by Brian Haig
THE MOMENT WE STEPPED OFF THE ELEVATOR AND INTO THE LOWER LOBBY, George Meany moved about a foot from me, shoved a finger in my face, and said, “Drummond, I’ve had enough of you and your shit.”
I was a little surprised to see him, and a lot pissed over his finger in my face. In fact, I was just reaching out to stuff the finger up George’s ass when Janet stepped between us and said, “Knock it off, George. If you’ve got something to say, say it to me.”
He leaned back, surprised. “This doesn’t concern you, Janet. It concerns me and Drummond.”
“If it’s between you two, it concerns me.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he insisted. But of course it did. Still, he paused briefly before confessing, “No, I don’t appreciate this asshole convincing you to fly down here and putting you at risk this way. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why are you here?”
He studied her face. He said, “The Director called me an hour ago. He’s furious. The Director, God damn it . . .” He paused and poor Georgie did look a little stunned, and my guess was that the conversation hadn’t been all that pleasant. He said, “All because your friend here was shooting off his idiotic mouth to some AP reporter.”
Janet glanced at me, then back at Meany. She asked, “What are you talking about?”
“The news, Janet.” In response to her blank look, he explained, “It’s being carried everywhere. This idiot, Drummond, told some reporter the killer is a dimwit, that the Bureau is bungling this case since we’ve failed to stop him. He also informed the reporter that the FBI is focused on the wrong suspect, that the man who attacked you clearly isn’t the L. A. Killer.” His eyes shifted to me. “Do I need to explain how much the Bureau appreciates having its nose rubbed in shit by this clown?”
I didn’t recall couching my comments exactly that way. But you see what happens when you do a favor for a reporter?
Now Janet also was looking at me, and she asked, a bit sharply, “Sean, please tell me you didn’t say all that to a reporter.”
“I sure did. All those women looking over their shoulders for a short, stumpy guy with a ponytail. It might even save a life. Did you or your boss ever think about that, George?”
“He’s lying,” Meany said. “Drummond called the reporter to humiliate me and harm my career.”
Not true. Just not true. But I kicked myself because I should have.
He stared at me and added, “Well, guess what, smart guy. The Director made a call to your boss. General Thomas Clapper, right? You’re the one who now has career problems.”
I was hoping Janet was seeing what a grouchy, vindictive dick-head this guy was.
But at the same time, it struck me that I might be in serious trouble here. In fact, I was having disturbing visions of Johnston Island Atoll, of Sean Drummond choking on leftover anthrax or mustard gas, or something.
Then again, with a world-class killer hunting my ass, and a roomful of pissed-off lawyers upstairs who would also like to murder me, this was the least of my problems. In fact, I had a lot of balls up in the air, and my life depended on remembering which were catastrophic and which were merely disastrous.
Anyway, Meany began briefing Janet about all the things he’d done to catch the killer. And it all sounded really impressive, unless you listened really closely, in which case it amounted to a lot more of Meany sniffing his own ass.
Also, it went on for a while, because Meany was one of those guys who mistake words and action for results. But he finally wrapped it up, saying, “So, that’s where we’re at, honey.”
Janet replied, “Good. What’s next?”
“Next is you. We need to get you out of here, to someplace safe. The Director authorized a safe house. We’re also beefing up your security detail to ten men.”
Janet said, “George, that’s excessive.”
He smiled and touched her arm. “I’d make it twenty if the Bureau would let me. You’re the most important thing in my life, babe. I’m taking no chances.”
Even the other agents were coughing into their hands and rolling their eyes, which I guess George noticed, because he swiftly mentioned, “Actually, the Director was very expressive about taking every precaution concerning your safety.”
Well, which was it, George—love and lust, or orders from on high?
Understand, though, that I really didn’t give a shit about his motives, and I was actually very pleased with this arrangement. I actually wanted—no, I actually needed—Janet tucked away in a safe and faraway place.
So we bid each other adieu, which in Janet’s case meant a kiss on my cheek, which surprised me a little and annoyed George Meany a lot, before he whisked the damsel away to his mountain fortress.
But I now owed George big-time.
And, as if I didn’t have enough problems already, I suddenly recalled that my leased Jag was still parked near the Pentagon heliport, all of Meany’s guys had just left in a cloud of shiny Crown Vics, and I was fairly certain nobody upstairs was in the mood to give mean old Sean a lift back to his apartment. This really got on my nerves. I called a cab.
I actually knocked on my own apartment door, which I don’t ordinarily do. But I was glad I did, because it was opened by Danny, who wore a bulletproof vest and, coincidentally, was directing the nasty black barrel of an M16 assault rifle at my face.
He said, over his left shoulder, “It’s all right. It’s him.”
He stepped back and I entered. I noticed two other men in the middle of my living room, also wearing bulletproof vests, and both were at that moment lowering their weapons.
Spinelli waved an arm in their direction and said, “Chief Warrants Bill Belinovski and Charlie Waters.”
We all nodded at one another. I said to Spinelli, “Problems?”
“None. The provo owes me a few. I told him you was a witness to the murder of an Army soldier and needed protection.”
His reference was to the provost marshal of Fort Myer and the Military District of Washington, a full colonel by rank, military police by branch, who had the unenviable task of overseeing law and order for the entire Army community living around the Capital area. This entails some thirty thousand people, so this is a guy who survives on aspirins and hemorrhoid suppositories. And after signing this authorization, I was going to have to send him my firstborn child, or, considering my romantic prospects, somebody else’s firstborn.
Understand that I’d done everything I could think of to draw the killer to me. But Mrs. Drummond didn’t raise an idiot; no sir. While there’s a certain gallantry in solitary combat—you know, the knights of old, mounted on their trusted steeds, swords at the ready, charging one another in a celestial contest of courage, skill, and wits—the Infantry Manual clearly states that if you show up for the fight, and it turns out it’s an even match, you planned wrong.
Anyway, I faced the three of them and asked, “Did anyone, by chance, happen to remember to bring a flak jacket for me?”
Spinelli lifted one off the floor, tossed it at me, and said, “No weapon though. No authorization for that.” He then asked, “How sure are you he’s coming?”
“Enough so that I just took out a million dollar term life policy.”
We all chuckled, which is the right and manly thing to do in such situations. Everybody knows Army guys are steadfast, hard as nails, and brave to a fault, so that was the act we were trapped in.
But Bill, who incidentally was about six foot two, about 220 pounds, and about as well acquainted with weight machines as our killer, asked me, “What can you tell us about this peckerhead, Major? Strengths, weaknesses.”
“I’m glad you asked. You’ve studied the composite?”
“Danny showed us the shots.”
“Then we all know what he looks like”—I reconsidered that— “well, we know what he looked like this morning. He might be into disguises. But I’m expecting a blind date to drop by. So if a tall, really ugly, fat broad with big tits shows up . . .”
“Yeah?�
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“And she asks for me . . .”
“Uh-huh.”
“This guy is pretty clever . . . and, well . . . there’s only one way to really know. You know what I’m saying? That’s your job, Bill.”
Yuck, yuck.
But we were all, I think, feeling tense and keyed up, and it’s important to get past that, because cool thinking and settled nerves were our only prayer of success.
So everybody stopped laughing, and in a more serious vein, I continued, “Here’s what the composite doesn’t show, that he can’t disguise. He’s about your size, Bill . . . slightly bigger, perhaps.”
Spinelli commented, “Bigger. The bastard’s built like a tank.”
I cleared my throat and continued, “He’s racked up eight kills we know of, but his skill level suggests he’s killed more. Possibly many more. In fact, we suspect he’s a professional for hire.”
Charlie, I noticed, was shifting his feet.
“He prefers to kill with his hands.” I continued, “His proficiency with other weapons is an open question, but he’s been well trained by somebody, and prudence dictates we assume he’s qualified with all weapons. I’d give him a good-to-go on reflexes, speed, and mental agility. I wouldn’t exactly say he’s a candyass.” How’s that for a soaring understatement?
But Spinelli said, “The guy’s a murderous motherfucker.”
Not helpful, Spinelli. Bill’s eyes went a little wide, so I awarded both him and Charlie another reassuring look, and continued, “Yes, well. . . why don’t we move on to some of his weaknesses?”
Charlie nodded, eagerly. “Great. What are this guy’s weaknesses?”
“Well, for one, he. . . uh. . . well—”
“He’s got no weaknesses,” interrupted Spinelli. “The guy’s a perfect fucking killing machine.”
Bill and Charlie sort of swallowed.
I said, “You’re very funny. For one thing, the killer is not expecting four of us. Also, he may be resourceful, clever, and skilled, but his technique to date indicates an overreliance on surprise. This worked for him in the past;I doubt he’ll discard it. Remove the element of surprise and he’ll lose some of his edge.” I allowed them to think about that before I suggested, “In fact, we should expect him to try some unorthodox way of getting in here.”
Charlie grinned at this remark. I grinned back, but Charlie was the one who worried me. He appeared to be somewhere around thirty, was prematurely balding, black, and slender. What concerned me was his face: too wholesome, too youthful, and too innocent. In fact, he reminded me of a frisky puppy I had as a kid, who ran in front of a truck and became a pancake. Bill also looked wholesome, because all soldiers look wholesome, but there was a hardness in his eyes that dispelled any sense of softness. Unless Charlie was one of those guys who could drill holes in dimes flying through the air, I was sort of anxious about him, and sort of wondering why Spinelli brought him to the party.
But Charlie said, “No problems on that account. I hope he does.”
“Is that right?”
“Sure. That’s why I’m here, Major. My specialty is facility protection.”
This is a fairly important field in an Army with lots of tanks and missiles and things that go boom, because Uncle Sam would get very annoyed at the Green Machine if Abdullah the Jihadist filched an Abrams tank or an Apache gunship and used it to put a few dents in the White House. I therefore gave Mr. Waters the benefit of the doubt. At least, I hoped he was competent. For my sake— for all our sakes—he better be.
The phone rang, I excused myself, and went into the bedroom to take the call. It was Jessica Moner, Jason’s legal brawler, and in her typically brassy, abrasive way, she said, “Drummond, you ass-hole, what’s this shit about you launching a lawsuit tomorrow morning?”
“Who informed you?”
“Bosworth informed me. And now I’m informing you, stop the bad joke—now.”
“You sound angry.”
“I could kill you.” I pondered how literally to take that sentiment as she added, “I don’t know what the bad blood is between you and your firm, but don’t drag us into your shitpile.”
“Sorry, Jessica, my lawyer says it’s the only way.”
“What the fuck are—”
“Maintaining you as a client was Bosworth’s motive. You’re the casus belli of the dispute.”
“No, you’re adding us because we have deep pockets. Bad idea, buddy boy . . .”
“Blame Barry. He pounded the crap out of me. I never realized what an animal he is.”
“Bosworth can barely lift his dick to pee.”
“He practices at home, on his kids.”
She paused for a moment, as it was obvious this track was leading nowhere.
She then asked, “What is it you think you have?”
Nice try. “All of it, Jessica. Come to court in the morning, and you’ll hear all about your sweet arrangement with Grand Vistas. Make a deal with the devil and you go to hell.”
“Are we forgetting legal confidentiality, Drummond? You can’t expose what you learned working as our attorney. I’ll get an injunction, sue your ass off, and have you disbarred, you stupid shit.”
“Read the statutes on whistleblowers.”
“Whistleblower? You’re an attorney, asshole.”
“You know, that’s what my attorney thinks will make it a particularly intriguing case.” I paused, then said, “Hey, we both might get our names on a famous precedent. Think about it . . . Drummond versus Moner—nice ring, right?”
There was a long pause before Jessica, suddenly friendly, said, “Sean, look, the offer to work here’s still open. I like your style. You’ll like it here, and you’ll get rich. Don’t fuck this up.”
“You won’t hire me if I sue you? That’s small-minded, Jessica.”
“Okay . . . sure, I’m hearin’ you more clearly. It’s about the money, right? Make your offer and I’ll try to clear it with Jason.”
“Fine. Two million a year.”
“What?”
“Three million a year.”
“Don’t try to blackmail me, Drummond, or I’ll—”
“Four million a year.”
“Damn it, you asshole, I’ll—”
“Five million.”
There was a brief sputter, followed by another pause, while Jessica contemplated how much her floppy tongue was costing.
“Think, Jessica. What it’s worth to you and Jason to keep the partnership with Grand Vistas out of the courts and out of the news?”
“I’ll. . . all right. I’ll talk to Jason about three million. Okay?”
“Wrong answer. Ten million.”
“Listen, you pinheaded fuck. Don’t screw with me. I’m giving you your last chance to be rich and healthy. Piss me off, and I swear I’ll make you regret it.”
“See you in court.” I hung up.
I sat on the bed and contemplated our conversation. Clearly Jessica was in on it. But connected to the killer? Or was she just part of the scam?
Before I could finish that thought, the phone rang again. It was Cy and he said, “Sean, you and I need to talk.”
“We already talked.”
“The firm is willing to drop all charges against you and Miss Morrow.”
“Should’ve done that yesterday, Cy. Actually, never should’ve brought charges in the first place.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Cy obviously had better bargaining skills than Jessica, but a career on the Hill does tend to round out one’s heels. He said, “I’m confused, Sean. What is this case of fraud you referred to?”
“Nice try.”
“You mentioned the partnership with Grand Vistas. Barry handled that.”
“Because you told him to.”
“Yes. Because Jason asked me to send him. What’s happening here?”
Cy sounded his usually sincere, earnest, and above-it-all self. He had a real gift for silky bullshit and was probing to find out exactly what I knew—how
little or how much—so they could assess the potential damage.
In truth, I knew very little. As I explained earlier, the idea was to push and see who pushed back, how hard they pushed back, and from there, maybe to understand why.
For instance, the firm was now willing to drop all charges. That wasn’t the mood when Janet and I left the conference room—so A must’ve called B, and B must have told A to make this thing go away. But who was A? And who was B?
Also, I now knew Morris Networks would pay me three million a year to keep my yap shut—more, probably, if I dealt with someone less peppery than Jessica Moner.
Anyway, I said, “What’s happening, Cy, is corporate graft. Without Grand Vistas, Morris Networks would be vulture bait. Come to court and you’ll hear about it.”
“Hear me out, Sean. Morris is a very profitable and honest company.”
Yes, and Cy was working overtime to establish his ignorance, and, along the way, his innocence.
“Prove that in court.”
“Look . . . don’t do anything till we get a chance to talk.”
I replied, “Tomorrow, 10:00 A.M. ,” and hung up.
For some reason, I recalled the old joke: What do you call a lawyer who’s gone bad?—Senator.
I went into the kitchen and fixed a pot of coffee. Charlie was stringing electronic security systems around the windows. My door had acquired two new deadbolts and my bedroom dresser was shoved against it. Spinelli and Bill were seated in front of the big screen, watching a rerun of NYPD Blue, Spinelli scratching his nose with one hand and cradling a pistol with the other. Just another hum-drum day at the Drummond homestead.
I had just poured a cup of coffee when the phone rang again. I rushed back to the bedroom and caught it on the fourth ring.
“Sean, it’s Jason.”
“Oh. Well, I hope I’m not keeping you from something important.”
“Not at all. What the hell’s going on here?”
“What’s going on is, I was brutally assaulted in your office building, by an attorney representing your firm, who was being pressured by Jessica Moner.”
“That’s outrageous. I’ll fire him.”
“That won’t cure my nightmares.”
“Oh, come on.” He chuckled. I remained silent.
