Mortal Faults

by Michael Prescott

  “It’s worth it. Whatever it costs—you’re a lifesaver, Abby. Literally, a lifesaver.”

  Abby accepted a few more compliments of a similar nature and managed a graceful exit from the conversation. She put the phone back into her purse.

  A lifesaver. Yes, that was what she was.

  Not a killer. Of course not.

  2

  Reynolds’ office was located on the sixth floor of a glass box high-rise a block inland from Pacific Coast Highway. Abby got there early but lingered outside till four o’clock. She didn’t want to seem too eager.

  At four, she took the stairs to the sixth floor, working up a slight burn in the adductor muscles. It always amazed her that people paid good money for health-club memberships and then rode the elevator.

  Rebecca, manning the reception desk, made her wait in the anteroom while her boss pretended to be busy inside. Apparently he didn’t want to seem too eager, either.

  The walls of the anteroom were covered with pictures of Reynolds with various celebrities and power brokers. Before heading over, Abby had visited the congressman’s Web site, which was cluttered with many of the same shots, along with endorsements from miscellaneous Orange County business and civic organizations.

  She’d read his biography online. He came from humble beginnings in the barrios of Santa Ana and never let you forget it. Photos accompanying the bio showed the rundown apartment building in which he’d been raised, and the canning factory—now closed—where his father had worked on the assembly line. No posh private school for Jack Reynolds—his high school class photograph showed a mixture of races and ethnicities, with young Jack, his face circled, one of a minority of Anglos. Prowess on the football field had won him a scholarship to the University of California at Chico, known colloquially as Chico State. It was hundreds of miles from home, in rural northern California. He’d worked part-time throughout college, earning money for textbooks and meals, a practice he’d continued while attending law school. Returning to Santa Ana, he rose to the position of D.A.—“crusading D.A.,” as the bio put it—before his first run for Congress.

  Everything about the man said that he was no pampered elitist. He’d come up the hard way, and he was proud of it.

  At four fifteen the intercom buzzed, Rebecca opened the door, and Abby was granted an audience with the seven-term representative of Orange County’s Gold Coast.

  His hairline had receded since the photo on his Web site was taken, his temples were grayer, and he was wearing a pair of reading glasses which he took off, perhaps self-consciously, before rising to shake her hand. A strong clasp, his palm cool and dry.

  “Miss Sinclair. Have a seat.”

  She knew he was looking her over, sizing her up, and she gave him a moment to do it. He would see a trim, wiry woman of thirty-four—though she looked younger, or so she told herself—with brown hair in a cute pageboy ’do, selected because long hair could be grabbed in a fight. She was of medium height, tall enough to fend for herself and short enough to get lost in a crowd. Her face was pale, with high cheekbones and a scattering of faint freckles. Her hazel eyes regarded the world coolly, keeping secrets.

  He resumed his power position behind his desk, while she had to settle for the role of supplicant in a straight-backed armless chair.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Reynolds said in his aged-whiskey voice.

  “Same here,” Abby said. “Nice digs.”

  “I maintain this office year round. It’s where I work when Congress is out of session.” He leaned forward and steepled his hands—large hands, which went with his large, athletic frame. He still had the rangy build of a quarterback, and a squinty gaze set for sixty-yard passes. “As you may have realized, I have a security issue I need to deal with.”

  “Don’t you have the Secret Service to protect you?”

  “The Secret Service doesn’t provide protection to members of Congress, only to the president and vice president and their families. And visiting heads of state. Basically their turf is the White House and the vice president’s residence.”

  “Not the Senate or the Capitol building?”

  “That’s the jurisdiction of the Capitol Hill police.”

  “So you’re covered when you’re on the job in D.C. How about when you’re out of town?”

  He shrugged. “I’m on my own.”

  In the post 9-11 world, Abby had assumed that every politico had official protection at all times. “No security at all? You serious?”

  “Some members of Congress hire personal bodyguards. Security firms are available that specialize in protecting politicians. There are also retired D.C. police officers who go into the private security business. But not every congressmen or senator traipses around with an armed man at his side. Personally, I’ve never felt the need.”

  “What about public events?”

  “Local law enforcement generally provides protection, crowd control, security checkpoints ...”

  “And when you’re just driving around, shopping for groceries or whatever?”

  “I’m by myself. Of course, most of the time I go unrecognized. Most people don’t even know who their congressmen is, let alone what he looks like. Believe me, I don’t draw many stares.”

  “It still seems crazy.”

  “The system may be a little out of date. Things change slowly in Washington. You know, it wasn’t that long ago that Harry Truman used to walk out of the White House with one Secret Service man and stroll down the street for a haircut.”

  To Abby, it seemed like plenty long ago—decades before she was born. “So the bottom line is, you’re unprotected?”

  “I’m hoping you’ll protect me, Miss Sinclair.”

  “You do realize I’m not a bodyguard?”

  “I’m not looking for a bodyguard. I’m looking for someone to assess a specific threat.”

  “In that case, you came to the right gal.”

  “I hear you’re quite good at what you do. Of course, I guess you don’t advertise your failures.” This was added with a smile.

  “I don’t advertise at all,” Abby answered mildly. “I keep a low profile.”

  “You run a one-woman operation—no staff, no overhead?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you still charge like you have overhead, don’t you?” Another smile.

  “I don’t work for free. But there are easier ways to earn a living.”

  “How long have you been at this?”

  “Eight years.”

  “Background in law enforcement?”

  “You mean, did I get canned because I was a cop who didn’t play by the rules? No. I’ve never worn a badge. My background is in psychology. I have a master’s degree.”

  “You’re a shrink?”

  “I’m not licensed. It’s just my academic training.”

  “How did somebody start off in psychology and end up being a ...?”

  “A personal security consultant? I thought it would be more interesting than sitting in an office all day listening to people’s phobias. I wanted to do fieldwork.”

  “Psychological fieldwork.”

  “That’s what my job consists of, basically.”

  He grunted, taking this in. “Have you always worked freelance?”

  “Yes. I used to consult to security firms. I was an off-the-books contractor. Now I work for clients directly. No middleman.”

  “You come highly recommended—though I probably shouldn’t mention any names.”

  “It’s best to keep my clients’ names out of this. The work I do is confidential.”

  “So I can count on you not to talk about what you’re doing for me?”

  “I haven’t agreed to do anything for you yet. But yes, you can count on my silence. If I ever started blabbing about my clients, I’d be out of business in a hurry.”

  “A woman who knows how to keep her mouth shut.” Reynolds grinned. “You may be unique.”

  His charm, if such it was, wasn�
�t working on her. “I like to think of myself as discreet.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I thought you’d be younger.”

  “How could any woman possibly take that the wrong way?”

  He didn’t seem to notice her sarcasm. “Well, I guess it’s good you’ve got some miles on you. I’m paying for experience.”

  “I have plenty of experience.”

  “I’ll bet you have.” He said it with a peculiar emphasis. “How many jobs have you done?”

  “I stopped counting. Roughly a hundred.”

  “A hundred cases in eight years? You’re a busy little beaver, aren’t you?”

  She wasn’t sure she liked the “beaver” reference. “I stay active.”

  “These bad guys you deal with—you have to cozy up to them, right? And sometimes do more than get cozy?”

  Now she grasped the subtext. She was no better than a hooker in his eyes. “I try to remain in control of the situation,” she said. He could ask Leon Trotman about that.

  “Anyway, I’m told you’re the go-to gal when there’s a dirty job to be done.”

  “How flattering.”

  “Don’t misunderstand. The service you perform—it’s necessary. Not always pleasant, but that’s life. a lit of people don’t have the stomach to do what needs to be done. They’re wishful thinkers, romantics. You and I—we’re realists. We know how the world works.”

  She disliked being included in his company. “What can I do for you, Mr. Reynolds?”

  “I’m running for reelection. I’ve been doing a number of campaign appearances locally. A particular woman has attended nearly all of them. She stays toward the back of the crowd.”

  Abby shrugged. “Political supporter. Stringer for a local newspaper.”

  “I don’t think she’s either of those things. I think she’s someone who was formerly in my employ.”

  “You recognized her?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s been years. And her hair is different. It could be a wig. At the outdoor events she wears sunglasses. What I’m saying is, it’s hard to tell.”

  “But there’s a resemblance to someone in your past.”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you start seeing this woman in the crowd?”

  “Three, four weeks ago. I began coming home on weekends to do campaign events. Fundraisers, rallies, town hall meetings. At the ones that are open to the public, she’s almost always there.”

  “And does this ex-employee hold a grudge against you?”

  “She may.”

  “Why?”

  “The obvious reason. I terminated her employment. She was unhappy about that.”

  “What sort of employment?”

  “She was our housekeeper. This was ten years ago. Back when my kids were still growing up.”

  Abby had seen the kids on the Web site—two of them, Jake and Janet, in their early twenties now. A decade ago they would have been about twelve years old. “Why’d you fire her?” she asked.

  “She was stealing. In my bureau, I kept a spare roll of twenties. I would count the roll and find forty or sixty dollars missing. At first I thought I’d miscounted, but it kept happening.”

  “Did you actually catch her stealing?”

  “No. And she denied it. Hell, maybe she was even telling the truth. You see, not long after she left, I had some trouble with Jake.”

  “You think your son was stealing the money?”

  “I don’t know. He got into some scrapes—shoplifting, vandalism—and it occurred to me that maybe I’d been wrong to blame Rose. It was too late then, of course.”

  “Rose was the housekeeper.”

  “Rose Moran, yes.”

  Abby got up and moved around the office. She had a hard time sitting still in client interviews. “It seems like a long time to hold a grudge. Even if she was falsely accused, she would’ve acted out whatever hostility she’s feeling long before this.”

  “So you think it’s nothing?”

  “Didn’t say that. I don’t really know what to think.” She quit pacing and faced him. “Mr. Reynolds, let me explain exactly what I do.”

  Her standard sales pitch was cut off by Reynolds’ upraised hand. “I already know. You stalk the stalkers. That’s the way you explain it, right?”

  She was surprised. “The very words.”

  “You identify a stalker, then arrange to bump into him, get to know him. Assess the threat potential.”

  “You even know the lingo. I’m impressed.”

  “But I’m not clear on how you arrange to infiltrate their lives. Aren’t these people paranoid? Aren’t they suspicious of strangers?”

  “Most of them are. But there are ways of getting around that. Ways of making the meeting seem accidental so they don’t suspect a setup. You know how Hollywood is always looking for a cute-meet situation? They should come to me. I know a million cute-meets.”

  “Well, I guess it’s not too tough for you to meet a guy—when it is a guy. You just shake your moneymaker in his direction, and he comes to mama. But in this case it’s a woman. Might be more of a challenge.”

  “I like a challenge,” Abby said evenly.

  “Okay. I’ll have to assume you can handle it.” Abby thought this was big of him. “So if you determine that the individual poses a threat, you ...?”

  “I make sure he—or she—is taken off the streets.”

  “You handle these situations without any violence?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “And the rest of time?”

  “I know a little about self-defense. If push comes to shove—I can shove hard.”

  “Kick ass and take names?”

  “I don’t take names.”

  Reynolds was studying her with narrowed eyes. “You’re not that big, though. Some of these guys must have a hundred pounds on you.”

  “Size doesn’t matter. Quickness is what counts.”

  “And if you run up against a guy who’s bigger and quicker than you?”

  “Then I guess I’d be dead. I told you there were easier ways to make a living.”

  Reynolds shook his head with a slow grin. “You’ve got some brass ovaries, don’t you?”

  “So I’ve been told.” Actually she’d never heard it put quite that way before.

  “And I take it you’re not averse to breaking the law now and then.”

  She returned to her chair and leaned against it, giving him a good look. “I don’t discuss those details with clients. It’s better that way—for everyone concerned.”

  “Deniability. Sure. Officially I know nothing. Unofficially—well, let’s just say a person in your line of work can’t be too hung up on legalities.”

  “People might say the same thing about politicians,” Abby quipped. Reynolds gave her a cool stare. Not a man who could take a joke, it seemed. “Somebody seems to have filled you in nicely about my services,” she said.

  “I like to be informed about the people I work with.”

  “You did your homework. But I’m still not sure I understand why you need me. Most of my clients come to me because the police won’t listen to them. But the cops aren’t going to give a U.S. congressman the brush-off.”

  “I’d prefer not to go through those channels.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if it is Rose who’s been going to my events, I don’t want the story to come out. I told you, Jake got into some trouble with the law. Nothing ever got into the media about it. If this story breaks, and people start looking into my past...” He sighed. “I don’t want my son getting hurt. He’s put all that nonsense behind him. He’s straightened out.”

  Abby thought it likely that Reynolds was less concerned about his son’s welfare than about his own image as a law-and-order type. The former “crusading D.A.” wasn’t the sort of guy who ought to have a family member whose criminal activity had been covered up for ten years.

  She didn’t voice her suspicions. “I don’t
suppose you have a last known address for Ms. Moran.”

  “Her last address that I know of is when she lived at our house. She’s not listed in any local directories. I checked.”

  “She might be listed under another name. Was she married when she was in your employ?”

  “No.”

  “She might be married now. She could have taken her husband’s name.”

  “Or changed her name,” Reynolds said. “Obtained a new identity.”

  “Why would she do that? She doesn’t have any sort of criminal record, does she?”

  “No, no—nothing like that.”

  “Then there would be no reason for her to change her ID.”

  “Right. Of course not.” He said it too hastily.

  Something was wrong here, but Abby didn’t press. “I can start the next time you have a public event.”

  “Then you can start tonight. I’m doing a town hall meeting at a high school in Laguna Hills.”

  “Don’t believe in wasting time, do you?”

  “Do you?”

  “Nope. Tell me the address and I’ll be there.”

  “My assistant—”

  “Can give me that information. I know the drill. Can she also give me a photo of Rose Moran?”

  “No, and neither can I. I don’t have any photos of her.”

  “None?”

  “Who takes snapshots of their housekeeper? But I can give you the next best thing. I went through the stills my media people shoot at all my campaign appearances.”

  He removed a glossy blowup from his desk drawer and handed it to her. It was a crowd shot. One face out of many had been circled with a red marker. A middle-aged woman with a lot of curly blond hair that could be a wig.

  “Good enough,” Abby said. “Now there’s the little matter of my fee.”

  “You charge three hundred dollars a day, correct?”

  The man really had done his research. “That’s right.”

  “I said I’d double it. Six hundred dollars, every day you’re on the case. Pretty good money. I hope you’re worth it.”

  “I like to think I am.”

  “Everyone thinks they’re worth more than they are. I expect results, Miss Sinclair. Don’t think you can take me for a ride. Well”—he allowed himself a crass grin—“not that way, anyhow.”