by HN Wake
“Amanda, to get the job you want, you have act like you already have it.”
“Yeah. Ok.”
“We’re keeping an eye on you. We’re proud of you. You’ll be fine.”
New York, NY
Cal stared at an Upper East Side, four-story Georgian townhouse set against a dark sky. He was debating how to smooth-talk Laura Franklin’s butler or maid when his phone rang.
A very smooth, deep voice said, “Agent Bertrand, I believe you’ve been trying to contact Ms. Laura Franklin. I’m Larry Klein, Ms. Franklin’s attorney. Can I help you?”
A garage door opened down the block throwing light onto the street. The nose of a Bentley emerged.
Cal spoke calmly. “Yes. Thank you for calling. I’m leading an investigation that I believe Ms. Franklin may have some information about.” The Bentley, with a white hatted chauffeur, slipped past him. “Purely informational.”
Larry Klein was direct. “Well, that’s quite interesting. Because just moments ago I was speaking with Director Wilson —“ Cal’s mouth dropped open. “And he informed me quite emphatically that you were, and I quote here, ‘in Arlington on a close-out.’ He informed me that you were indeed not running an investigation. At all.”
Cal swallowed and responded with as much confidence as he could gather. “I see.”
“In fact, he asked me to tell you that you should, how did he put it? Ah, yes, you should call in. But he added some quite colorful words.”
“I see. Well, thank you Mr. Klein. Message received loud and clear.”
“Yes, I hope so, Agent. Have a good night.”
Cal contemplated the abrupt dead-end to this line of inquiry. He had hoped to tease out more clues to Maar’s identity from her high school friends but they had proven quite adept at thwarting him. They were good. Almost as if they had been briefed.
He turned from the Georgian and was walking back toward the intersection when his phone rang a second time.
In his ear, Wilson spoke very deliberately. “Agent Bertrand, ask yourself what you’re going to do when you’re not working with the Bureau anymore. Ask yourself who you’ll be when you’re not an ATF agent. Now ask yourself, is it worth it? Whatever hard-on you have for Maar, whatever witch-hunt you’re on - ask yourself - is it worth it? This is the last time I call you off this. End this now. Tonight. Not tomorrow. Tonight.” The line went dead.
Time was running out. But he was within striking distance of uncovering Maar. Despite himself, he thought of Soduku.
When the lines present no more options, turn your attention to the squares.
Manayunk, PA
This time she had worn jeans, a white t-shirt, and a baseball hat. Her hair was clean, pulled back in a ponytail. This time she had made it out of the loft and was sitting on a bench along Pretzel Park, reading a newspaper under a street lamp.
In the distance to the right, she saw him coming through the park. He was walking gently, absently. The mutt was far out in front, the leash fully extended.
She held the paper close to her face, watched him approach from around its side. She tilted her chin down, sloping the bill of the baseball hat down also, across her face.
The mutt ignored her as he passed.
The leash was taut as it passed.
She held her breath.
She raised the newspaper higher.
Then Joe was there, in front of her, walking past her, unaware.
He passed.
She exhaled.
She watched him recede around the park.
A bird chirped overhead. It sounded like a megaphone.
She lowered the newspaper, leaned down on her knees, and breathed deeply. The spinning in her head increased. She lowered her head further between her knees, started counting backwards 10, 9, 8…
The pressure against her scalp began to fade.
A breeze tickled the grass by her feet.
The leaves on the weeping willow rustled behind her.
It was 11 p.m. when Freda sent her a text. “It’s on CNN.”
Mac pulled up CNN on her laptop. Across the bottom of the screen the ticker tape read, “ ** BREAKING NEWS ** ”
The newscaster was almost breathless with false excitement. “In breaking news, we’ve just learned that Senator Jack McCaster, Chairman of the US Select Committee on Ethics, is looking into allegations that Senator Blake Scott, Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, orchestrated a cover up of national security intelligence. It appears Senator Scott may have prevented an official investigation into how a US-manufactured assault rifle killed a US diplomat in Afghanistan. No official investigation into the incident was ever initiated. A State Department source confirmed, ‘anytime questions arose about the incident, Senator Scott squashed further inquiry.’
“If Senator Scott acted intentionally on behalf of the manufacturer of the gun, this would be a clear violation of Senate ethics guiding outside influence on official actions. One Senator commented, ‘All I’ve heard is that he’s hired a very prominent lawyer versed in Congressional investigations. He’s in trouble and he knows it.’
“The timing is remarkable. Gun rights groups are concerned the normally confident Senator - one of the SFG’s highest ranked members - is shaken, just as the new assault weapons ban bill comes to Senate vote tomorrow.”
Mac’s phone pinged with another text from Freda. “This has got to be it! Over. Done. Cooked. Finished. Delivered. We’re running it bold headlines in the morning.”
Her phone pinged again, this time with a text from Penny. “OMG. This has to be it. Tmrw is going to be huge!!! Xxx”
Mac set down the phone and closed her laptop.
She grabbed a garbage bag and an outsized serving spoon from the kitchen and headed out into darkness. She paced down the block, scanning the grass, and stopped at the decomposing goose corpse.
She bent down, breathing through her mouth, positioned the bag around the carcass, and using the spoon, gently slid it into the bag. She didn’t know exactly why she was doing this, but it lightened her mood immediately.
Birds called softly from Pretzel Park as she headed toward Main Street, the black garbage bag held awkwardly ahead of her with straight arms.
She passed in and out of the light of street lamps, past the cafes, the restaurants, and Starbucks. No one noticed her.
She walked reverently along the canal. The package was only about 5 pounds - much lighter than she had anticipated - but her biceps were burning. Ducks swam lazily by the first underpass. Not a single person was on the towpath at this time of night.
The moon was bright and round. She imagined a face on the surface, peering sideways down at earth, a glum disappointment in his eyes.
It took her 30 minutes to reach the corroded bridge that spanned the pond; it cast a moon shadow across the murky canal. She stepped off the path and picked her way through the roots and brush down to the spongy bank. A surprised turtle splashed from a log into the still, dark water.
With the spoon, she slowly, diligently dug a hole about a foot round, then gently upturned the bag and slid the goose into the grave. Using the spoon, she shoveled the dirt back over the body.
With the bag and the spoon, she headed back toward Main St.
51
Washington, DC
At 8 a.m. the next morning, Cal barged through the front door of the SFG Lobby office and flashed his badge at the receptionist. “Neil Koen’s office.”
Startled, she pointed down a hall to the right. “But he’s not there --”
Cal charged down the hallway. “I know.”
The long, silent hallway ended at an empty executive office behind a glass wall partition. On this side of the glass was a young woman at an assistant’s desk. She glanced up.
He held out his badge and slowly set down the photo of Maar he received from Sheriff Soloman. The young woman’s eyes widened. She looked up to Cal, afraid.
His voice was calm, authoritative but gentle. “What’s. Her. Name?”
/> The young woman swallowed. “Dora Maar.”
“Do you have contacts for her?”
She shook her head.
“Did you ever speak to her on the phone?”
She glanced left and lied. “No.”
He looked into Neil Koen’s huge office. It looked like a men’s club. Cal took comfort in the fact that Koen didn’t even see it coming. “And the money? The $1 million your boss mentions on the video.”
She was confused.
He explained patiently. “How did you get the money?”
“A wire transfer.”
“Do you have the record?”
She turned to her computer, clicked through icons, pulled up a bank statement, and scrolled a finger down the screen. “Here. From a Wells Fargo, in New Orleans.”
“Give me the account number and the branch number.”
She wrote out a ten-digit number and a seven-digit number on a sticky note and handed it to him.
He turned, doubled back down the long, silent hallway.
Langley, VA
Odom stepped into Hawkinson’s office. “Last night he stood outside a house on the Upper East Side. Then he got a phone call which prompted him to return to DC via Amtrak. This morning he went to the SFG Lobby office.”
“How long was he in there?”
“About 10 minutes.”
“What’s your assessment?”
“He’s closing in on Mac.”
“Does she have help?”
“The ATF Agent believes she does. Otherwise he wouldn’t be pursuing these other avenues. It’s all he’s got.”
“What do we have?”
Odom shook his head. He was running out of answers.
Hawkinson’s eyes narrowed. “So the Intelligence Agency of the United States of America has no leads on a missing operative but an ATF agent is closing in on her in lightning speed.”
“That’s about right, Sir.”
Hawkinson’s sarcasm was thick. “Impressive. You may lose your job after all, Odom. Now go follow your ATF agent.”
Manayunk, PA
She held a perfectly pink, ripe grapefruit at the kitchen counter, her mouth watering. As she pressed down with the knife for the first cut, it slipped off the fruit and sliced through the skin of her finger.
She didn’t feel anything for a moment. Then the burn hit and the blood streamed out.
She reached for a dish towel, wrapping it tightly. The burn was turning to a throb. She leaned her forearms on the counter and closed her eyes. There was a tingle behind her eyelids. She squeezed them tight.
A moment later, she found her strength, stood, and wrapped two Band-aids tightly around the cut.
At the desk, she stepped up onto its green surface, sat cross legged and pulled up her binoculars.
He appeared as always in the corner of the park, the mutt pulling on his leash. She placed the wrapped finger up to her neck, took her heartbeat. It was strong and steady.
She followed him all the way around the park. Her hand was steady.
Next to her, the NYC burner phone pinged.
Penny texts. “Today is the day!! Women rule the world and all that shit!!”
Mac grinned to herself and typed back. “And all that shit.”
New York, NY
Stacia was bleary eyed at her desk. She and Charlotte had spent hours last night perfecting the tactics for the impending confrontation. She sipped her coffee gently, the acid on her tongue making her stomach flip. She reread the Op Ed on the back page of the front section.
A Shattered Mystique: New Hits on the SFG
THE EDITORIAL BOARD
New York News
What happens when an opaque, zealous nonprofit, a top industry manufacturer and crooked politicians join forces to prevent regulation in one, specific industry? Unfettered bad behavior. What happens when their behavior is uncovered? It tears apart the social contract the nonprofit has with its members. It reveals that the wizard behind the curtain is simply a mean-spirited, money-chasing lobbyist.
The gun rights side appears to be toppling under the weight of four scandals involving the bad behavior of a Senator, a Congressman, a CEO, a Chief Strategist, and a gun manufacturer.
The first involves gun running.
The second involves embezzlement and fraud.
The third involves manipulation.
The fourth involves government cover-up.
Criminal, civil and congressional investigations are underway. It is unlikely any house of cards could survive just one of these scandals. It is extremely unlikely the SFG will survive all four.
Stacia took one last look at the Op Ed and stood slowly. Down the length of the newsroom and past the water fountain, her confidence grew with every stride. She stepped into Jack Diamonte’s office.
He looked up and dismissed her. “You need to talk to Freda. I’m not your boss.”
“They’re coming after me.”
“I heard. And what did IT say?”
“They’ve given me a new email spam filter.”
He nodded.
“They are threatening me.”
“I’m sorry to hear this. But I’m also sorry to say it doesn’t surprise me. Our articles have been scathing. Why are you bringing this to me instead of to Freda?”
Stacia looked around his office. He had Pulitzer Prizes and pictures of himself getting Pulitzer Prizes. The strength in her voice surprised her. “Is Freda compromised?”
He rolled his chair backwards, placed his feet on the desk, and took a long time to respond. “Compromised?”
“Is she somehow involved, like maybe actively involved, in the SFG scandals that are unfolding?”
“I’m sure that’s absurd.”
“Is it?”
“How could Freda have pulled those kinds of strings?”
She shrugged, but held her ground. “I don’t know.”
“I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“Tell me if you know anything.”
He shook his head, remained silent.
“Because if she is, then she’s responsible for them coming after me.”
He clutched his hands behind his neck. “Stacia DeVries. New to New York. New to the Times. Already trying to maneuver around her boss. Bringing in crazy conspiracy theories to my office.”
She didn’t say a word.
It was his turn to shrug. “Let’s for the sake of argument assume Freda is somehow involved in the SFG stuff. If she is, what is there to be done about it?”
“I thought our job was to report the news. Not make it.”
“The question remains the same. What if she is involved?”
“We would need to report it to the authorities.”
“Stacia DeVries. Let me explain something very fundamental to you. If the SFG nutters decide to come after you for your articles —“
She interrupted, “Our articles. Freda assigned me to do these.”
“If the SFG nutters come after you for the articles, this paper will protect you. We protect our own.” His statement landed in the ether, not as a threat, more as a fact. “And in protecting our own we do not go to the authorities. Even with absurd conspiracy theories.”
She faced him, felt her chest expand with bravado. “I want the female Millenials beat.”
He dropped his feet, stared at her.
She pressed on. “In exchange for not calling that ATF guy.”
He chuckled at her guts. “You’ve got some moxie.”
“I want the female Millenials beat or I’ll take the story - the story of your involvement - somewhere else. Plenty of other, more modern, news outlets.”
He reared back in a half-mocking display of surprise. “Woah. No need to play your hand too heavy, kid. I already told you I liked your guts.”
In that instant, she knew he wasn’t firing her. She took a small step toward him, her mind clear. “Forget moxie. I’ve got skin in the game now and I want to be rewarded. Properly. Not this on
ce-in-a-blue-moon-hand-me-a-great-story crap. Not this ‘we take care of our own’ platitude. I want proper, regular, beat coverage. Of the stuff I care about. And frankly, of the issues this paper should be more concerned about considering the old white guys in this country are very soon going to be outnumbered.”
She watched as he actually smiled and leaned back again into his chair. Her heart raced a million beats a second but she felt relief and elation building.
“I like your style, kid. Ok.”
She squinted at him, feeling the emotions expand further through her. She took advantage of the momentary confidence. “And don’t call me kid. My ambition works just fine without you trying to needle me with condescension.”
He nodded, his smile growing.
She turned without a word and walked out of his office.
52
New Orleans, LA
Inside the cold Wells Fargo branch, Cal sat across from a confused bank manager. He explained, “The Bureau is looking into a trafficking case.”
The older black woman wrinkled her brow.
He took a more serious tone. “Guns. Trafficking.”
“Trafficking?”
He nodded to the sticky note on her desk. “That wire transfer has been involved. I’d even go so far as to say, it’s been nearly responsible.”
“I’m just not sure on the rules on this one.” She looked around at the empty branch. “But I will tell you that since 9/11 we have been told to help out law enforcement.”
“I won’t tell a soul.”
Making up her mind, she tapped the number into her computer. “Ah, yes, Julep Foundation. I remember that. Nice girl opened it just a few weeks ago.”
“Do you remember anything about her?”
“Well, says here her name was Dora Maar. That’s right. I think blond. I remember she had a nice, clean cut.”
