“Is that why you want me to testify? I promise you, Curt, I don’t know a damn thing. I’ve never met anyone from Darfur or even Sudan. Hell, I don’t even know what Janja-whatever means.”
“Janjaweed. Darfur isn’t an ethnic or religious conflict—it’s nomadic tribes versus sedentary. Janjaweed is a blanket term to describe the nomadic Arab gunmen who see no problem with killing entire villages so they can take their water and grazing land.”
“I know what war criminals do. Before I worked for JPAC, I worked in Bosnia for the International Commission for Missing Persons. I excavated mass graves—sites where entire villages had been lined up and shot in the name of ethnic cleansing. I recovered the remains of children and babies, some still locked in their mother’s arms. My uncle would never cut a deal with someone who would do that.”
“He did, Mara.”
“Well, if that’s why you want me to testify, you’ve wasted a trip to North Korea. I can’t help you.”
He shot her a frustrated look. “Don’t be insulting. I didn’t go to North Korea because I want you to testify.”
She had to admit, that was unfair of her. He’d been nothing but heroic.
“And if I thought you could testify about the arms deal, I’d have your uncle on charges a lot worse than obstruction of justice and influence peddling.”
“Then why am I testifying?”
“You’re a character witness.”
Incredulous, she snickered. “I’m a character witness? You mean I get to tell everyone that after my father, Uncle Andrew is the best, most wonderful man I’ve ever known? Well, hell, Curt, why didn’t you tell me that in the first place? I’m in.”
“No, Mara. You’re not going to tell everyone what a paragon he is. You’re going to tell the jury what he did for you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how Andrew Stevens used his power and influence to get you into Stanford and even snagged you a full scholarship you didn’t deserve.”
TWENTY-FOUR
EVAN’S FRUSTRATION BOILED OVER. “I’ve got a plan, Dad. Either way, she’ll come to us.”
“I’m sick of waiting. I think you’ve got a soft spot for the girl.”
Evan gritted his teeth. “Mara’s a job, Dad. I swear. I forgot to adjust the scope because the damn thing is too fucking complicated and I didn’t have much time. When I took the shot, her head was in the crosshairs.” So maybe he did feel a bite of pain when he pulled the trigger. That was his own business. He hadn’t been trying to fail. Lord knows he knew the consequences, and given the choice between his life and Mara’s, he’d choose himself every time.
“If Mara has a chance to breathe one fucking word about smallpox to the wrong person, we’re fucked. The plan was an anonymous attack at the Macy’s parade. But if there is any chance Mara knows what she saw in North Korea, al Qaeda won’t be blamed, we will.”
“She couldn’t possibly know,” he repeated for the hundredth time. “She saw a bomb but didn’t know what it was.” Even as he said the words, he rubbed the scars on his thigh. His father didn’t know it was a vaccine-resistant strain, didn’t know Evan had been sick, because Evan had quarantined himself during the contagious period and contained the damage.
Mara couldn’t know about the biological weapon, because if she’d gotten sick, there was no way North Korea would have let her go. But even so, she could pinpoint Roddy as the man who’d led her off-site. So Roddy had been taken care of. And Jeannie, with her second thoughts on selling out, she was a liability too. Then her brother had admitted to knowing about the bomb. Jeannie really should have kept her mouth shut.
“At this point, they’ll blame me as her crazy ex anyway. I’ll take her out, then start over, with a new name.”
“If you succeed, you’ll get a new name,” Robert Beck said. “If you fail, you’re on your own.”
***
ALARMED BY THE GREENISH TINGE to Mara’s features, Curt parked on the deep shoulder a safe distance from the quiet interstate. As soon as the car stopped, she flung open the door and tumbled out into the chilly, star-filled Oklahoma night.
He braced, almost expecting her to run. But they were a hundred miles from nowhere. Tension dissipated when, a few feet from the SUV, she stopped and hunched over with her hands on her knees.
He jumped out and circled the vehicle. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked. From the look of her, it was a stupid question.
She shot him a glare over her shoulder. “You’re wrong. Uncle Andrew didn’t—”
He took a step closer. “From your reaction, I’m guessing you didn’t know—but you must have suspected.”
“The admissions department took pity on me! My dad had just died—”
“He’d died two years before, and you fell apart. Your grades tanked. All that is understandable. But no. Stanford doesn’t grant admission or full scholarships based on sympathy.”
“There was an interview—I flew out and explained my grades and why I’d bombed the SAT exam.”
“I’m sure you were very convincing. But the interview was a formality—and a fraud. Your admission was decided when your uncle secured government funding for a university study and pushed through a higher education bill with two-million in earmarks for Stanford. Your four years as an undergrad and two years in the master’s program cost taxpayers over two million dollars. But it didn’t cost you a dime.”
“Before my dad died, I was a great student. And my last six months of high school, I got my shit together. I earned my spot at Stanford.”
He’d never felt like such a shit revealing corruption in his life. This truth hurt her in ways he hadn’t anticipated, but it was too late to turn back now. “No, Mara. I’m sure you would have earned it, if your dad hadn’t died, but the truth is, your efforts were too little, too late. Based on Stanford’s admissions criteria at the time, there is no way you should have been accepted, let alone received a free ride.” He paused. “It’s called influence peddling, and your uncle was very, very good at it.”
“Are you saying I’m in trouble? Am I facing charges?”
“No. Even if I wanted to—and I don’t—I couldn’t charge you. Or your uncle, for that matter. The crime ended when you finished grad school and stopped receiving the scholarship, which was over five years ago, so the statute of limitations has passed.”
She slid down the side of the SUV and rested her head against the lower door panel. “If he’s not being charged with this, what do you want from me?”
“You can show a pattern of corruption.”
“I didn’t know. And I don’t believe it.”
Why did he feel a stab of guilt at the pain in her voice? This was his job. It was what he did best. “You don’t have to believe it. You only have to answer questions truthfully.”
“Can I plead the fifth?”
“No.” He slid down beside her. Gravel bit into his butt, and he shivered in the chill air. “You’ve been subpoenaed, and thanks to the statute of limitations, I can’t use anything you say against you. Fifth amendment doesn’t apply.”
She swiped at her cheek. “I was a wreck when my dad died.” She turned to him. “He was killed in a commuter plane crash. I woke up one day, and he was just…gone.”
Curt put his arm around her, but she leaned away from him, rejecting the feeble comfort he offered. Her reaction stung. He dropped his arm and scooted sideways, a sharp rock added injury to the insult.
“I was depressed—in a dark, terrible place. When I finally got my shit together, it was because Uncle Andrew sat me down and gave me something to work toward. He said it wasn’t too late for me to get into a good school.” She swiped at another tear. “He believed in me. He believed I had it in me to pull out of the darkness, to take control of my life. He saved me.”
“You saved you. He just gave you a reason. Who suggested Stanford, you, or him?”
“California sounded so glamorous. And so wonderfully f
ar away from the mess I’d made of my life in Michigan.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her voice dropped. “Honestly, I’m not sure, but I think it was Uncle Andrew. My grades were awful. But I busted my ass—worked with tutors in math and science. The extra work couldn’t change my grades, but it ensured I was ready for the college-level coursework. I was told by the admissions board they’d reviewed work I’d done and had decided to make an exception for me.”
Curt sighed and swept aside the pebble that was digging into his tailbone. “You worked hard at Stanford. You earned your degrees, and no one can take that from you. But you didn’t get there on your own merit. Your uncle made it happen. And what he did was illegal.”
She took a deep breath but said nothing.
Curt knew her family couldn’t afford Stanford. Stevens hadn’t been a wealthy politician. He couldn’t have made a legal donation to secure her acceptance and he sure as hell couldn’t afford the steep tuition. Andrew Stevens didn’t come into money until later, after he left politics and joined Raptor.
He plucked the offending pebble from the ground and tossed it into the darkness beyond the roadside shoulder. “Deep down, you must have known.”
She picked up a pebble and weighed it in her hand before following his lead and hurling it into the darkness. “I was eighteen, self-absorbed, and recovering from a debilitating depression. No. I didn’t know.” She chucked another rock. “You’re supposed to be my white knight, but instead you’re telling me one of the things I’ve done that I’m proudest of is tainted.”
“Like your uncle, I’m not what you’ve made me out to be.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “Christ, is there a man in your life you haven’t idealized?”
She crossed her arms. “Evan comes to mind.”
“Before you found out what a scumbag he is, I bet you thought he hung the moon.”
She flinched and looked down.
Curt stood. “Look, I know you lost your dad when you were young, and that led to some … issues … but you can’t continue idolizing every man you meet. Most men are pricks. Present company included.”
She glanced up at him. Her eyes glistened in the moonlight. “I only idolize the ones who fly halfway around the world to save me from a firing squad.”
He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “I don’t deserve it.” He pulled her into his arms and sighed, hating what he had to tell her next. “You should know, the money in your account came from your uncle.”
Her beautiful eyes widened in shock. “Uncle Andrew deposited a half-million dollars in my bank account? Why would he do that?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“I haven’t seen or spoken with him in months.”
“Aurora thinks he paid you to get me disbarred.”
Her gaze hardened, and she stiffened in his arms. “Screw you,” she said, trying to wriggle from his grasp. “I was horrified when I learned my boyfriend had been paid to seduce me. I would never—”
“I didn’t say I agreed with her. But you should know, your account is frozen pending investigation. If nothing comes up, then there may not be any legal reason you can’t keep the money.”
“I wouldn’t keep it. I highly doubt Uncle Andrew has that much money to spare. His legal bills must be astronomical.”
He’d been wavering between sympathy and frustration, but the concern in her voice for her scumbag uncle pushed him over the tipping point. “I don’t get it. I don’t understand how you can cling to belief in your uncle in spite of all the evidence against him.” He backed her up against the SUV until they were nose to nose. “He’s chief of operations of Raptor, and Raptor operatives are trying to kill you. They killed Roddy, shot at you, and killed Eric Fuller. I’ve just explained to you how he used his power and influence to buy your way into Stanford. I’ve pointed out the payoff he got from Raptor and how he sold weapons to a war criminal. He’s been using you and JPAC for years for dirty deals. And yet you’re concerned Andrew Stevens can’t afford to plant money in your account—money that makes you look like an accomplice?”
She clamped her jaw shut and glared at him. “You haven’t proven a damn thing. You’ve made a lot of broad accusations, but where is the body of evidence? Where is the smoking gun? If you could prove the arms deal, he’d have been indicted for it.”
“You found a smallpox bomb and then Roddy kidnapped you in North Korea. Do you really think that was a coincidence?” His voice rose as his anger reached new levels.
“And how the hell does that have anything to do with my uncle? That’s Raptor, through and through.”
“Your uncle works for Raptor! He owns one-fifth of the company!”
“So? That’s not a controlling interest. Sounds to me like Robert Beck is your real problem. Did you decide to go after my uncle because he was more famous than Beck? Are you so ambitious you don’t care if the defendant is guilty so long as he’s a big name?”
Her words sent ice down his spine. That she, of all people, could believe such a thing cut him to the core.
“No, Mara. I went after your uncle and not Robert Beck because I can prove—beyond a shadow of a doubt—your uncle destroyed files that had been subpoenaed. I’ve got him on the cover-up, and he was stupid for not rolling on Robert Beck. Because Beck has been my primary target all along.”
***
MARA WRAPPED HER ARMS AROUND her middle and shivered. “Can we hit the road again?”
Curt nodded, then reached to straighten a tie he wasn’t wearing. “I’m going to miss tomorrow anyway. Let’s find a motel. Get some decent sleep.”
“But we need to get back. The smallpox bomb—”
“Lee’s finding out what he can, and getting five or six hours of sleep won’t make much difference but will make for safer driving tomorrow.”
Her bones, or maybe it was her soul, ached as she climbed into the passenger seat. The interior heat hit her chilled skin and enveloped her in a cocooning warmth.
She was in a daze, reeling from all that Curt had told her. Had her uncle really used legislative bribes to get Stanford to admit her?
Why hadn’t she ever wondered about the miraculous scholarship? She’d just accepted it as her due. Her due. She was a self-pitying, self-absorbed teen who thought no one had ever had to deal with a trauma as bad as hers.
She’d been embarrassed, even ashamed, over the years as she healed, grew, and came to her senses. But none of that felt nearly like the shame she felt now.
Had she taken a scholarship from a more needy student? Stolen a spot in her class from someone who’d worked harder and deserved it more?
Or was Curt wrong? Maybe her essay and interview really had been brilliant, had proven her drive and brains and garnered her not only acceptance and a scholarship but also a plum job in the library, where she could study during her shift and was rarely bothered by students.
Oh shit. Her Stanford-educated brain had to admit that when put that way, the math didn’t add up.
They reached an exit, and Curt left the interstate without comment. She pulled her knees to her chest as he passed two big-name motel chains to the center of the rural community. “I doubt they have by-the-hour motels here. We need a mom-and-pop place,” he said.
A few minutes later, he found a tiny, eight-room motel perched at the edge of the main road. The neon vacancy sign glowed like a beacon and looked like it dated to the 1950s—which had to be when the motel was built.
Together they approached the night window. He hit the buzzer. Was it less than twenty-four hours ago they’d done the same thing in Tucson? But then she’d been all over him. She’d wanted him, wanted to be his lover, even if only for an hour in a sleazy motel.
Now sex was the furthest thing from her mind.
Lights came on in the room beyond the window, and a boy—he couldn’t be more than twelve—appeared. He yawned and slid a piece of paper through a hole in the windowpane. “We’ve only got one
room left.” His eyes drifted from Curt to Mara. “A single. That okay?” The question was cursory—the boy went through the motions of his job with the sleepy movements of an often-repeated task.
“Fine,” Curt said. “Cash okay?”
The boy nodded. “Just fill out the card and give your license plate. Fifty for the night.”
Curt slid a fifty-dollar bill through the window, and the boy passed him the key on a brown, diamond-shaped plastic keychain, the kind she remembered from her childhood, with the number eight printed on it. “Eight is on the end. Checkout is at noon.”
“Thanks,” Curt said and took Mara’s hand, sliding his fingers between hers.
What was his game? When was Curt the prosecutor and when was he a man?
She didn’t really need to ask that question. With the exception of a few minutes in Tucson, he was always a prosecutor.
The brass number eight was attached to the door with a loose center screw. The number lay on its side, defeated, or maybe the room represented infinity. She hoped to see endless possibilities beyond the solid wood portal, but when the door swung inside on creaky hinges, all she found was a motel room.
Old but clean, with a table, two chairs, a nightstand, and a bed. The full-size mattress suddenly looked even smaller than the V-berth bunk they’d shared…how many days ago? Days and crossed time zones made no sense anymore. Now she tracked the passing of time in miles.
And revelations.
She dropped the plastic bag filled with clothes purchased somewhere in Texas on the table and flopped onto the bed.
“Sorry there’s only the one bed,” Curt said as he unbuttoned his shirt. “But I’m not sleeping on the floor.”
Mara was exhausted and emotionally wrung out, but the last thing she expected to feel was a hint of anticipation as he peeled off his shirt. Her toes curled as each button revealed another patch of firm muscle. It was criminal how sexy this man was and shameful how titillated she was under the circumstances.
He caught her gaze. His eyes darkened, nostrils flared, and his hands slowed.
The air thickened. She took a deep breath, forcing oxygen into her lungs. “I’m so tired, I don’t care,” she lied, then darted into the tiny bathroom and splashed cold water on her face.
Crimes of Passion Page 16
