Hunter sipped the coffee he’d been offered and let his eyes rove around Ratzenberger’s plush office before replying to his question.
“Specifically, I asked to see you gentlemen because I’m working on a series about ‘money in politics.’ But it’s a different take on the topic, which usually focuses on campaign contributions from big corporate interests. My attention is on the flow of foundation and nonprofit money into politics. And my research raised some questions about your respective organizations that I hoped you would be able to clear up.”
Rouse blinked and smiled. “Of course, Mr. Hunter. We strive for transparency. We’ll be happy to help, if we can.”
Ratzenberger sat back, folding his arms across his chest. “What questions?”
Hunter pulled out his notepad and thumbed through a few scribbled pages.
“First, to you, Mr. Rouse. This past year, federal reporting forms described the purpose of five large grants from the Trammel Foundation to your Currents Foundation as being for ‘energy awareness advocacy.’ I wonder if you could explain what that means?”
“Why, it means exactly what it sounds like,” he replied, smiling too effusively. “The grants are for educational purposes: to make the public aware of the full human and economic costs of carbon-based fuel sources, and to advocate for renewable energy alternatives.”
“Options,” Hunter said.
“What?”
“‘Options,’ not ‘alternatives.’ Everyone gets that wrong. ‘Options’ are multiple; but there is only one ‘alternative.’” He smiled. “Anyway, as far as I can tell, most of the advocacy you’re funding directly with that grant money seems to go toward opposing fracking.”
Rouse’s smile wavered. “Well, I don’t have the actual grant percentages at my fingertips. But whatever they are, I suppose that is to be expected. After all, fracking constitutes a rapidly growing share of the carbon-energy market, and it therefore represents the greatest threat to our health and the environment.”
Two minutes in, and the lisp was already grating. Hunter found himself gritting his teeth.
“I also noticed that the single largest share of your grant-making is channeled through the Currents Center.” He nodded toward Ratzenberger. “In turn, you use the money to set up nonprofit advocacy groups and campaigns, giving them the benefit of your organizing experience and offering them the shared legal benefit of your own tax-exempt status.”
Ratzenberger studied him a few seconds before responding.
“That’s correct. The Center acts as a kind of incubator. We help get these groups launched, and then we do our best to make sure that they can function independently and successfully.”
Hunter made a show of squinting at a page. “One of those organizations is the Caring and Sharing Alliance, is it not?”
The appraising look became a scowl. “What of it?”
“It’s one of a number of groups you fund, assist, and shelter under your tax-exempt umbrella for ostensibly ‘educational’ activities.”
“What do you mean, ‘ostensibly’?”
“I mean they appear to be engaging in overt politicking.”
Rouse completely lost his smile and started blinking. Ratzenberger unfolded his arms, wiped his palms on his trousers, and leaned in.
“That’s absolutely false. The Alliance’s activities are purely educational.”
Hunter shook his head. “Exactly one month ago my own eyes and ears told me otherwise. I was visiting Roger Helm’s headquarters for an interview when I encountered a host of demonstrators from the Alliance. They were chanting against his candidacy, not about specific policies. They’ve also been holding news conferences and issuing reports criticizing his personal wealth and targeting his campaign contributors—even picketing their homes and committing vandalism against their property. That seems pretty political to me.”
Rouse cut in. “Nonprofits are allowed to engage in a certain percentage of political lobbying activities,” he said, his lisp now sounding more like a serpent’s hiss. “But as for your specific claims: After a group is established, Currents cannot be held responsible for everything it may choose to do in the future.”
“Perhaps. But it’s not as if you set them up, then wash your hands of them and go away. In fact, I discovered that you maintain active oversight, through Vox Populi Communications. That’s the consulting firm you hired to manage media for Currents and for your network of nonprofits—including the Alliance.”
“Those are all independent arrangements and contracts,” Ratzenberger snapped.
“Mr. Ratzenberger, I’ve looked into your financial reports and theirs. Your grants show up as line items on the forms, explicitly listing Vox Populi as running media campaigns for all those groups. So, in fact, you pick up that tab for its work. And—by strange coincidence—Carver also serves as the chief political and media consultant for Carl Spencer’s presidential campaign.”
“All right, enough of this! Just what are you driving at, Mr. Hunter?” Ratzenberger’s face was red and his fist lay clenched on his lap.
“Just this. I see big, tax-exempt grants from the personal foundation of Avery Trammel—a wealthy, ‘alternative energy’ investor—flowing into Currents, supposedly for perfectly lawful, tax-exempt educational purposes. But then I see Currents pouring that so-called ‘educational’ grant money, plus its other resources, into groups and individuals engaged directly in partisan political campaigning—attacking a pro-fracking presidential candidate on behalf of a rival who’s pushing ‘alternative energy’ policies that Mr. Trammel favors. If I have that wrong, I thought you might want to clarify things for me, before I publish some articles to that effect in the Inquirer.”
Ratzenberger appeared about to explode as Rouse, looking on the verge of panic, jumped in.
“Oh, don’t do that!” he said, waving both hands. “You’ve got it all wrong! This is a huge misunderstanding.” He stood. “Before you do a thing, Mr. Hunter, please let me make a few calls. We’ll be happy to help clarify everything for you.”
“Wallace, can’t you see it’s a waste of time?” Ratzenberger said, also rising. “We warned you about this guy.”
Hunter pocketed his notepad and got to his feet, too.
“‘We?’” he prompted, raising a brow.
“This meeting is over, Mr. Hunter. If you write any defamatory nonsense along the lines you’ve described, you and the right-wing rag you represent will be hearing from our attorneys.”
“Wow. Well, in that case, I sure don’t want to seem uncooperative.” He pulled out a business card. “Here—let me make it easy for your lawyers to reach me.”
He dropped it on the coffee table.
“Tell them I look forward to our chat.”
2
“What is wrong, my dear?”
Julia faced away, looking out the tinted window of the limousine. Rain from dingy piles of clouds misted across the rural Virginia countryside. He saw a brief shake of her head.
“Seriously, now. Something is troubling you.”
“I’m all right. Just tired.”
She did not look at him. Just as she had barely looked at him this morning, or during the ride from the Watergate to the Mayflower. Her remarks at the Democratic National Committee luncheon had felt perfunctory, lacking her usual passion.
“I hope you are not still holding against me that I had to miss your award dinner earlier this month,” he ventured.
Another shake of the head.
“You know how sorry I am about that.”
“Honestly, I’m just tired.”
He wondered about that.
“You seemed to be sleeping soundly when I came in.”
“I was,” she said. Then she added, a shade too quickly: “I mean, I must have been. I didn’t hear you.”
A lie. He had known her far too long to miss the nuances of insincerity.
He turned away, closing his eyes.
So, then. She suspects. Or perhaps she knows . . .
There had been other women during their two decades together, of course. But he had been discreet, and he did not believe she ever even suspected.
This complicated things. And complications were the last thing he needed right now . . .
He thought of how they had first met, almost twenty years earlier. He had already amassed much of his fortune and was widening his sphere of social and political influence when they shared the dais at some feminist conference in New York. Then in her early thirties, and in contention for her second Academy Award, Julia Haight was the star and keynoter of the conference, lending Hollywood glamor and media attention to the festivities.
Eyes shut, he could still easily recall the way she looked on the stage that night: the wavy auburn hair, the large dark eyes, the aristocratic cheekbones, the elegant body, the showgirl’s legs. He had enjoyed many talented and beautiful women in his life; but what arrested him about her was the sheer intensity of her idealism. She gave a fiery speech defending women’s empowerment in the workplace. She mesmerized him. He could not remember a single word she said; but he never forgot the image of her striding across that stage, mic in hand.
It was after the dinner, over private cocktails, that he caught the first faint hints of her insecurities. It was only much later that he learned their depth.
The daughter of a famous actor, whom she worshipped, Julia had suffered his cold, remote inattention throughout childhood. Still a girl, she threw herself into acting, striving obsessively to prove herself worthy to attract his love and respect. Her talent, looks, and raw ambition were undeniable. By her early twenties she won starring film roles, and soon, the adoration of millions. Yet she never won the one love she craved.
So she sought it elsewhere, allowing herself to be used and abused by powerful men in the movie industry. By age twenty-eight, her career was soaring, yet her self-esteem was plunging. It hit rock-bottom when her father died that year. She emerged from a substance abuse clinic searching for meaning, and found it in liberal politics. It became her new obsession, her new substitute for authentic self-esteem.
When Trammel met her that night, the attraction was instant and mutual, though only he fully grasped the reasons. He was a father figure who—powerful, reserved, even forbidding—showed her the love and respect she had sought so long and desperately. As for himself, in addition to her intelligence, beauty, and talent, Julia also offered a ticket of admission into the world of celebrity—and a whole new sphere of influence and power. Their complimentary roles carried over into their sexuality: his dominance and her submission were intoxicating to them both.
Or had been . . .
His eyes opened onto the bleak landscape. The realization of his growing estrangement from her felt of a piece with the feeling of foreboding that had been gathering around him for the past several months. He wondered why, on the threshold of his ultimate triumph, he felt so bleak.
He put his hand into the pocket of his trousers, his fingers seeking reassurance from the cool metal surface of his father’s pocket watch. He reminded himself what this was all for, trying to recapture the old fire, the sense of mission . . .
. . . when, in his jacket, he felt the vibration of his phone.
He took it out and saw who it was.
“Yes, Wallace.” He listened for a moment, phone pressed to his ear so that she could not hear the conversation. “I see. All right, give me his number . . . No, there is no need to apologize. You and Paul did exactly what I asked. At least we now know where we stand with him. Just go about your normal business. From this point, I shall deal with him myself.”
3
The call Hunter expected came through on his burner while he was driving back to his Bethesda apartment. It had been forwarded via the spoofing site and the second, hidden burner.
“Yes?” he answered.
“Would this be Mr. Hunter?”
He recognized the distinctive voice.
“Ah, Mr. Trammel. I’ve been expecting your call.”
“Have you, now? It seems you have been a busy fellow. And a nosy one.”
“I am cursed with boundless energy and curiosity.”
“Apparently so. And utterly misdirected. Mr. Rouse told me of your visit with him and Mr. Ratzenberger. Your groundless speculations left them in a bad frame of mind.”
“Please tell them I am grieved and beg their forgiveness.”
“There is no need for the testy attitude, Mr. Hunter. You and I have been working at cross purposes for too long.”
“Given what I know of your purposes, I hope I am.”
“Perhaps there are misunderstandings about that. Or perhaps we can reach some accommodation. In any case, I believe it is time we finally meet and have a discussion.”
“Gee, I can’t wait. Name a time and place.”
“Normally, I would prefer to meet in the city. However, my wife and I have just arrived at our home in Virginia. We shall be hosting a charity event tomorrow evening. I suggest you come here tomorrow morning—say, ten o’clock.”
“Ten is fine.”
“Excellent. Let me give you the driving directions. From the city, take Route 66—”
“That’s not necessary. I know where you live, Mr. Trammel.”
“My, my. You have been doing your homework about me.”
“Oh, I’m just getting started.”
TWENTY-NINE
About a mile down the narrow country lane, Hunter encountered a four-foot-high brick wall that bordered the road and established the perimeter of Trammel’s estate. Driving on, he reached the entrance and turned into the driveway. He noted the security camera atop the gatehouse as he pulled up and lowered his window.
The uniformed guard who stepped out of the booth was tough-looking and packed a Glock on his right hip.
“Name, please?”
“Dylan Hunter of the Capitol Inquirer, here to interview Mr. Trammel.”
The guy nodded. “I have you on list. Show me ID, please?”
The accent was unmistakably Russian. Hunter presented his driver’s license. The guard gave him instructions to the parking area near the house. Then the gate slid open in front of him as the man spoke into a walkie-talkie to announce his arrival, also in Russian.
On the drive in, he observed and memorized details of the grounds and the looming mansion, comparing the current reality against what he’d studied in online archives of satellite imagery and old real estate photos. He spotted two more security cameras along the driveway, then three more on the house itself—one atop each wing, and one over the covered front entrance. There, a blond-haired guard watched as he looped the central fountain, whose spray left shimmering rainbows in the dazzling morning sunshine.
He locked and left the Forester in the parking area, setting the alarm to warn him if anyone tried to search it. The last thing he needed was for Trammel’s people to find his hidden weapons or electronics. He walked back along a covered walkway. Of the six garage bays, only the one nearest the house entrance stood open. A black Cadillac stretch limo occupied that space, and a man was busy vacuuming its interior.
Outside the front door, the guard had been joined by dark-haired one holding a security wand.
“I’m clean,” Hunter said, prompting the guy to say something.
“We search, anyway. Rules.”
He raised his arms, letting him wave the wand around his body.
“I think I detect an accent,” Hunter said, grinning. “Norwegian, right?”
The blond snorted. “Pridurok,” he said to his partner. Moron.
“Amerikantsy,” the other chuckled, shaking his head.
“So, was I right?” Hunter said, keeping the grin.
“Yeah,” the guy with the wand answered. “You very smart man.”
A very smart man would not let them know he understood Russian. Maybe they would inadvertently reveal something.
They brought him inside, into the stunning foyer. Hunter had already seen realtors’ photos of th
e interior posted online. But he spun around, expressing amazement—while committing more details to memory. On the balcony above, a middle-aged woman carrying file folders walked toward the north wing. It told him Trammel’s offices were probably back there somewhere.
The pair led him toward a corridor beneath the stairs while they continued to mumble to each other in Russian.
“Trammel says this guy’s trouble.”
“He doesn’t look like it. Look at him, grinning like an idiot.”
“Da. The old man seems to be getting paranoid lately.”
“Maybe wife trouble. She looked upset yesterday.”
“Could be. Irina told me Julia barely said a word to him at dinner last night.”
“Shhhh!” the blond guard hissed. “She’s here.”
They entered a huge, ornate drawing room. Julia Haight, in casual blouse and slacks, stood in its center, overseeing a crew of decorators arranging tables for the evening social event. She looked at him quizzically as they neared.
“Ms. Haight,” he said, nodding politely.
“And you are?”
He stopped.
“Dylan Hunter, The Capitol Inquirer. Here to meet with your husband.”
She raised a brow. “Wait. I remember seeing you. Aren’t you the one . . .”
“Probably.”
“This way.” The blond guard snapped his fingers.
He smiled at her and nodded again, then continued after them.
2
They passed into a dazzling solarium. Across the room, in a navy sports jacket and cream-colored slacks, Avery Trammel stood framed against a tall, sunny window, his back turned to them. A staged pose.
“Sir—” the blond guard began.
“Leave us.”
They retreated. Hunter listened to their echoing footsteps fade behind him. Trammel didn’t turn or speak.
“Gee, what ever happened to good old Southern charm and hospitality?”
At that, Trammel turned.
“You are not amusing, Mr. Hunter.”
“I don’t write for the entertainment section.”
WINNER TAKES ALL: A Dylan Hunter Justice Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers Book 3) Page 29
