by Krista Holt
“You’re sure?”
“Completely,” I assure her. “I’d better get in there,” I motion toward the semi-closed conference room door, “before he figures out we’re out here gossiping about him like teenage girls. He’d never let us live that down.”
A blush stains her prominent cheekbones just as the office phone rings, saving us both from this conversation.
“Drinks later?” she asks, reaching for the phone.
“I think I might be here late tonight. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sure,” she replies quickly before greeting the caller. “Congressman Eric Cameron’s office.”
I give her a small wave before nudging the conference room door open.
“Your voice carries, you know?” Scott looks up from his Blackberry.
“Shit.” Blood rushes to my face as I push the door closed. “You better act surprised when she asks you out.”
His forehead wrinkles in confusion. “I thought—”
“Scott. I like my job,” I hurry to interrupt him. “And we’re good friends. It should stay like that.”
“Friends.” His lips pinch into a hard line.
“Co-workers. Friends. Staffers for the same great congressman, right?”
His hesitation seems unending. “Yeah.” He finally nods, and after a minute gestures to a stack of papers on the table in front of me. “Right. So, back to work.”
I breathe a sigh of relief and pick up the top page, scanning it quickly. “Bribery? That’s what the whistleblower alluded to?”
“No, he didn’t allude to it. He said it, plain as day. Here, listen to it.” He reaches around another pile of papers and produces a small laptop. With a couple of clicks, static fills the small room.
Seconds pass and then a deep, distorted voice comes over the line: “The FBI has a corruption problem. Two agents. David Pastore and Henry Clark have been taking bribes from the Selvaggio Crime Family.”
My mouth parts slightly. Selvaggio.
“This was reported to their superiors at the FBI a year ago,” the caller continues. “No action has been taken. You have six weeks to plug your leak, or I’ll do it for you.” Static fills the room again, playing for another full minute before the dial tone cuts in.
“Thoughts?” Scott reaches over and stops the recording.
I hurriedly replay the message in my head, grasping for something to say. “It’s anonymous.”
“Correct. There’s no name. No contact information. Nothing to confirm the accusations.”
“How do we know this isn’t some elaborate hoax?”
“It could be. But I doubt it. More likely, it’s a fellow FBI agent not wanting to lose their job by ratting on their co-workers.”
“Okay . . .” I take a seat. Scott does the same. “What were the agents’ names again?”
“Henry Clark and David Pastore.”
I grab a legal pad and write them down. “They’re real agents?”
“Yes. When this tip came in a week ago, we reached out to the congressional liaison at the FBI and confirmed that they both are active agents. They’re both assigned to the Organized Crime Task Force.”
“So that’s proof?”
“Not exactly, but it gives the whistleblower some credibility. I doubt they’d know these agents’ names if this is just some joke.”
“So, what’s happened since the committee got the tip?”
“Cameron has made repeated requests for the FBI to turn over information on these agents and how they run the Organized Crime Task Force, but what little the FBI is willing to give us is as clear as mud. They’re using the whole ‘this information is pertinent to ongoing cases’ excuse to prevent handing everything over. We haven’t had much luck in identifying the whistleblower either.”
“Do we need an identity?”
Scott shrugs. “Yes and no. We can proceed without it, but it would be simpler if they came forward. It’s easier to build our case if we can question someone with firsthand knowledge. Otherwise, the investigation can become a convoluted mess if the FBI pushes back and accuses Cameron of driving an agenda. Unfortunately, this is all compounded by the fact that we only have five weeks left before the whistleblower ‘plugs the leak for us,’ whatever that means.”
My hand cramps as I try to keep up, jotting down everything he says. “So, what’s next? What can I do?”
“Dig.” He pushes a brown accordion folder across the table to me. It’s five-inches wide and stuffed to the brim. “If we can’t find the whistleblower, we’re going to need to build our case through the paperwork. The committee is asking the Justice Department to pull financials on the agents in question. Hopefully we’ll find something resembling a bribe, but until we get those, here are my notes and any promising leads. It’ll help to have another set of eyes on this stuff. Plus, it’ll give you more background.”
I reach for the folder, pulling the first couple of pages out.
“No one else gets access at this,” Scott warns. “You, me, and the congressman, that’s it. Lock it up if you step away from it, and make sure any notes or information you collect are kept secure as well. The congressman is really worried about a leak. We still haven’t figured out how the press found out about the Mob connection.”
I freeze. “Scott, we aren’t investigating the Mob . . . are we?”
“God, no.” Scott chuckles. “Can you imagine? I like my kneecaps just the way they are.” He shakes his head. “This is strictly an investigation into the allegations against these FBI agents. We don’t care about the Mob. We want to know if the Bureau needs stiffer anti-corruption practices.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay, good.” I skim over his handwritten notes and some internal memos, asking questions as they arise, until my phone beeps with a reminder for my lunch meeting.
“How long do you think your meeting will take?” Scott asks.
“An hour at least. Want to meet back here at 1:30?”
“Yeah, let’s do that.” He waits for me to exit the conference room and then locks up behind us, securing all the information behind the heavy door.
I hurry to my desk and grab my purse and the staff ID badge that lets me cut lines at security, ducking out of the building with just enough time to walk to Bartholdi Park.
It’s right across from the Capitol, and in the spring it can be a nice place to sit outside and catch a few minutes of sunshine. But in the winter, it’s a desolate space. The statuesque fountain is empty, the water drained before it can freeze over, and most of the landscaping is dead and cut back.
He’s sitting on a stone bench in between some evergreen trees and I take a seat at the other end of the bench, pulling my coat tighter to ward off the chill.
“Reagan,” he greets me warmly, despite the cold weather.
“Simmons,” I reply.
“I was a little surprised when I got your text. It’s been a long time. Well over a year since the last time we talked.”
“I was hoping you’d forgotten about me.”
“Not at all, my dear.” He folds the newspaper, scanning the headlines. “Are you getting used to the new job?”
“Yes. I am. There’s a big investigation ramping up.”
The paper in his hands droops slightly. “I heard about that. Funny how it all seems to be coming together, huh?”
“Yeah.” I pause. “Funny.”
“Are you nervous?”
“A little.”
“If you’re worried about exposure . . . we can explore other options.” He turns the page, the paper crackling under his gloved hands.
“No, it’s fine.” For now. I sit up a little straighter. “You got my text, you know everything I know. What do you need me to do?”
“I suggest you see where it goes,” he says without hesitation. “Same as before. See what comes to light and call me as soon as you know something important.”
“That’s not exactly helpful, Simmons. You can’t be any more specific about what you need?�
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“The bigger the better. Names, places, dates. Right now it’s more of a throw everything at the wall and see what sticks strategy.”
“Have you made any progress at all? I can’t keep doing this forever.”
“You’ll do it as long as we need you to. We already paid you for it.” He flips another page over. “Keep me in the loop, and we’ll get there.”
“Fine.” I stand, leaving him on the bench. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Enjoy the job, my friend,” he calls after me. “But remember who put you there. And why. Every favor needs to be returned.”
The implication in his words weighs on me as I walk away, unable to ignore the uneasiness in the pit of my stomach. This complicates everything.
CHAPTER 10
Nic
“Hi,” I address the blonde sitting at the cafeteria table with her nose stuck in her phone. The high neckline on her black dress and simple makeup make her appear almost modest.
Her head snaps up with annoyance. She’s about to tell me to drop dead, but then her eyes skim down my frame. “Hello.”
I’m not egotistical, but I know I’m not exactly unattractive. “Is this seat taken?” I motion with my sandwich-laden tray toward the empty seat next to her.
“No.” She beams, and I can’t help but find it a little conniving given what I know about her.
“Thanks. I’m Tom.” I offer my hand to her.
“Nice to meet you.” Her delicate hand is so small in my large one. “I’m Mandie.”
“Mandie, huh? That’s a pretty name.”
She blushes. “Thanks, it’s my grandmother’s name.”
“Family is important. Is she still alive?”
“Yes, she is. Still lives in the same house she raised my mother in.” Dissatisfaction creeps into her voice.
“Are you from here?”
“No.” She shakes her head, and blonde hair tumbles around her shoulders. “I’m from Missouri.”
“Ah, so you’re really not from here.” I grin, softening the words. I want to set her back on her heels, not piss her off.
It works. She laughs. “What about you?”
“I’m from Virginia,” I lie.
“Oh, you’re a semi-local.”
“You could say that.”
“So, you probably know all the best clubs.”
There it is, a leading sentence, just what I need. I open my mouth to finish this when a voice stops me. Reagan.
I still, listening to her speak. “Scott, tell me again why we had to come all the way over here for coffee? We could have stayed at Rayburn.”
“They have better snacks over here,” the man beside her responds. “It’s still bad, but better than what we have available to us in the hovel.”
“If you say so.”
“I do, and since we’re here, tell me what you got out of my notes.”
They pass our table without a glance. My eyes narrow when his hand hits the small of her back, guiding her forward.
“Tom?” Whatshername pulls my attention back.
“Huh, yeah.” I focus on her again. Round face. Green eyes. Blonde hair. Not Reagan. “Sorry, I just remembered a meeting I need to get to.”
“Oh.” She pouts. It’s juvenile, but I remind myself that she’s just a child.
“Tell you what. Can you meet me tonight at Peace & War? Nine o’clock?”
“What did you say you did again?” Her full lips curl enticingly. The pouting session apparently long forgotten.
“I didn’t.” I stand, buttoning my jacket and angling my back in Reagan’s direction. “But I run a multimillion dollar software firm. Still interested?”
She grins, her eyes lighting up. “Very. I’ll be there.”
“Good. Until later, Mandie.”
I walk away quickly. Rounding the corner out of the cafeteria, I head to the nearest elevator, exhaling loudly when the doors close. I need to get out of here. I almost got caught.
I grapple for my phone, pulling up Cameron’s webpage. I hit the staff tab and wait for it to load. Who was that guy?
My head comes up when the elevator slows. The doors open and three staffers join my ride to the ground level. Their blue ID badges hang from their clothes as they chat amongst themselves.
The page finishes loading and I scroll through it, stopping at a list of names. Here it is—Scott Reed, Senior Legislative Assistant.
The elevator opens again, and I brush past the staffers still inside. I head down the labyrinth of long hallways lined with similar doors and US and state flags until I walk back through the security checkpoint and push the main door open.
My fingers move over the phone, dialing a number from memory.
“Yeah,” one of my father’s men answers.
“I need you to look into someone. Scott Reed.”
“What about him?”
“I want to know everything.”
“You got it, boss. You want us to follow him?”
I pause for a second, my feet slowing their pace. “No. Not yet.”
* * *
It took him less than an hour to pull together a tidy summary of who Scott Reed is, thanks to social media and a few less than legal favors. Sitting in my car near Peace & War, I read over the text he sent me from a burner phone again. I’ve read it plenty of times in the last couple of hours, and the information hasn’t changed once.
Scott Reed is 32. Former Marine. Single. He lives in Alexandria and drives into D.C. from Virginia every morning. Along with half the state. He’s been with Cameron’s office for the last four years, and Cameron’s website says he’s in charge of anything Department of Defense related along with liaising with the Oversight Committee.
Shit. His words to Reagan replay in my head. “ . . . tell me what you got out of my notes?” What are the odds he pulled her into this?
My phone rings, and I don’t bother checking the caller ID. “What?”
There’s a pause. “Uh, boss. Did that thing I gave you work out all right?”
“Yeah. It did.”
“You sure you don’t want me to keep tabs on it. I could come down there.”
“I’m sure.”
“Is this about, you know . . . ?”
I don’t want to explain myself to him. I don’t need to, but burning bridges is never a good idea. “It’s connected,” I tell him tersely.
“Oh, all right.” He pauses again. “Are you heading this way anytime soon?”
The clock on the dash tells me it’s almost nine. Almost time to meet Mandie, Brandie, or whatever her name is. “Maybe, I’m not sure. He mentioned something about needing me for something next week. Is there something you need?”
“No. Just wondering.”
That’s odd. I don’t have time to dwell on it though. “I’ve got to go,” I tell him, hanging up before he can say anything else.
I’m stuck in tunnel vision for most of my time with Blondie. I have other things I’d rather be doing, like figuring out a plan to get back in Reagan’s good graces, but I make polite chit-chat with her. Learning far more about her than I care to know. She likes vegetarian pizza because she opposes animal cruelty. Prefers champagne to beer. Doesn’t like her roommate and wants world peace.
I buy her cocktail after cocktail until she’s on her fourth cranberry something. The glass wavers in her hand for a minute as she tries to set it down. I watch it happen, realizing I need to move fast. She’s drunk enough to have a slower reaction time, but any more and she’ll be too wasted to remember our coming conversation.
“Should we get out of here?” I pull the martini glass out of her grasp.
“Sure.” She bounces off the barstool, teetering on her ridiculously high heels. “My place or yours?”
“We’ll see.” Following her out of the restaurant, I ignore the way she emphasizes every sway of her hips. I can’t believe the senator fell for this act. “My car is this way.” I point down the street.
She takes a few steps
and then stumbles slightly. I grab her elbow, stopping her from eating concrete. She yammers on about something. I don’t listen; I’m busy checking our surroundings.
We’re alone. Might as well get this over with.
I grab her hair, slap one hand over her mouth, and shove her into the dark alley on my right. Her body hits the dirty brick wall, my hand still preventing her from screaming. She looks at me with wide eyes, not fighting back.
“Mandie.” I let a dark smile split my lips, relieved to be ending this little charade. “It seems we have a friend in common. Senator Thomas.” She gasps into my hand and thrashes against me. “Stop moving.” I slam her back into the wall. “And listen to this very important lesson I’m about to impart. Are you ready?”
She stares at me, unblinking. Close enough.
“Don’t screw with powerful people.” I squeeze her face harshly, keeping her attention. “It’s not really something I should have to elaborate on, so nod if you understand me?”
She does.
“Lucky for you, Thomas doesn’t want you dead. He just wants you gone. So, you’re going to take this money,” I take out an envelope of cash from my inner jacket pocket and put it in her shaking hand, “and you’re going to disappear. Your resignation has already been sent to the office manager, consider your internship over. You’re not to darken the lobby of Senator Thomas’s office ever again. Am I making sense?”
Another nod.
“I’m going to move my hand. If you yell, I will kill you.” Slowly, I peel my fingers off of her face. “Where’s the video?”
“It’s . . . it’s . . . on my phone,” she stammers, her body shaking.
“Give it to me.” She hands over her purse. I flip the latch open, shuffling past the condoms and lipstick on the top to get to the phone below. “Do you have any other copies? Send it to anyone?”
“No. That’s the only copy.”
I tuck the device into my pocket. “You sure?”
“I . . . I swear.”
A sneer takes over my face. “The word of a whore doesn’t mean much to me.”
“I’m not a whore,” she spits.
“Did I not just pay you for having sex with the senator? Per your request?”
She glares at me, tucking the cash into her coat with trembling hands. Because priorities, right?
