by Joseph Flynn
Robert Merriman prided himself on his ability to deal calmly with whatever jackass stepped into the senator’s office. He was sure his equanimity was one of the qualities that would allow him to pluck for himself the next open Senate seat from the great state of Oregon.
“First of all, Reverend,” he began, “Senator Michaelson has an abiding love of basketball, starting when he was an all-state player in high school, continuing to when he was an honorable mention all-American in college, and extending to this very day.”
Godfrey started to interrupt, but Merriman forestalled him with a raised hand.
“Secondly, if you believe the senator suffered only minor physical insults today, you’re seriously mistaken. I won’t go into his exact medical condition, but I’d be happy to see if I could arrange a game for you and Mr. McGill. See how well you’d fare.”
“If that man is doing grievous injury to important people, he ought to be the one in prison, not Erna,” Godfrey proclaimed.
“Thirdly,” Merriman continued, ignoring the preacher’s point, “while Senator Michaelson has reconsidered his view on seeking hearings concerning the confession of Lindell Ricker, he does not intend to forget about the precarious position in which Mrs. Godfrey finds herself.”
“He doesn’t?” the preacher asked suspiciously. “Well, what’s he got in mind?”
“All in good time, Reverend. All in good time.”
“Erna doesn’t have that much time!”
“She has enough. The president has stayed admirably aloof from the process. Nobody’s hurrying things.”
“There’s nothing admirable about that Hollywood harlot! She’s a sinner!”
“And who among us isn’t?” If Merriman had to choose whom he’d spend the rest of his life with on a desert island, Godfrey or the president, it would be a no-brainer. “If you’re not content to wait for Senator Michaelson to find a productive way to change Mrs. Godfrey’s fortunes, you’re always free to seek help from your friends, Senator Hurlbert and Representative Langdon. Perhaps they’d be willing to take up Lindell Ricker’s cause and challenge the legitimacy of his confession. That, or you could raise you own voice in protest on the issue.”
Godfrey had already been to see both Hurlbert and Langdon. They’d told him that they’d be perfectly willing to support Michaelson’s effort, but no way could they lead the charge. The president, after all, was a fellow Republican. They had to have Michaelson to give them the cover of a bipartisan effort. One to which all God-fearing Americans could rally.
As for Godfrey raising the issue himself, people would see that as nothing less than self-interest. But what other choice did he have?
“I guess I’ll have to keep raisin’ my voice that killin’ Erna would be just plain wrong,” he said with a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Shout it from the mountaintops,” Merriman suggested.
Celsus Crogher was on duty, watching Chana Lochlan’s house from his car this time, but he was on probation. The president had finally caught up with him and he’d had to admit that he’d choked that CIA dweeb, Cheveyo. He hadn’t known, though, that he’d seriously hurt the guy. He hadn’t intended that. Geez, did the guy have brittle bones, or what? He remembered reading somewhere that people weren’t drinking enough milk, getting enough calcium.
Or maybe he’d gotten a little carried away. Squeezed too hard.
If he’d been capable of admitting to human weakness, maybe he’d have taken advantage of the situation. Used his probationary status to request stress leave. Relax for a while. Except he hated the very idea of relaxation. Taking things easy was one step above being in a vegetative state. Step and a half above being dead.
And there was only one way Celsus Crogher wanted to die: in the line of duty.
So there he was, still on duty, but on a short leash.
He had that asshole McGill to thank for the former. The president, he was pretty sure, had intended to confine his activities to the White House. But McGill wanted him out on the street. Watching for that other son of a bitch, Todd, to come looking for Chana Lochlan.
McGill had considered it a Secret Service job since Todd had been messing with Chana Lochlan’s head. And who knew if he hadn’t been doing the same thing to someone else who had access to the president. He had to give McGill credit for that. He’d cut right through any potential jurisdictional dispute over who ought to grab this Todd creep.
Problem was, McGill hadn’t been sure what the guy looked like. Some pencil-necked academic. Or the musclehead freak that SAC and Cheveyo had seen the other night.
But unless Todd was one helluva cross-dresser, Celsus was pretty sure he didn’t look anything like the thirtysomething babe with the ash-blonde hair and tight bod who was climbing Chana Lochlan’s front steps … and peeking in her window.
That was suspicious enough for him.
Celsus got out of his car and reached the woman just as she dropped something into the mail slot. When he touched her on the shoulder she jumped and spun around.
“Secret Service, ma’am.” He showed her his ID and his best frown. “Please identify yourself and state your business at this domicile.”
No cross-dresser, this one, he saw. So not Todd. But who?
The woman swallowed hard and began to speak. Still looking at his ID.
“My name is Laurel Rembert.”
She sounded like a kid reciting a line from a school play. He pocketed his ID.
“And the reason you’re here?” Crogher said.
“I’m a publicist. I’m the CEO of Starburst Publicity.” Still sounded like she was reading from a script. But she mentioned the names of several big-time DC pro jocks as being her clients. Her clothes and jewelry said she had the money to play in that league.
“This is how you solicit clients, Ms. Rembert, going door to door?”
She blinked as if taking a moment to remember her next line.
“A friend told me Ms. Lochlan might want new representation. I … I dropped by to see if we might chat. I left a business card when no one answered the door.”
“You work nearby?” Celsus asked.
“What?”
“You arrived on foot. Do you work nearby?”
“Oh. Yes, I do. Not far at all.”
Crogher spoke into the microphone at his wrist. He had four cars of agents within two blocks. One car pulled up seconds later. A special agent got out and opened the door to the backseat. Crogher gestured to Ms. Rembert to descend the stairs and get into the car.
She blinked again.
“Am I under arrest? Did I do something wrong?”
She looked genuinely puzzled.
“Not at all. These agents will take you back to your office. You can tell them about your business. That’s all.”
“Oh. Well, thank you for the ride.”
“You’re welcome. Do you have a business card you can spare for me?”
“Why, of course.” She fished one out of her purse. Then she frowned. “How can you need publicity if you’re in the Secret Service?”
“Just a memento, that’s all. And sign your name on the back of the card.”
Laurel Rembert complied and was driven away by Crogher’s agents. When she was gone, and after Crogher scanned the street to make sure nobody else was taking an interest, he let himself into Chana Lochlan’s town house with the key McGill had passed on to him. He found the card Ms. Rembert had left for Chana Lochlan.
A note on the back was addressed to someone named Nan. Said: I’ll call.
And the handwriting wasn’t Laurel Rembert’s.
Carina Linberg had graduated in the top third of her class at the academy. Entirely respectable. Portending a solid military career, barring some personal or political misfortune. But by no means would she have been assured a general’s star by the end of her ride. Except she’d been on track to nail one faster than any other woman in Air Force history.
Welborn used his own academic record as a point of comparison.
He’d graduated in the top 10 percent of his class, and he knew it was by no means certain that anyone would ever address him as General Yates. Maybe if he’d been able to spend his pre-desk-jockey years as a fighter pilot, he’d have had a chance. The USAF did love its fighter jocks. But as a gumshoe for the OSI? He didn’t see it happening.
Unless the president served two terms and kept him working out of the White House. Then he might conceivably become a general, and a very young one. But he’d be a blatant political beneficiary, and his brother officers would view him with contempt.
He turned his thoughts back to the colonel … and he couldn’t forget the threat Carina had shared with him. She’d better rise in rank faster than the cadets who blamed her for the deaths of their friends, the rapists.
He put that together with the president’s speculation that the colonel had been sleeping with General Altman. If that was so, it seemed unlikely he’d have been the first superior officer with whom Carina had traded sexual favors for career advancement. Verifying this notion might be as simple as checking whether anybody else in her intelligence unit at the Pentagon held a similar class rank. If not, how did the powers that be explain her presence in an elite unit?
Not that they’d tell him. Even if the president ordered them to explain themselves, the really bright people, the top one-percenters who belonged there, would concoct some plausible fiction.
The whole situation depressed him. Carina Linberg must have started out as an all-American girl who’d only wanted to serve her country in the Air Force. She couldn’t have guessed where that ambition would lead her. Fighting off sexual predators at the academy. Prostituting herself to stay a jump ahead of those same predators. Or maybe just to make a good career move. Go Air Force. Fly high.
There was a knock at his office door. He looked up and saw Kira.
“You want to give me a ride home?” she asked. “Or should I just take my car and leave you to fend for yourself?”
He was at a loss to answer. Kira saw he was not himself and, stepping out of character, took pity on him.
“Come on, let’s go,” she said. “I’ll make dinner for you.”
“You can cook?” he asked, surprised.
“Of course, I can. But you’re right. We’ll order in.”
Chapter 28
Thursday
They ate Thai takeout and went to bed.
Neither one of them would be able to remember later who’d made the first move or if either of them had even said anything about sex. They’d simply eaten their stir-fried chicken with ginger, and their fried dried curry of pork, and drunk their Singha beer, two bottles for her, three for him, and wound up in bed, as if they’d known each other long enough, intimately enough, for such a segue to be automatic.
They went at each other for what seemed like eternity and was, in fact, hours. Gently, vigorously, manically, flesh was exercised, and demons of longing were exorcised. A final kiss on bruised lips, and they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Waking with the summer sunrise, they looked at each other.
“You haven’t been diagnosed with anything terminal, have you?” Kira asked.
“No.”
“Or anything contagious?”
“No.”
“Good. Then maybe we have a future.”
She got up to use the bathroom, pulling the comforter around her shoulders and striding off like a princess on her way to be crowned queen. She closed the door, so he didn’t have to listen to Her Highness pee.
Welborn gathered the top sheet around him and snuggled back into the pillows for more sleep. That idea vanished in the next instant when he twisted around and sat bolt upright. A series of questions had suddenly filled his brain.
Who had he seen driving west on Route 50 yesterday?
Captain Dexter Cowan in his unmissable Dodge Viper.
Had he thought Cowan had been out to visit Carina Linberg?
Yes … but he hadn’t gotten the impression of any recent visitors from the colonel.
What branch of the service was Cowan in?
The Navy.
And if you traveled farther east than Landover on Route 50, you came to?
Annapolis. And the Naval Academy.
And what crime had happened recently in Annapolis that concerned him?
The theft of his car.
Had Cowan ever seen Welborn’s car before it was stolen?
Yes, when they’d run together at the C & O Canal National Historic Park.
If Cowan had stolen Welborn’s car, what help would he have needed?
Somebody to drive his car while he drove Welborn’s.
Where might he find such help?
From a friend, say one who worked at the Naval Academy.
“Welborn, are you all right? Welborn?”
Kira was back. She still had the comforter around her shoulders, but those were the only points of interest it covered. He pulled her down on top of him, producing a cry of surprise from Kira. But once the shock of his impetuosity had passed, she joined in the spirit of the moment. After they finished, he clasped her to him, their hearts beating fiercely against each other.
“Do you still hate me?” Kira asked.
“More than ever,” Welborn told her. He rolled them over so he could look down into her eyes. “I really want you to believe that.”
It took only a second for Kira to accuse him. “You do have a terminal disease.”
“Well, maybe.” He flopped over onto his back so they lay side by side.
Kira levered herself up onto one arm and glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean? Tell me. Tell me right now.”
Welborn recounted his visit with Colonel Linberg.
“What’s that got to do with us?” Kira asked. She was taking him at his word that he had bypassed Carina Linberg’s bedroom.
“I was trying to provoke one of two things: a confession from the colonel or a reaction from … well, I didn’t know who at the time, but I’m pretty sure I do now.”
He told her of his suspicions regarding Captain Dexter Cowan.
“He killed Mrs. Altman? Why would he do that?”
“So far it looks like money, and the promise of more.”
He told her Cowan was the guy who owned a Viper, and the captain had promised Arlene Cowan a generous divorce settlement.
Kira said, “So if you’re right, what kind of reaction do you think you’ll get from him?”
Before answering, Welborn fetched and booted up Kira’s laptop. He looked up Dexter Cowan’s yearbook information from the Naval Academy. The guy had graduated in the bottom quartile of his class. Jeez! Who’d he have to sleep with — other than Carina Linberg — to get his slot in military intelligence? Was he the guy they sent out for late-night pizza or what?
On the other hand, old Dex had been the captain of the Academy’s fencing team, and was further described as a “master of all edged weapons.” Great.
Welborn looked at Kira, and said, “I think I might get a pointed reaction. And my terminal disease might be curiosity.”
The Secret Service hadn’t arrested Laurel Rembert the prior afternoon, but with her permission, they’d looked through all her business files. As a result, they learned the value of all the product endorsements of every major sports star in town, as well as what those jocks got paid for each motivational speech they gave. While the numbers were staggering, great fodder for watercooler conversations, they found absolutely no documentary evidence connecting Ms. Rembert with Damon Todd.
After an hour or so of softening her up by the other agents, SAC Celsus Crogher had joined the investigative effort and come right out and asked Ms. Rembert: “Do you know a man named Damon Todd?”
“Who?” Ms. Rembert replied with doe-eyed innocence.
“Would you be willing to take a lie-detector test?”
“Sure, if that’ll help.”
The Secret Service men looked at one another. The woman seemed perfectly innocent. Except
for a couple of things. When Crogher asked, “Who referred you to Chana Lochlan?” she replied, “I don’t remember.”
Laurel Rembert had a diploma from Wellesley hanging on her office wall. Her files were in impeccable order. She was a well-educated, well-organized, successful Washington professional woman … and she couldn’t remember who’d made a referral?
The gods of networking would not be amused.
“May we look at your BlackBerry?” Crogher asked, seeing it on her desk.
“Absolutely.”
She handed it right over and told him her password. No mention of Damon Todd was to be found in the electronic data keeper. No mention of a regular boyfriend either. That didn’t seem right to Crogher, either. A relatively young, quite attractive, high-earning white-collar woman? She should have been planning the merger with or acquisition of an equally bankable male. Or female, if her tastes ran that way.
“You’re not seeing anyone socially on a regular basis, Ms. Rembert?” Crogher asked.
“I’m far too busy for that,” she answered. “Maybe someday.”
That was the other big problem, as far as Crogher was concerned. The woman was much too cooperative. Anything they wanted to know was okay with her. Business matters that should have been held as strictly confidential, go right ahead and take a look. A nosy personal question, it didn’t ruffle her feathers one little bit.
She should have been telling them to fuck off. Come back when you’ve got a search warrant and a subpoena, buddy. Crogher felt more comfortable when he met resistance.
But she was only too happy to cooperate. So mindlessly sweet she made Crogher’s teeth ache. Something just wasn’t right, but he couldn’t find it. So he apologized for the intrusion, then sicced Galbreath on her. Galbreath was the best-looking agent who worked for Crogher, a single guy who could talk knowledgably on a wide range of subjects. He possessed a well-rounded personality rare in a man who carried an Uzi to work.
