was making such a racket, I worried he’d wake the neighbors.
“What is it?” I demanded grumpily, pulling the door open. The high-pitched beeping of my new system reminded me I had thirty seconds to turn it off before we had a full-on, ear-splitting alarm. “Just a minute.” I punched in the code and found Rodrigo standing at my shoulder. “Come on in. Make yourself at home,” I harrumphed.
“Have you seen it?” He waved a newspaper in my face.
“Seen what? What the hell time is it?” I yawned.
“Quarter to six.”
“As in, five forty-five?”
“Five forty-three, to be exact,” he said, glancing at his phone.
“How the hell did you get in the building?”
“One of your neighbors, heading out for a jog, held the door open for me.”
“Christ! This better be good, Rodrigo, or I swear I’ll chop you up in tiny little pieces and shove you down my disposal.”
He scrutinized me for a moment. “You need a cup of coffee.”
“Screw a cup. I need to open a vein and mainline it through an IV.”
“Where’s your kitchen?”
I didn’t deign to answer; instead, I stumbled to the couch, flopped down on it, and closed my eyes. Rodrigo must have found the kitchen and the coffeemaker on his own, because a few minutes later, the scent of the lifesaving brew wafted past my olfactory senses.
He retrieved the largest mug in the cabinet, one I usually used as a soup bowl, and brought it over where I remained in a supine semi-coma. “Here, drink this. You’ll feel more like yourself in a jiffy.”
“What if I don’t want to feel more like myself? What if I want to return to my relaxing slumber and pretend my coworker didn’t invade my home at five in the morning?”
“Karen’s emails are the front page of this morning’s Post.”
His statement brought me to consciousness better than any cup of coffee could. I snatched the paper from his hands.
The sordid story splashed across The Post’s headlines, along with names of the conspirators and the murders of Finley, Harper, and Karen Ferngull. I took the mammoth cup from Rodrigo as my eyes zipped across the page.
“Did you know about this?” he asked me.
“Yes.”
“Yes? Seriously? Did you talk with Joe again? Without me?” He sounded hurt, but I couldn’t muster up an apology or sympathy at this ungodly hour.
“And the FBI.” I sipped the brew and grimaced, glancing at the black liquid for the first time. “Could you add some cream and sugar?”
The paper got a whole lot more than one article out of Karen’s emails and the Troika Star conspiracy, and, in my opinion, Joe Brock should be nominated for a Pulitzer. Rodrigo splayed the different sections of the paper across the coffee table, and we each took a page of the thin newsprint, eagerly reading the in-depth reporting.
At seven, Rodrigo turned on the television. I juggled reading the paper and watching, in my robe and slippers, as Sam Cactus reported the story. The network ran live footage of the FBI raiding Lars Dillon’s Manhattan law firm, escorting him out of the building. The FBI arrested Jamichael Teason at his home as he backed out of the driveway in his Cadillac. Rodrigo and I high-fived, congratulating ourselves, as if we’d singlehandedly solved the case. Stupid, I know. But the euphoria of seeing the FBI get their man/men/women was on par with winning the Super Bowl.
By the time eight rolled around, I reluctantly headed to the shower, admonishing Rodrigo to keep watching and let me know if anything new happened. I tuned in to a news radio channel on the way to work, eagerly listening for new information that I hadn’t already read in The Post or heard on TV. The day brought more raids and more information. The twenty-four hour news networks barely reported on anything else. Everyone in the office was as consumed by the story as Rodrigo and I, so our rabid curiosity didn’t seem out of place to our colleagues. He spent a good portion of the day in my office with his laptop, scanning the internet for breaking articles and rereading the old ones.
It started as a whisper, but soon, work colleagues who found out I’d been with Harper the day he died began creeping into my office. Rodrigo happily filled them in on the big story. They came and sat or stood against the walls, gossiping like it was a day at t
heir local beauty salon. Barely any work got accomplished. I thanked the heavens Hasina was out of town until mid-week. By four thirty, I gave up pretending to work and suggested we all head to a local bar for drinks. The day ended with me driving a happy, drunk Rodrigo home.
News of the amounts of dirty pharmaceutical company money going into politicians’ pockets came out on Tuesday and the public went into an uproar. Social media lit up like wild fire, and #congressionaldrugmules was trending before noon. One congressman’s home office in Illinois had a Molotov cocktail thrown through the front window. By Friday, both the House and Senate introduced new bills with bipartisan sponsorship. They focused on sweeping federal oversight on the pharmaceutical industry, which included setting price caps and modulating costs on specialty medications for chronic conditions. It was called the Harper-Finley Bill. Harper was right, S46 paled in comparison.
One thing stood out to me and was mentioned by only a handful of reporters—the president’s Twitter account remained unexpectedly silent. Our tweeter-in-chief had nothing to say for himself, allowing his press secretary to decry this awful crime on behalf of the administration.
The silence lasted until Wednesday, when a tabloid splashed the headline “WHITE HOUSE CONNECTED TO D.C. MURDERS” on its front page. The headline was picked up by a local news station, and then its national affiliate. A fiery tweet storm raged down.
The flash drive turned into a gold mine for the FBI; arrests were made and indictments handed down. Rivkin was right—once the feds had Karen’s accounts, all they had to do was follow the money . . . and the emails.
During one of our few and hurried conversations that week, Mike told me the hacker in custody didn’t get his plea deal. The FBI didn’t need it. The case would undoubtedly do wonders for Mike’s career. I predicted he’d be looking at a promotion before too long, and I was thrilled for him.
My talk with Jillian about my relationship with Mike stayed with me. Generally, it would come to mind at night as the day’s stresses floated away and I lay alone in bed. Jilly was right, we needed to move forward. But how? Dozens of imaginary conversations with Mike ran through my brain, each one filled with deep, drawn-out confessions that you read about in sappy romance stories. All of which I could see in my mind’s eye, none of which I believed would actually come out of my mouth, or his for that matter. Until one scenario came to me that seemed so simple and unencumbered, I knew it would work. Finally, two weeks after the story broke, things calmed down and we found time to meet for dinner. He texted he’d pick me up for our date at seven.
MIKE ARRIVED TEN MINUTES late. I didn’t mind. Neither did he, when I opened the door wearing a gossamer robe with a matching negligee, and a pair of feathered mules (à la Mrs. Thundermuffin).
His eyes bulged, and a strange squeak came out.
“First, a glass of champagne to celebrate solving the case.” I drew him into the apartment and handed him a flute filled with the bubbly.
He sucked down the glass in one gulp and placed it on a side table.
“Okay, I guess we’ll do the toasting later.” I took his hand. “Mike, I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. My sister says it’s time for us to move this relationship forward. And she’s right. We’ve been dancing around a sexual liaison for too long now. Do you want to move the relationship forward?”
He nodded with the look of an excited puppy.
“Then follow me.” I crooked a finger and cat-walked to the bedroom.
The End
THANKS FOR READING the second Karina Cardinal mystery. Please consider leaving a review. Reviews are tips for authors.
IF YOU ARE INTERESTED in learning about upcoming Karina Cardinal mysteries, join my newsletter or follow me on social media, links can be found at ellenbutler.net. Karina’s next adventure will be hitting bookshelves in 2019.
Author’s Note
The idea for Fatal Legislation came to me when I saw an ad, on TV, for a pacemaker recall, due to the fact it could be hacked. Immediately, my writer’s mind thought, “What an excellent way to kill someone. I’ve got to write a Karina Cardinal adventure about that!” So, if you were wondering how realistic killing someone via pacemaker would be, sadly it is a viable option. As I delved deeper into my research, I found out exactly how vulnerable our culture is to the dangers of hacking. Technology running on Wi-Fi systems, such as smart appliances and virtual assistants are at particular risk. Security measures can be taken and software improved, but there is always some hacker around the corner trying new ways to access these everyday items.
My time at the American Academy of Physician Assistants helped form the pharmaceutical industry conspiracy. In the 1990s, the FDA rolled back pharmaceutical regulations; the new regulations allowed drug companies the ability to advertise direct to consumers. I remember having a long conversation with a group of Physician Assistants from work, and they were not in favor of these rollbacks. They felt marketing prescriptive drugs directly to consumers would be dangerous. What was the result of the FDA rollbacks? Drug companies dumped millions into advertising and patients began hounding doctors for medication they’d seen on TV or in magazines. For the first time in history prescription drugs were put on public display in direct competition to each other in the same manner toilet paper brands compete. From 1990 to 2000, the United States saw an increase of consumer prescription drug expenditures jump from $40.3 billion to $121 billion and up to $205.3 billion in 2005. The largest 15-year increase in pharmaceutical history.
Furthermore, the pharmaceutical industry statistics in the novel are not fictional, they come from real data. According to The Center for Responsive Politics, “The pharmaceutical industry, which has about two lobbyists for every member of Congress, spent $152 million on influencing legislation in 2016.” The Guardian wrote an article titled, How big pharma’s money-and its politicians-feed the opioid crisis, where it states, “drug companies also contributed more than $20 million directly to political campaigns.” In the book, Karina refers to a bill she calls, “Buy your drugs from Canada,” it was proposed by Democrats in 2016 and had support from a handful of Republicans. The legislation didn’t pass, because the pharmaceutical lobby did its job well. Two other truths in the novel: 1) America is paying the offset of other countries who do control their pharmaceutical industry pricing, and 2) Hunter Syndrome is a real condition. The annual cost for an American consumer of the drug Elaprase is approximately $500,000/year. Sadly, it is not the most expensive drug on the market.
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank the following people for their time, ideas, suggestions, and clarifications that helped create Karina’s latest adventure.
To Matt Fine, a high school friend, who helped me create some interesting plot points around the FBI investigation. I am thankful you continue to provide your time and expertise. And, speaking of law enforcement, David Swinson, formerly of the D.C. Police Department, provided help defining the different roles each department of law enforcement would play, should a senator be murdered on Capitol grounds. Your knowledge, kindness, and support surrounding this story is greatly appreciated. I also want to thank two of my former American Academy of Physician Assistant (AAPA) colleagues, Marilyn Fitzgerald and Sandy Harding. Our hours long lunch provided plot points and character development which I hope you’ll recognize as you read. Thanks to my editor, Emily, for pointing out a plot hole that was in desperate need of fixing.
To my high school friend, Nancy Green, who had the unfortunate experience of seeing her husband almost die from a pacemaker gone bad—luckily, he survived—I would personally like to thank you for providing such honest, and, what must be, heart-wrenching details of the incident. Your information allowed me to make my fictional senator’s death as realistic as possible. I’d also like to thank intern Danny Duong, from Senator Tim Kaine’s office, for escorting me through the tunnel systems under the Capitol and Senate office buildings. My time on the Hill happened pre-911, and the tunnels have changed quite
a bit, to include, new paint, bright lights, cameras, restricted access, and the improvement of drywall over the creepy plumbing and steam pipes. Finally, I’d like to thank my friends and family for all their loving support as I continue through this writing journey. Larry Geib provided information from his decades of climbing experience for Karina’s break-in, and I especially appreciated my husband sharing his cyber security expertise for this novel.
About the Author
Ellen Butler is a bestselling novelist writing critically acclaimed suspense thrillers, and award-winning romance. Ellen holds a Master’s Degree in Public Administration and Policy, and her history includes a long list of writing for dry, but illuminating, professional newsletters and windy papers on public policy. She is a member of International Thriller Writers, Sisters in Crime, and the OSS Society. She lives in the Virginia suburbs of Washington, D.C. with her husband and two children.
You can find Ellen at:
Website ~ www.EllenButler.net
Facebook ~ www.facebook.com/EllenButlerBooks
Twitter ~ @EButlerBooks
Instagram ~ @ebutlerbooks
Goodreads ~ www.goodreads.com/EllenButlerBooks
Guided Reading Questions for Book Clubs
Available on Ellen’s Website
EllenButler.net
Novels by Ellen Butler
Suspense/Thriller
Isabella’s Painting (Karina Cardinal Mystery Book 1)
