Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  Or at the very least, something different.

  “Circle back,” Donner said, granting her wish, the information received with no visible reaction at all. “I’ll attempt to get eyes on Ridge, speak with the general.

  “Stay flexible, we’ve only got fourteen hours or so until this goes away.”

  “Roger that.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  In no way did Jackson Ridge want Susan Beckwith going to the office with him. He barely wanted to return himself, preferring to fall off the radar, to finish doing what he knew he had to, free from someplace that would make his whereabouts so obvious, but at least there he knew there would be constant security, somebody always around to keep anybody from doing something too foolish.

  Having her return presented an entirely different set of circumstances, though, forcing him to split his attention for the rest of the night.

  “Look, Susie,” he said, his face aimed her direction as he leaned across the backseat, cutting the space between them to just a few inches so his lowered voice could be heard. “Don’t think I’m not appreciative, because I am, for everything you’ve done today and over the years. This one, though, you need to let go.

  “Please, I’m asking you, go back to the hospital and wait with Ellerbe and Stroh. Pete McManley promised me personally there would be guards arriving from Capitol Police any moment, and that they would stay there for as long as it took.”

  “As long as it took to what?” Beckwith countered, a rare hint of defiance appearing in her voice.

  Opening his mouth to respond, Ridge closed it and leaned back, shifting his focus to stare out the window, the Washington Mall slowly crawling by on their left. As they moved forward, the assorted buildings of the Smithsonian passed by, their varied styles and architectures each containing the world’s greatest collection of antiquities and artifacts, as hodgepodge as they may be.

  In each of the buildings, only a few lights were visible, a random individual or two walking between them, though for the most part, the city was settling in for the night.

  Just as Ridge wished he was.

  At this point there was no use trying to recount the various ways he had envisioned the evening playing out, even less entertaining the many things he would prefer to be doing. In their stead was only a steely resolution that he would push forward with this until a conclusion was reached, whatever it may be.

  A path made all the more certain by what had just happened to Clara Tarby.

  Having known him as long and as well as perhaps any person on the planet, Beckwith was aware that there was no way he would be pulling back. For as surprising as it was to see her step out into the cold beside him, to have her respectfully but firmly point out he would not be returning without her, Ridge realized it shouldn’t have been.

  Just because this rose to a new level of danger that his time in office had never seen before did not mean his most faithful colleague would not continue the unwavering dedication she had always displayed.

  Last day or not.

  “Can you get me whoever it was you spoke to at the Hilton?” Ridge asked instead, conceding the defeat by changing course, any previous charge gone from his voice. Making no effort to mask the resignation taking its place, he shifted his attention to Beckwith, meeting her gaze for just a moment.

  Matching it, she held the look an extra second or two, responding to his unspoken statement with her own, before sliding a smartphone from her bag and tapping away at the touchscreen.

  A moment later she extended it his way, the sound of ringing already audible in the interior of the car.

  “Excuse me, can you turn down the blower for a minute?” Ridge asked, leaning forward between the seats a few inches until the driver did as requested, the noise falling away, taking a good chunk of the warm air with it.

  “Thank you,” he said, counting out rings in his head as he returned to his spot in the rear, his back flush against the leather seat.

  “Good evening, Washington D.C. Hilton, this is Nona, how may I help you?”

  Covering the bottom half of the phone, Ridge mouthed who do I ask for? to Beckwith.

  “Raethel Hue,” Beckwith responded, her voice only nominally louder than his.

  Making a face at the moniker, Ridge removed his hand from the bottom of the phone and said, “Yes, may I speak to Raethel Hue, please?”

  “I’m sorry sir,” Nona replied, “but Mr. Hue is currently tied up. May I take a message?”

  Expecting as much, Ridge said, “This is Senator Jackson Ridge, he called my office earlier this evening about a guest of mine that is staying there that very nearly lost her life.”

  While there was much more he could have added, both to add weight to the story, and to further expound upon what it was that he wanted, Ridge left it there, trusting that the girl would be able to piece together what he was telling her and track down the man in question.

  Just as he thought it might, the tactic worked.

  “Oh, Senator Ridge,” the girl said, acting as if he were a friend that she had simply not recognized after a long time apart, “give me just a minute here, I think I should be able to track him down for you.”

  Without waiting for confirmation, she immediately sent the call over to hold, elevator music spitting an off-key rendition of an old jazz tune into his ear.

  As he sat and waited, Ridge watched as the Capitol building rolled by on his right, tomorrow being the last time he would ever visit there in any official capacity. In less than three weeks it would be completely done up, every free square inch packed with humanity for the inauguration, though for the time being it looked almost desolate, a striking profile against a darkened sky.

  “Raethel Hue,” a man with an accent that sounded somewhere between New Zealander and South African said, yanking Ridge’s attention away from the view outside.

  “Good evening, this is Jackson Ridge.”

  “Good evening, Senator. Please allow me to say that we are all very sorry here for what happened to your guest, and do hope she is okay.”

  “Thank you, she is,” Ridge said, brushing right past the comment. “The reason I’m calling is to inquire as to who is handling the investigation into the incident.”

  A long pause followed. “The investigation, sir?”

  Judging by the shift in tone, it was clear there was some discomfort on the opposite end of the line.

  “It was merely an accident,” he said. “No authorities were ever phoned, we merely reached out to your office because it was listed as the emergency contact on the registration form.”

  “Hmm,” Ridge said, attempting in vain to mask the displeasure he felt at the information.

  “Is there reason to believe that something might have been done deliberately to Ms. Tarby?” Hue asked.

  “Her surgeon sure seemed to think so,” Ridge replied.

  Even as he said the words, he knew his tone, his approach, everything about the call, was a bit unfair, though that didn’t stop him from proceeding in the slightest.

  Right now, he had neither the time nor the inclination to be playing nice.

  “Oh my,” Hue said. “Thank you for letting me know. I shall reach out immediately.”

  The car pulled to a stop, the familiar gray stone building rising up alongside it, though Ridge made no effort to climb out. Instead, he merely sat and stared, letting his gaze go glassy as he processed things.

  “Actually, I’ll call it in for you,” he eventually said. “There’s reason to believe this may be connected to something else, so it might be best to have some continuity in place.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “That wasn’t exactly what the doctor said, you know,” Beckwith said, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the elevator beside Ridge as the two ascended. Almost all of the few times he ever chose to ride over taking the stairs was when he was with her, knowing she suffered from a knee ailment that should have been treated ages ago, though she refused to ever take the requ
isite time off for the procedure.

  Hopefully, now that their tenure was coming to a close, she would be able to do so.

  “I’m aware,” Ridge said, “but it got Hue moving in the direction we wanted.”

  “And that direction was?”

  Debating the question a moment, Ridge watched the lighted numbers above the door count off the floors, waiting until they reached their destination and a ding sounded out before responding.

  “Allowing him to let McManley and his guys have the first crack,” Ridge said.

  Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t mind allowing the Metro Police to do their job, as the crime did occur off the ground of the capitol. Though plenty in the city liked to deride the local force, he had never had any complaints with their performance, the task of guarding one of the most visited places in the country far from enviable.

  The fact that it also happened to house the largest concentration of political power in the world had to push it into something closely resembling a nightmare.

  Given the truncated timetable he was working with, and the personal responsibility he felt for what had happened to Clara Tarby, he preferred to have the Capitol crew handle it, knowing they could do things faster, and more importantly, get information back to him much quicker.

  If that meant things devolved into a jurisdictional pissing match in the days to come, so be it.

  As if sensing all of that, knowing it even before her boss said a word, Beckwith said only, “Hmm.”

  Increasing her pace a half-step, she pulled ahead of Ridge and opened the outer door to the office, pushing it open and stepping aside so he could enter.

  For a moment he began to do just that, barely crossing the threshold before pulling back, self-awareness and preservation both kicking in, a renewed bit of adrenaline bolting through his system.

  “Stay here,” he said over his shoulder, hoping that for maybe the first time ever Beckwith would just accept his directive. Without waiting for her to respond, or even giving her a moment to do so, he strode across the front sitting area and around the desk.

  Seeing no one, he ducked into the bullpen, checking under each desk and in the supply closet, before crossing over into his own office and doing the same, even going as far as to check the enormous folds of the curtains hanging in front of each window.

  Two minutes after entering, content that they were in fact alone, he crossed back out to the front part of the office and said, “Okay, Susie. We’re good here.”

  Remaining there, he watched as she entered, arching an eyebrow as she did so, the twist of her lips showing she thought he was being a bit paranoid, though she wasn’t about to comment on it.

  Given where they had just come from, he couldn’t bring himself to much care even if she had.

  “So what’s the plan now?” Beckwith asked, walking as far as the front desk before depositing the stack of items she’d been holding pressed to her chest upon it.

  Most of the ride over from the hospital had been spent on that very question, though Ridge still didn’t have a clear heading. His most immediate steps after leaving were to call the Hilton and to get McManley looking into things, the report from the doctor about Tarby receiving a direct blow to the throat too much to ignore.

  While an argument could be made that she might have fallen, may have landed awkwardly and happened to smash into a counter ledge or the corner of a coffee table, the far more likely culprit was that somebody had entered her room and done it to her.

  Especially in such close proximity to the visit Ridge had just received from General Ames.

  “Ames,” Ridge said, the name popping to mind, his psyche seizing on it, purpose flooding in just as fast.

  “Ames?” Beckwith asked.

  “Ames,” Ridge repeated, already starting to drift toward his door. “I need to find out more about who this guy is and what his interest is in all this. No way he just happened to show up here tonight out of coincidence.”

  Leaving Beckwith where she stood, Ridge strode straight for his desk, intent on beginning to shake the contact tree again, not particularly caring what time it was or who he pissed off in the coming hours.

  Just three steps into the room, though, his phone began to buzz, again pushing him in a new direction he had not yet considered.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Spending all but his brief time in the military split between Wyoming and Washington, D.C., Jackson Ridge knew each of the corresponding area codes for those areas, as well as a handful of others for the surroundings of each. Staring down at the odd configuration appearing on his screen, he had no idea where the 614 prefix was assigned to, his face screwing up slightly in confusion.

  Just as fast it passed, knowing that the call in some way had to be connected, even if he as yet had no idea in what way or from where.

  “Jackson Ridge.”

  Unlike the previous calls, there was not a hint of background noise as a deep and graveled voice said, “This is Al Bumppo from Army Counterintelligence calling for Senator Ridge, please.”

  “This is Ridge,” he repeated, realizing that he had stopped walking halfway across the room and beginning again. Leaving his coat on, he traversed around his desk and fell into his chair, the leather seat wheezing beneath his weight.

  “Good evening, Senator, I apologize for calling so late, but Harold Golding reached out and asked me to contact you.”

  Hearing the name Golding, a small tingle passed through Ridge, his body perking up, for the first time realizing what the purpose of the call might be.

  “That’s alright,” Ridge said. “Appreciate you getting back to me.”

  “Of course,” Bumppo replied. “So listen, Hal gave me a quick overview of what was going on here. I understand you’re looking into the convoy ambush that took place last April?”

  “That’s right,” Ridge said, giving a quick overview of the situation and why he was looking into it, choosing for the time being to leave out the name Tarby in any way.

  “Ahh,” Bumppo answered when he was finished, adding, “yeah, that would do it.”

  Not sure how to respond, or even if he should, Ridge remained silent, allowing the man on the other end of the line to push ahead whenever he was ready.

  Which turned out to be just a few seconds later.

  “Well, as I’m sure Hal told you,” Bumppo began, “this case was a doozy from the outset. You should know right up front there are things about it neither one of us understand, so I won’t even pretend to try.

  “That okay by you?”

  “It is,” Ridge said, “I appreciate anything you may have on that night.”

  Which was true, a few scant facts being far more beneficial than a boatload of unfounded conjecture. So often people felt the need to over deliver when speaking to a man in Ridge’s position, a predisposition that more than once had turned into far more trouble than it was worth.

  “Okay,” Bumppo replied. “I know you were Chair of the Senate Armed Services Committee for a while, but I should probably start by asking how much you know about the investigative process in the army?”

  Surprised at being addressed so early in the conversation with a direct question, Ridge felt his jaw sag a bit, taking a moment to find his voice.

  “Only really what Golding shared with me earlier, that his division worked felonies, often partnering with you guys when the charges rose to a certain level.”

  “Exactly,” Bumppo said, “with two key things there being the most important.

  “First, we almost always partner with the CID guys, meaning that usually, it’s me and one or more of their guys going through things together, sharing information back and forth.”

  “Complete transparency?” Ridge inserted.

  “Always,” Bumppo said. “Think of it like a joint task force, only on a much smaller scale. Heck, sometimes we’d even fly in and out together, stay in the same room, depending on the place.”

  Hearing the words, the inflect
ion placed on certain ones, Ridge nodded, already working to piece together what Bumppo was telling him.

  “But that didn’t happen here?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Bumppo said, “and I mean none of it happened here. I didn’t even see Hal on this case, had no idea he was the one working it until much later, let alone share any information.”

  Without consciously realizing it, Ridge pushed a long, low whistle out, his mind seizing on the peculiarities he was hearing.

  “And that’s odd?” he asked.

  “First time in thirty years for me,” Bumppo said, “same for Hal as well.”

  “Any idea why?” Ridge asked.

  Feeling his temperature start to rise slightly, he leaned forward in his seat. Starting with his left arm, he peeled off the heavy overcoat he was wearing before switching the phone to his opposite cheek and doing the same with the right side.

  Free of the garment, he felt ten degrees cooler, leaving it bunched up behind him as he resumed his stance against the chair back.

  “Are we off the record here?” Bumppo asked.

  “Very,” Ridge assured him.

  “My best guess was, they had to bring us both in - Hal, because it would clearly rise to the level of a felony, and me, because it fell under the auspices of terrorism – but they never had any real intention of this being an investigation.

  “They already had a narrative sewn up and buttoned down before either of us ever arrived.”

  “Which was?” Ridge asked.

  “Which was that it was a clear ambush, nothing that hasn’t happened before, unfortunately, will probably happen again,” Bumppo said, hints of sadness, weariness, in his tone.

  Nodding once, Ridge remained quiet for a moment, considering what was being said.

  If the story that was already in place long before they arrived was true, it would go a long way to explaining why the respective investigators were shuffled through the process. As Bumppo mentioned, as sad as it was to admit, things like ambushes did occur in hostile environments, especially on clear supply lines.