Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  Just as the man had said he hoped to never receive the call earlier in the day, Ridge had wanted even less to make it. His trepidation had nothing to do with the fact that he was letting go of a valuable marker that he had earned long before, but more the fact that he would have to do what he was doing now, which was sit down with the man that had given it to him.

  Looping out wide to the right, making sure he could be seen in the man’s periphery, Ridge came up perpendicular to the table, the man leaning forward onto his elbows, a beer already down to the dregs sitting before him.

  “Whitner.”

  Without turning to acknowledge him in any way, the man replied, “Ridge,” a single word serving both as an invitation to sit and a clear message that he would rather be anywhere else in the world.

  A sentiment Ridge more than shared as he slid down into the opposite side of the booth.

  “Thanks for meeting with me,” Ridge said, not bothering to remove his coat as he settled into position atop the smooth black leather, the seat squeaking slightly beneath his weight.

  In response came only a smirk, as clear as if I had a choice message as could be delivered without actually saying as much.

  Ridge knew the man as Terry Whitner, though if that was in fact his real name, there was no way of knowing, the man residing somewhere between the realms of spook story and fable around the Hill.

  Rumors persisted that he had at one time been a Special Forces operator; others insisted he had been trained by the CIA. All anybody seemed to know for certain was that for the last twenty-five years, he always seemed to be around, having a finger on the pulse of things that were necessary, injecting himself on occasion when absolutely vital.

  It was in that capacity that Ridge had first encountered the man, back when he was chair of the Armed Services Committee and a very delicate matter appeared before him.

  If not for the fact that Ridge was aware of his track record, he would have no idea of the man’s age, his looks completely indeterminate, appearing as if not a day had passed since their last encounter.

  Thick black hair crowded in on a narrow forehead and spilled over the tops of his ears without a gray to be seen. His face was cut from plains and angles, clear ridges etched into his cheekbones, offset by a scar slicing through his right eyebrow.

  Picking up the red flare of the bartender’s sweater headed their way, Ridge paused long enough for the man to deposit a paper napkin and his beer, nodding in thanks as he retreated, before beginning anew.

  “The reason I called-“ Ridge began, ignoring the glass before him, hoping that the interaction would be over before he even so much as touched it.

  “I know why you called,” Whitner said.

  Nodding slightly, Ridge said, “So you’d already caught wind of it.”

  Staring at him a moment, the first response was an eyebrow rising just slightly, followed in turn by a quick smirk.

  “No. Something like this would hardly make it onto my radar.”

  Not knowing how to respond, feeling his jaw sag just slightly, Ridge again only nodded.

  Already it was clear who was in charge of this meeting, there being no need to pretend otherwise, to even attempt to steer things where he wanted.

  Calling in a favor owed or not, Terry Whitner was not the type of person to be told what to do.

  “I won’t say you were right to give me a call,” Whitner said, “but I will say there’s no way you would have sorted through this mess on your own.”

  Again Ridge gave no response.

  “Because hell, right now I don’t even know the whole story.”

  Internally, Ridge could feel every muscle fiber he had drawing in tight, seizing around his core, threatening to choke the air from his lungs.

  What had started as a promise to a constituent, a hope for closing out his tenure on a high note, was already turning into something much larger, having stumbled into the throes of a situation he wasn’t sure he wanted any part of.

  Just as Whitner had said earlier, no good deed and all that.

  “Nor do I have the time to be looking into it,” Whitner said, “let alone sitting here in this bar talking to you.”

  Shifting onto a haunch, he extracted a metal money clip and peeled a fifty dollar bill from the outside, dropping it into the space between them.

  “So here’s what I’m going to do,” he said, returning the clip to his pocket. Taking up his glass, he downed the last bits of his beer, a trail of frothy bubbles lining the side of it.

  “I’m going to give you the next piece of the puzzle,” Whitner said, “which will let you keep digging on your own.”

  The news was hardly what Ridge had expected when calling in the favor, especially from someone with the reputation of Whitner, though again he knew not to overstep, keeping any disappointment in check.

  “And as a special gift, I’m going to let you keep your marker, since I’m not exactly holding up my end of things here.”

  While it had been presented as a quasi-deal between the two of them, it was clear that the terms were final, absolutely non-negotiable.

  Not sure how to answer, or even if he should, Ridge gave only a small nod, his focus entirely on Whitner.

  Across from him, the gaze was met, the other man clearly sizing him up, before saying, “The man who investigated the incident for CID is named Harold Golding, a lifer that’s actually not bad at what he does.”

  There he paused for a moment, considering the statement, before shaking his head and sliding to the edge of the booth.

  “Which makes the fact that they shipped his ass off to Alaska the minute he was done all the more curious.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The job was simple, definitely one of the easier tasks that Joselyn Packard had ever been given.

  The list Leopold Donner handed over was three names in total, all legislative aides for Senator Jackson Ridge, each somewhere between their late-20s and mid-30s. After hanging up the phone from the initial call, she opened the encrypted file that was sent over and went directly to work on the trio, starting with a girl named Marian Ellerbe, fast discovering she had made her way to the capitol via Jacksonville and Duke University, with pending applications out to a number of law schools up the East coast.

  With stellar LSAT scores and undergraduate grades, no doubt coupled with a strong recommendation from the senator, she was likely a shoo-in for most any school she wanted.

  While not out of the question, the odds of her doing anything that might upset her future, especially while clutching at a last day gasp for legitimacy by a retiring politician, seemed unlikely.

  Next up in order was Kyle Stroh, a thirty-five-year-old from Nashville that had stayed home and attended Vanderbilt, earned both a B.A. and a Master’s in public administration before coming to the Hill. Beginning with the Representative from his home state before shifting to Ridge, this was his second gig that was being cut short by the voters, his CV bearing all the earmarks of a lifer that would likely be latching on with another office in the near future.

  Packard had seen the type many times before, even made the mistake of getting involved with one for a while.

  It hadn’t ended well for either.

  The final entry was a girl just north of thirty that had cut bait right after the election, jumping to a support spot on the Judiciary Committee once the results were tallied and she would fast be unemployed.

  While Packard couldn’t help but give a tip of her hat to the girl and her enterprising mentality, she also wasn’t about to waste time trying to track her down or determine if she played any role in what Ridge was up to.

  Which left only Ellerbe and Stroh to concern herself with.

  From there it was a matter of getting eyes on the targets, determining where they were and who they were meeting with. Once that was complete, she would circle back to Donner with the information, the two together deciding how to proceed.

  As far as she knew, they only had to maintain
surveillance for a single day, meaning that a constant visual was likely in the cards.

  Having spent the previous days at home, trapped inside by the harsh Washington winter and the holiday season, that was more than fine by Packard.

  If the pay wasn’t so damn enticing, she long ago would have left the post in Donner’s employ, life in the private sector a far cry from the joys she’d once experienced traipsing across the globe.

  Of course, now fast approaching forty, the time for such things was coming to an end, some thought having to be given to her own future.

  That very thing was how she now found herself parked on the curb outside of The Girl Who Bakes Next Door bakery, a small affair tucked just off the major thoroughfares encircling the capitol. Having been fortunate to secure one of the final spots on the block, she sat perched behind the wheel of the battered Honda Civic she kept for such affairs to assist in making her almost completely invisible, her looks providing the rest of any cover she might need.

  There was no secret that while she was more than efficient in her duties, the reason Donner had called her was that she resembled a basic soccer mom, her form long and lithe without being muscular, her hair straight and brown. Large eyes and full lips made her pretty, but a round face kept her from being too much so.

  In short, she was the ideal person for urban reconnaissance, nobody ever so much as giving her a second glance.

  The interior of the Civic was somewhere in the mid-fifties, the heat from the drive over starting to fade as Packard repositioned herself behind the wheel, shifting her weight to one side. Casting glances every few moments into the rearview mirror, she had a full view of the front window of the shop, Ellerbe and Stroh seated across from each other, assorted items strewn on the table between them.

  Within the silent confines of the car, the sound of her ringtone erupting sounded several decibels louder than usual, echoing through the space.

  No visible reaction could be seen as Packard kept her gaze on the mirror, extending one hand out and squeezing the side of her phone. Not wanting anybody walking by to see her with her hand pressed to her face, she had already set the speaker volume low, knowing the only person that would be calling.

  “Packard.”

  “Donner,” came the reply, the background free of noise, giving the impression that he too was probably sitting in a car nearby. “You good?”

  “Go ahead,” Packard replied.

  “What’s your status?” Donner asked.

  Closing her eyes for a moment, Packard pushed a sigh out through her nose, her boss’s insistence on saying things such as that far past the point of being annoying.

  With the exception of Ames, none of them had been employed by the military for years.

  “I have a visual on two of the three names given, the third being a non-factor.”

  “You’re sure?” Donner inserted.

  “Positive,” Packard replied. “Records indicate she left months ago, they just never bothered to update their web page.”

  A grunt was the first response – presumably of approval – before Donner asked, “And the other two?”

  “Currently holed up at a bakery not far from their office,” Packard said. A handful of additional comments also ran through her mind, ranging the spectrum from stating they looked to be hiding to giving Donner their respective orders, though she refrained.

  “You’re kidding,” Donner muttered, surprise in his tone.

  Knowing the question was rhetorical, Packard remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

  “Okay,” Donner said. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but stay on them just the same. If they both go home for the day afterward, you can cut it off, but if they return to the office, remain as close as possible.”

  “Roger that,” Packard said, watching as Stroh repositioned in his chair and crossed his legs, looking to be settling in for a while. “Visual only?”

  Sighing once, Donner paused for a moment, contemplating the question. “For the time being. I need to swing back with the general here soon, will get further instructions.”

  “He’s going to shit when he hears what I’m staring at right now.”

  Again the thought of asking for clarification came to mind, though Packard remained silent.

  She knew Donner well enough to know he would or wouldn’t get to it in his own time.

  “Alright,” Donner said after several moments, his voice seeming to indicate that he was distracted, sounding much further away than he had just a moment before. “Keep me posted on where we stand, I’ll do the same with you.”

  “Roger that,” Packard replied, reaching out and disconnecting the call without another word, the car again falling silent, the world continuing to slip further into darkness around her.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The walk back to the Dirksen Senate Building was even faster than the jaunt to Mulligan’s had been, Jackson Ridge almost running most of the way, his polished shoes barely touching the ground with each step before they were up and off again, propelling him forward.

  Twice along the route he ignored posted crossing instructions and openly jogged through intersections, pausing just long enough at one point to fish his phone from his pocket, placing the call to Beckwith while resuming his pace, his entire focus on getting back to his office and following up on what Whitner had told him.

  While the visit with the man wasn’t a total success – a far cry from everything he had hoped to accomplish, in fact – it had managed to serve one key purpose, which was to give him something to keep chipping away at.

  Just like Murray and McVey before, nobody had any idea what had really happened with Josh Tarby, but they all knew enough to ensure progress was made.

  Given the time strictures he was working under, both from the end of the work day and the end of his very position, that was the best he could hope for.

  Even if he had to exhaust every last favor he had accumulated in the process.

  Most of the foot traffic around Dirksen was heading in the opposite direction as he passed through a side entrance, pausing just long enough to deposit his phone, keys, and wallet into a plastic bin and walking through the metal detectors. Nodding his thanks to the pair of bored guards on either side, he collected his belongings and again took to jogging, stuffing his things back into pockets as he made for the staircase.

  Two minutes later he found himself passing through the front door to his office suite, Ashley standing behind the desk, her coat on, the strap of her bag tossed over a shoulder.

  The sight of him appearing so abruptly caused her to visibly flinch, blood rushing to her cheeks, a hand rising to her chest.

  “Sorry, Ash,” he said, his breath coming in ragged pants, the quick trip back from Mulligan’s being the closest thing he had gotten to exercise in quite some time. “Have a good evening.”

  Taking a moment to collect herself, Ashley put on a smile, her shoulders rising and falling as she matched his breathing pattern.

  “Thanks, sir. You, too.”

  Not having the time or the inclination for small talk, Ridge swung around behind the front desk, looping his scarf up over his head and peering into the bullpen door on the right side of the suite. Seeing nothing but a quartet of empty desks, he paced back across the open space between them and entered his office to find Beckwith standing in front of his desk, both hands clasped before her.

  Held between the middle and index finger of her right hand was a scrap of paper, the white square a bright contrast to the dark green suit she wore.

  “Hey, Susie,” Ridge said, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it at the coatrack, the momentum knocking it back against the wall before swinging forward, the trio of legs wobbling before eventually settling down even.

  “Sir,” Beckwith said simply.

  “Were you able to get what I asked for?” Ridge said, stopping a few steps past the rack and patting himself down. Feeling the bulge of his phone deep in his front pants poc
ket, he resumed his walk, moving behind his desk, the scrap of paper Beckwith had been holding waiting there for him.

  “Thank you,” Ridge said. “Not too much trouble, I hope?”

  “None at all, sir,” she replied. “I hope you don’t mind, I told Ashley she could head home.”

  “Of course,” Ridge replied, knowing what Beckwith was alluding to, already having the same thought when he walked in a few moments before.

  As clear a role as Ashley played throughout the day, providing a smiling visage and unfailing courtesy to a host of things that sprang up, she wouldn’t be of much use with whatever the coming night might hold.

  Not that he would ever dream of involving a twenty-four-year-old girl in any of it to begin with.

  “Any word from Marian and Kyle?” Ridge asked.

  “They checked in a little bit ago,” Beckwith said. “Apparently traffic was especially treacherous, so things took longer than expected, but Ms. Tarby is now all settled in and resting comfortably.”

  “Good,” Ridge replied, pulling his chair back a few inches and settling down into the seat. “Anything else around here?”

  Assuming her usual position, her lips pursed before her, Beckwith said, “Well, there was another call from Senator-elect Hodges.”

  Feeling the same pang of anger that usually accompanied the man’s name, Ridge allowed his acrimony to flash over his features, waving his hand across his body, dismissing the man and the topic altogether.

  “Eighteen hours,” he said, “then the sniveling punk can have the place.”

  “That’s what I told him, sir,” Beckwith said, turning and beginning to retreat from the room. “Not in those words exactly, of course.”

  Ignoring the barb, Ridge watched her go, waiting until she was just a step from exiting before adding, “And not a minute earlier.”

  Pausing just over the threshold, Beckwith turned back and grasped the doorknob. “I told him that as well, sir.”

  Without waiting for further comment, she pulled the door shut, the sound echoing once through the room before silence flooded in. Allowing it to wash over him, Ridge rested his elbows on either arm of the chair, using the tips of his fingers to knead his temples in small concentric circles.