by Tom Abrahams
“I’ve got something,” said the manager. “I can’t give you a copy of this, but you can look at it.” He spun his monitor around to face Matti and Brandon.
On the screen, in muted color, was a high overhead camera aimed at an empty hallway. After twenty seconds, a man appeared in the frame from the top of the screen and approached the door. He looked in both directions and then inserted a key into the door. He opened the door and disappeared.
“Could you play it one more time and freeze it when he turns toward the camera?” Matti asked. She leaned forward in her seat, already knowing she’d struck gold.
The manager complied and froze the video at the right moment. He pressed a couple of keys, which expanded the image, despite making it grainier.
“That’s him.” Matti pointed at the muscular, bald man on the screen. “That’s definitely him. Why does he have keys?” She glared at the manager.
“I can’t answer that,” the manager said, tugging his collar. “I don’t know. He’s not an employee. He looks like the man who killed the flight attendant.”
“That’s exactly who it is.” Matti stood from her chair, leaning in toward the manager. “Whose keys are those?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have any employees who haven’t been to work in a few days?” asked Brandon. “Anyone who would have access to storage closets?”
“Let me ask the head of our maintenance team.” He raised a finger and then dialed an extension on his phone. Speaking in Spanish, he asked about missing employees. He cradled the phone again as he wrote down a name. He hung up and slid the paper to Matti.
“This man hasn’t been to work for the last few days,” he said, swallowing the words as he spoke. “His name is Fernando Barçes. He hasn’t called in sick and he hasn’t returned any phone calls.”
“Do you have an address?” Matti barked. “We need an address.”
“I…don’t…I’m not—”
“Give us the address,” Brandon ordered. “I don’t think you want us talking to the security teams from every head of state visiting your establishment as to why nobody reported a missing employee on the eve of an international summit.”
“It’s not as though we are the Casa Fuster Hotel,” the manager reasoned.
“What does that mean?” asked Matti.
“A man was killed in their bar today. A woman attacked him and strangled him right there on the floor. Then she walked out and disappeared.”
“I’m not sure I’d make that comparison,” suggested Brandon. “Give us the address.”
The manager nodded vacantly and began typing again. He kept mishitting keys as he searched for the man’s address. His eyes were wide, his complexion decidedly more sallow than when Matti and Brandon first entered his office.
He touched his screen and ran a finger across it, mumbling as he scratched the address onto another piece of paper. He slid it across the desk and Matti snatched it.
“Thank you,” she said without a hint of appreciation, her focus three steps ahead. She turned to Brandon. “We need to go now.”
“By the way,” Brandon said to the manager on the way out of the office. “Please stop maid service to both of our rooms.”
*
President Felicia Jackson yawned. It was late and she was fighting jet lag.
“I’m sorry to bore you,” said the British prime minister. “Usually I’m far more engaging.”
“I’m sorry.” The president sat forward in her seat and reached out to touch the prime minister’s hand. “I don’t intend to be rude. It’s been a long day.”
“I can imagine,” he said. “Making that dreadful flight across the Atlantic. I remember the last time…”
The president checked her watch and tuned out the prime minister. Another half hour and she could leave without causing an international incident. She reached for the cup of coffee next to the large porcelain charger sitting empty at her seat.
She’d eaten only bites of her dinner and eagerly handed the waiter her plate. She’d take Italian or French food over Spanish any day of the week. Paella was next to lawyers on her list of least favorite things.
She took a sip of the coffee and winced at its tepid bitterness. It had been sitting too long and was stronger than she expected. Glancing around the room, she noticed a near-empty table at the back of the room.
“Excuse me,” she said to the prime minister, interrupting his story about a midflight leg massage. “I need to check on one of my staffers.”
“Of course.” He pushed back his chair and stood as the president left the table.
She thanked him and wove her way to the back of the room, occasionally stopping to say hello to other guests as she passed their tables. She reached the back table and noticed two empty seats. Matti was gone, as was Brandon.
“Has anyone seen the man who was sitting here?” she asked the others at the table. She placed both of her hands on the chair back and patted it as she searched the unfamiliar faces staring back at her.
A few of them shook their heads and returned to their conversations, apparently unimpressed by the president of the United States. A couple more told her they hadn’t seen anyone at that seat all night.
“He left a while ago,” offered a woman with a French accent. “The woman who was here left first. Then perhaps a half hour later, he left too.”
“Interesting.” Felicia Jackson rapped her fingers on the chair. “Thank you all.” She quickly moved to her table and pulled her phone from her purse. The president, unlike most of her predecessors, didn’t rely on an aide to carry her personal belongings.
She scrolled through her contacts to find Brandon Goodman’s number and called it. It rang twice before he answered.
“Brandon,” the president started without waiting for a response, “you left without telling me. Where are you?”
“I’m in the hotel,” he answered, breathing heavily. He sounded as if he was running or walking. President Jackson listened for ambient sound to place him. There were no clues.
“Where in the hotel?”
“The lobby.”
“Wait for me,” the president ordered. “I’m coming to talk to you.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.” She caught the eye of a Secret Service agent and motioned him to follow, then marched from the room into the large, wide hallway outside of the banquet room.
Flanked by her security team, Felicia Jackson hurriedly walked to the main lobby. She brushed past an elderly couple moving too slowly, leaving a member of her team to apologize, and pushed her way through the large doors leading to the front entryway of the hotel.
Brandon was standing, phone in hand, waiting for her. He waved awkwardly as she approached, waiting for her to speak first. Jackson eyed him and then glanced past him. She looked toward the grouping of chairs near the reception desk and then beyond the desk to the spiral staircase.
“Where’s Matti?” the president barked as she approached.
“What do you mean?” Brandon shoved his hands into his pockets. “I haven’t seen her since she left the dinner. Is everything okay?”
“Brandon,” the president scolded with one eyebrow raised, “don’t play dumb. Where is she?”
“I’m not playing anything, Madam President. I know you’ve had issues with her lately, as have I, quite frankly, but I don’t know where she is.”
“The only members of my delegation who aren’t at that dinner are me, my guys here, you, and Matti. And I’m here because you are.”
“What are you—?”
“What are you doing with Matti?”
“Listen, Madam President,” Brandon said, widening his stance and setting his jaw, “with all due respect, I don’t get what you’re insinuating. Matti is sick. She’s an addict. Why you still employ her is beyond me. But you do. And so, as your chief, I maintain relationships with everyone in your inner circle. Matti is in that circle until you pull the trigger and remove her.�
��
President Jackson was surprised, but pleased, to see the former Army Ranger show some backbone. “Brandon, I—”
He held up his hand. “Wait a minute, please. Let me finish. Whatever your paranoia is regarding Matti, you need to let me know. I can’t help you if I’m out of the loop.”
The president studied Brandon’s eyes, searching for a twitch. He held her gaze until it was uncomfortable, and she looked down at her feet, considering how to respond. She was concerned that she’d not heard from the assassin that the job was done. However, if there was, in fact, a problem, Brandon would be lying in a bloody, breathless heap next to Matti Harrold.
Nonetheless, Felicia Jackson wasn’t sure she believed Brandon Goodman. She hadn’t hired him because she knew him well. She made him chief because he was an outsider. He’d do her bidding as any good soldier would. Until tonight, she was sure she’d been right about him. He’d done as he was told, carrying out every mission with military precision. He led the West Wing troops with the ease of a natural leader. His experience in the State Department was an asset. His knowledge of the White House in the Foreman administration was invaluable.
“Maybe,” she said, drawing out her words to give her time to think, “I was…a touch brusque. Call it jet lag.”
Brandon nodded, the tension visibly leaving his body. He ran a hand through his hair.
“This is Matti’s last trip with us,” the president revealed. “She’s proving unreliable. Her demons are too strong. I’d so hoped that she would be the trusted sidekick I needed when I stepped into this role.”
“Are you sending her home now?” Brandon asked. “Or are you letting her know when the talks are over?”
“I warned her before the trip.” President Jackson stepped into Brandon’s space, her voice lilting. “I told her to shape up. But leaving dinner tonight? That’s it for me.”
“She wasn’t feeling good.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Brandon. She needed her fix.”
“Perhaps,” Brandon conceded. “Weren’t you counting on her to secure Congress? Don’t you need her to be part of what’s going on here so that she can effectively communicate the urgency of the legislation?”
“No.” Jackson bit her lower lip. “I’m afraid not. I wanted that. It’s too risky. We can’t leave such an important job to her. I need you to keep your distance from her. I need you by my side these next couple of days. Then I’ll send you to the Hill. It’ll be more conciliatory to have you do the pitching, anyhow. Matti’s good looks only get her so far.”
“She’s pretty sharp, Madam President.”
“She was.” Felicia Jackson stepped away from Brandon, pivoting to make her way back to the dinner. “You’ve seen it, soldier. The same moment that brought out the greatness in someone was the same moment that led to his ultimate undoing.”
The president spun and called out to Goodman as she strode away from him, “Get some sleep. I need you sharp in the morning. I’ll tell Matti she’s not needed. We’ll send her home commercial.”
*
Matti sat in the back of a taxicab, listening to the driver talk on his cell phone. She’d hopped in his cab at the end of the long drive leading to the World Trade Center, insisting she wasn’t one of the dozens of protestors crowding the edges of the boulevard.
She looked at the empty seat next to her and wondered what she’d do when she arrived at the janitor’s apartment. She was alone in a foreign city. What good could she do against a murderous would-be terrorist?
When Brandon’s phone rang, their plans had changed. He’d told her to run, not walk, from the lobby and find her way to the janitor’s place. He’d be right behind her, he promised.
She’d walked briskly from the lobby, pulled off her heels once she’d passed security at the entry, and ran to find a cab. The driver was at a red light, not expecting a fare when she’d slipped into the back of the black Prius with the bright yellow doors.
Matti checked her phone, wishing for a text from Brandon. None came. As they neared the address she’d given the driver, he slowed.
“I don’t think I can take you any farther,” he said in broken, Spanish-accented English. “The road is blocked.”
Matti looked up from her phone and squinted against the flashing lights fifty yards ahead of them. She leaned forward and looked through the windshield.
“What happened?” she asked. “Is it an accident?”
“I don’t know. It’s blocked. You have to get out here.”
Matti passed the driver twenty euro and slid out of the Prius. She walked toward the flashing lights. The closer she got, the more she understood the scene unfolding in front of her.
This wasn’t an accident scene; it was a crime scene.
Sitting on the curb was a young man bathed in alternating light and darkness, his head in his hands. An older man sat next to him, his arms draped over the young man in consolation. There was organized chaos swarming around them.
Matti counted four police cars and an ambulance. There were another three unmarked cars she assumed belonged to investigators. There was a cadre of black-clad, beret-wearing police officers clustered near the front of a building. Above them was a neon green cross, the emblem for a pharmacy.
Groups of men walked in and out of the business, talking and gesticulating. Matti moved closer to the yellow plastic tape separating the scene from the crowd gathering outside of it.
She checked her phone. Nothing yet.
“What happened?” she asked a sweater-cloaked elderly woman standing amongst the onlookers.
The woman looked up at Matti, her hand over her mouth, and shook her head.
“A woman was murdered,” said a man standing behind the elderly lady. “Somebody killed her. Her brother found her. He’s the one sitting over there.”
“Murdered?” Matti stepped closer to the man. “How?”
“I don’t know,” he said, rubbing the scruff on his chin. “She was a nice lady. Always helpful.”
Matti thanked him and looked past the activity on the other side of the tape to the pharmacy building. Next door was an oddly colored high-rise. It almost looked purple and orange in the dark and strobing emergency lights.
Matti opened the Internet browser on her phone and punched in the janitor’s address. She tapped the link for a Street View image. The photograph on the screen matched the building next to the pharmacy.
She moved through the crowd, pushing her way more closely to the apartment building. She got within twenty feet or so of the entrance before she was certain it was behind the tape.
Her phone buzzed. It was Brandon.
I am on my way. U ok?
Matti saw the man on the curb, the victim’s brother, talking to someone she assumed was a detective. The brother was shaking his fists. The detective had his hand on the brother’s shoulder. She looked back to her phone and replied to Brandon.
I’m good. Have cab stop on the corner. I’ll meet you there.
Matti hit send and started walking away from the scene. By the time she reached the corner, Brandon was stepping from his cab.
“What’s going on?” He nodded past Matti’s shoulder toward the flashing emergency lights. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. A woman was murdered in a pharmacy down there. It’s next door to the janitor’s apartment building.”
“That’s weird.” Brandon took a step closer to Matti.
“It is. It’s got to be connected somehow. Regardless, we can’t get into the apartment building right now.”
“So what do you want to do?” Brandon put his hand on Matti’s shoulder. “We can’t wait around the rest of the night.”
“We could.”
“I’ve got a few hours, I guess,” Brandon said after checking the clock on his phone. “The president wants me with her first thing tomorrow.”
Matti turned back to look Brandon in his eyes. “Yeah, what was that about? Why did she need to see you?”
“She
thought I was with you,” Brandon said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “I assured her I wasn’t.”
“And she bought it?”
“I guess.” Brandon shrugged. “If not, I probably wouldn’t be here.”
“You know she thinks I’m dead or soon will be.”
“Yeah. That’s why she told me she was sending you home. She said she’s handling it personally. You’re to be on a commercial flight in the morning.”
“So you believe me when I tell you President Jackson tried to have me killed?”
Brandon nodded without saying anything. His hands were on his hips. He looked down at the sidewalk and kicked his toe into the brick.
“Let’s wait for the scene to clear,” Matti said. “You’ve got until sunrise, right?”
“Probably. The first meetings are at seven. What’s the plan?”
“I don’t know.” Matti shrugged. “We’ll wing it. You have a lamp with you?”
Matti had no idea where she’d found humor. Her life was in danger, she’d discovered the president was a mafia boss, and there was an imminent terrorist attack she was trying to stop. Maybe it was a coping mechanism.
“Not funny.” Brandon frowned. “Not funny at all.”
*
Jon Custos peeked through the thin opening between two blue curtains framing the bedroom window, looking down on the anthill madness beneath him. This wasn’t good. He’d not anticipated anyone finding the pharmacist’s body so quickly.
Another unforgivable mistake!
His eyes darted from the grieving man on the sidewalk to the crowd huddled on the other side of the street. Several of them crossed themselves, and he followed their line of sight to see the gurney emerge from the pharmacy. The woman’s body was strapped underneath a blue sheet.
The griever dropped to his knees and slapped the brick sidewalk repeatedly. Uniformed police officers tried to comfort him. He shook free from their hold and curled into a ball, wailing as the gurney clunked into the back of an ambulance.
