The Castle: A Ripped-From-The-Headlines Thriller

by Jason Pinter

  “ADR?”

  “Average daily rate. It’s the average price paid for each room at a given property. Now, normally, when a resort is failing, like the Griggs Scottsdale property, the ADR goes down. You lower the prices to try to attract more customers. But the Scottsdale resort, despite losing buckets of money, actually raised their prices.”

  “Almost like they knew somebody would book at those higher prices,” Remy said, “even though they hadn’t been previously.”

  O’Brien nodded. “Exactly. Paul couldn’t explain it. But he knew it wasn’t on the up and up. And because the Griggs Organization is privately held, they don’t need to let anyone know where the money is coming from. Paul had an idea, though.”

  “Which was?”

  “Last winter, the prime minster of some country with a funny name stayed at the Griggs hotel in Washington, D.C. Keergee something.”

  “Kyrgyzstan.”

  “That’s it. Anyway, the Griggs D.C. hotel had lost eighty million in seven years. The prime minister stayed for four days. But the hotel operated at one hundred percent capacity for the two weeks before and the two weeks after the prime minister’s visit.”

  “Let me guess: all paid for by the Kyrgyzstan government.”

  “You take that. The Scottsdale property. And all the Griggs properties domestically, if not internationally. How many hundreds of millions of dollars were getting pumped into Rawson Griggs’s bank account by foreign governments?”

  “Did he have any documentation of this?” Remy said.

  “I don’t know,” O’Brien replied. “But Paul started to get scared. He stopped calling, stopped texting. He sent me letters in the mail. I mean, who sends actual letters anymore? Funny enough, Paul figured the one way Rawson couldn’t track him was by using the good ol’ USPS. So when I heard that those thugs who attacked Paul were from Kyrgyzstan, I knew he wasn’t paranoid. Somebody really was out to get him.”

  “Rawson banned Paul from his campaign meetings,” Remy said. “He knew something was wrong.”

  “And that’s why, if I had to bet my life on it, Rawson Griggs had something to do with Paul’s death.”

  “Did Paul ever mention someone by the name of Doug Rimbaud?” Remy asked.

  “No. Should I know that name?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Remy heard footsteps approaching, and O’Brien’s wife joined them. He recognized her from the cemetery. She was plain yet attractive, with shoulder length red hair tied back in a ponytail. She was also sporting a very noticeable baby bump.

  “Hey, hon,” O’Brien said. “Chrissie, this is Jeremy Stanton. He was at Paul’s funeral today. This is my wife, Christine.”

  Remy stood up and extended his hand. Christine shook it.

  “You’re the guy who was on the news a while back,” she said.

  Remy nodded. “I’m so sorry about Paul. I understand you three were close.”

  Christine shook her head and started to tear up. “You don’t think people you grew up with could be gone so young,” she said. Christine looked at her husband, skeptical. “Is he…with Rawson?”

  “I am,” Remy said, “but I’m here on my own. Mr. Griggs doesn’t know.”

  “Jeremy is here about Paul,” O’Brien said. “He’s okay. Babe, let me ask you a question. Was Paul the kind of guy who made things up? You know, exaggerated?”

  Christine laughed. “I think Paul was the most even-tempered guy I ever met. I remember when we saw the first Lord of the Rings movie in theaters. Oh god, Paul was dating that girl, what was her name…Louisa. You know, the one who always chewed gum loudly. Anyway, when we left the theater, Paul said it was the best movie he’d ever seen. I remember you asked him why, and he said, ‘I dunno. It was pretty good.’ That kind of sums Paul up. He would describe the best thing ever as ‘pretty good,’ like you’d talk about hand towels.”

  O’Brien looked at Remy as though that anecdote proved his point.

  “Congratulations, by the way,” Remy said. “When are you due?”

  “April,” Christine said. She patted her stomach. “Can’t wait for this little guy to start kicking outside of me. I just hope his sister is ready to have some competition for all the attention in our family.”

  “Paul always wanted a family,” O’Brien said. “When they were dating, Paul always talked about wanting kids with Alena. But then as time went on, Paul hesitated. He said he was scared to raise a kid in that family. Photographers everywhere. No privacy. And their kids would never know whether they earned what they got, or whether it was just Alena’s name that opened doors for them. That’s not a normal childhood.”

  “Maybe he should have stayed with Louisa,” Christine said. “We could have done something about that gum habit. He would have been a terrific dad.”

  “I’m sorry you never got to see him have a family,” Remy said. “I wish I’d known him better. I regret that I didn’t.”

  “I just…don’t understand what drove him to this,” Christine said. “He was a happy guy. He could be a little introverted, a bit moody, but I can’t imagine him letting this happen. You just never know what’s really going on with some people.”

  O’Brien looked at Remy. Obviously his theory about Paul’s death and his hatred for Rawson Griggs were unknown to his wife.

  Remy stood up. He took out his wallet and removed his Griggs business card. “Do you have a pen?”

  “Oh, sure.” Christine took a pen from a drawer and handed it to Remy. Remy flipped the card over and wrote on the back. He handed it to Michael.

  “That’s my personal email. If you can think of anything else, that’s how to reach me. You have my word that none of this reaches Rawson.”

  O’Brien flicked the card between his thumb and finger like he was debating whether to tear it in half. Finally, he nodded and shoved it in his pocket. Then O’Brien took a card out of his wallet and handed it to Remy.

  “In case you need anything else. You seem straight. Thank you for caring.”

  Remy took the card. “One more thing,” Remy said.

  “Shoot.”

  “Paul’s text. The night he died. Can I see it?”

  “Sure,” O’Brien said. “It’s nonsense.”

  O’Brien opened his message app, scrolled down, then showed Remy.

  The night he died, Paul had texted “TK GZP” to O’Brien.

  “See? Nonsense.”

  “You’re probably right. But just in case.” Remy scribbled the letters down on the back of O’Brien’s business card.

  O’Brien walked Remy out.

  “Thanks for giving me the time,” Remy said. He looked at his watch. It was almost two thirty. “Looks like I went over my fifteen minutes.”

  “No sweat,” O’Brien said. “Appreciate you coming. Sorry we had to meet this way.”

  O’Brien held out his hand and Remy shook it.

  O’Brien closed the door. Remy stood in the driveway, his mind swimming. He called the taxi dispatch number and a cab picked him in ten minutes.

  When he arrived back at the Davenport, Remy went to the café and bought a pre-wrapped turkey club and a Dr. Pepper. He wasn’t hungry, but it was an alibi in case anyone asked where he’d been.

  Remy took the stairs. By the time he got to the sixth floor he was breathing heavily. Trevor would have laughed his ass off.

  The hallway was clear. Remy entered his room and wolfed down the food. No new calls. There were no more calls, texts, or emails. His trip had seemingly gone unnoticed. He took a long shower, unable to shake what Michael O’Brien had told him.

  Rimbaud had ulterior motives for making Remy doubt Rawson. Shaw was trailing. They needed to make up ground, and driving a wedge into a campaign was solid strategy. Seeds of distrust always grew.

  But O’Brien had no motive. And what he said corroborated Rimbaud’s story. Remy had no doubt that if Rawson discovered Paul was a Shaw informant, there would be hell to pay. But was he really capable of killing his daugh
ter’s husband?

  At four thirty, Remy changed into khakis and a button-down and walked to Rawson’s suite. Two security guards stood outside. One of them rapped on the door when he saw Remy. A moment later, the door opened from within. Murphy nodded at him, smiling thinly. Remy went inside.

  Rawson was seated in a high-backed antique leather chair with gold studs running down the arms. He was still wearing his suit from the funeral. Murphy was dressed casually, like Remy.

  The suite was enormous, with a full, ornate living area and a bedroom through a set of French doors. A large pot of coffee sat in the middle of a brass coffee table, along with a few plates of pastries and finger foods. Remy noticed immediately that the two coffee mugs were half empty, and the pastry plate had already been attacked.

  Rawson and Murphy had begun the meeting without him. That may have been why Murphy called: to start early. Which meant Remy’s absence had not gone unnoticed.

  “Jeremy, please sit,” Rawson said. He motioned to the couch. Remy took a seat next to Murphy. “How are you?”

  “I’m alright. Crashed for a bit and had some lunch. How’s Alena?”

  “She’ll be fine,” Rawson said. A strange thing to say, Remy thought, considering her husband had literally been put into the ground just a few hours ago. “She’s resting. She might join us for dinner later.”

  “Good.”

  Papers were strewn about the table. Remy picked up a pamphlet and reviewed it.

  It was the latest New York Times/Wall Street Journal poll, and it was worrisome. Rawson’s lead was down to just two points over Annabelle Shaw. And Richard Bertrand had broken thirty percent for the first time, on the news that he would commit to upholding the sale of firearms by private dealers and gut so-called entitlement programs to the tune of two billion dollars. Plus, several pro-Bertrand Super PACs had just committed to spend thirty million dollars in advertising over the next month across five swing states. Rawson had reason to be concerned.

  “This is…”

  “Shit,” Rawson said. “It’s shit.”

  “What are we going to do?” Remy said.

  “It’s already been done,” Rawson replied.

  Remy was confused.

  “What’s already been done?

  “We’ve taken care of Bertrand,” Murphy said.

  Remy’s eyes went wide. “How? Wait, not literally, I hope.”

  Murphy laughed. “They might wish that was the case tomorrow morning.”

  “What’s happening tomorrow morning?” Remy said.

  “We wouldn’t want to spoil the fun for you,” Murphy replied.

  Rawson held eye contact with Remy for what seemed like a split second too long, and then took a danish and ate it in one bite.

  They spent the next four hours going over Rawson’s upcoming schedule, media hits, talking points, and surrogate appearances. Rawson called Alena. She didn’t answer her phone, so they ordered room service.

  Rawson would hit five swing states in the next two weeks, with rallies lined up in Miami and Denver, as well as bellwether counties like Valencia County in New Mexico, Bexar County in Texas, and Araphoe County in Colorado. Rawson was dying to flip Macomb County in Michigan. Macomb was a swing county that had voted for Reagan in the ’80s, but since then voted consistently blue. Rawson wanted to see BEAST signs in every driveway and hats on every head.

  Finally, Rawson called it a night. They would depart Spokane the following morning. A car would them up at 7 a.m. to take them to the private airfield where Rawson’s 757 was being held.

  The three men shook hands, bleary-eyed and exhausted. Remy and Murphy left the suite.

  After Rawson’s door had closed, Remy turned to Murphy and said, “Hey, I thought the meeting was scheduled for five. Seems like you guys had been working a while.”

  “You know Rawson,” Murphy said. “The man doesn’t rest. You were asleep. We had stuff to do. Don’t take it personally.”

  Murphy clapped Remy on the shoulder. There was a wretched feeling in Remy’s gut that he’d been kept out of the loop. He wondered if this was how it started with Paul.

  Remy went back to his room, changed, and got into bed. He turned on the television to try to take his mind off of things. News about Bertrand’s polling surge blanketed cable news. Remy could picture Rawson in his suite punching holes in the wall.

  Finally, he managed to get to sleep.

  At 1:14 a.m., Remy was awakened by knock at the door. He shot out of bed, ran to the bathroom and splashed water on his face, then threw on a t-shirt. He knew Rawson was a night owl, but this was absurd.

  He looked out the peephole and immediately felt his heart start to thrum in his chest.

  It was Alena.

  Remy opened the door.

  “Alena, are you alright?”

  She shook her head. She was wearing white cotton slippers and black sweatpants. Her hair was tied up in a messy ponytail. A loose, light blue t-shirt draped off her shoulders, exposing her collarbone. She’d lost weight. She looked so small, like she’d folded into herself.

  “Can I come in?” she said.

  “Of course,” Remy said. He stepped out of the way and she came in. Alena held her hands in front of her, like she was embarrassed about something. “Is everything okay?”

  “I just needed to talk. Being in an empty room after today makes me want to jump out a window. I can’t deal with that right now.”

  “Alena, I…”

  She went over to his bed and lay down on her side.

  “Sit with me,” she said. Remy sat down on the edge of the bed, his pulse quickening.

  “Is this my fault?” she said.

  “God, no,” he said. “Maybe things weren’t perfect. But you can’t blame yourself. You never wanted this.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she said. Alena looked up at Remy. “I met with a divorce attorney. Paul never knew. Neither did my father. A few months ago. I was so unhappy. And so was Paul. We were killing each other. But…I never went through with it. God, I just wanted us both to be happy, and I knew that could never happen as long as we were still together.”

  “Sometimes the most difficult decisions are the ones you know will hurt like hell, but are still the right decision.”

  “Maybe. That pain would have been okay. It would have gone away, eventually. But this pain…”

  “It will also go away. Eventually.”

  “God, I hope so,” Alena said.

  Remy looked at his hands. He couldn’t say anything about his suspicions. About O’Brien or Rimbaud or what they thought about her father.

  “Do you mind,” she said, “if I stay here? I know it sounds weird. But I just need to feel warm tonight.”

  Remy nodded. “Of course you can.”

  “Lie down. Here. Next to me.”

  He pulled the covers down and got into bed. Alena slid in next to him. She smelled like moisturizer. Her eyes and nose were red and raw. She moved closer to Remy. Her body was warm. She laid her head against his chest, draped her arm over him. He could feel her breath on his neck. She closed her eyes. He could feel her heart beating beneath the pale blue shirt.

  Alena was asleep within seconds. Remy watched her and felt an ache deep down that he hadn’t felt…maybe ever.

  Finally, he drifted off to sleep.

  And when his alarm went off at 6:00 a.m., Alena was gone.

  Rawson Griggs’s private airplane was a sight to behold. Affectionately known as Griggs Force One, it was a gleaming 179-foot beast, with custom Rolls Royce RB211 turbo engines that supported a cruising speed of over five hundred and twenty miles per hour. A standard Boeing 757 could seat over two hundred, but Rawson had his jet custom designed to accommodate only a small number of passengers, but provided them unparalleled air travel at the very height of luxury. In the main cabin there were forty plush white top-grain leather chairs, each with its own twenty-four-carat gold-plated seatbelt, along with hand-carved, polished wood tray tables and cushioned armrests
.

  The adjustable television monitors bracketed to each seat received over five hundred channels via satellite, including cable and premium channels, and the onboard Wi-Fi was better than Remy got in his own apartment. AV hookups allowed passengers to connect tablets or laptops to the television monitors, and each seat pocket came with a pair of white Beats headphones with a gold-plated connector.

  There were separate dining and sleeping quarters. A small conference room seated twelve around a large mahogany table. Past the main cabin were two fully appointed guest bedrooms, with wood paneling and mohair couches. The master bedroom had a queen-size bed draped with all-silk linens, as well as a full-size closet and a bathroom with a granite countertop, gold fixtures, and a glass-paneled shower. Each room had a touch screen AV system that controlled that particular room’s music, movies, and climate, as well as a made-to-order food and beverage menu delivered right to your door.

  Rawson had purchased it for one hundred and twenty-five million dollars in 1997 from a now-defunct British airline that had sold off its fleet during bankruptcy proceedings. Upgrades over the years had cost another fifty million dollars. After Rawson entered the presidential race, he had given the plane a full makeover, including a red, white, and blue exterior, with the name GRIGGS in massive gold lettering across the fuselage.

  A van picked the Griggs contingent up at the Davenport Towers at 6:30 a.m. Remy and Alena shared a knowing look, but nothing more. She was wearing jeans and a sweater, her face emotionless.

  The four of them rode in silence to the airport. Remy kept refreshing news feeds on his phone, awaiting the Richard Bertrand bombshell. He knew they’d kept him out of the loop. And that scared him.

  They boarded the jet inside a private hanger at Spokane International. Half a dozen armed guards escorted them inside, while several more took guard positions outside the hanger. As they boarded the plane, Remy saw Rawson check his phone, then hold it up triumphantly.

  “It’s live,” he said.