WINNER TAKES ALL: A Dylan Hunter Justice Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers Book 3)

by Robert Bidinotto

  Trammel glared at him. After a few seconds of silence, Hunter crossed his arms and began to tap his foot.

  “Did you invite me here to watch you die of old age?”

  Trammel glanced toward the drawing room, then back at him.

  “It is a beautiful morning. Perhaps for privacy we should converse outside.”

  He turned and walked toward a set of French doors. Hunter followed him out onto a small balcony, then down a set of stairs into the yard. Hands jammed in the pockets of his trousers, Trammel set out on a flagstone path leading across the vast green lawn. They passed between a small greenhouse on the left and a tennis court on the right, heading toward a pond with a gazebo at its center. Somewhere in a nearby maple, a mockingbird twittered.

  Hunter looked around at the grounds and back at the massive home.

  “I must say, in spite of your ‘green energy’ losses, it looks as if the rest of your investments are still keeping you in chips.”

  “Why are you exerting so much effort to insult me, Mr. Hunter?”

  “Trust me, it’s no exertion at all.”

  Trammel stopped and faced him.

  “Seriously. What are you hoping to accomplish?”

  “Seriously? I’m hoping you might answer the same question.”

  Trammel took a long, slow breath.

  “Mr. Hunter, you are an intelligent and ambitious man. Your newspaper could not possibly be paying you what you merit.”

  “How true. But what newspaper could possibly afford what I deserve?”

  “Joking aside, you could do much better for yourself.”

  “Could I now.”

  “I am confident that employment and compensation far more appropriate to your obvious talents could be found and arranged.”

  “By whom?”

  Trammel smiled. “Let us be candid. You have been a growing distraction for me. Distractions cost me time. And time is money. I have extensive connections. If you are willing to abandon your campaign of harassment, I could look into new arrangements for you that would redound to our mutual benefit. A ‘win/win’ situation, as they say.”

  “That is your idea of a ‘win/win’ arrangement?”

  “Is it not?”

  Hunter laughed. “Is that what you think I came here for?”

  Trammel’s smile vanished.

  “Not really. Still, I had hoped you might be open to a generous offer.”

  “What you want to buy isn’t for sale.”

  “I could make it more than worth your while.”

  “Nobody is that rich.”

  Trammel fixed Hunter with a cold stare. He grinned back.

  “You know, somebody probably told you that if you stare at people without blinking, you can intimidate them. As you see, that advice is overrated. So why don’t we get down to the real reason you asked me here?”

  Trammel nodded slowly.

  “Yes. Let us do that.” He began to walk along the path again. “Mr. Rouse informed me you were questioning my donations to the Currents Foundation.”

  “I was curious about where those donations are being channeled. As I told him, it seems grants from your personal foundation to Currents have focused on funding groups and campaigns trying to stop fracking—a cause in which you stand to benefit financially.”

  Trammel moved off the path toward a budding weeping willow overhanging the edge of the pond. Bordered by flat rocks and lush vegetation, the oblong pool looked to be four or five feet deep. At one end a small waterfall flowed over several stone shelves; at the other, grasses poked through the surface here and there among lily pads. On a tiny island in the middle stood a white, octagonal gazebo with a peaked roof, decorated gaily with hanging wicker flower baskets. It clung to the rest of the lawn by an arching wooden bridge.

  “As you must know,” Trammel finally answered, “there is nothing illegal or deceptive about donating to organizations that share one’s own views on such issues.”

  “No, there isn’t. The First Amendment protects that. But it seems tax-deductible grants from you into the Currents Foundation are funneled through their Currents Center into direct political action—which does raise legal issues with the IRS.”

  “That is simply not true.”

  “No?”

  Trammel stepped to the edge of the pond. Beneath the green water a group of large koi fish, mottled orange-and-white, glided toward him and massed near his feet. He reached into a nearby covered pail and scooped out a small quantity of fish food, which he began to sprinkle amid the now-roiling mass. Hunter knew he was stalling, choosing his next words carefully. He waited him out.

  “No. My foundation contributes to the Currents Foundation for the educational purposes specified,” Trammel replied, continuing to pay attention to the fish. “I have no knowledge of or, frankly, interest in what they do with money from other donors.”

  “Well, that seems implausible, since you sit on the board of the Currents Foundation and ought to know where all the money goes. I also discovered that, besides your foundation’s general ‘educational’ grants to Currents, you also set up a ‘donor advised fund’ with them, into which you pour even greater sums. That financial gimmick lets you channel your cash to specific groups and causes, while remaining anonymous. Why, it may even be funneled into political lobbies and groups like the Caring and Sharing Alliance, to attack Roger Helm.”

  Trammel threw the remaining fistful of food into the water and spun to him.

  “Obviously, you do not know the regulations governing such funds,” he snapped. “By law, I may offer only nonbinding recommendations about where my contributions might go. But as the fund’s sponsor, the Currents Foundation has complete autonomy to ignore my suggestions.”

  Hunter sauntered over to him.

  “Come on, Trammel. Your private foundation provided the seed money for the Currents Foundation. You’re on its board. You arranged for the hiring of Rouse and later recommended Ratzenberger to run the Center. And you are telling me you don’t select which groups get your money?”

  “That is exactly what I am telling you. Nor is there a shred of evidence for your libelous insinuations. And if you choose to publish such rubbish, I shall take legal action.”

  Hunter smiled. “Rest assured I would never publish anything without supporting evidence. Meanwhile, there’s another aspect of this you might clear up for me.”

  “And that is?”

  “Lucas Carver.”

  Trammel’s raptor eyes became slits. “What about him?”

  “He and his company, Vox Populi, ran the anti-fracking campaign you were involved in a few months ago, and he enlisted your wife as its national spokesperson. In fact, you serve on Vox Populi’s board. Vox Populi handles the media work for the Currents Center and for most of the groups that the Center has set up, including political lobbies.” Hunter shook his head. “All these cross-memberships in groups and boards . . . why, it’s incestuous.”

  “It is both legal and rational for individuals of like mind to associate. That too is protected by the First Amendment.”

  “But Carver is chief media strategist for Carl Spencer’s campaign.”

  “Also completely legal. He is paid by the campaign, not Currents. There is no co-mingling of funds, if that is what you are driving at.” He paused to smirk. “So, Mr. Hunter, you have nothing. I, on the other hand, do have something.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is the knowledge that you are not the man you say you are. There is no such person as ‘Dylan Lee Hunter.’”

  Hunter had long expected this day—even wondered why it had taken this long for someone to notice.

  “The Social Security Administration, the Department of Motor Vehicles, and a number of police agencies will tell you you’re wrong. Want to see all my IDs?”

  Trammel waved dismissively. “However you obtained those documents, there is no record of ‘Dylan Lee Hunter’ going back more than about four years.”

  “Did it
ever occur to you that maybe I use a pen name? Or that perhaps I changed my name?”

  “It did. But legal name changes are recorded in state archives. I had people check, and there is no record of that occurring anywhere in the United States. They even checked Canada, to no avail. Yet somehow you possess government-issued ID cards as ‘Dylan Hunter.’ How do you explain that?”

  “To you? I don’t.”

  “To anyone, then.”

  “Those with a legitimate need to know either have or will be informed.”

  “Oh, quite soon everyone will know. You see, I suspect you are hiding something behind that pen name of yours. For I can imagine only a few explanations for those ID cards. And if you insist on pursuing your invasion of my privacy, then I shall have no recourse but to inform the media of my suspicions. You have made many enemies in the press, and I think they would be eager to dig into the mystery that is ‘Dylan Hunter.’”

  Hunter shrugged.

  “They are welcome to try. But speaking of hiding something, Trammel, I’ve found mysterious omissions in your personal history, too. Try as I might, I can find no birth certificate for ‘Avery Trammel.’ It appears that your life under that name began abruptly during your teen years. Then, after a college career of militant Marxist activism, you had a sudden, almost overnight change of interest toward capitalism, followed by an unlikely, meteoric rise to vast wealth. Almost magical, really. So, I think I should continue to poke into that. And also dig a little deeper into Currents, and the nasty things the groups it spawned are doing to manipulate this election.”

  Fury crossed Trammel’s face. He pointed a thin finger, jabbing the air to make his points.

  “Perhaps you are willing to sacrifice your own career and reputation. But just remember: Exposure of the truth about you might hurt those close to you. Friends, family . . . perhaps that pretty lady I saw you with.”

  Hunter stepped in, getting right in his face.

  “Trammel,” he said quietly, “that was the one thing you shouldn’t have said.”

  He saw a flicker of fear and surprise in the billionaire’s eyes.

  Then he turned and walked back toward the house.

  3

  Entering the French doors of the solarium, Hunter was surprised to see Julia Haight standing in the curve of the bow windows.

  “Hello, again,” he offered, closing the doors behind him.

  “I remember,” she said, walking toward him. “I saw you after the candidates’ debate. And before that, a couple of months ago, outside the EPA.”

  “That’s right. I’m afraid I left a bad impression on both occasions.”

  “You did, Mr. Hunter.”

  “I’d like to remedy that, so I hope you don’t carry grudges.”

  A faint smile. “We’ll see.”

  “Do you prefer ‘Ms. Haight’ or ‘Mrs. Trammel’?”

  The tiniest tug of bitterness at her mouth, masked quickly with a forced smile.

  “Julia will be fine.”

  He answered her smile. “It’s Dylan, then.”

  Her glance darted toward the windows. “I hope you don’t mind my spying, Dylan, but you were the last person I expected to see here. So I was curious. You two looked as if you were arguing.”

  Hunter nodded.

  “What about?”

  Outside, Trammel was on his phone, gesturing. Already telling someone about their encounter. He weighed how much he should say to her.

  He turned back to study the famous face, up close. Though just past fifty, Julia Haight had aged well and remained stunningly beautiful. Large, dark brown eyes; full lips; high cheekbones; auburn hair aflame in the slanting rays of morning sun; toned legs revealed by snug slacks.

  Yet also in her face, the tightness of stress; in her eyes, flickers of worry—and redness, as if she had been crying.

  He recalled what the guards had said. Seeing no one within earshot, he decided to gamble.

  “I came here to chat with your husband about his political contributions and associations. His donations and business investments appear to be entangled with individuals and groups whose activities—well, let’s just call them questionable.”

  “I read what you wrote about CarboNot, and the things going on with fracking in Pennsylvania. You made it all sound criminal.”

  “I’m afraid it was. And your husband was a substantial CarboNot investor. I have strong reasons to believe he and others were involved in a ‘green energy’ investment scheme to make millions by getting the government to shut down the fracking industry.”

  “Well, fracking is dangerous. It’s—”

  He raised a hand. “Look, I don’t want to argue the merits of the technology. I’m only talking about powerful people, inside and outside of government—including your husband—conspiring to manipulate the federal regulatory process in order to make a killing in the stock market.”

  She wet her lips. “And you have proof of that?”

  He thought of the secret recordings from his wiretaps and bugs, and the other illegally obtained evidence he could never use or write about.

  “Let’s just say I’m very sure of it.”

  She lowered her eyes. “Will he face arrest?”

  “For that? I doubt it. The scheme failed, and the participants lost a lot of money. Senator Conn was the central player, and when he died, I think a lot of their secrets died with him. Besides, that’s not what concerns me now.”

  “Then what?”

  He saw what looked like sincere bewilderment.

  “A lot of nasty things have been happening lately that I can’t yet explain or tie together. To be honest, I only have pieces of it. But somehow, a network of groups your husband is involved with seems to be at the heart of it all. Do you know anything about his association with the Currents Foundation?”

  “Well, I know he gives them money and he’s on their board.” She looked off into space, chewing her lower lip. “I know they fundraise for progressive groups. And I believe Lucas Carver is heavily involved with them.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Not well at all. He’s Avery’s friend, really. Probably his closest friend. The two of them go way back.” She glanced again out the window. “Oh—he’s coming.”

  Hunter saw him striding down the path toward the house.

  “I should go now. I appreciate your talking with me . . . and I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention our conversation to him.”

  She met his gaze for a moment. Then nodded.

  “I won’t.”

  He read her expression and believed her. What was in that expression also prompted him to take another chance. He pulled out a business card.

  “Julia . . . I don’t mean to be presumptuous or intrusive. But I sense you’re troubled about something. Look, we’re complete strangers, so you have no reason to trust me. But if you ever feel the need to talk about—well, whatever’s going on here, feel free to give me a call.”

  He extended the card and a smile.

  “After all, I’m a reporter,” he added. “I protect the privacy of people who tell me things.”

  She searched his face. Her eyes told him she felt alone and needed someone she could trust.

  “Thank you,” she said softly, taking the card.

  “I’ll find my way out.” He nodded again and turned away.

  Hunter felt her eyes following him as he left.

  THIRTY

  Trammel pushed aside the plate bearing the remnants of his omelet. His eyes moved around the table, pausing briefly on each of his three breakfast companions.

  It had been six days since he, Lucas, Sid Cunningham, and Carl Spencer had met at Vox Populi. He selected the Lafayette Room at the Hay-Adams for this, their Monday morning follow-up meeting, not only for its elegant ambiance, but as an unspoken reminder to the candidate of their previous encounter here. Spencer’s sullen expression told him he got the message.

  “Why so gloomy, Carl?” he needled, just to em
phasize his control over him. “I hear from Lucas that all the news today is positive.”

  “It certainly is.” Carver’s mood was buoyant. He sipped from the second screwdriver the waitress had brought him, then lowered the frosty glass. “Gallup’s weekend survey has us closing to within seven points. Which is a pretty damned amazing turnaround in just one week.”

  “Excellent. Lucas, you appear to have delivered on your promise to enlist the media against Helm.”

  Carver tried and failed to suppress a smile. Still, his smiles never reached his eyes.

  “They are coming through for us, for sure.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “And a real biggie is on the way. This weekend I reminded Schindler at the New York Times about some of the past employee complaints at Helm’s company. Wage discrimination against women, hiring discrimination against minorities—that sort of thing. First he said they wouldn’t bother pursuing that old stuff anymore, not without some fresh angle. So then I told him the Civil Rights Division at Justice was about to announce an official investigation of those complaints, and that my contact agreed to give the Times the scoop. That got his attention.”

  Cunningham frowned. “Why is this the first I’m hearing about it?”

  Carver spread his hands. “It’s just timing, Sid. I’ve been working on it for weeks, through the White House press secretary. He took my suggestion about investigating Helm’s business practices to the chief of staff, to run by the president. Glover liked it and told the A.G. on Friday to pursue an official investigation. I told Schindler about that on Saturday, and he called me back late last night to say the Times will run a story tomorrow.” He chuckled. “That will really put Helm on the defensive.”

  “Thanks to you, Lucas,” Trammel said, “he is already on the defensive.”

  Carver feigned a modest shrug. “But it was still your idea to tell Carl to go after Muslim terrorism at the debate. I’m keeping that issue alive in the press, too—reminding everyone how prescient Carl was, and how Helm got caught flat-footed.”

  “Yet it was your idea to have Carl take a week off the campaign trail to attend victim funerals. The public response has been overwhelmingly positive.” Trammel turned to Spencer. “I watched the televised coverage, Carl. Your remarks at yesterday’s memorial service for that lady and her baby were particularly well-crafted. You hit all the right notes; in my opinion, it was pitch perfect.”