Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  “And now it has,” Ridge replied.

  “No good deed, and all that shit, right?” the man shot back.

  Raising his gaze from the carpet he’d been staring at, Ridge felt the skin around his eyes tighten as he focused out through the rear window of his office, dead tree limbs swaying with the winter wind.

  “I would hardly call what happened out there that day a good deed.”

  “Seemed to have worked out okay for the both of us, didn’t it?” the man snapped back, defiance obvious in his tone.

  Opening his mouth to respond, Ridge pulled up just short, not wanting or needing to rehash something that had happened ages ago, knowing full well neither man would ever be able to see things the same.

  “Well, either way, I’m calling now to cash in,” Ridge said.

  Again the man could be heard sighing. “And then we’re square?”

  “The slate is clean,” Ridge promised without hesitation.

  Based on what Murray and McVey had given him, he only had one clear logical next step, this being the best and very nearly only way he knew to take it.

  Holding his breath he waited, counting off seconds in his head.

  “This had better be important,” the man said eventually. “Mulligans. One hour.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The front lobby of the Washington, D.C. Hilton was abuzz with activity. With the new Congress opening the next day, press and local politicians from all over the country were in town, many the personal guests of legislators wanting to get their pictures in the papers back home, intent on telling all their voters how grateful they were to be there and how much they aimed to accomplish.

  Manic energy seemed to roll from each person as they moved in a quick and stilted manner, all fearful of missing out on something as they streaked through the space, their heads swiveling from side to side, looking out for whoever may be nearby.

  At the polar opposite end of that spectrum, Marian Ellerbe and Kyle Stroh shuffled across the polished marble floor, neither so much as lifting their feet from the ground as they processed what they’d just been through.

  The task, on the surface, was a simple one, on the easier end of things they’d been asked to do in the preceding months since the election. Gone were their original charges for the day, sprinting to clean up any lingering issues, instead replaced with driving a single woman to her hotel, grabbing her things, and returning her to a nicer post downtown.

  Given what they both knew about D.C. and the traffic patterns, it was clear from the outset that the task would take the better part of the time they had remaining on the clock.

  What they hadn’t anticipated was it draining away most of their energy also.

  Not so much as a word had passed between them since leaving her room, the elevator down mercifully aided by a pair of out-of-towners, their accents and fleshy faces giving the impression of Wisconsin or Minnesota, though neither one had felt up to the task of engaging them far enough to find out.

  “Well now, that was...” Ellerbe opened, her voice low, pulling Stroh’s glance in her direction.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, one corner of his mouth flickering slightly before lowering itself back into place.

  Again both fell silent as they pushed through the lobby, the two of them serving as the eye of a storm of chaos, people filing by on either side, moving fast.

  “You ever?” Ellerbe asked, not bothering to finish the statement.

  “Not even close,” Stroh replied. “You?”

  “Huh-uh,” Ellerbe said. “Hope to never have to again, either.”

  “Right? Normally after something tense I’d suggest we stop by the bar before heading back, grab something to smooth out the rough spots, but...”

  “No kidding,” Ellerbe said, picking up on his insinuation, offering a small shake of her head to let him know she was of the same opinion.

  Ahead of them, the front door loomed, each steering away from the oversized revolving option and instead going for the regular affair positioned off to the side. Arriving first, Stroh reached out and pulled it open, allowing Ellerbe to pass through before following her out onto the street.

  Around them, the world had transitioned from midday to early evening, the hour not yet even five, though that could hardly be ascertained. Overhead, much of the daylight was already extinguished, the skyscrapers to either side blotting out most of the residual glow that remained.

  In front of them, traffic had swelled considerably, city buses and taxi cabs jockeying for position, cars lined back through every intersection, oblivious to what the posted lights indicated above.

  On the sidewalks, most of the working world had opted to get a few minutes jump on the end of the day, post-holiday malaise on clear display, deep frowns crossing most faces as people strode for home.

  “Does this mean we should head back to the office?” Ellerbe asked, her eyes adjusting to the low light, the rest of her still fighting to shake off what had transpired upstairs.

  “I guess,” Stroh replied, looking out at the street before him, his gaze sweeping in a full one hundred and eighty degree arc. “Though, given how crazy the traffic is right now, I don’t think anybody would say anything if we took a few minutes extra getting back.”

  Beside him, Ellerbe heard the words, blinking twice before they penetrated, casting a glance his direction. “Yeah?”

  Matching the look, Stroh said, “I mean, if we can’t grab a drink, there are other ways to snap out of a funk.”

  A hint of a smile pulled at Ellerbe’s mouth as she looked at him another moment before shifting to see the unending snake of brake lights stretched out before them.

  “I’m thinking brownies. You?”

  “I was more along the lines of ice cream, but given the cold, I think you might be right.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The suit was a Michael Kors, a three-button affair that Leopold Donner had gotten off the rack from a Kohl’s sale two years prior. Coal black in color, it was still in the plastic from a trip to the dry cleaners thirteen months prior, that being the only other time he had ever worn it.

  Which, for his money, was two more times than he would have liked.

  Changing in the back seat of his SUV, Donner had worked the garment into position as much as he could, trying his best to smooth out the horizontal crease along the pant leg from the hanger they’d been on. After a few moments, he gave up on the notion, casting aside any attempt at wrangling the tie into place as well.

  Instead, he opted for the open-throat look, marching into the first floor of the Senate Dirksen building just minutes before five, a black leather satchel containing absolutely nothing under his arm.

  Not that it really mattered. There was no way his ruse would work, the end goal being solely to get visual confirmation of the three people he was in charge of covering.

  From there, he would play things however the situation warranted, the building too large, the exits too numerous, for him to simply leave things to chance.

  Passing through the metal detector, Donner remembered the office number from Ridge’s website. Eschewing the elevator, he jogged up the stairs to the third floor, exiting into the hallway and moving quickly for the far end, scanning each person he passed.

  There was no way to know what Susan Beckwith or Ashley Guthrie looked like, though the few women he passed were already in their coats and headed home for the day.

  If any of them were who he was looking for, he could already cross them off the list, they being of no further threat to his concerns the moment they signed off for the day.

  Hoping that were the case, Donner kept his stride elongated and went for the far corner, counting office numbers down in his head as he went. Sliding his phone from his pocket, he clicked a button on the side to illuminate the backlight, seeing that it was a just two minutes before five, his pace increasing slightly again.

  Perfect, just as he had planned it.

  An uneven triangle of light was sp
read on the floor from the corner office as Donner covered the last few feet, the interior of the space much brighter than the hallway he was standing in, a harsh contrast to the dark marble flooring of the outside.

  Almost jogging the last few steps, Donner slowed just slightly before sliding into the office, panting slightly, forcing himself to appear as if he were out of breath. Stopping right on the threshold of the door, he extended one hand out to his right, propping himself up, an embarrassed smile on his face.

  The charade was one he had used a time or two before with varying degrees of success. Though he had never been inside Ridge’s office – or any congressional office – he had felt reasonably certain that the approach would work, most any basic setup providing what he needed.

  This one was no different.

  The front room to the spread was maybe fifteen feet on either end, an American flag and a Wyoming flag framing the entry. Along one wall was a small leather sofa, the other a pair of matching armchairs. In front of each sat narrow coffee tables, books of photography from the American West strewn atop them, landscape portraits on either wall.

  In front of him was a wide desk made from a dark wood, a blonde twenty-something sitting behind it, a nameplate identifying her as Ashley Guthrie by her side.

  One down.

  “Good afternoon,” Guthrie said, smiling at him, her teeth enhanced tremendously by what he guessed to be a small fortune in dental and orthodontic work.

  “Good afternoon,” Donner replied, releasing his grip on the door and stepping forward. Wiping a hand across his brow, he rubbed his palm across the thigh of his pants, cleaning it of sweat that didn’t exist, the same sheepish grin still in place.

  “I’m so sorry to stop by so late,” he said. “My name is Tim Davenport from The Oregonian in Portland, and I was hoping that I might be able to snag a few minutes with the Senator.”

  The smile never wavered from the girl’s face as a small wrinkle appeared between her brows, her upper body shifting to consult the computer monitor before her.

  “Do you have an appointment with Senator Ridge?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, moving until he was flush against the desk and resting his hands atop it. “I’m working on a piece about our outgoing Senator and thought I might be able to get a quote from some of his colleagues before I wrap it up.”

  As he rattled off the prepared response, he glanced over the girl’s head to the office behind her, seeing a small landing area with doors spread wide to either side.

  On the right appeared to be where the staff was housed, a frumpy middle-aged woman staring straight ahead at what he guessed to be a computer, pretending not to be listening to every word transpiring out front.

  Without having a picture to work from, he would guess the woman to be Susan Beckwith, though there would be no way of knowing for sure.

  Even at that, he felt reasonably certain, his little visit so far having provided two of three targets he needed.

  That left only the man himself, the person Donner was most concerned with pinning down immediately.

  The door on the left was pulled shut, no insignia or nameplate of any kind on it, Donner guessing that to be Ridge’s office. Whether or not he was behind it was open to speculation, Donner rifling through possibilities in his mind, trying to determine the best way to handle things moving forward.

  “I’m very sorry, Mr.-“

  “Davenport,” Donner said, snapping his attention away from the door and back to the young lady before him.

  “Davenport,” she said, her face folding into a smile again, “but as you might have heard, this is actually the Senator’s final day, so his time is booked pretty solid.”

  Feigning disappointment, Donner glanced down to the desk a moment before looking back up to her. “Oh, well, that happens. I do appreciate you trying, though.”

  “Certainly,” the girl said. “And if you want, you might try ducking in on Senator McCaskill from Tennessee next door. She’s been here even longer than we have.”

  Leaning back a step, Donner let one hand slide away from the desk, his other dragging atop it. Extended one finger down, he tapped twice at the wood, a hollow sound just barely audible.

  Given what he had to work with, the attempt was worth the time needed, securing two of the three people he was tasked with, getting an even fifty-fifty on the third. Better than he actually had any hope for, the suit was beginning to become hot, his own patience with the character of Davenport and his reason for being there wearing thin.

  It was time to finish up and move on.

  “McCaskill,” he repeated. “Great, thanks, I’ll do that.”

  Turning away from the desk, he made it three steps across the floor, Guthrie starting to reply, her voice drowned out by the sound of a door jerking open.

  Twisting at the waist, Donner looked back to see none other than Jackson Ridge emerge from behind it, the older man shrugging a coat on over his suit, a phone in his hand.

  “Ash, I need to step out for a few minutes. Be back in an hour.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Residing only eight blocks from the capitol, Mulligan’s was hardly what could be considered a Hill favorite. While most staffers headed west at the end of each day - the evening task of being seen in the right places talking to the right people just as important as what happened during work hours – it was situated to the Northeast, tucked away past the eastern market, on the edge of what could be considered a residential area.

  Or at least could have been twenty years ago, before urban blight took down most of the dwellings positioned to either side, leaving the establishment as the last enterprising business on the block.

  Certainly not the type of place that a sitting United States Senator would ever walk to, at least not alone.

  Which was exactly the point.

  With the clock just a shade past five, the evening gridlock leaving the streets at a complete standstill, Jackson Ridge opted against calling for a cab, even more so for requesting a ride, not wanting the slightest record of where he was heading or of having to sit an extra twenty minutes waiting to get there.

  Crossing over into the Senate Hart Building from his office in Dirksen, he shot out the North exit, flipping his collar up and walking fast, his shoulders hunched high, letting his body language show anybody that might recognize him that it was not the best time to try and stop him for a chat.

  Not bothering to wait for the crosswalk, he shot straight across through the traffic standing idle on the North side of the building, disappearing down a narrow side street. Within seconds he was hidden from view by apartment buildings rising to either side, the waning gasps of daylight doing nothing to penetrate the shadows, providing him added cover.

  In as little as four or five hours there would be no way he would even consider making the trek, the telltale signs of hardship and poverty already lining the path, though, for the time being, he felt reasonably certain nothing too worrisome was out, his mood such that he practically dared somebody to try something anyway.

  Walking with elongated strides, Ridge covered six blocks going due north before turning east and winding his way through the last few blocks to his destination. Every few minutes he flicked a glance over his shoulder, even a time or two using reflective surfaces to see if anybody was following, the sum total being nothing more than a wry smile.

  A couple of hours of making calls and talking to old friends and already paranoia was setting in.

  Nine minutes after exiting the Hart building, Mulligan’s came into view, a squat corner affair made from dark brick heavily splotched with spray paint, graffiti of oversized letters spelling out messages Ridge couldn’t hope to decipher. Along the front window was a single sign indicating the name of the place in green letters, a shamrock serving to dot the I in the name.

  No other insignia of any kind was visible to indicate what was housed inside, black iron bars over the windows and front screen door exuding a vibe that would ke
ep most from venturing any closer to find out.

  Much like the World War I monument earlier in the day, Ridge knew the place to be a favorite of the man he was coming to meet, though the two of them had only set down together once before.

  That particular gathering had been years before, had resulted in the favor that was now being called in, the type of thing that most Americans would wince at if they knew happened on their watch, would openly weep if they realized just how often.

  Stepping in through the front door, a wave of warm air washed over Ridge, bringing with it the scents of sour beer and stale sweat, the combined mixture tickling his nostrils. Standing just inside the door, he could feel the damp air begin to lay heavy on his skin almost instantly, a light film coming to his forehead and the backs of his hands.

  On first impression, the place looked exactly as it had the last time he was present, the building consisting of one large room with restrooms along the back wall, doors to a kitchen and pantry in the corner.

  To his right was a waist-high bar cut from dark wood, nicks and gouges visible along the top, a ring of black leather bar stools around the outside. Behind it stood a man that looked to be even older than Ridge, a tuft of white hair standing high on his head, a towel thrown over his shoulder.

  The remainder of the space was split between tables and booths, the place not the sort to bother with pool tables or a dance floor. In their stead was a host of golf memorabilia, framed pictures on the walls, display cases featuring aging equipment set up at random intervals.

  With his back to the exit, Ridge scanned the place in one quick pass, ignoring a pair of stares from the bar before settling his gaze on a dark lamp along the far wall.

  “Get you something?” the barkeep asked, raising his voice and his chin in unison to fire the question.

  “Whatever you have on tap,” Ridge replied, barely even glancing over as he felt his core draw tight and began making his way over.