by Gayle Wilson
“Military?” Jared guessed.
“Greenest, scaredest grunt in Nam. I did my time with my eyes closed, praying I was going to make it home in one piece.”
“What do you think about McCord?” Jared asked.
He was aware Robin’s eyes had shifted from their focus on the two-way glass to his face. He didn’t know where the question had come from. Maybe he’d been remembering Brad’s comments. Or maybe he had asked simply because Crocker had been there, too.
“I think he did what he thought he had to do to keep his men alive. If he’s telling the truth. But with those other guys dead...” The detective shrugged.
“You think that could cost him the nomination?”
“If he doesn’t get it squared away. I hear he’s going to explain everything tonight.”
“That’s what I hear,” Jared said, his hand on Robin’s elbow.
“McCord better make it good,” Crocker warned, “if he’s going to change minds. It better be the best damn speech of his life.”
THEY HAD FINALLY MADE IT back to the hotel and were in the elevator heading up to McCord’s suite. Barricades were up in the streets outside, and they had had to walk the last few blocks. More than half of the city’s police force would be on duty tonight to handle the expected record crowd in Times Square.
Jared had thought they would be back in time to avoid the mob, but after their visit to Manhattan South, they had had a late lunch, and Robin had spent a couple of hours choosing a dress and shoes for tonight. Finally they had gone back to Jared’s apartment so he could change, and then neither of them had been eager to leave, maybe because of the memories there.
He couldn’t talk Robin out of being here with her uncle tonight. But after all, he told himself again, nothing had happened during the last four days.
And the more he thought about the car bomb, the more convinced he was that Robin hadn’t been the target. Someone who knew the senator’s propensity for being late must have remote-triggered that device, having no idea that his niece must have taken McCord’s place in the car. The bomb could have been planted under the limousine days before it went off, an even more likely scenario now that they had eliminated the bearded man as a suspect.
“Now what?” Robin asked.
“I guess McCord makes his speech and we go from there,” Jared said, as the elevator doors opened. “Maybe somebody will come forward who’ll be able to shed some light on Edwards. Or maybe Bolton will appear to back up McCord’s story.”
“But you don’t think so?” Robin asked, reading his tone.
“I think the same thing happened to Carl Bolton that happened to the others,” Jared said. “I can’t think of any other reason why he wouldn’t have come forward. I think Edwards hunted all of them down before he zeroed in on McCord.”
“To kill him?” Robin asked.
“He could have killed him at any time, if that’s what he wants. He didn’t seem to have any problem getting to the rest. I think he has a different form of revenge in mind for McCord. I think he wants to kill his reputation. His honor. Those are things McCord values more than he values his life. I think somehow this guy knows that. He understands how McCord ticks.”
“Everything that’s happened has obviously been designed to make Uncle Jim back out of the race. And he isn’t going to. It makes me wonder...” Robin began, and then her voice faded.
“We’ll find him,” Jared said. Even to him the words sounded hollow, and Robin, of course, was smart enough to know they were no closer to the truth than they had been before.
As SOON AS THEY OPENED the door to the senator’s suite, they could hear voices coming from the sitting room. Emory’s and McCord’s, both of them loud, obviously angry. When they walked in, hesitant to interrupt because emotions seemed to be running high, Whitt was seated at the conference table, a stack of papers in front of him. James McCord was again standing by the windows.
“You can’t argue with data,” Whitt said, glancing at them.
“The hell I can’t,” McCord said, so angry he appeared to ignore or at least to be unaware of their entrance. “I didn’t get where I am by backing down or by backing away from a fight”
“You can’t fight innuendo.”
“Smear tactics,” the senator snapped.
“We knew all along this could happen. The sheer weight of what’s out there just—”
“That’s what tonight’s all about,” McCord interrupted, his words overriding Emory’s. “Changing the momentum. That’s all people have heard about me lately. The negative. We’ve got to fight back. Give them something positive to think about.”
“You can’t announce your candidacy in this climate.”
McCord took a step over to the table and put both hands on it, palms flat, his face jutting forward, eye-to-eye with his campaign manager. “I am not giving up, damn it.”
“Then you’re a fool,” Whitt said. “It’s over, Senator. The drop in the polling numbers is too sharp to mean anything else.”
“How sharp?” Robin asked. Both men turned to face her.
“Bad enough to be terminal,” Whitt said. “Even before the afternoon editions hit the stands.”
“What are they saying that hasn’t already been said?”
“The authorities are opening investigations into those deaths. At least Stover’s and Reamer’s. And the media have discovered the link between Larson’s death and the threat against the senator’s daughter.”
“What does that mean for the campaign?” Robin asked.
“That it’s over. The senator’s got bigger problems than the polls. They’re talking about indicting him for murder.”
“That’s a hell of a jump,” Jared said. “From opening an investigation to an indictment.”
“Recon by fire,” McCord said bitterly.
“Maybe so,” Whitt agreed, “but whatever the authorities may eventually come up with, linking the senator to those deaths is a jump the public’s already made. No matter how this sifts out, we’re not going to have enough time to turn it around. Not before the early primaries. If we don’t make a good showing in those...” Emory shrugged, his eyes on McCord.
“Larson gets killed trying to kidnap my daughter, and I’m the bad guy? What kind of sense does that make?” McCord asked.
“This isn’t about sense. Or even about truth,” Whitt said. “It’s about perception. At least right now it is.”
“Then we’ll change their perceptions,” McCord said.
“What do you have to offer that can change these numbers?” Emory asked, pushing a paper across the space that separated them. “What new information? Where’s the proof that what you’re saying is the truth and not what they’re saying?”
“My word. My reputation. Thirty years of public service.”
“That and a dollar might get you a cup of coffee,” Whitt said, “only not in Manhattan. Face it,” he said, abandoning sarcasm. “It’s over. With this coming out right now, we can’t win in Iowa or New Hampshire. It’s already too late for those. And if we don’t win one of them, the money dries up.”
“I’ll use my own money,” McCord said stubbornly.
“Throw it out the window. You’ll get more value for it.”
McCord straightened away from the table, stiff with fury. “I’m not quitting, Whitt. I’m gonna tell them the truth tonight, and I’m gonna keep on telling them until I can prove it. You can be in on this or you can bail out. Whatever you decide, I won’t hold it against you.” He limped across the room, disappearing into the hallway that led to his bedroom.
“Is it really that bad?” Robin asked into the uncomfortable silence that had fallen after the senator’s last comment.
“We always knew the Nam thing could backfire. Nobody was using it before because the senator’s approval ratings were so high, but now, coupled with this other...”
“You don’t think he can turn it around?”
“Not in time,” Whitt said. “Not without proo
f that he had nothing to do with those deaths. Those investigations could take months, and we don’t have weeks. But trying to talk to him... Is he always that stubborn?”
“If he thinks he’s right,” Robin said.
“Well,” Whitt said, drawing the word out reluctantly, “I guess that’s all the damage I can do here.” He hesitated before he added, “I just wish it had turned out differently.”
“Me, too,” she said softly. “If he announces tonight, are you going on to Iowa?”
“The man’s paying me,” Whitt said. “If he announces, I don’t have a choice, but...if I were you, I’d try to talk some sense into him. No sense throwing money down the drain.”
Robin nodded, but she hadn’t really committed to trying to keep her uncle from doing what it seemed he was determined to do, Jared realized. Maybe she knew the futility of that.
“The senator said you two were going to ID that protester,” Whitt said, his eyes on Jared. “How did that turn out? He’s not our missing demo man, I assume.”
“Just somebody who thinks the world’s going to end at midnight when the computers melt down. Nothing to do with bombs,” Jared said, unconsciously repeating Hartley’s words.
“That’d be a hell of a note, wouldn’t it?” Whitt said. “If those idiots, Avamore and the rest of them, turned out to be right? That’d be a real joke on the rest of us.”
“I don’t think many people would be laughing,” Robin said.
Whitt’s gaze moved to her face, his eyes almost hidden behind the thick glasses. “Not me, in any case. I’m not finding many things amusing these days. I think I’ll go up and check on how they’re coming with the decorations.” He glanced at his watch. “Only a couple of hours left before the guests arrive. If any show up. And with all this going on, there’s a strong possibility they might not.”
“Don’t count him out,” Robin said. “Things have a way of working out for James Marshall McCord. They always have.”
“I hope so, Robin,” Whitt said. “For your sake and for his. But...I think that ‘something’ you’re hoping for better happen pretty fast.” He stood there a moment, maybe waiting for Robin’s response. When there wasn’t one, Emory turned and disappeared down the hallway. Neither she nor Jared said anything else until they heard the outer door close behind the campaign manager.
“The end of a dream,” Robin said softly. “Whitt’s right. There’s no way to change numbers like these,” she said, walking over to look at the sheet he had tried to show McCord. “Not quickly enough, anyway. Not unless your demo man does show up to back up Uncle Jim’s story.”
Those words seemed out of place. They were the same ones Crocker had used. And Whitt. However, coming from someone like Robin... Because Robin, like Hartley... The idea seemed to freeze Jared’s brain, stopping the lightning speed of normal thought processes. His mind locked instead on the incongruity of those particular words in Robin’s mouth. And in Whitt Emory’s.
And then the floodgates opened again, every sentence he had heard Emory utter in the few short days he had known him rushing through his brain like a whirlwind. Sweeping aside the preconceptions. Destroying the image Whitt Emory presented.
“Demo man.” And “A lot of people got an introduction to ordnance...” Even McCord’s comment about what the investigators were doing to him being “recon by fire.” Jared had never heard the phrase before. Instinctively, maybe because of his years in the military, he had figured out what it meant, but it had taken him a second or two to get there.
It hadn’t taken Whitt Emory any time at all. His answer had been immediate and right on target. “Maybe so, but whatever the authorities may eventually come up with...” There had been no hesitation in his response. Which meant instant comprehension.
“What did he tell us about Nam?” Jared asked, blood roaring like a freight train in his ears.
“Who?” Robin asked absently.
“Emory. That night at the reception. He said something about wanting to go to Vietnam but having a bad ticker.”
She looked up, a crease forming between her brows. “So?”
“So...” Jared’s mind was again working almost intuitively. He had known, even before he had been told, that Detective Crocker was ex-military. And the two of them had recognized that the bearded man was not. The words he had used just weren’t...right, he thought. And Whitt Emory’s were.
“Call the desk,” Jared ordered, turning toward the hall. “Tell them to send security up to the ballroom. Do it, Robin,” he yelled over his shoulder as he began to run. “Do it now. And tell them whatever they do, not to let Emory out of the hotel.”
Chapter Fifteen
Slow. He had been so damn slow, Jared thought, stabbing the button again and again, as if that might make the elevator go faster. He stabbed it once more, frustrated with himself rather than with the mechanics.
He had gotten caught up in conspiracy theories. The bearded man. His protective feelings toward Robin and the baby. Even his suspicions about McCord’s secretiveness. All of those had played a role in his not seeing what was right under his nose. It had all been there since the night he’d met Whitt Emory.
Jared didn’t have proof, not even now, but he’d stake his life on what his gut was telling him. He had done that more times than he cared to remember, and his instincts had been reliable.
The elevator jolted to a stop, and the doors opened. Jared’s eyes swept across the huge foyer of the ballroom and into the room itself, looking for the man who had walked out of McCord’s suite less than five minutes ago. There were a lot of technical people setting up equipment. And no sign of Emory.
At least he wasn’t trying to find his quarry in the dark, as he would have been in a couple of hours. He recognized some familiar faces, reporters who had been assigned to cover the campaign. He hurried across the foyer to where they were standing. “I’m looking for Whitt Emory. Has he been up here?”
Several people shook their heads. Someone said, “I saw him earlier. Not in the last couple of hours, though.”
Jared looked back at the elevators, which were clearly visible, especially when the doors were open as they were now. “You sure he didn’t just get off the elevators?”
The reporter who had spoken shook his head. “I’ve been standing right here. You’re the only person to arrive in the last... half hour, maybe.”
The elevator opened, and a couple of the hotel’s security guards got off. Every eye in the group focused on them. If Emory had come up here, they would have seen him. Which meant...
Jared ran back toward the approaching guards. “Call downstairs. Tell them I need security in the lobby,” he ordered. “And send a couple of officers up to Whitt Emory’s room. If he’s there, tell them to arrest him on suspicion of murder.”
He showed his identification, but he didn’t stop long enough to listen to them make those calls. All he could think of was that a million people were crowding into the streets around this hotel. And if Whitt Emory—if Hal Edwards, he amended—got out into that mob, they would never catch him.
JARED’S EYES EXAMINED the crowded lobby, but he couldn’t see anyone who looked like the man he was searching for. Of course, he couldn’t be sure Whitt had even come down here. Did Emory know he had given himself away? Jared wondered, as he began to push his way through the throng. Had he even done it on purpose? Like leaving the print. Was this some kind of end game strategy? A final twist to the knife he had had in McCord for weeks?
A couple of uniformed police officers rushed in through the glass front doors. They were obviously searching, too, their eyes moving, as Jared’s had been, over the crowd.
“You didn’t see him?” he asked them. “He didn’t come out the front door, did he?”
“To tell the truth,” the cop said, “he coulda got out before we got the message. We didn’t have a very good description, and there are a lot of people coming and going.”
He coulda got out... Out into that mob, a million str
ong, who had come to watch the ball drop on the new millennium. New millennium echoed bitterly in Jared’s head, as his gaze followed people trailing in and out the lobby doors.
“Bald, Caucasian, thick glasses, medium height. He had on jeans and a blue sweater. Don’t let him out of the hotel, whatever you do. He may have killed two people.”
The last words were thrown over Jared’s shoulder as he headed back across the lobby. He grabbed the first bellman he saw by the arm. “Service entrance,” he demanded. The guy looked blank. “NYPD,” Jared added, flipping open his ID again. “Back doors? A tradesmen’s entrance? Delivery ramp?”
The guy glanced at the badge, and then his eyes widened, lifted to Jared’s face. “The kitchens?” he asked.
“Something else,” Jared said. “Something more private.”
“Come on,” the bellman said, beginning to thread his way through the packed lobby, Jared right behind him.
And he would never have been able to find his way in the labyrinth of service halls the man took him through if he hadn’t had a guide. He wondered how he thought Whitt could have made it back here. Of course, Emory had lived in this hotel for over a week. Plenty of time for a little “recon,” Jared thought.
“That’s it,” the bellman said. “It” was a gray metal door at the far end of a long, deserted hallway. It was dimly lit, with no sign of life anywhere. No sign of Emory.
“Alarms?” Jared asked.
“We use the alley for smokes,” the bellman said. “No alarms are set except late at night.”
“Thanks,” Jared said, looking down the hall.
Dead end, damn it. But since he had come this far, he might as well check it out, Jared decided, as he ran down the hallway. If Whitt had made it out of the hotel, then the next step would be alerting the airports. Get out a bulletin. Check the passenger lists. Check Emory’s background, which had obviously been manufactured, to see what it could tell them.
He pushed open the heavy outside door, and cold air from the alley rushed in. It took a minute for Jared’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. He looked to the right. People were crossing under the lights of the intersecting street at the far end. And then he looked the other way. To his left.
