Breaking the Story

by Ashley Farley

  “The FBI I presume?” Scottie asked when he ended the call.

  “Yes. The local branch. Let’s hope they catch them.”

  “I’m gonna be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life if they don’t.” Scottie settled back in the seat. “Start talking. Tell me everything you know and how you know it.”

  Guy started the car and pulled away from the curb. “I got a call from Rich, who finally caught up with his contact at the FBI. Baird recognized our man right away. Apparently they’ve been after Mikhail Popkov for some time. He is a Russian mob boss who lives in the United States illegally and is wanted for a long list of crimes.”

  “How did you make contact with the local FBI?”

  “I was on the phone with Baird when your text came through. When I told him you’d spotted Popkov, he patched me through to the local authorities.”

  A fleet of vehicles flashing blue lights passed them headed in the opposite direction. “And there they go.” The reality of what just happened settled over Scottie. “They broke into our car last night and erased the images from my computer and iPad.” She shivered. “It makes my skin crawl to think of them watching us having sex on the beach.”

  “They couldn’t have seen much.”

  “On a full moon, I’m sure they saw plenty.”

  “Try not to think about it, Scottie. Popkov and his sidekick were more interested in getting their hands on the digital files than watching us. I hope you have another copy.”

  “Unfortunately, they found that one too.” A feeling deep inside her gut—no doubt brought on by the recent discovery that he worked for the Republican Party—warned her not to tell him about the memory card hidden in her electronics bag.

  When they arrived back at the hotel, Guy entered the room first, inspecting the bathroom and under the bed and behind the curtains for unwanted guests. He bolted the door behind them and went out on the balcony to make another call. Scottie watched him through the sliding glass doors as he paced back and forth with one hand clutching his cell phone to his ear and the other raking through his cropped hair.

  She crawled into bed fully clothed and pulled the covers up over her head. She’d made a colossal mess of her investigation. All the time she’d been in search of Popkov like a hunter tracking his prey, he’d been watching her like a preschool teacher minding her students on the playground. She’d nearly gotten herself killed tonight. What had she been thinking following a strange man into a dark empty parking lot? And what about Guy? If anything had happened to him, she would never be able to forgive herself for dragging him into her investigation. And how did Catherine Caine play into any of it? She’s no different from any other politician I’ve ever met. They can all be had for a price. What exactly had Popkov meant by that statement? He certainly didn’t sound like a man talking fondly about his lover. Was he bribing her for some reason?

  Scottie turned out the lights and pretended to be asleep when Guy came back inside. Peeping through one eye, she watched him feel his way through the darkened room to the bathroom. She heard the toilet flush, then the water running in the sink. When he came out of the bathroom, he crawled in bed beside her. She heard his thumbs tapping on the screen of his phone as he typed out a text, followed by the unmistakable vibration of a response coming in.

  Who was he so busy texting? And why the need for secrecy? Who had he been talking to out on the balcony? What had they said that they didn’t want her to hear?

  She fell asleep waiting for the texting to end, and woke again around five thirty the following morning. Guy was snoring softly beside her. She tiptoed around the room, locating Guy’s cell phone on the bedside table and picking up her electronics bag from the chair in the corner where she’d dropped it the night before.

  She went in the bathroom and locked the door. She pressed the home button on Guy’s cell and the screen lit up. When she unlocked the phone, she was surprised to find it wasn’t password protected. She glanced at the closed door. “Tsk, tsk. You shouldn’t be so trusting, Guy,” she mumbled. She opened his message app and clicked on the thread from Rich, her heart racing as she scrolled through their conversation from the night before.

  Rich: This whole thing might blow up in our faces if we don’t post the pictures soon.

  Guy: Does Baird know about the senator?

  Rich: Not yet but he’s asking a lot of questions. I can’t hold him off much longer.

  Guy: What about Blackmore?

  Rich: James is briefing him as we speak.

  Guy: Popkov deleted the files. She doesn’t have any copies.

  Rich: The FBI can retrieve them from her hard drive.

  Guy: Scottie will never let them have access to her computer.

  Rich: The FBI will confiscate it.

  Guy: Not without a search warrant.

  Rich: Don’t try to play hardball with the FBI. You won’t win.

  Guy: I’m not calling the shots.

  Rich: Clearly. I told you not to let her out of your sight, and she started a gang war with a Russian mob boss. Great job, Jordan.

  Scottie slid down the wall to the tile floor. I told you not to let her out of your sight. What was that supposed to mean? Had Guy merely been following orders when he agreed to come on this road trip with her? Was the sex simply a bonus for a job well done?

  Scottie’s pulse quickened and she broke out in a sweat. She thumbed a text to Rich: Nobody takes advantage of me and gets away with it. XOXO Scottie.

  She spread a towel out and dumped the contents of her electronics bag onto the bathroom floor. Amongst the lens and other camera accessories, she spotted Senator Caine’s business card. She picked it up, scanning through the various numbers for the Democratic Party and Caine’s campaign headquarters. I’ll have to try a more direct route. She grabbed a pen from the pile on the towel and jotted a quick note on the back, then set the card on the bathroom floor beside her.

  She found the slit she’d made in the lining of the bag and ripped it open wide enough to fit her hand through. She shook the bag around until she located the memory card. This time she only uploaded the images to her iPad, not her computer. She placed the memory card inside the case of her cell phone—the one item she rarely let out of her sight.

  Scottie got to her feet and returned her equipment to her electronics bag. She brushed her teeth and hair and wiped the smeared mascara from beneath her eyes. She found the keys to Robbie’s Jeep in the pocket of Guy’s shorts, which he’d discarded on the floor beside the toilet. The sun was rising over the ocean, filling their room with pink light, when she opened the bathroom door. Guy’s phone vibrated in her hand with an incoming call from Rich. She answered it.

  “Good morning, Rich. Scottie Darden here. Let me get Guy on the phone for you. He’s right here in bed beside me. He deserves a raise by the way. He’s done such a commendable job of not letting me out of his sight.”

  23

  Scottie had backed out of the parking space and was switching gears from reverse to drive when Guy appeared in front of her in his boxer shorts. “Wait, Scottie! Where are you going?” He pounded on the hood of the Jeep.

  She rolled down her window. “To meet with Catherine Caine. Now get out of my way.”

  He crossed his arms and planted his feet firmly on the ground. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

  She blasted the horn, but when he refused to move, she yelled, “I’ll give you exactly one minute.”

  He walked around to the driver’s side window. “Why are you so upset? I don’t understand what you said to Rich on the phone.”

  “You’re a good detective. Figure it out for yourself. I gotta go. I’m going to be late for my meeting.”

  “I’m going with you. Baird wants to see both of us right away.” Guy looked down at his seminaked body. “It’ll just take a minute for me to put on some clothes.”

  When she started to drive off, he ran along side of the Jeep. “Wait, stop! Why are you leaving me?”

 
; She slammed her foot on the brake. “I read your texts, Guy. It’s okay for you to let me out of your sight now. Your presence is no longer needed in my investigation.”

  He looked at the phone in his hand, then stared back at Scottie dumbfounded. “You read my texts?”

  “Damn straight I did. You should consider password protection from now on.”

  He hung his head. “God, Scottie, I can only imagine what you must be thinking, but you’ve got it all wrong.”

  “You have no idea what I’m thinking,” she said, and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving him staring at her taillights.

  *

  “I need to see Senator Caine right away,” Scottie said to the two Secret Servicemen stationed outside the front door of the beach house.

  The heavier of the two agents gave Scottie the once over. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but I promise you it’s a matter of urgency.”

  “I’m sorry,” the other agent said. His eyes were kind despite his tight lips. “We can’t let you in unless you have an appointment.”

  “Will you at least give her this?” Scottie handed the agent Caine’s business card. On the back, she’d written in tiny print: I need to speak with you right away about the photographs I took in the alley behind the convention center in Philadelphia.

  The nice agent took the card from Scottie and went inside. Caine’s assistant, Lucy, appeared less than a minute later.

  “I remember you,” she said. “You’re the one who spilt coffee on the senator in Leesburg.”

  Scottie held out her hand. “I’m Scottie Darden.”

  “I understand you’re requesting to see the senator. Can you tell me what this urgent matter is about?” Lucy asked.

  Scottie removed her iPad from her bag and held it out so Lucy could see the photographs.

  Lucy stiffened. She gestured at the Secret Servicemen. “These men will need to check your bag.”

  The agents surrounded Scottie, one of them rummaging through her bag while the other quickly patted her down.

  “Come with me, please,” Lucy said when the agents finished their search. She whisked Scottie through a living room packed with people, mostly men, and down a short hall. “Wait here.” She pointed to a wooden chair beside a closed door. Lucy tapped on the door and disappeared inside. She emerged two minutes later. “The senator will see you now.”

  Lucy ushered Scottie into the dining room, which was serving as the senator’s makeshift office.

  Senator Caine stood to greet her. “It’s nice to see you again, Mary Scott, or should I call you Scottie?” If Caine was annoyed at Scottie for intentionally trying to mislead her by using a different name when they’d met in Leesburg, she didn’t show it.

  “Please call me Scottie. My mother is the only person who calls me Mary Scott, and only when she’s angry.”

  The senator smiled. “Please, have a seat.”

  Scottie took the seat opposite her. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I promise I won’t take too much of your time.” She placed her iPad on the table in front of the senator and scrolled through each of the three images. “Please believe me, senator. I never meant you any harm when I took these. All I wanted was a behind-the-scenes photograph of you with your family.”

  “I wondered what happened to these. Why haven’t you released them to the media?” Caine scrolled through the images again. “Although I must say I’m glad you didn’t. I can see how they might be misinterpreted.”

  “My conscience wouldn’t let me post the story until I verified the facts. I haven’t been able to identify the man in the photographs until last night.”

  Caine’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean Logan James?”

  Scottie hesitated. “I don’t know who Logan James is, but this man”—she pointed to the photograph—”is a Russian mobster named Mikhail Popkov.”

  “I don’t understand,” the senator said.

  “There’s a lot I don’t understand as well.” Scottie sat back in her chair.

  “The FBI is here waiting to brief me on the case. If you don’t object, I’ll invite them to join us. Hopefully they can shed some light on the situation.”

  Scottie nodded her consent. The senator texted her assistant, asking her to show the men in.

  Scottie was surprised to see a disheveled Guy amongst the throng of dark suits that crowded into the dining room. She was even more blown away when the senator greeted Guy and the smug-looking young man who walked in behind Guy by name. “If it isn’t Rich Cartwright and Guy Jordan. It’s not every day I have the pleasure of meeting with top GOP brass.”

  Top GOP brass. WTF.

  Guy was quick to grab the empty seat next to Scottie. “We need to talk,” he whispered in her ear as he lowered himself to the chair.

  “Fine, you can start by telling me what Rich is doing here.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Guy said. “I assume Baird dragged him along.”

  Rich sat down next to Baird on the other side of the table from Scottie and Guy. She glared at Rich and he smirked at her in return. She immediately disliked him. She’d known too many Riches in her lifetime, boys from privileged families who felt entitled to whatever they wanted. They cheated on tests. Took advantage of girls who drank too much. Butted their noses into investigations that didn’t concern them.

  Senator Caine spread her hands flat on the table. “Now that you have my attention, Mr. Baird, to what do I owe this honor?”

  Scottie guessed Roger Baird to be in his midthirties. His piercing blue eyes and deep voice commanded authority. “We have a situation, Senator, regarding certain photographs that were taken by Ms. Darden—”

  The senator cut him off. “I’ve seen the images.”

  Guy turned to Scottie. “But… I thought…”

  Scottie shrugged and looked away from him.

  Baird coughed into his hand. “We were under the impression Ms. Darden was no longer in possession of the digital files.” His eyes met Scottie’s. “May I see them?”

  “That’s up to the senator,” Scottie said.

  All eyes zeroed in on Caine, who nodded her approval.

  Scottie slid her iPad across the table to Baird, and with Rich peering over his shoulder, he scrolled through the files. “The senator is cropped out of the images I’ve seen.” He turned to Caine. “Are you aware that the man in the photograph, a Russian mob boss named Mikhail Popkov, is on the FBI’s most wanted list?”

  “No, I was not aware of that,” Caine said. “I’d never met the man until that night. I was told he was a Texas oil millionaire named Logan James.”

  “I mean no disrespect, Senator,” Baird said. “But this exchange between you and Popkov is awfully familiar for two people who’ve never met.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly, Mr. Baird.” The senator’s lips tightened, but she managed to maintain her composure. “I’ve met all kinds of people during my career as a politician. I stopped being surprised by the things my constituents say and do a long time ago.”

  “Who arranged the meeting for you?” Baird asked.

  “One of my most loyal supporters. I’m happy to provide his contact information if you’d like to speak with him. This supporter told me he had a friend with a lot of money who was interested in making a contribution to my campaign as well as a sizable donation to the Democratic Party. I take fundraising very seriously, Mr. Baird. Obviously. I’m running for president of the United States.”

  “And did your staff vet this man, this Logan James?” Baird asked.

  “Yes. Neither our background check nor the referrals he provided presented any red flags.”

  Scottie detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice when Baird asked, “Whose idea was it to meet in a dark alley?”

  “I’ve met supporters in much stranger places than a dark alley, Mr. Baird,” Caine said, managing to keep a straight face. “The arrangement was mutually agreed upon by my assistant and Mr. James. He had an early flight
out of Philadelphia the next morning to Dallas. The only time available in my schedule was those few brief moments after the convention before I needed to leave for the reception.”

  Baird turned his attention to Scottie. “Is this the only copy you have left of the images?”

  Scottie thought about the memory card concealed inside her phone case. “Yes.” She didn’t trust the card in the hands of the FBI. She would destroy it herself when she got home.

  “You realize the photographs would do considerable damage to my campaign,” Caine said to Scottie.

  “Which is why I plan to delete them,” Scottie said. “Not to mention the fact that Popkov threatened to kill me if I released them. As far as I’m concerned this investigation is closed.”

  “In that case, let me delete them for you.” Rich snatched the iPad from Baird. “You have to take an additional step in order to permanently delete images from an Apple mobile device.” His fingers traveled across the screen too fast for Scottie to see what he was doing with the images.

  Scottie held out her hand. “Give me back my iPad, Rich. I’m a photojournalist. I know how to manage digital files.”

  He handed her back the device. “I was just trying to help.”

  Baird opened a laptop and turned it around so the group could see the image on the screen. “We’ve been working this case for years, and thanks to Scottie’s photographs, we have our first major break.”

  Scottie squinted her eyes at the passport photograph of Popkov.

  “The name on this passport is Logan James. Is this the same man who confronted you in the parking lot last night?” Baird asked Scottie, and she nodded.

  Baird scrolled through several more images of US passports. “Notice that his name is different on every passport.” Popkov had facial hair in some. In others he was clean-shaven. He had long hair, short hair, dark hair, and gray hair. But the blue eyes were every bit as cold in all of them.

  “Seven different passports, seven different names, from seven different states,” Baird said. “Texas, Wyoming, Nevada, Washington, California, Florida, and Arizona.” He clicked on an image of a Russian passport. “This is the real man—Russian born and bred, Mikhail Popkov. He’s worth several billion dollars. And he’s wanted on drug and sex trafficking charges, and for questioning in several murder cases. And that doesn’t even include the extortion allegations.”