by Lauren Carr
“No, Leban Slade. I doubt if one of the world’s wealthiest businessmen and philanthropists would be eating in the food court.” Bruce opened one of the doors and held it for her. “Most likely, he’s here to close the deal on a dirty senator.”
“Bruce, I never knew you to be so cynical,” she said with heavy sarcasm as she entered the white marble and gold trimmed Union Station. She paused to take in the grandeur of the historic transportation hub.
“Leban Slade owns more politicians than you have shoes. How do you think he became one of the richest men on the planet? He invests in politicians and directs them to vote his way—ways that require government contracts.”
With a nod of her head, Jacqui agreed while searching the hordes of people hurrying through the station that boasted several levels of shops and restaurants. During the lunchtime hour, politicians or federal employees descended on the station to seek a quick lunch while soaking up the metropolitan atmosphere.
Jacqui searched the hundreds of tourists, travelers, and diners for the intern of a certain senator. “Slade Industries has divisions that deal in computer, cybersecurity--”
“Think about it,” Bruce explained, “Leban Slade buys enough politicians to vote to increase the spending on cybersecurity. Several million more dollars go into the military’s budget for cybersecurity. Not only do they need more people but they also need more …” He held out a hand in a gesture for her to finish the sentence.
“Equipment and programs, which Slade Industries designs, manufactures, and sells.” Jacqui scoffed. “Is this just speculation on your part or—”
“It’s a known secret in Washington,” Bruce said. “Remember, I used to be the attorney general for Virginia. I’ve played golf, broke bread, and socialized with all of these folks. If they weren’t representing my state, they were federal politicians living in my state. Behind closed doors, they talk openly about what Slade wants and how they’re going to get it for him. One of the senators in my state is practically Slade’s slave boy. Slade says jump and he asks how high.”
“He can’t have every politician in his pocket.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Last year, the New York State Attorney General convicted the attorney for an influential businessman for a host of white-collar crimes—enough to earn him five years jail time. That businessman happened to be Slade’s competitor for government defense contracts.”
“Maybe he really was crooked. Did you ever think of that?”
Bruce chuckled. “Do you know how many laws the average businessman breaks every day?”
Jacqui’s face went blank. She shook her head.
Bruce held up four fingers. “An average of four. The reason being that there are so many laws controlling businesses. Granted, people who go into business are supposed to know the laws. If not, they hire people who do. But there are so many laws controlling every facet of business that it is impossible to navigate the minefield of laws that have sprung up over the course of hundreds of years without breaking one or two.” He chuckled. “I’m sure you heard the saying, ‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”
“Everyone has.”
“Think about it. The more you traipse back and forth through a minefield, the more likely you are to step on a mine. The more successful a business owner is, the more business he is doing. The more business he does, the more laws he is likely to break. Every lawyer who knows his stuff knows that.” He lowered his voice. “As a result, our country has created a judicial system where any prosecutor, district attorney, or attorney general on the local or federal level can bring down anyone they target for investigation, whether it be for ethical, political, or personal reasons. All the prosecutor has to do is dig and I guarantee, he’ll find something.”
“And if you are corrupt and happen to be a close ally of the prosecutor—”
“It’s all a matter of whether the prosecutor picks up the shovel or not,” he said. “Leban Slade has a non-profit foundation that’s headquartered in New York that works on a much larger scale than his competitor. It’s a fact that Slade uses the foundation for money laundering ill-gotten funds from bribes, extortion, you name it. The New York attorney general knows that. He doesn’t have to do any digging to find the evidence. Instead, he took a backhoe to Slade’s competitor, who had a legitimate charitable organization. They arrested his attorney and shut down his foundation for violating business laws that usually result in fines for other companies. Doesn’t that seem weird to you?”
“Totally, Bruce. Politics is like carbon monoxide. As soon as politics enters anything, it drains every ounce of life and sanity from it.” Jacqui walked across the station’s main lobby in search of Oliver Hansen.
Not only did they have to search the main floor, but there were also three levels of cafes which looked down on the main floor. It seemed like an impossible effort for the two of them.
Jacqui took out her cell phone to suggest they split up to broaden their search when Bruce pointed at the bistro on the floor above them. “There he is. Nine o’clock.”
Jacqui turned directly to her right and looked up at the top of the stairs to an Italian restaurant.
At a small table in the outdoor café seating, Oliver Hansen was making broad gestures while talking to a pretty brunette. In contrast to Oliver’s apparent despair, the young woman sat back in her seat and sipped her beer.
“Something is going down.” Jacqui trotted up the stairs with Bruce directly behind her.
They reached the café just in time for the brunette to drain her beer and set the mug down. “Listen, I don’t have time to listen to your whining. Senator Douglas will be finished with her luncheon meeting with Mr. Slade in a couple of minutes.” She rose and gathered her purse. “If you want to feel guilty about someone offing Stephens, then go ahead. My conscience is clear. Thanks for lunch.” She hurried off in the direction of a hallway that led to a section of Union Station in which private conference rooms could be booked for meetings or events.
Watching her rush past Bruce and Jacqui, Oliver saw that his indiscretion had been discovered. The color drained from his face for the second time that day.
“Is there something you want to tell us, Oliver?” Jacqui took the seat that his lunch companion had abandoned.
Bruce took a chair from a nearby table and straddled the back to join them. “Who is she? She obviously works for Senator Douglas.”
“Amelia Parker. She’s the senator’s assistant,” Oliver said. “She graduated from Georgetown Law School. She’s—”
“Pretty and—” Jacqui interjected.
“Ruthlessly ambitious,” Bruce finished. “She used you to gather information on the senate majority leader to feed to her boss.”
Oliver hung his head.
“Didn’t that thought ever occur to you?” Bruce said.
“I didn’t know anyone was going to get killed,” Oliver said. “I assumed the letter was from some political nut job trying to throw off Cross’s nomination. I mean ‘treason’ is a pretty strong word if you ask me.”
“No one asked you,” Bruce said. “Senator Keaton didn’t want to send Douglas and everyone into a tailspin until he had the letter’s contents investigated to see if they were serious.”
“Considering that people have died, we know that the contents are deadly serious,” Jacqui said. “You told Amelia—”
“Via pillow talk,” Bruce said. “Who did she tell?”
“She told Senator Douglas,” Oliver said.
“Did Amelia tell you what Senator Douglas did with that information?” Jacqui asked.
“Amelia said Senator Douglas was extremely grateful. As a matter of fact, she says she’s expecting a very generous Christmas bonus.”
“You better hope she shares it with you considering that you are now on the way to being fired,” Bruce said.
“I thought
it was the right thing to do,” Oliver said.
“You are not in the position of doing what you think is right,” Bruce said. “You get paid to follow Senator Keaton’s orders and his job is to do what the men and women sent him to Washington to do. One of those things is to protect us from enemies foreign and domestic. If Daniel Cross is a traitor, as Anonymous claims, then he is one of those enemies. One of the last things you want to do is send a message to the enemy telling them that you are on to them.”
“I didn’t tell Daniel Cross about the letter.”
“No, you told your ambitious girlfriend who tattled to Senator Douglas, Daniel Cross’s biggest cheerleader.”
Oliver’s face hardened. “Don’t you think Cross had a right to know what he was being accused of instead of being blindsided?”
“Oliver, don’t you think that if Daniel Cross was capable of selling out his country to foreign governments that could harm his fellow Americans that he’d be capable of murder?” Jacqui asked. “Did your girlfriend tell you what Senator Douglas’s game plan was after she found out about the letter?”
Oliver shrugged his shoulders. “She called her chief investigator to find out who’d sent it.”
Bruce grinned. “See? Pillow talk goes both ways. Who is this chief investigator?”
“I’d hate to be on the wrong end of one of his investigations.” Oliver shuddered. “He’s huge. I mean tall—like basketball player from another planet tall. Dark eyes that scare the life out of you just to have him look at you.”
“Does this tall guy have a name?” Bruce asked.
In silence, Oliver chewed his lip before answering. “Amelia calls him Lurch.”
Chris felt a sense of deja vu when he turned into South Lakes, the community where he and Blair had made their home for their growing family. The quiet, tree lined neighborhood had sprouted up around Lake Audubon, a fingerling lake surrounded by condos, townhomes, and some single-family homes.
Chris felt as if he were returning home to a nightmare.
All was quiet in the gated community, which was why he and Blair had chosen to live there, until he turned the corner to find emergency vehicles lining both sides of the street. A medical examiner’s van, crime scene units, two sheriff’s cruisers, Ripley Vaccaro’s unmarked FBI cruiser, and Francine’s white Mini-Cooper made up much of the fleet.
Inside the boundary set up by crime scene tape, Ripley was talking to a short barrel-chested man in a sheriff’s uniform. Chris instantly recognized the markings on his jacket designating him as Fairfax County’s sheriff.
The residents of every home on the block watched the goings-on through their windows or front yards and driveways. Some were old neighbors. Others were strangers who had moved into the community after Chris had left.
Francine waved for Chris to park at the end of the line of vehicles. He ended up parking in front of his previous home, a blue house with white trim, which rested along the lakeshore. The turn onto the cul-de-sac had a sharp drop off down a steep hill to the lake.
“Matheson! Is that you?”
Chris cringed when a portly man with white hair and a pointy goatee waved to him from across the street.
“Who’s that?” Elliott asked.
Even Sterling, in the back seat, stepped onto the middle console to peer at the man gesturing for Chris to acknowledge him and the collection of spectators gathered in the neighbor’s front yard. In recognition of their investigation, Elliott had placed a blue cap with “FBI” stenciled on it in gold letters on Sterling’s head.
“Ignore him,” Chris told Elliott.
“Who is he?”
“Gordie. He’s an idiot.” Chris opened the door and slid from the driver’s seat. Keeping his head turned to ignore Gordie, he strode around the truck and onto the sidewalk to make his way to Ripley.
“Hey, that is Matheson,” Gordie shouted for all to hear. “Wonder why they called him in?”
Leaving Sterling,, Elliott climbed out and went around the back of the truck. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the rear fender and watched the scene playing out across the street.
To anyone who would listen, Gordie recounted about his years of being the Mathesons’ neighbor.
“He used to live there.” Gordie pointed at the blue house. “Worst neighbor in the world! One of those testosterone-packed Neanderthals. Of course, he had guns in the house. What kind of man keeps guns in the house when he’s got kids? It isn’t like he was a good father. He’d take off, leaving his wife and kids home alone for days on end. Plus, he had this vicious German shepherd—barked all the time. How much do you want to bet he had something to do with that dead woman? She was probably in witness protection and he got her killed.”
Time for this guy to put a sock in it.
Elliott stood up to his full height and uncrossed his arms. He stared at the short white-haired neighbor until he captured Gordie’s attention. That took quite a while because Gordie was so caught up in the importance that came with being connected to Chris, who appeared to be connected to the dead woman in the lake.
Elliott could see that Gordie was short, but he didn’t see how short he was until he crossed the street to where he was prancing from one neighbor to another while recounting every issue he had with Chris. He started with Chris owning a German shepherd. The only acceptable dog for civilized people were dogs small enough to fit into a purse like the terrier Elliott saw peering out the window. Then there was the time Chris played his music too loud when he came home and Gordie had to shut his bedroom door. On top of it all, Chris’s worst offense was working for the FBI. That made him a thug for hire.
Elliott was standing directly behind the little man before a member of his audience gestured to Gordie before making a hasty retreat to his own home a few doors down.
Elliott took his retired law enforcement identification from his pocket and flashed it quickly. “U.S. Marshal. From what I hear, you have some information about what’s happened here. Would you care to go on the record?” He saw that Gordie was no taller than Helen, who was quite petite.
“Ugh—”
“‘Ugh’ is not an answer.” Elliott made a show of taking his notepad from his pocket. “Now, what exactly do you know about the death of this woman?” He took his time digging through his pockets for a pencil to give Gordie plenty of time to think about his accusations becoming part of an official record. “Keep in mind that any false statements you make can be used against you. In other words, if they result in the wrongful arrest of a suspect, in this case Mr. Matheson, then he will be within his right to sue you for defamation of character.”
Beads of sweat formed on Gordie’s forehead.
“So, Mr. Gordie, what do you know about this case?” Elliott put the pencil to the notepad. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
Gordie swallowed. “I don’t know anything.”
“Funny, you were so talkative a moment ago.” Elliott shrugged his shoulders. “Seemed to know a whole bunch.”
“I was just saying …” Gordie’s voice trailed off.
“Were you ever in the Matheson home?”
“No.”
“Met him and his family except to complain?”
Gordie kicked at the ground.
“What were you just saying?” Elliott asked.
Gordie swallowed. “Saying?”
“That Chris Matheson was a killer—a conclusion not based on evidence but because of your narrow-minded judgment. It’s a very slippery slope when you start convicting people based on nothing more than disapproval of their worldviews.” Elliott returned his notepad and pencil in his pocket.
The muscular man leaned in close to Gordie, who stared up at him with wide eyes. “Take some advice,” he said in a menacingly low voice. “If you don’t like someone, ignore them.” He winked at him. “That’s what grownups do.”
Elliott pointed across the road to Sterling, who was watching them from the driver’s seat of the truck. Elliott pointed two fingers at the dog and then turned around to point at Gordie.
Licking his chops, Sterling focused on the little man. Between the dark sunglasses hiding his eyes and FBI cap, the German shepherd appeared quite intimidating, even without baring his teeth.
Leaving Gordie under Sterling’s watchful eye, Elliott crossed the road to join Chris and the law enforcement gathered at the corner drop-off into the lake. He found Chris talking to a woman wearing a jacket emblazoned with FBI across the back and the sheriff. Chris was positioned outside the yellow crime scene tape boundary.
“Did your people get an impression of that tire mark?” Chris pointed at a clear tire mark that appeared to drive over the corner of the sidewalk and across the grass near the drop-off.
The sour expression on the sheriff’s flabby face revealed that he was offended by Chris’s suggestion that he had missed the evidence. “My people got it first thing.”
“Sheriff, we found a phone!” One of the crime scene investigators announced from where they were searching the lake for further evidence.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and her murderer’s phone number will be listed in her contacts under ‘killer,’” the sheriff said.
Two men and a woman wearing crime scene garb stood in the thigh-deep water at the bottom of the steep hill. Gingerly, they positioned the basket containing a black body bag between them. The basket was attached to a pully strung up between the trees lining the lake’s edge and the front of one of the sheriff’s cruisers.
Upon seeing Elliott, Francine introduced him to Murphy before stepping away to answer the phone buzzing in her pocket.
“Was the medical examiner able to determine a possible cause of death?” Elliott asked them.
Hearing him, Chris shook his head and said over his shoulder, “No GSW or knife wounds. Possible drowning, but she was found in three and a half feet of water. She was a strong swimmer. The medical examiner will have to open her up.”
As the crime scene technicians lifted Blair’s body over the tape, Chris stepped forward to block them from loading her in the back of the wagon. “I want to see her.”
