by James Mills
Carl saw him on the corner across the street from the Montgomery DEA office, just standing there, doing nothing. He did not look like a man who stands on street corners doing nothing.
Carl turned right, headed for the garage where he parked his car, and heard footsteps at his back. He stopped at the corner. The steps stopped. He crossed against the light. The steps followed. Outside the garage, Carl stopped, turned, and faced the man.
“Was there something you wanted to ask me?”
The man was young, early thirties, small, tanned, nice-looking. His dark gray suit jacket fit like another layer of skin. The laced shoes were black and shiny. His smile, filled with charm, matched his friendly eyes. Carl had never seen him before, but he knew him. An attorney, good school, ambitious, sharp, fun to be with until he started chewing on your liver.
“Excuse me for following you. I wanted to talk to you, but I wasn’t sure how to make the approach.”
That’ll be the day.
“Can I walk along with you for a minute?”
If this isn’t a setup that’s not his suit.
“It’s a request, really. Unofficial, very informal you might say. Just something for you to know.”
Carl remained silent.
“It’s about the thing a few years ago at the airport? When all that money was found? The amount of money the police said they counted was substantially less than what was really in the bags, and someone thought that maybe you would be willing to help clear up the question about why that was. My client—well, I don’t know how to say this. He’s very wealthy, and he wanted just to let you know that if you were ever willing to help clear up that question he would be very appreciative, and if—”
Carl took a step forward and planted his right foot solidly on top of the man’s left instep. As the man looked down in surprise, Carl placed his other foot on top of the other instep. Then, applying all his weight to the top of the feet, Carl put both hands on the man’s chest, and pushed. The man let out a sharp cry, flailed briefly at the air, and fell stiffly backward, his feet still flat on the pavement.
Carl heard a sound like the snapping of dry Popsicle sticks. Crack! Crack!
He left the man in the street, recovered his car from the garage, and met Esther and the kids at McDonald’s for lunch. He was starving.
“What happened?” Esther said. “You look really pleased.”
“Someone had a difficult question, and I was able to give him an answer.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah.”
No one was sure who had designed it—Helen or a predecessor—but everyone liked the Freedom Federation’s conference room. It was ostentatious, flamboyant, cocky, deliberately pompous. It mocked itself, mocked Washington, and mocked the people who met there. The walls were white, the carpet was white, the ceiling was white, the table was white, the chairs were white, the telephones were white, the pads of paper were white, the pencils were white—even Helen, when she hosted Freedom Federation meetings there, tried to wear white. Warren Gier once showed up in a white suit and white shoes. He said the room was like an albino cat. “A Siberian tiger, I think, invisible against the snow, eyes of burning phosphorus, ferocious. The perfect background for spilled blood.” Helen said Warren was probably the only one who really appreciated the self-ridiculing irony of all that white. Some other Federation operatives, lacking Warren’s flair, would have preferred the color of mud.
She said, “Okay. Everyone here?”
Around the oval table: herself, four other women, War ren Gier, John Harrington, and Isaac Jasper, a political consultant on loan from a lobbying group called the Institute for Social Justice.
“John, we’ll start with you. I know you’re busy. Thanks for coming.”
Men with John Harrington’s fee structure didn’t usually attend the Federation’s daily anti-Parham strategy sessions.
“Good to be here.” He slipped several sheets of paper from his attaché case, handed them around. “Let’s start with a look at this.”
Warren read his copy, a smile widening across his face. “Love it.”
Harrington said, “It’s an affidavit from someone who says Parham stole some of the cash seized at the Montgomery Airport eight years back. Question is, what do we do with it? I asked Helen, and she suggested we discuss it here.”
Becky Yankevich, a lanky young woman with glasses and short black hair who was director of the American Policy Coalition, said, “Is this true?”
Warren turned his smile on Becky. “What difference does that make?”
Harrington finally offered to deal with the matter personally, and everyone agreed. That had been his intention in the first place. The broken ankles had destroyed his resolve. It was not healthy to make insulting suggestions to men like Carl Falco. If Vicaro wanted to bring accusations of thievery and corruption against Falco, he could get out of prison and do it himself.
Helen said, “Isaac, you look particularly chirpy this morning. Anything to add?”
That was a joke. Isaac Jasper never looked chirpy. From rumpled hair down to sagging socks, Isaac always looked as if he’d slept on someone’s floor. Paula Yost called him the Unabomber, and indeed that disheveled killer and Isaac had been classmates at Harvard.
He looked up, his solemn face contorting for a moment into a grin. He had a Yasser Arafat beard—you never knew if he liked it scraggly or just couldn’t be bothered to shave. “I’m a little troubled.”
Isaac was a specialist in political trauma. If your campaign suffered a sudden attack, blood gushing from arteries, you called Isaac, a genius at resuscitation. Idle at the moment, he was on hold with the Parham opposition, helping out until some client dialed 911.
Helen said, “Yes?”
“I don’t like the girl.”
“What girl is that?”
Isaac glanced at Harrington. “I thought everyone knew.”
Harrington lifted his hands and sat back.
“They do now, Isaac.”
Isaac, not particularly caring if he had exposed one of Harrington’s secrets—Harrington had too many secrets anyway—said, “Parham evidently has a daughter no one knows about. He thought she’d been aborted.”
Helen said, “What are you thinking, Isaac?”
Isaac dragged a dirty handkerchief from his pants pocket, wiped his nose, stuck the handkerchief back. “This girl has a very bad smell. I don’t mean—”
“We understand, Isaac, you’re not commenting on her grooming habits.”
“I know it looks good. Parham tried to have her aborted. That has to hurt him any way they play it. But still, I hear she’s, what …” He looked at Harrington. “Thirteen?”
Harrington nodded. “And pretty.”
Isaac said, “There’s a lot of power there. You could find things getting out of hand, situations developing where conventional tactics don’t meet your needs. It could be volatile, unpredictable.”
Warren said, “Politics is always unpredictable.”
“Not when you do it right.”
Helen said, “What do you think, John?”
“If she were ours, and we could control how she’s used, I wouldn’t be worried. But she’s not. We can use her, the fact that she exists, the abortion thing, but she’s not ours. If they find her, I don’t know exactly what they’d do with her, but I can imagine a number of unpleasant scenarios.”
Gier said, “If they find her?”
“Well, they know she exists, so of course they’re looking for her.”
“So are we looking for her?”
Harrington looked at Helen.
“Are we?”
Helen was silent.
Gier said, “Yeah, are we?”
Helen said, “You volunteering, Warren?”
11
Warren Gier on his way to lunch. Just walking along. What a beautiful day. Bright sun, brisk breeze, spent the night with a Justice Department secretary who lost all control. Next time, hit her up for the
Parham files.
And now this—invited to lunch at Washington’s most expensive restaurant by one of the three most powerful attorneys in town. Been thinking all morning, working it out, how to use the lunch. This is not food and fellowship. What do I have that Harrington wants? What does Harrington have that I want? Think about it. Go way out. What could I have when this lunch is over that I don’t have now? Money … new contacts … what?
And what does Harrington want from me? Find the girl? Track a new lead on Parham? Helen said Harrington told her he had something on a DEA agent, Carl somebody, and the luggage-locker money. That sounded good, hot, great potential.
Nothing better than dusty, dirty long-buried secrets, things the buriers thought were safe. Only fools think safe. Nothing’s safe. Not from Warren Gier. Everyone has a secret, and the destiny of every secret is discovery.
Here’s the restaurant. Push open the door. Walk in.
Standing by the coat room, Carl watched the maître d’hôtel lead Warren Gier to a table. Hair longer than in the photograph, but no doubt about it, that was Warren Gier. Carl waited until Gier had picked up the menu, then walked purposefully to the table and sat down.
“How’s it going, Warren?”
It had taken Carl just thirty-six hours to find out everything he needed to know about Warren Gier. Phil Rothman had told Carl that Gier, the most active investigator within John Harrington’s reach, was the most likely to have found the video and documents. A ladies’ man, Gier had dated a Judiciary Committee secretary named Martha Petrucina. Carl’s toll analysis on Warren’s office and home phones showed a series of calls to the Milwaukee home of a private investigator named Roger Budrow. A Milwaukee police detective told Carl that Budrow had been a suspect in several burglaries. The adoption agency Michelle said she used was located in Milwaukee. A burglary at the agency had occurred just fifteen days before Harrington showed Gus the video. The burglary date was two days after Gier’s final call to Budrow’s phone. Gier’s Visa card record showed the pur chase of a Delta ticket from Washington to Milwaukee the day after the burglary. So Gier must have started out digging up one of Michelle’s old Montgomery girlfriends, who remembered that Michelle, pregnant, had gone to Milwaukee. Gier then went to Budrow, who found the adoption agency, and burglarized it.
Warren lowered the menu. “I’m sorry. This table’s taken.”
“Relax, Warren.”
Gier raised a hand, signaling toward the front of the restaurant, looking for the maître d’hôtel.
“Take it easy, Warren. John couldn’t come.”
Carl had had Rothman’s secretary call Gier’s office, saying John Harrington wanted to meet him for lunch.
Gier lowered his hand. “Where’s Harrington?”
Carl gave Gier his broad, charming undercover smile, the one that made traffickers think he was as crooked as they were.
“Couldn’t make it. Sent me instead.”
“Who are you?”
“A fortune-teller.”
“Leave this table or I’ll call the maître d’.”
“Don’t believe it? Martha Petrucina’s gonna sue you for sexual harassment. How’s that? Sound like your future?”
“I never met any—”
“Gonna happen, Warren. In the cards. Want more?”
“I never heard of—what’s this all about?”
“Conspiracy to commit burglary. State of Wisconsin. A sure thing.”
Gier’s hands began to tremble.
A waiter appeared.
“Will you gentlemen have an aperitif?”
“My friend here would like a drink. Needs a drink. What’ll you have, Warren?”
“A double Dewar’s, please.”
“Double Dewar’s for my friend. I’m fine.”
When the waiter had left, Gier said, “What do you want?”
“Good question. Very sensible. You’re a sharp operator, Warren. Martha said you were sharp, liked you a lot, right up until the moment you grabbed her—”
“What do you want, Mr.—who the hell are you?”
“I want the girl and the adoptive parents. Names, addresses.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Warren, Warren, Warren. I talked to Roger Budrow. He had so much he wanted to tell me. Says the burglary was all your idea. That right, Warren?”
Warren glanced to his left and right.
After a minute he said, “If I tell you what you want to know, what happens?”
“My crystal ball breaks. Martha forgets, Roger forgets, I forget. Life goes on.”
He loved bullying guys like Warren Gier.
“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“You don’t.”
Carl grinned. Esther said he had the nastiest grin this side of Jack Nicholson.
Gier unbuttoned his jacket, took a deep breath, exhaled.
“The girl’s name is Samantha.” What did he have to lose? He’d been told to get dirt on Michelle, and he’d done it. No way could Carl, or anyone else, undo that. “The adoptive mother’s name is Doreen Young. Husband’s Larry. I only met the mother. She said she divorced Larry four years ago, got custody of the girl, but he took off, took the girl with him. Doesn’t know where they are. That’s it.”
“Why’d she tell you this?”
He shrugged. What woman wouldn’t tell things to Warren Gier?
“Your natural charm and boyish good looks was all it took?”
“Doreen Young is a woman with her eye out for what she can get.”
So he’d had to pay her.
“Where’s Doreen live?”
“Milwaukee.”
“The video?”
“Larry sent it to her two years ago, presumably to prove the girl was safe and happy. She’d been searching for him, hired a detective. She thinks he thought if she thought the girl was okay she’d stop looking.”
“That’s very good, Warren. I appreciate your help. So here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to, go get all the documents Roger stole and gave to you and you’re going to bring them to me right here. Now.”
“You’re crazy. I can’t do that. They’re—”
“Warren, are you listening? I don’t care where they are. I have enough faith in you to know you have them within your reach. So get them. And make sure all the names, addresses, phone numbers are still there. And bring the original video the wife gave you, not a copy. If you’re not back in time to pay the check I’ll have to send it to Martha’s lawyer. Or the Wisconsin state prosecutor’s office. Now run along. I’m a fast eater.”
Carl reached for the menu and signaled the waiter.
“But there’s not time to—”
Carl ignored him.
The waiter appeared.
Carl said, “How’s the lobster thermidor? Good today?”
“For two, sir?”
“Just one. My friend’s not eating. See you later, Warren.”
Carl circled the block twice. Second time around, he stopped at the corner and wrote down the plate number of the Jeep Cherokee parked in front of the house.
He went to a pay phone, called the local DEA office, and asked them to run the plate number. Ten minutes later they called back. The Cherokee was registered to a twenty-three-year-old Caucasian male named Danny Sullivan. They’d checked him with the Wisconsin State Crime Information Center, whose computer said he’d done a three-to-five for assaulting the manager of a homosexual nightclub and was presently wanted on a warrant for manslaughter. The Cherokee’s VIN number identified the previous owner as a California gun store specializing in automatic assault rifles. Carl asked the DEA dispatcher to give the Milwaukee PD the location of the Cherokee.
He left his rented Ford where it was and walked back to the house. The sky was overcast, looking like rain. Things were more complicated now. From what Warren had told him, from the presence of the Cherokee in front of the house, and from a feeling of deep unease in the pit of his stomach, C
arl was sure this was no longer a simple matter of locating Samantha’s adoptive parents so they could be asked how they felt about identifying Samantha as Gus Parham’s biological daughter. It was going to be much more involved than that.
Carl wondered if maybe Gus was wrong to want this job so bad, go through all the crap people were willing to put him through. When they got to Washington Carl had put that question to Gus, and Gus had told him, “As soon as I accepted the nomination, the Supreme Court went from a dream to a possibility. It became something I knew I was put on earth to do. No one’s going to make me withdraw. If the Senate fails to confirm me, that’s that. But no one will make me withdraw.”
Gus was a great lawyer, a great judge, and a great friend, but he’d never been in the street, never had his nose in the dirt. Carl thought he was like a meteorologist who’d studied all there was to study about storms, but dealt with them from the safety of his office, never experienced their violence and destruction or the hardship of those caught up in them. He was good at dealing with life, but what if life took him someplace he’d never been before?
Carl walked up the front steps to a wooden porch and pressed the bell.
The door opened on a chain. He caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. A slender face, angry and dreary, with a pile of blonde hair on top. “Yes?”
“Are you Doreen Young?”
Her dark eyes looked him over, neutral, ready to go either way.
“Yes.”
“My name’s Ed Parker. I’m a friend of Warren Gier. Can I come in?”
Warren had paid her. She’d be looking for more.
“Oh, sure. Hang on a second.”
The door closed. He was going to tell her as little as possible, just enough to get her talking. If she knew he’d seen the video, that he was looking for Samantha, she could use it. She’d already spoken to Gier. Information was power.
Five minutes later, when the door reopened, the anger and dreariness were gone. Doreen Young was wearing makeup, a pink blouse, black slacks, and a not-now-but-maybe-later smile that had just the right mix of charm and suspicion.
