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

by Robert Bidinotto

  “Please don’t ask me to describe myself. I don’t want you to change your mind. I know what you look like, of course, and that’s all that matters.”

  She laughed, too. “All right, Mr. Lasher. You can surprise me. See you at six forty-five.”

  He put down his phone on the counter next to the sink. Then picked up the goatee and carefully pressed it in place for about a minute. Then inspected the results in the mirror.

  The dark hair and brows, along with the facial hair and brown contact lenses, completely transformed him. Even his own mother, bless her soul, wouldn’t have recognized him.

  Lasher didn’t use disguises for everyday life, but they were mandatory on ops. Cameras everywhere these days. Hell, you could be photographed even passing by an ATM. And tonight he’d have to be especially careful. After all, he’d be going to the Watergate, then to a fancy restaurant filled with politicians and celebs, and with a famous woman who would turn lots of heads. People might stop over to greet her. They would remember him, wondering what he was doing with her tonight.

  The very thought of being with her excited him. Every man who saw them tonight would wish they were in his shoes. They’d be curious about their relationship. Wonder if he was going to get laid.

  The strange, dark face in the mirror was grinning back at him.

  They had no idea.

  4

  As promised, she was waiting in the lobby. People stared at her, of course—how couldn’t they? She looked stunning. Short fawn-colored cocktail dress, dark brown jewelry, and holding a long brown cashmere coat that had to be worth five grand. He was glad she wasn’t wearing it yet; it gave him a chance to take in her incredible legs.

  “Hello,” he said as he approached with a smile. “It’s me.”

  “And hello to you, Mr. Lasher,” she said, extending her hand and looking him up and down. He could tell she was pleasantly surprised by his appearance. His looks usually had that effect on women. Even in disguise.

  He took her hand and nodded over it, then released it—reminding himself of the role he was playing.

  “I left our chariot out front. Here, let me help you on with that.”

  He took the coat from her, opened it, and let her scoot around and slide inside. As his hands rested on her shoulders, ever so briefly, he glimpsed the arc of soft flesh within her neckline. Her perfume was a magnet.

  “Shall we go?” he said, grinning and offering his arm.

  She smiled. “Let’s.”

  He led her out, over to the waiting green Taurus he had stolen hours before.

  5

  On the drive to the restaurant, she asked how “a man like you” found himself in Washington, driving limos. He told her the legend he and Trammel had invented for the occasion. She seemed fascinated by his tale of a Green Beret career that took him around the world, which led to a failed marriage and a teenaged daughter, Susan, living with his ex in Boston.

  She had unbuttoned her coat in the car. It was an act of will not to glance down at the exposed thighs in his peripheral vision, flashing rhythmically under the passing streetlights.

  Ten minutes later, he rolled up to the front of Petit Plaisir. He helped her out, handed a twenty to the valet, and they went inside. Lasher felt lots of eyes tracking them as the hostess led them across the elegant dining room and seated them at an isolated window table.

  Because he knew exactly how this evening would end, the next ninety minutes were among the most exciting of his life. Role-playing was a game he was used to, and toying with her was a thrill. Warned by Trammel about sensitive topics, he steered away from questions about the marriage and her past, instead letting her ask about himself. He had to make up some things on the fly, but stuck closely to the basic legend. Her questions about his “novel in progress” were especially persistent; she said she was fascinated by the writing process. To sound plausible, he had to draw from a TV interview he saw once with Stephen King. He could tell she believed him. Hell, maybe he could write fiction.

  It was a relief when the wine and food arrived. It gave him something safe to discuss with her. He asked her how she liked the Watergate, and listened attentively to her go on about the social side of life in Washington. She obviously needed to talk, and to relax. She didn’t stop him when he filled her wine glass several times, and he ordered a second bottle.

  As the wine took hold, he caught her looking at him, then looking away. It thrilled him even more, knowing that he could probably get her into bed willingly. But it would have to be different tonight.

  After they ordered dessert, she excused herself to go to the ladies room. He helped her out of her chair and watched her walk off, just a bit tipsy. Moving away, her ass looked fantastic.

  He glanced around. No one was looking. He raised the wine bottle to top off her glass.

  No one saw him drop the pill into her drink.

  She returned just after the desserts arrived.

  “Let me offer a toast,” he said, raising his glass. “To a great lady and lovely dinner companion.”

  She smiled. Touching glasses, then holding his eyes, took a long sip.

  “Ray, I want to thank you for a wonderful evening. Things have been so difficult lately. I can’t tell you how much I’ve need to relax like this.” She took another sip, looking down at the table. “Maybe I shouldn’t say this, under the circumstances, but I’ve been feeling pretty much alone. No longer sure who I can trust, and what to believe.”

  He nodded, heart pounding. “It must be so hard, being in your position.”

  “It is. The kind of life I’ve had, in the public spotlight all the time, married to a rich, powerful man—it can swallow you whole.”

  “I can only imagine.” He resisted the impulse to put his hand on hers. It would be too much. He had to control himself now.

  She sighed. “Oh, well, I’m just feeling sorry for myself.” She forced a smile. “We should probably go.”

  Her glass still had a lot of wine left.

  “But we haven’t finished our wine,” he said. “Avery would never forgive us for wasting such an expensive bottle of Chardonnay.” He raised his glass again. “How about another toast? To better days.”

  She smiled, shaking her head, but picking up her own. “You’re a nice man, Ray Lasher.” She took another long swallow.

  Fifteen minutes later, her eyes had grown dull.

  “Whoa,” she said, her hands fluttering, as if waving something away. “All that wine . . .”

  He leaned forward. “Are you all right?”

  “Just . . . real dizzy, alluva sudden.” Her head was rolling a bit. “I gotta lie down.”

  “Sure. We’ll leave right now.”

  He got up, hurried around the table, helped her to her feet.

  “Here, lean on me . . . That’s it. Let’s go get your coat.”

  By the time they reached the entrance, she could barely stand. He handed his claim ticket and five bucks to a passing waiter, asking him to have the valet fetch the car.

  “No, she’ll be okay,” he responded to the pretty hostess’s question. He grinned. “She’s been sick, and I think the combination of wine with her meds was a little too much.”

  6

  From somewhere under deep layers of fog and confusion she felt a sharp, terrible pain. She shrieked and forced her eyes open.

  In the smear of spinning lights and shapes she saw a steering wheel before her eyes closed again.

  “Ahhhh!” she gasped again.

  This time her eyes opened onto a face . . . a man with a beard and dark hair and burning black eyes, and she tried to remember who he was. His face floated above her, snarling . . . and what was he doing?

  “Stop! What . . . are you . . .”

  Then she began to remember . . .

  Avery . . . how he looked the last time she . . .

  Another piercing shock.

  “Oh God stop! Please stop!”

  Avery . . . you sent this man to me . . .


  And then she knew terror.

  “Ray! Noooo!”

  She pawed at his face, her arms rubbery and weak. Tangled her fingers in his beard . . . and it came off in her hand.

  “Bitch!” he spat out.

  Then put a gloved hand over her mouth.

  The black eyes, inches away, bored into hers.

  Then something banged against her head.

  7

  Lasher got out of the car.

  Let his breathing and heart begin to slow.

  Put the goatee back on, pressed it into position.

  Waited for his eyes to adjust to the moonlight and the dark, desolate structure nearby.

  Miles from downtown, the parking lot of the abandoned warehouse had become a dumping ground for the local low-lifes. Scattered in the weeds around him were the dark shapes of crushed beer cans, rotting cardboard boxes, worn tires, a moldering sofa.

  Now, in their midst, a late-model stolen Taurus, wiped clean of prints, and bearing the battered, half-naked corpse of a famous woman.

  Filled with an intoxicating sense of power, Ray Lasher set out striding down the wooded path back toward the main road, to the Metro parking area a mile away, where he’d left his own Grand Cherokee this afternoon.

  Ten minutes later, he was driving toward the city, and on his sat phone with Trammel.

  “It’s done,” he said.

  “Please tell me there were no complications.”

  “None at all. I’m heading back now. I’ll spend the rest of the night taking care of everything else.”

  “See that you do.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “I tried to warn you, Lucas,” said Avery Trammel during a brief pause in Carver’s obscenity-laced phone rant. “I said you had to go after this Hunter character pro-actively—demolish his credibility before he published anything.”

  “Yes, yes, I know you did. And it was on my schedule. But in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been just a wee bit preoccupied running the entire goddamned media effort for the campaign.”

  “Which is exactly what he has targeted: the entire media effort,” Trammel replied. “Now it is your credibility—actually, ours—under challenge, instead. He struck first. And if I have learned anything from your sermons about ‘narrative control,’ it is: ‘He who first frames the story, controls the news.’ He has put us on the defensive. My staff has been fielding media inquiries all day.”

  “Here, too.” He could visualize Carver pacing his office, as he always did when excited or worried. “Spencer is having fits, and Cunningham is beside himself. It’ll be no good trying to answer each reporter’s questions, one at a time. That would keep us playing defense for days.”

  “Until his next article, when it would begin again.” Trammel spun the silver pocket watch on his desktop.

  “You’re right. He’ll own the news cycles.” Trammel heard the noise of a keyboard clicking. “Okay . . . I’m about to send an email to my staff, here and in New York. I’ll get them researching his claims. We’ll have to release a statement, a point-by-point rebuttal, no later than tomorrow. We’ll label his article as a classic example of ‘fake news.’ That can be the theme: ‘The Inquirer is peddling politically biased fake news.’ Our friends will be happy to give it a lot of coverage.”

  He sighed. “Lucas, you do realize that will not be nearly sufficient.”

  “I know, I know. But that’s just step one. Step two—and this is crucial—simultaneously we have to go after him, personally, just as you suggested. Turn public attention away from whatever Hunter says in his articles; instead, make the story all about him. Attack his credibility by questioning his background. Get everyone asking, ‘Who is Dylan Hunter?’ What is his real name? Where did this guy come from? Is he working for someone? If so—who? Why the secrecy? What is he trying to hide behind that fake name? . . . Hey, that’s it!”

  “What is ‘it’?”

  “Our meme, Avery: ‘Fake news from a fake reporter.’ We headline that in all our statements. That, and ‘Who is Dylan Hunter?’ The press will eat it up—they’ll put reporters on it, looking into his background, hounding him with questions wherever he shows his face. We’ll enlist a congressmen or two to do the Sunday shows—suggest maybe Hunter is a hired gun working secretly for Helm.”

  Trammel found himself smiling. “You truly are a genius about framing media campaigns, Maestro.”

  “Yeah, well, I only wish I had listened to you and done this sooner. Pre-empted him. Maybe we can blunt what he’s doing, but we won’t be able to distract everyone’s attention away from whatever issues he raises. And that still worries me.”

  “As it does me.”

  “So, how much do you think he knows about the flow of contributions through the Currents Foundation?”

  Trammel gave the watch another spin. “We shall have to proceed on the assumption that he knows, or will soon discover, everything. That may be unavoidable at this point.”

  “I hope not. Last thing we need is for the IRS to start questioning if tax-deductible donations are being used for political purposes.”

  “Agreed. However, whatever revelations emerge will not matter a few months from now, after the election.” He picked up the watch, turned it over. Studied the inscription on its back. “After this election, nothing will matter anymore.”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t hear that last part. Could you repeat it, louder?”

  “Never mind,” said Avery Trammel. “It was nothing important.”

  2

  Ed Cronin turned off Higgins Hill Road and drove up the steep driveway, to the impressive house at the summit of the hill. It was a modern combination of wood and glass. Its western end was a triangular, glassed-in porch, like a ship’s prow, extending as an outcropping over the edge of the bluff. The house made him think of Noah’s Ark coming to rest on a mountain top.

  He got out of the Crown Vic, and took a moment in the crisp breeze to admire the sunset view. In the distance, the Allegheny River cut through the hilly forest that claimed its name. He collected his thoughts from the past day, spent with the state cops and at the crime scene out in the forest. Then went to the front door and rang the bell.

  It opened on a pretty little brunette in her forties.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’am.” He showed his badge credentials. “My name is Sergeant Ed Cronin. I’m a detective in the Alexandria, Virginia, police department, and I’m working a case that’s taken me all the way up here. Would you be the wife of Dan Adair?”

  The look of curiosity turned to one of concern. “I am Mrs. Adair, yes. Your case involves my husband?”

  “Not directly. It’s complicated. But he may be of help to our investigation. Does he happen to be home right now? I’d like to have a few moments with him, if possible.”

  “We’re about to sit down to dinner. Could this wait till tomorrow?”

  He spread his hands apologetically. “I’m afraid I’m on a deadline to get back to Virginia. So if I could see him now, I promise it won’t take long.” He smiled. “I sure don’t want your dinner to get cold.”

  “Well . . . I suppose so. Come on in.”

  She led him through the foyer into the den. An older man in a recliner put aside his newspaper and stood. Across the room, a young man watching television remained seated, but turned at his entrance.

  “Dan, this gentleman is a detective from Virginia.”

  He heard a slight emphasis in the way she said it, and the man’s eyes and lips narrowed as he approached. Cronin offered a smile and his hand.

  “Mr. Adair, I’m Detective Sergeant Ed Cronin with the Alexandria P.D. But I’m also on a task force investigating a wave of crimes in the D.C. area.”

  “Dan Adair,” the man replied. He was tall and lean, with sandy-gray hair and beard, and a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you, Sergeant. Over there’s our son, Will.”

  “Hi,” the twenty-something kid said, looking wary. He turned immediately back to the
TV.

  Adair gestured toward an empty club chair. “Have a seat. Anything to drink?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Cronin said, taking the chair. The Adair couple settled onto the sofa facing him. “As I told Mrs. Adair, I hope you might be able to help us in an investigation. Your company was targeted by that ecoterrorist group, WildJustice. The bodies of its two leaders, Zachariah Boggs and Rusty Nash, were found near here recently. Both murdered.”

  He saw her move her hand to his thigh, like she was clutching it.

  “We know,” Adair said, his voice and eyes hardening. “Everybody around here does. And it couldn’t have happened to two more deserving people, either. Those thugs threatened my employees, vandalized my work sites, then murdered a scientist I hired.” He rested his hand on his wife’s, gave a little squeeze. “I bet they’d have gone after me, maybe even my family, if they’d had a chance.”

  Cronin nodded. “It had to be a nightmare for you.”

  The woman swallowed hard and looked down. Adair looked straight at him, unblinking.

  “So what exactly are you investigating?”

  “You may have heard there were possible connections between what their group was doing up here, and some things going on in Washington. I’m looking into that.”

  “I’m glad you are. Personally, I’m sure there was a conspiracy going on to stop fracking. I think these ecoterrorists were involved with people in government, like EPA, and their political cronies in ‘green energy’ companies. Some of it was written up in one of the papers down there.”

  His opening. “Oh, you mean that Inquirer series.”

  “Right. That laid it out pretty well.”

  “I saw you were mentioned and quoted in those articles. So, did the reporter interview you in person?”

  Saw the slight tightening of his lips. And of her hand on his leg.

  “He did. Since you read the series, you probably know he came here, talked to me and my people, visited one of our drill sites. He was curious about the hydraulic fracturing process—what everyone calls ‘fracking.’”