(2012) Political Suicide

by Michael Palmer

  “Gary’s having it tough there, Cap. Apparently word is out that he’s a doctor, and the inmates want stuff from him. He’s afraid. Is there anything we can do for him?”

  “Let me check with the grapevine and see if anybody I know is doing time up there. The odds favor it. If there is, I can ride up there with you during visitors’ hours and speak with them—see if we can get your pal a little protection.”

  “You’re the best.”

  “Give me a couple of hours.”

  Cap headed up the flight of stairs to his office, perched on supports that suspended it out over the gym. In a minute, Lou could see him through the plate glass window, making calls.

  Lou did a little foot and glove work himself and was about to motion Emily back into the ring, when he saw Cap stand up from his desk, wave, and start back down the stairs.

  “That was way too easy, Doc. In the old days, it would have taken a bunch of calls and a few hours or more to pin down someone doing time in any specific tank in the tristate area. Now, it’s like two calls, and I’ve got a name. Seems like there’s more brothers in the joint than out. That’s sad, man, real sad. Rolando Booker’s in Baltimore City right now for B and E. He’s always been called Tiny. I suppose because he ain’t. He and I used to run together after I was forced out of the ring. He’s a good guy and a real artist with locks and safes of any sort. Great at plannin’, not so good at gettin’ away with it. Everything I know about B and E—and that used to be quite a bit—ol’ Tiny taught me. We can find out when the visitors’ hours are for their cell blocks and make a road trip.”

  “Thanks, pal. Gary’s not exactly everybody’s cup of tea, but he’s always meant a lot to me, and right now, he’s scared stiff.”

  “As soon as we have a time, we’re there. It’ll be good to reconnect with Tiny. He actually was a decent fighter at one time himself. Listen, I’ve got some pointers to give to Tommy, the kid with the red trunks shadowboxing to Emily’s right. He has some serious potential if he can just stay in school and out of trouble.”

  “He’s lucky to have you on his case.”

  Lou watched as his sponsor strode easily over to Emily, whispered something that made her grin, and sent her back to the ring. Then Cap turned to the boy and motioned for him to get his hands up. It was impossible to watch the man at work and not feel good. Lou knew that he had been orphaned at a young age, and made this way through some seriously hard times.

  You never know, Lou found himself thinking as he watched his kid dancing across the gym toward him on her fawn’s legs.

  “Hey, Pop, I’ve got the best idea ever,” Emily said, still holding her mouthguard.

  “Let me guess,” Lou said. “You want to be Cap’s partner in the Stick and Move.”

  “Close,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I’ve decided to move in with you.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Detective Christopher Bryzinski, of the Maryland State Police, hated funerals. With the exception of his wife, he had buried everybody who mattered to him, and this overwrought ceremony for a murdered congressman served only to bring those bitter memories to the surface. His father, Bart, a cop’s cop, was run down ten years ago on a Maryland highway, killed by a drunk driver on a gray and rainy day like this one. His mother, who, much like himself, was a revolving member of Weight Watchers, died soon after, not surprisingly from a heart attack.

  Bryzinski knew he needed to drop weight. He always needed to drop weight. His wife, Agnes, rode him about it mercilessly—that was when she wasn’t riding him about his cigars. But then, what would be the point of it all? If he gave up food, booze, and an occasional smoke, Agnes might as well stuff him inside a wooden box as well.

  Bryzinski shivered against the raw cold. He gazed absently at the guests who were shuffling across the depressing landscape of milk white gravestones, which reminded Bryzinski of soldiers on a perpetual death march. He had argued with the captain that sending him out here to take pictures with a lapel camera and record notes about the attendees was going to be as fruitless as trying to milk a bull, but the man must have been pissed off at him for something.

  Dr. Gary McHugh was their killer, and that was that.

  Only a fraction of the mob at the service in Bethesda had made the trip down to Arlington, but many of those who did were easily recognizable high-profilers. Jeannine Colston was trudging up the gentle slope, accompanied by her children and two or three others. She was a fine-looking woman, no doubt about that. Bryzinski tried to imagine how she was handling the damning stories about her affair with her husband’s killer. With nothing much else to do, he moved closer and snapped off a few shots.

  For a time, he wondered where Colston’s son was buried. Mike? Mark? Something like that. He was killed in Afghanistan and had won an important medal for his troubles. Father and son. Both marines, both dead.

  The final groups of mourners were headed from their cars toward the burial site. Bryzinski estimated two hundred or so would form the final gathering. Maybe a couple of unidentified or unexpected faces would show up. That’s what the captain was thinking. Still, no matter what, nothing would change the conclusion that Bryzinski and his crew of seasoned homicide detectives had reached. Gary McHugh, the society doc, one of the beautiful people in D.C., was the man.

  The wind kicked up in a sudden gust, spattering rain on beleaguered faces, and actually inverting some umbrellas. The priest, his white robes flapping like sodden sails, was settled beneath a canvas canopy, preparing to read from the Scriptures. Some people were openly weeping, but mostly what Bryzinski saw were people there to be seen. The military brass arrived in full peacock dress, while Secret Service agents stood at a conspicuous distance.

  The chilly rain, mixed with windblown sleet, had peppered his face long enough for Bryzinski to declare his assignment a job well done. He took a few backward steps, turned, and eased away from the crowd and back down the hill. He had made it halfway to his Pontiac, parked parallel to the line of black town cars, when a deep voice startled him from behind. Bryzinski whirled, and his eyes widened with recognition. Secretary of Defense Spencer Hogarth stood alone and unaccompanied beneath a broad, black umbrella.

  “Detective Bryzinski?”

  Bryzinski’s throat tightened. His exposure to politics never ventured past the Maryland governor’s office, and he found himself speechless in the presence of the square-jawed, silver-haired, leathery-skinned admiral, whom many pundits thought to be a potential nominee for the presidency, or at least the vice presidency. A champion of traditional American values, and an all-American running back at the Naval Academy, Hogarth had become a fixture in all the news magazines.

  “That’s me,” Bryzinski said, stunned more than flattered that Hogarth would know his name.

  “Got a moment to talk?”

  “Sure. How do you know me?” Bryzinski wiped his face with the back of his hand.

  “Let’s just say that when I have an interest in someone, I do my homework,” Hogarth said.

  “And you have an interest in me?”

  “A sound conclusion. Detective Bryzinski—may I call you Chris?”

  “Sure.”

  “Chris, I could use your help.”

  Bryzinski sensed the secretary wasn’t a threat, and began to relax. “My help with what?” he asked.

  “You are the lead investigator on the Elias Colston murder case, are you not?”

  “I am,” Bryzinski said, finding his mental footing now. Maybe this day wouldn’t be a total loss after all. “Do you have information about the congressman’s murder you want to share, Mr. Secretary?”

  “No,” Hogarth said, grinning. “Flip it around.”

  Bryzinski appraised the man curiously. Even in the gloom of the day, he felt riveted to Hogarth’s eyes, almost an iridescent blue—the eyes of power. “You mean if I have information about Colston’s murder, you want me to share it?”

  Hogarth’s smile was engaging. “No wonder your reputation as a fine det
ective precedes you,” he said.

  Over his career, Bryzinski had not been above accepting the occasional inducement for one favor or another. Every cop did it. He sensed an offer coming from the secretary of defense that he would not refuse. First, though, the obligatory feeling out on both sides.

  “And exactly how will my sharing this information help in my investigation?”

  “I have a strong interest in tracking the developments in this case,” Hogarth replied. “You keep me informed, and I see to it you know how grateful I am.” Again, that smile.

  “I’m sorry, Secretary Hogarth,” Bryzinski said. “With all due respect, sir, I realize you’re a very important man, but if I understand you right, that’s not how we go about our business at the Maryland State Police. I hope you understand.”

  “Let me walk you to your car,” Hogarth said.

  Bryzinski saw a pair of bodyguards lingering among the row of limos and executive sedans, watching the two of them but staying well out of earshot. “Maybe you should get to the point, sir.”

  “The point is, I’m not asking.” Hogarth placed his arm around Bryzinski’s broad shoulders, as though the two were duck-hunting buddies headed for a blind. Walking with slow, purposeful steps, he led the stunned detective toward the curbside row of parked cars. The rain played rhythmically on Hogarth’s wide umbrella.

  “Pardon?” Bryzinski finally managed.

  “Here’s the thing, Chris,” Hogarth went on. “Let’s make it short and sweet. Jamie Lambert. I assume that name means something to you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Please, don’t play games with me. Twelve years ago, you shot and killed Lambert during a shakedown you and your partner were running. You planted a gun and some drugs on the kid—seventeen, I believe he was—and ended up getting off.”

  “I’m not going to admit to that. What, are you wearing a wire?”

  “Not my style, Chris. Lambert’s killing is not all I’ve learned about you. I know about your wife, Agnes. Thirty years next June, yes? I know you don’t have any children. I know you don’t have much money because you have the tendency to gamble too much—even tried Gamblers Anonymous, if my information is correct. I know your parents are both dead and that you’re a reasonably well respected police officer. What I don’t know is if you’re a smart man, too—smart enough to know I wouldn’t approach you like this if I didn’t already have proof. Now, do we do business, or not?”

  Bryzsinki’s stomach lurched. At that instant, his foot sank above his shoe in a nearly frozen puddle. “And what would make me smart?”

  “The people who do what I ask, Chris,” Hogarth said, walking even slower now, “often find themselves with promotions or certain other—how should I say it—rewards.”

  “And what is it you want in this case?”

  “What I want is to know anything and everything pertaining to the murder investigation of Elias Colston. I want you to personally feed me all the information you get—every tip, every lead, every name. I want everything you come across, not just what you think is important. I want you to let me be the judge of that.”

  Bryzinski’s breath left him momentarily. He could barely feel the icy water that had filled his shoe and soaked his sock. The man was incredible. In just a couple of minutes, Hogarth had snatched his life away, and now was in the process of giving it back, with bonuses. Incredible.

  “And if I don’t do this,” Bryzinski said, “then would that make me not smart?” Blood was thundering like river rapids in his ears.

  “If you’re not smart, Chris, then the Lambert murder will be just one of the things the world learns about you, starting with the detective’s exam you didn’t take yourself.”

  Bryzinski could only stare at the man. It had been years since the exam, and he was sure now that no one would ever find out. Shaughnessy had sworn that he had the switch to take the test for another man down to a science. Goddamn mick bastard! Now, his job, his pension—hell, maybe even the loss of Agnes. Everything was on the line for him.

  Bryzinski scanned the slate gray sky, letting the chilling rain bathe his face. Spencer Hogarth was in a league unlike anyone he had ever encountered. It wasn’t even worth asking how he had connected with so much information so fast.

  After a minute, Bryzinski turned back to him. “I think you’ll find that I’m a very smart man,” he said.

  Hogarth’s smile this time was broader and more genuine. “I’m sure that I will, Chris,” he said, releasing his arm from around Bryzinski’s shoulder. “I’m sure that I will.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Renee Welcome and Steve Gilbride shared a four-bedroom colonial in Arlington, Virginia. The upscale suburb, across the Potomac from Washington, owed its high real estate values to location and the child-oriented culture. Despite the highly regarded public schools, Renee chose to send Emily to the prestigious Carlisle School, where she, herself, had gone.

  Steve’s two kids, David and Alyssa, whom Emily tolerated with no great joy, stayed at the brick house on Fifth Street every other weekend and Wednesdays. In an attempt to get to know one another better, Renee had successfully pleaded with Emily to make the weekends with her father coincide with those when the Gilbrides, fourteen and twelve, were with their mother. The deal Renee caved in to was that in exchange, alternate Thursdays would be added to Emily’s time in D.C.

  Just the typical modern American nuclear family, Emily liked to tell her friends.

  “Are there really such things as professional woman boxers?” she asked now, as Lou swung onto the Roosevelt Bridge over the Potomac.

  “Muhammad Ali’s daughter fought professionally, and there was a great movie about women boxers starring and directed by Clint Eastwood.”

  “Who?”

  “Clint … it doesn’t matter. If you decide you want to box for a living, then go for it. But I’ll tell you, unless you work your little bum off, you’re going to get pounded into the canvas. Those women are tough and athletic.”

  “Well, I’m already athletic and I can learn to be tough. I think I should move into your place so I can train with you and Cap. I promise I’ll do my homework every night.”

  Lou gulped. Why did he ever think he could stay even half a step ahead of his daughter?

  “Now, don’t get me wrong, kiddo, I love having you at my place, and I’ve been able to adjust my schedule at the hospital and the PWO to get you to school in the morning, but—”

  “We should discuss it as a family. Isn’t that what you and Mom are always saying?”

  Oh, but the kid is good, Lou was thinking, feeling a fleeting pang for the significant other floating somewhere out there in the cosmos of her future.

  By tradition, Lou always accompanied Emily into the house for the drop-off. Before her marriage to Steve, Renee, whose family counseling practice was full to overflowing, often used the time after Emily had raced up to her room to discuss her personal life and problems with Lou. Perhaps it was the strength of his recovery program, but it was as if the man she had loved and wed and slept with and divorced had become her confidant and best friend forever.

  The problem was, as Emily not only suspected, but knew, Lou had loved his wife when she divorced him, and continued to have strong feelings for her.

  This particular Sunday, Steve was at his office in the city, routine for those weekends when his kids weren’t staying in Arlington. Renee, usually upbeat under any circumstance, seemed frazzled. Her wavy chestnut hair, which fell past her shoulders when it was unpinned, looked uncharacteristically unkempt.

  Emily remained puttering downstairs rather than making her customary beeline for the solitude of her room.

  “Hey, there … the place looks nice, Renee,” Lou said, hoping to clear whatever was souring the air by acknowledging her holiday decorations. Renee, seated at the round kitchen table, which was littered with bills, clattered her reading glasses down, picked up a bill from the stack, and fixed Emily with a hard stare.

 
“Mom, I have the best idea ever!” the teen gushed as she squeezed past Lou to get inside the kitchen.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Renee said, holding up an envelope Lou recognized as a Verizon bill.

  “Meaning of what?” Emily asked, sidestepping her mother’s disapproving gaze to retrieve a yogurt from the refrigerator.

  Renee got to her feet. “There are three hundred dollars in text message charges here, young lady. Three hundred and twelve, to be exact.”

  Emily appeared confused. “What? That’s crazy!”

  “Crazy, huh? Well, then, tell me whose number is this?”

  Renee crossed the room, bill in hand. Emily, who in the time it took her mother to reach her wolfed down several spoonfuls of yogurt, examined the bill, took another bite of yogurt, and said through a mouthful, “That’s Katie. Isn’t she in our Friends and Family network?”

  Katie Willard was one of Emily’s closest friends from school.

  “No, Katie is not on our Friends and Family network,” said Renee.

  Emily looked offended. “Well, Steve was supposed to add her.”

  “Don’t bring Steve into this!”

  “Why?” Emily said. “I asked him to do it.”

  Lou moved to intervene, then pulled back. The core containment had not nearly been breached.

  “And what on earth could you possibly be texting so much about?” Renee asked.

  “Stuff. I dunno, Mom. It’s just how we communicate.”

  “Well, you’ll need to come up with another way of communicating that doesn’t cost three hundred dollars a month.”

  “Then, duh, just add her to our Friends and Family network.”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” Renee said. “You are thirteen years old, and you will show me some respect.”

  The core was beginning to shed radiation.

  Emily turned to Lou. “Do you see? Do you see why I’ve got to get out of here?”

  “What’s she talking about?” Renee said, now directing her ire at Lou.