by Stephen Frey
“That’s getting a little personal.”
“Really?” she asked, digging her phone from her jeans and holding it up in front of him. “I bet I could get a pretty good idea in about four seconds.”
“Okay, eleven million.”
“Wow.”
Trent spread his arms. “Wow? You’re one to talk. I read an article in one of the local business rags last month that put your net worth at fifty million and climbing. My career’s over. Your company can go on forever.”
“Thanks for making my point.”
“Which is?”
“Everyone in this country has the opportunity to be successful.”
“That’s because a lot of people before us made the ultimate sacrifice.” Trent turned to face her. “I’m talking about a lot of black people.”
“No doubt about it, and I say a prayer for them every night. From Martin Luther King all the way to every black boy in Mississippi who got dragged into the woods and lynched for looking at a white girl the wrong way. But let me ask you a question,” she continued before he could break in and get on one of his rolls. “Don’t you think some white people had to be involved for us to have all these opportunities now? Do you really think we could have done it without having some of them on our side? If every white person wanted to keep us down, we’d still be down. I can assure you of that. Don’t you at least have some respect for the white soldiers in the northern armies who fought in the Civil War to free us?”
“Don’t kid yourself. Those men weren’t fighting to free slaves. They were fighting because they were ordered to fight. And they were ordered to fight because the fat cats wanted to keep the country together. They knew that this nation was stronger united. The north had factories. The south had raw materials. It wasn’t about freeing slaves. It was about the money, for most of them, anyway. Read your history books. It’s always been about the money and always will be about the money.”
“Spoken like a true fat cat.”
“Hey, I—”
“Sorry,” she said, holding up one hand, “that wasn’t fair. But answer me this. Who do you think sold our ancestors into slavery? Yeah, yeah, whites bought us, but who sold us? Don’t tell me about the history books. And who’s got you reading so much lately? I know damn well it can’t be one of those twenty-year-old floozies I see with you in People.”
“All I’m saying is that the fight isn’t done,” Trent answered. “There are still plenty of places where black people don’t have an equal shot.”
“Like the NBA?”
“Well …”
“Which is seventy-six percent black, and the NFL, which is sixty-five percent black. I looked it up.”
“It’s not like that in the owner’s box.”
“It will be.”
“Only if we keep fighting.”
Their faces were inches apart now, and her urge to be with him was powerful as they gazed intently into each other’s eyes, both of their angers boiling over. Anger was such an aphrodisiac.
She shocked herself as she slipped her hands to his face and then pulled him to her gently. As their lips met for the first time in their lives, a thrill coursed through her body, along with a wave of relief. She’d been terrified he’d resist.
She must have wanted it, she figured as their kiss went deep and passionate. She never did anything she didn’t want to do anymore. At this point in her life, she had that luxury, and she’d worked damn hard to get it.
“I want to be a United States senator,” she whispered as she finally pulled back. “And I need your help to do it, Trent. Will you help me?”
“I already told you. I’ll give you everything I have, Angie, every damn thing.”
“I’m going to announce my campaign very soon, and I want you to be there with me on stage when I do. I want you there right from the start.”
“I’ll be there every step of the way. Right up through election night. I can’t wait to hold your hand up in victory after Chuck Lehman calls to concede defeat. That will be one of the best moments of my life.”
Angela smiled up at him. “Mine, too.” She hesitated. “This one isn’t bad, either.”
CHAPTER 19
SANDSTON, VIRGINIA
“Raul was a good man,” Mitch said quietly from behind Sofia Acosta. The service was over, and they were the only two people remaining in the small chapel. Everyone else had filed out solemnly a few minutes ago. “I miss the old sport very much.”
“My husband was a great man,” Sofia murmured, touching the coffin as she fought her emotions. “I don’t know what I’ll do without him.”
“You’ll pull yourself together and keep going.” Mitch limped up beside her. “You’re a strong person. I sense that about you, Sofia.”
“How?” she snapped. “How do you sense that about me? How do you know anything about me?”
She was grieving so he took no offense at the tone or question. “I’m good at sizing people up,” he answered. “When I was in the military, I knew in the first few minutes of meeting a man if I’d have confidence fighting beside him in combat, if I could count on him to back me up, not to run even if we were getting pounded by the enemy. I was always right, too. And, let me tell you. I would have fought beside you with supreme confidence.” Mitch reached down and took her soft hand in his. “The way you stayed strong while you gave the eulogy was absolutely inspiring. There were no dry eyes in the chapel, including mine.” He squeezed her slender fingers gently. “It’s a survival spirit. Some have it, some don’t. I’ve seen tiny men who’ve been blown apart make it back from the edge because they have that spirit. I’ve seen big, strapping guys who weren’t hurt that badly changed forever because they don’t have it.” Mitch tapped his hip and then pointed down at the prosthetic hidden beneath his suit pants. “I’ve been wounded pretty badly. I know what that survival spirit’s all about. You have that same spirit, Sofia.”
“That’s nice,” she whispered, muting a sob. “Thanks, Mitch.”
“Of course, I—” Mitch interrupted himself as Sofia’s son Daniel came back into the chapel, head down, shoulders slumped. He was a tall, strapping boy for his age—and the spitting image of Acosta.
Sofia whispered something to him in Spanish, and he turned around and walked back out.
“I have to stay strong,” she spoke up when Daniel was gone. “I don’t have any choice. I must have that survival spirit because I must survive. I have two children. They’re depending on me, completely, just me now.”
“What will you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Will you stay in Richmond? Will you go back to New York City?”
“I … I don’t know yet. Why?”
“Just wondered.”
Mitch reached out and turned her so they were facing each other. “If you stay here and you ever need anything, you call me.” He put a finger beneath her chin and lifted gently. “I mean it, too. I’m not just saying it. It’s the least I can do for you and the old sport.”
Her chin trembled on his finger, and she moved away a little. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
“No worries.”
Mitch didn’t like the way Sofia wouldn’t look him in the eye when he’d lifted her chin—she’d been obvious in her effort to avoid his gaze—and he was a man who drew important conclusions from things others might find insignificant. He’d learned that from his uncle. Judge Eldridge was always scouring the details for clues.
And, at this point, Mitch was turning very paranoid, especially after his interaction with Raul the other night. He recognized his paranoia, but he couldn’t fight it. He knew Raul had been more than a little suspicious of the big house, the cars, and everything else and how that could all be funded on a government salary. Maybe Raul had followed him into the warehouse district to Salvatore Celino’s long black limousine. Raul had been meeting with Judge Eldridge behind closed doors lately. Maybe he’d told Eldridge what he suspected.
Mitch’s gaze s
tayed on Sofia. Maybe Raul had told his wife what he suspected, too. That possibility was even more likely. He knew full well how close Raul and Sofia were—much more than most couples.
He intended on finding out exactly what she knew. If it was too much, he’d make another request of Salvatore—this time it would involve murder. “Will you be home tonight?”
This time Sofia’s eyes raced to his, then flickered away just as fast. “Why?”
“I figured I’d give you a call. You know, just to see how you are.”
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA (WEST END)
Racine raised the full glass of vodka to his lips as he sat in the 750, listening to the Grateful Dead on the BMW’s stereo. He loved this old music almost as much as he loved this car. He and Tess had listened to the Dead all the time in high school, this song in particular. So why was he torturing himself by bringing back all those memories?
He took another healthy swallow of Grey Goose as he gazed ahead into the dimly lit garage, at the ghostly silhouettes of bikes, yard tools, and patio furniture.
Claire was right. Tess was a damn bitch, and he was being too nice about everything. She’d been screwing the tennis pro for almost a year. And she’d told him in the most cowardly way of all—with a note. She hadn’t the courage or the courtesy to face him.
“Christ,” he hissed as he eased back onto the leather headrest. “How did I get myself into this?”
Two mortgages, fifteen hundred dollars a month for the 750, twelve hundred a month for Tess’s Escalade, tuition payments, what he owed on the kitchen, and a Niagara Falls cascade of everyday expenses were crushing him. But he hadn’t taken salary in three months so he could pay his programmers. He had a thousand dollars to his name. And the bill collectors were calling constantly. Personal bankruptcy was a week away—at most.
He’d been living the life while Excel Games exploded on an early-stage rocket ride. Everyone in Richmond wanted his time—bankers, politicians, reporters. But suddenly there’d been an issue with EG’s software—as well as the ominous appearance of a Silicon Valley competitor with huge backing from several major venture capital firms. Excel Games had dominated a specific sector of the lucrative online fantasy-league gaming space, but was suddenly being muscled out. That quickly he and Bart had gone from hanging onto the reins as their thoroughbred galloped around the track with no other horses even in the race, to barely making payroll every two weeks.
He loved the way this car smelled of rich leather, and he hated thinking about a flatbed truck pulling into his driveway to repossess it. Almost as much as he hated thinking about his beautiful West End home being sold at auction—and Claire having to leave it.
He’d actually called his old boss at Proctor & Gamble yesterday, just to see what was what. The prick was in the same old boring job, doing the same old boring crap, and he’d laughed aloud when Racine had brought up the subject of job availability. Then the line had gone dead. The same old job and the same old crap—the lucky bastard.
Racine finished what was left of the Grey Goose, as his phone chimed with an incoming text.
His pulse raced when he saw the sender: Tess. Maybe she was flying back to Richmond tomorrow, and everything would be all right again. Maybe she’d come to her senses.
“Please, God,” he whispered. “Please.”
Words on a screen betrayed him—as they had when the man from China had sent his message.
Racine clenched his jaw as he read her message.
I’m starting divorce proceedings. I’ll be asking the court for full custody, and I’ll get it. Claire will be better off with me in California. I’m sorry, David, but this is for the best. Claire loves me more. That’s just the way it is with a mother and daughter.
Racine dropped the phone, put his head back, and shut his eyes tightly—trying desperately to fight back the tears.
There was still one alternative, one chance to save everything. But it would involve a huge sacrifice. He would be forced to say good-bye to Claire completely for two years.
SANDSTON, VIRGINIA
Sofia stood still behind the floor-length drapes in the darkened living room of her three-bedroom ranch house. She couldn’t hear Mitch’s steps moving across the room’s thick carpet, but she could hear his breathing.
He’d knocked twice on the front door, then, shockingly, let himself in when she hadn’t answered.
After the first knock, she’d glanced out her bedroom window and recognized him standing on the stoop in the dim rays of the closest streetlight. She’d had a bad feeling about their conversation in the chapel after Raul’s funeral service, especially when he’d asked if she was going to be here tonight. It was as if Mitch knew Raul was suspicious of him, as if Mitch knew Raul had followed him on several occasions into downtown Richmond to that limousine.
So when she’d seen Mitch on the stoop, she’d panicked.
She’d torn down the stairs, intending to race out the back. But then she’d heard the front door open and been terrified he’d catch her before she could get to the kitchen. So she’d hidden here, behind the drapes in the pitch-dark living room.
Mitch’s breath was getting louder and louder. He was coming closer. It felt as if he was just on the other side of the drapes now.
She clenched her jaw, waiting in terror for him to rip the drapes back and expose her hiding place—prepared to fight if she had to.
Would she have any chance?
The ring of a cell phone and now Sofia could hear Mitch’s footsteps—hurrying away. He’d forgotten to mute the ring, and it must have startled him, worried him that she might call the police if she’d heard that ring from upstairs.
A moment later, the front door opened and closed loudly, and Sofia rushed from her hiding place to a front window. The lights of a car were already speeding away.
Finally she exhaled. It felt as if she’d been holding her breath forever. Thank God Daniel and his sister, Maria, had already left this afternoon for New York with her mother.
Her eyes narrowed. She needed to visit Judge Eldridge—at a time when she was certain Mitch was nowhere around. She didn’t trust him at all.
CHAPTER 20
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
As Racine turned after closing the corridor door, he nearly ran into a young woman coming out of Victoria Lewis’ office on the twenty-seventh floor of the skyscraper just across the street from the courthouse. The woman had long, dark hair; honey-hued skin; green, almond-shaped eyes; and gorgeous, delicate features.
“I’m sorry,” he said politely as they both stepped back from their near collision. So he’d finally met a woman more beautiful than Tess.
“I’m fine. No problem.”
He found her Spanish accent exotic—along with everything else. She had an intense, almost blinding natural charisma. But there was sadness about her, too, a dark halo he noticed as he looked again, harder. And fear.
“I’m David Racine.”
She hesitated—as if unsure of whether or not to introduce herself, as if she were carrying some crucial national secret, and she figured he might be a foreign agent.
“I’m Sofia,” she finally answered.
“Are you part of this,” he asked, “of Project Archer?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Oh, well I—”
“It was nice meeting you, David,” she interrupted, moving past him.
Racine glanced over his shoulder at the closing corridor door as the pleasing scent of her tropical-scented bodywash drifted to his nostrils. He hadn’t coaxed a single smile from Sofia.
He turned back toward the young man sitting behind the desk of the reception area. A trace of pity seemed to be rippling through the kid’s bright-eyed expression. “I’m here to see Victoria—”
“Hello, David.”
Victoria Lewis stood in her office doorway. “Hello, there,” Racine said. “It’s nice seeing you again.”
“Come on.” Victoria waved for him to follow as she stepped back
into her office. She closed the office door behind him, then headed for her desk. “I trust you haven’t mentioned to anyone that you and I are still talking about your potential participation. If you have, tell me now. Remember, if I find out later, after you go in, you forfeit everything. Maybe even your freedom.”
“Not a word.”
“Good.”
“Quite the security crew outside your office,” Racine said. “I was frisked twice. They weren’t here last time.”
“Apparently there are people who very much want to see Jury Town fail.” She pointed at a row of captain’s chairs in front of her desk as she sat behind it. “Please.”
“Nice painting.” He pointed at the watercolor hanging on the wall behind her. “It’s the Corps of Discovery, I assume.”
“Meriwether Lewis has always been a tremendous inspiration.”
“As well he should be. I’ve been through Montana and Idaho. I’ve seen the mountains those men dragged their boats up to go from river to river. It’s incredibly impressive.”
“As is your résumé, Mr. Racine.”
She wasn’t wasting time. Well, given his financial situation, he was all for efficiency.
“Tell me about Excel. Online gaming, but what does that really mean?”
“We manage fantasy leagues in all different sports. We offer season-long, month-long, and even as little as day-long sessions for our clients to play.”
“And bet on?”
“Define bet.”
She rolled her eyes. “There are other companies doing that. It’s nothing new, correct?”
“Our sizzle,” Racine answered, “is that, in addition to regular in-season fantasy leagues, we also run simulation leagues. So people can play baseball in the winter and football in the summer, basketball and hockey in the off-seasons as well. We don’t need actual games to be played on the field, court, or ice to give fans the ability to field a team in a certain sport. We simulate the games and the seasons and catalogue all the simulated stats. We do the traditional stuff as well, but the simulation option has been the key differentiator for us. We need incredibly powerful software to do all that. We can’t have anyone getting behind our firewalls to manipulate the simulations, either. We have every minute of every simulated game audited by one of the big-four accounting firms. But we must be intensely careful about any intrusions to the random generation of plays and results.”
