The Inner Sanctum

by Stephen Frey

  “Not a secretary.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “What about the money from LFA?” Todd asked.

  “That’s where it gets even more interesting. Judging by the withholding amount, the gross amount must have been almost two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Jesus.” Todd shook his head. “And you’re sure this person was being paid by Coleman at the same time?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is strange, especially given the amounts.”

  “Wait,” Jesse said. “It gets better. A week after LFA made the withholding they came back to the IRS and claimed they had made a mistake. They claimed there had been a computer error in the payroll system. That the withholding payment should never have been made.”

  “Sounds like they were covering up a mistake.”

  “Exactly. So why would someone be working at both places?”

  “Working for one and gathering information on the other,” Todd offered. “That’s what comes to mind first.”

  “Right. And it seems to me it would make more sense if the person was really working for LFA and trying to get information on Coleman.” Jesse was talking quickly now. “Why would Coleman care about LFA?”

  “Maybe he wants to know if LFA is going to hold demonstrations at his functions or something.”

  “That sounds weak to me. It’s a lot for Coleman to risk for not much return.”

  “At least I’m trying.”

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have criticized you.”

  “It’s okay.” Todd picked up his milk shake and took another sip. “I don’t know, counselor, you’ve stumped me. But why would LFA necessarily want to know what was going on at the Coleman campaign?”

  “Maybe LFA would pass information on to Malcolm Walker. I think Senator Walker is close to LFA—at least, every time I see Pitts on television he’s calling Walker a good friend. Maybe the person is ultimately spying for Walker, stealing strategies, that kind of thing. If the person is making a hundred thousand at the Coleman campaign, he or she is one of the top aides, because that’s a lot of money for a campaign worker, even in a United States Senate race. The person would have access to very sensitive information.”

  “So then this person alerts Walker as to Coleman’s strategies, through LFA, so that Walker can have the jump on Coleman. And if they were ever caught, it would be LFA’s ass and not Walker’s.”

  “Right.”

  Todd shook his head. “Sorry to throw a monkey wrench in your theory, Jess, but I thought you told me the file you got from Neil Robinson’s summer home indicated that the improprieties were at the Coleman campaign.”

  Jesse didn’t answer for a moment. “I know. That kind of shoots everything down, doesn’t it?” She was suddenly dejected. “So what do we do, private investigator?”

  “There are only two real options,” he answered quickly.

  “And they are?”

  “Try to get a look at personnel files at the Coleman headquarters and/or at LFA.” Todd took the straw out of the milk shake, turned the large glass up, and finished what was left.

  “Do you really think Coleman or LFA is going to just hand over personnel files to us?”

  He smiled brazenly. “Of course not.”

  She caught her breath. “Are you talking about breaking into those places?”

  Todd shook his head. “Not both. If I happen to get caught breaking in somewhere, I certainly don’t want it to be at the headquarters of a man running for the United States Senate.”

  “So then it’s LFA headquarters.”

  “In the dead of night, baby.” Todd slammed his fist down hard on the table. For a moment the buzz of the restaurant went silent as people looked around at Todd and Jesse. Then slowly the sound level returned to normal. “Sorry about that.” He winked as he pulled his head down like a turtle going into its shell. “I got a little carried away for a second.”

  “Are you sure you want to break into LFA?” She shook her head. He was like a bulldog once he got into something. Nothing stopped him.

  “I don’t have any other ideas. I told you I did this morning on the phone, but that thing kind of fizzled this afternoon.”

  “I just don’t want you to get in any trouble.”

  “That’s why you’re going with me to LFA. You’ll be able to talk us out of trouble if we get caught.”

  “I can’t go with you!”

  “You have to. I won’t know what to look for. And I’m not going back if I don’t get the right stuff the first time, that’s for sure.”

  Jesse began to protest again, but she realized he was right. She nodded her head slowly. “All right.”

  Todd rubbed his hands together. Another opportunity to be with her. And it would be dangerous. She would be aroused. Maybe he could finally break down her resistance.

  “You’re certain?” The man could hardly contain himself.

  “Absolutely,” Roth replied. “I have a copy of a credit card receipt from last March when she purchased the gloves. And I have the lab telling me that the hair from the glove almost certainly belonged to a blond woman. There are only two women in the department with blond hair as long as the one from the glove.”

  “Kill her right away. But make it look like an accident.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And, Roth, get that file if you can. But make sure she doesn’t see another morning.”

  Becky Saunders had been Jesse’s psychotherapist for twelve years and never charged her a dime for the many visits, even though that flew in the face of professional canons. Becky had been on duty the day Jesse—an emotional wreck—had entered the hospital for the operation. The particulars of Jesse’s case had been so disturbing to Becky that she had stayed in the recovery room for five hours after the procedure talking with Jesse about what had happened, assuring her that she needn’t feel guilt, that it wasn’t her fault. And they had developed a bond that had lasted ever since. Jesse did Becky’s taxes every year, but it wasn’t as if she did it in an attempt to compensate Becky for the visits. They were simply friends helping each other the best way they could.

  Just like tonight. Becky had already seen six patients today, and it was past ten o’clock in the evening. But Jesse had called and asked for an appointment at the last minute. And Becky had agreed immediately.

  Becky opened her second pack of cigarettes of the day, lighted one, and inhaled. “So Todd Colton is becoming a larger part of your life again.”

  “Yes.”

  “He asked if you two could start dating, is that right?”

  “Yes,” Jesse replied again. “I told him no.”

  “But you thought about saying yes, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” Jesse admitted.

  “Do you think that would be a good idea, to start dating him?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

  Becky took another puff from her cigarette. “You know what I think.”

  “Tell me again.” Jesse had heard Becky’s opinion so many times, but it was always therapy to listen.

  A column of smoke rose from the cigarette tip and curled around Becky. “I’m going to go through the whole thing,” she warned.

  “I know.”

  Becky felt the beginnings of a headache, but ignored the dull throbbing over her eyes. “You’d been sailing with Todd since early in the morning.” Her voice was raspy from years of smoking. “It’s a beautiful day, you’re having a great time together, and you both realize that you’re crazy about each other. You go back to his parents’ house that evening because they’re away on a trip. You make love for the first time in your life.”

  “Yes.”

  “Afterward, Todd takes you home. He walks you to the door, kisses you good night, and leaves. You come inside. You’re an hour past your curfew. Your stepfather, Joe, is waiting up, and he starts in on you as soon as you come through the door.”

  “Starts in on me,” Jesse repeated sarcastically. “That’s
an understatement. He was screaming at me. God, I hated him.”

  “He’s had bourbon. Normally he wouldn’t have been drinking, but your mother is on an overnight retreat with one of her church groups. Joe follows you to your bedroom, still screaming at you.”

  Jesse felt the anger and resentment building, as it always did. But it helped her to go through this. It helped to be able to share the physical pain and mental anguish of those moments with someone who understood. Pain and anguish that twelve years had not healed. It helped to share all this with someone who didn’t judge. Who wouldn’t be devastated knowing. They had been over it so many times, but it was cathartic on every occasion—once she was past the attack.

  “He pins you down on the bed, pulls your clothes off, and—”

  “—rapes me.” Jesse finished Becky’s sentence, then let out a long slow breath. “He rapes me.” She said it again. It was part of the therapy to say it—and repeat it. She hadn’t even been able to say it once until five years after the attack. Now she could say it twice in a row, sometimes three times.

  “So in the same night you’ve lost your virginity to Todd and been raped by your stepfather. You’re a psychological mess, and the person in the world you’re closest to, the one you’ve always turned to for everything, can never even find out. You won’t let her help you this time.”

  “Can you imagine if I had confided in my mother or told the police and filed charges? Can you imagine if my mother had found out? Found out that her husband had raped her daughter? And her entire congregation at Sacred Heart Church would have found out. She’s a devout Catholic. It would have pushed her over the edge. She would have committed suicide. I couldn’t tell her.”

  Becky allowed Jesse to finish, then moved on. “A month later you find out you’re pregnant, and you don’t know who the father is.” Becky closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know how you kept it together. You were a very strong woman, even then.”

  Jesse felt tears coming and coughed a few times to help hold them back. “I didn’t feel strong.”

  Becky saw the tears. “You still have such a violent reaction to all this. That’s why I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see Todd, or anyone you associate with the attack. I think you’ve still got ghosts inside that you and I haven’t found yet. If you and Todd became involved, those ghosts might make an appearance. I’m not certain the results would be good.”

  “But the tests showed the baby wasn’t Todd’s.” Jesse was pleading his case. “That it was Joe’s. And Todd still took care of me. He took me to the hospital and paid for the abortion.” Jesse let her head fall into her hands, and the tears suddenly spilled down onto her blouse. “I was going to go to an inner-city clinic, for God’s sake. Todd wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted I go to the hospital and have the operation done right. Who knows what would have happened to me at the clinic? A week after I was going to go there the government shut the place down because they lost a young woman on the table.”

  “Keep him at a distance, Jesse. He’s got a lot of baggage too.”

  “He knew it was Joe’s, and he still took care of me. And he’s never said anything to anyone. He’s just been there for me whenever I’ve needed him.” Jesse wiped the tears from her face. “He was so wonderful to me during that time. He got me to you.”

  Becky watched Jesse carefully. There must be some terribly stressful outside forces putting pressure on her. She had suddenly become vulnerable again. “Is that it?”

  “Is what it?”

  “You just said he got you through all that. Do you feel you owe him? Is that the real problem?”

  Chapter 21

  One by one they filed silently into the dimly lighted meeting room. It was unusual for them to reconvene so soon, but circumstances had dictated the meeting.

  Senator Webb hesitated for a moment, allowing the others time to take their designated seats. “If we’re all ready, I’d like to begin.” His gravelly voice brought the meeting to order over the strains of Bach.

  The members nodded in agreement as they pulled their chairs to the table.

  “The first topic tonight will be the security leak I mentioned at the last meeting,” Webb began. “As I told you then, someone had stolen a file from Neil Robinson’s river place before we got to it. We believe the file contains incriminating information concerning the Senate race between Malcolm Walker and our associate Elbridge Coleman.” He nodded in Coleman’s direction. “Tonight I’m happy to inform you that we’ve identified the individual who took the file,” he said triumphantly.

  “Who was it?” Finnerty asked, arms crossed tightly across his chest, a worried expression on his face.

  “A woman who works as a revenue agent in Baltimore. She reported to Mr. Robinson before his untimely demise.”

  “How did you identify her?” Admiral Cowen wanted to know.

  Theodore “Ted” Cowen was the Chief of Naval Operations—the United States’ most senior naval officer—and Webb suddenly wondered how the man had managed to achieve that position three years ago. Cowen was overweight, swarthy, and for such a senior official, constantly focused on unimportant details. But he had proved malleable on bigger issues, like the A-100, and able to influence the Secretary of the Navy and the Secretary of Defense at opportune times, so his minutia fixation could be overlooked.

  “We recovered a glove we believed was worn by the individual when she took the file from Robinson’s house,” Webb explained. “We traced the glove to a store and then matched the list of people who had purchased those types of gloves from that store in the last six months to the names of the revenue agents. She was on both lists.”

  “Excellent.” Cowen smiled. “It sounds as if we have a positive identification. No chance of mistaken identity.”

  “No chance,” Webb assured him. Of course, there was always a chance of mistaken identity. All you could ever do was take the physical evidence you had gathered and make the best deduction possible. But if Cowen felt better hearing there was no chance of mistaken identity, so be it.

  “Good.” Cowen rubbed his large belly. “I just wouldn’t want to have any innocent people involved.”

  Cowen was so damn self-righteous. It was all right with him to kill someone as long as you were certain it was that person who had committed the offense. A crime so horrible as usurping a simple file. But hold the train if it might be an innocent bystander. What a crock of shit that was, Webb thought to himself. It must be the military training, he guessed. Perfectly acceptable to eradicate anything interfering with a mission. Unacceptable to use force otherwise.

  “I don’t want this to be a loose end any longer than is absolutely necessary,” Art Mohler said. “When will we address the problem?”

  “Tonight,” Webb answered quickly, watching Cowen grab a roll of his belly.

  “Good.” Mohler was relieved.

  “Second issue on the agenda,” Webb announced loudly. He wanted to waste no time. He was exhausted from a long day on the Hill. “The issue of Malcolm Walker . . . and not in the context of the election,” he added.

  The others looked up as they heard an ominous tone in Webb’s voice.

  “I have learned that Walker had an informant at Area 51,” Webb continued. “The informant was passing information to Senator Walker concerning the A-100.”

  “What? Bullshit,” Cowen growled through clenched teeth. “Area 51 is a secure base. One of the most secure in our system. The civilians working on projects there are carefully screened and strictly monitored. We’ve never had a problem.”

  “His informant wasn’t a civilian, Admiral. It was an Air Force captain.” Webb looked down at a paper on the table. “His name is Paul Nichols. He was receiving payments in exchange for the information and of course had the added incentive of derailing a Navy project.”

  “You’re kidding!” Cowen was suddenly alarmed.

  “No, I’m not. Apparently Senator Walker was paying him big. As they say, money talks,
bullshit walks. And what we pay our military is bullshit, so those with questionable moral character are easy targets. Anyway, I have taken care of the problem under black-budget authority. Captain Nichols has been incarcerated. He is no longer a problem and won’t be for quite some time. I can hold him in jail for at least six months without trial.” Webb withheld a smile as he imagined the captain’s fall from ten thousand feet through the Nevada night with Commander Pierce by his side.

  “Was Nichols able to pass anything important on to Walker?” Mohler removed his half-lens glasses, and put them down on the table. He was clearly worried.

  “Apparently. A friend of mine tells me that Walker will be holding a news conference tomorrow to disclose the existence of the A-100.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Mohler brought his hands to his forehead.

  “The purpose of the news conference will be twofold,” Webb continued. “First, Walker will be trying to derail production of the A-100 by hyping figures the government will spend on the program. As we all know, it is a large program, and he will play on the public relations problem we in the defense arena have. You know, six-hundred-dollar hammers, thousand-dollar toilet seats, and the like. All the ridiculous stories leaked to the press by the liberals in the last few years and swallowed hook, line, and sinker by this country’s gullible public. Walker will compare the A-100 to these stories and try to have the plane’s production put on hold.”

  “How do you have this information on Walker’s plan?” Cowen was impressed.

  “I have a mole in Walker’s office.” Webb moved on quickly. He didn’t want Cowen focusing on that little detail. “The second and potentially more disturbing reason for the press conference is that Walker plans to lay open the black budget and the programs within the black budget in an attempt to bring it under greater public scrutiny. Apparently he has become privy to certain information he should not have through his informant at Area 51, and probably through other avenues as well.” Webb’s expression became defiant. “Malcolm Walker has decided to raise the level of his Defense Department war to a new and very dangerous level.”