The Inverted Pyramid (An Alex Vane Media Thriller, Book 2)

by A. C. Fuller

  "Right, he invited all the big-name guys, plus me. I was the only non-star, but, hell, I go to these things so that one day I can get a job after all this ends."

  "And you used to be a star," Lance added.

  "Anyway, I'm at the party, trying to meet everyone I can. Couple big-wig Democrats are there. Mayor of Albany, former DA, and a bunch of Kerry staffers. I'm a Democrat. Always have been, though I never paid too much attention to politics. So it was kinda cool. This one guy, Kenny White was there."

  Lance took a long, slow sip of his Scotch. "You said Kenny White?"

  "Yeah, you know him?"

  "I've heard the name."

  Darryl sipped his beer. "I think he'd recently been fired or something. And he was drinking hard. Whisky on the rocks, all night. One after another. Every time I saw him, he was at the bar.

  "And he was a big Yankees fan. Kept trying to talk to me. Remembered games I'd played better than I did. Throughout the night, he got more and more hammered. And the more hammered he got, the more he talked. Finally, I just got sick of him reciting stats from twelve years ago, and asking me why I don't use the change-up more, so I started asking him about politics."

  A light flickered near them and a small group of people passed their table. Darryl glanced around, then locked eyes with Greta.

  "Go on," she said.

  "At one point, I asked him, 'Who do you think's gonna win in November?' I was just trying to make conversation. Kenny laughed, downed his drink, and got another from the bar. 'What's so funny?' I asked him when he got back.

  "'You think we have elections?' he said. I laughed because he was slurring his words and I thought he said 'erections.' But he hadn't. He said elections, and I felt like he was laughing at me. I felt stupid.

  "It was late, and I don't like feeling stupid, so I got up in his face. Asked him what he meant. He tried to look right at me, but he could hardly keep focused. He kinda tipped back and I held him by the shoulders of the blue linen suit he was wearing. Even though I'm the star, when a preppy looking white guy falls down, I still think I'm gonna get blamed, so I kinda held him up. The party was thinning out, and I hated this little prick, but I held him there so he wouldn't fall.

  "I gritted my teeth at the little bastard, whose eyes were kinda rolling back in his head. Asked him again what he meant.

  "He got kinda clear for a second and glanced over my shoulder, then tried to point, but it was more of a wave in the direction of Jacobson. Then he said—and I'll never forget it, he said—'Bush is gonna win the election because that guy blew a chance to buy it for five million bucks.'"

  Darryl drank a third of his beer in one long swig. "He said it matter of factly. Like it was just normal. He wasn't surprised, even. Just disappointed. Felt like, 'Damn, we coulda had it, but Jacobson was too cheap.' Like the election was over."

  "Jacobson is here," Lance said.

  Greta looked around the bar.

  "No, not here, but in Boston, at this series. He often travels with the team and I've been trying to get an interview with him for the steroids piece."

  "So, wait. Did he say anything else? Or just that Jacobson could have bought the election?"

  "That was it, but he called me the next day, too. Not even sure how he got my number, but he called my cell."

  "What'd he say?" Lance asked.

  "Made jokes for a bit, like we were old pals. Best of friends. I was just humoring the asshole. I assumed he barely remembered the night before. I sure as hell wanted to avoid talking about it. Finally, toward the end of the call, he said—and I'll never forget it, because it was like he turned into a gremlin or something, went from all friendly 'hey bro' talk to a little monster—he said, 'You failed a drug test four years ago. Jacobson got it swiped from the record. No suspension. You remember what I told you last night? About Jacobson, about the election?' I told him I remembered. 'Tell anyone I said that, and your drug test hits the public record. And you don't make the hall of fame.'"

  Greta saw tears in his eyes. He wiped them away and wiped his hand on the sleeve of his jacket.

  "I used steroids three or four times, just to recover from my injury in 2000. I knew the Yanks were doing internal testing, and I knew they'd caught me. But the league never did. How this little bastard found out, I don't know." He looked over at Lance. "I swear to God, it was just to recover from an injury. I just wanted to play."

  "Darryl," Lance leaned in. "This guy, Kenny. If he found out, it was probably from Jacobson himself, right? Who else knew?"

  "Well, I don't know for sure, but probably the GM, maybe the manager, maybe the other owners. I'm no Jeter, but at the time, I was a big deal. They wanted to protect me."

  "Who spoke to you about it?" Lance asked.

  "It was Jacobson himself. Got a call when I was down in the clubhouse, hour before a game. Secretary told me to come up. You get a call like that and you think you've been traded. I wasn't too worried, because I'd been having a great year."

  "What'd he say?" Greta asked softly.

  "Said I'd tested positive. Steroids, amphetamines. Said the league didn't know and asked if I was still on the stuff. I said I wasn't, even though I was. He just patted my knee like the grandfather in a Werther's Original commercial and said it was no big deal. I went back to the clubhouse and flushed the rest of the stuff. Been clean since."

  They all sat in silence for a minute, then Greta reached out and took Darryl's hand. It was strong and muscular and felt relaxed. "Darryl, when Kenny was saying that, the thing about the election . . ."

  "What?" Darryl asked.

  "I guess what I mean is, do you think Kenny White is the kind of drunk who gets intoxicated and starts making stuff up? Or is he the kind who gets drunk and starts telling the truth?"

  "I don't know him except for that one night," Darryl said, "but he was telling the truth. Jacobson coulda bought this election for five million dollars. I don't know why or how any of this works. But I know White was telling the truth."

  Greta glanced at Lance. "Something about that hacker Alex mentioned? The one connected to Kenny White. Bhootbhai, or something?"

  "Who the hell is that?" Darryl asked.

  "We don't know," Lance said. "But I bet Jacobson does. And I know how we're going to get him to tell us."

  41

  The sun dipped behind the evergreens as Camila drove them to the storage container to meet Endo. By the time Alex had cell reception, they were halfway across the island, and the sky had taken on a deep salmon hue.

  Lance picked up on the first ring. "Alex, I was about to call you, I have news that—"

  "It can't be more important than what I have."

  "It could be."

  Alex could barely hear him. "Lance, what? You're breaking up." He shook his Blackberry, hoping to get a better signal. "Lance?"

  "Al-ex?"

  "Yeah, I can hear you now. Island cell service."

  "Talk, dammit. What did you have to tell me?"

  Alex explained the call with Sadie and recited from memory every word that hadn't been blacked out on the CIA document. "Sadie assumes it was one of the people she called who sent it. Apparently, the CIA will occasionally send out memos like this to people working with them in other branches of government. She thinks someone wanted her to understand that they'd been instructed to use that line about the gambling, and that was why it matched exactly what she'd heard on the phone from multiple people."

  Lance sighed on the line. "So, what the hell does all this mean? Shit."

  "We know that McGregor was taking bribes to try to influence future FCC officers. And we know that the CIA was watching him. And if they sent this memo out a few days before our story, they probably knew that The Times had the story and was sitting on it."

  "Hell, they probably leaned on The Times to hold the story in the first place. Or someone did on their behalf."

  Camila turned onto a side street just a few blocks from the storage center, and as they passed under a canopy of c
edar trees, the car suddenly grew dark.

  Alex said, "So, after they figured out that it was going to be a story, they wanted to get the information out there to make it seem like McGregor was acting alone. Basically, giving us a story that explained why he'd be corrupt."

  "Diverting us from the fact that the corruption goes much higher."

  Alex thought for a moment, then said, "Here's what I don't get: why would the CIA be watching this guy in the first place?"

  "They watch everyone who works for them."

  "You mean, like, he was an informant or something?"

  "Get your head out of your ass, Alex. You know there's a revolving door between lobbying firms, congress, the CIA, and private corporations. If I had to take a guess, a private company is using McGregor and the CIA to exert pressure on some aspect of politics. Maybe The Times got wind of something, and the company fed them McGregor, via the CIA. Then they followed up with the disinformation about McGregor and his gambling to help with the cover-up."

  "But what company would, or even could, do that?"

  "I don't know," Lance said. "But it makes me wonder whether it connects to Kenny White."

  "You found out something?"

  "Yeah, guy up here says he—that the democrats or the Kerry campaign—could have bought the election for five million."

  "Wait, slow down. Start from the beginning."

  Lance talked Alex through the story about Darryl Cox, Kenny White, and Larry Jacobson, concluding with the meeting he'd set up with Jacobson for the next evening at the Yankees-Red Sox game.

  "I've heard Jacobson is a bit . . . weird," Alex said.

  "He's batshit crazy is what he is."

  Camila stopped the car in the parking lot, which was lit by four motion-sensor floodlights that cast sharp beams and angular shadows across the lot. She and Alex got out of the car and headed toward the gate as he continued talking to Lance.

  "So, if Jacobson could've bought the election, and somehow Kenny White knew about it, what's the connection between White and this Bhootbhai person?" he asked. "From what we read in Innerva's e-mail to James, I'd guess that he was doing opposition research or something."

  "But for a third party, not for the other campaign," Lance suggested.

  "A special interest group? Maybe a company? A company powerful enough to influence CIA leaks about low-level congressmen?"

  "I don't know. But I believe Darryl. He's not lying to us. If he says this Kenny guy told him Jacobson could have bought the election, I believe him."

  42

  Alex slid the door up with a loud creak, stepping back instinctively to avoid cobwebs.

  "I think we cleared them all out last time," Camila said.

  He eased inside and sat on a box in the corner, then rested his feet on another. "You know, despite everything, I'm actually beginning to feel a little better."

  "Why do you think that is?"

  "I think . . . just knowing what happened. I wouldn't say I feel good, but just knowing. I feel like I really want to look into my parents a little more, get to know them better. Being home is probably good for me, too, even given the circumstances."

  "I can see why people love it here. It's so beautiful. The air is so fresh."

  "Yeah, even in an old, dusty storage container, the air is refreshing compared to Manhattan."

  He started opening a box in front of him, but was interrupted by Detective Endo, who announced his arrival with a tap on the side of the container and a loud, "Hello, Alex."

  After a couple of minutes of small talk, Alex filled Endo in on the new information—the calls from his source, the clues about earlier murders, the story he'd heard from the psychiatrist in New Orleans, and the letter he'd found from Bice to his mother. "I can only assume that there is more to be found in these boxes," he concluded, standing and handing the detective the letter. "My bet is that, if you go through all this, you'll find multiple threats."

  Endo eyed the letter for a few seconds, then scanned the container. "Gonna be a lot to get through. And I'm not gonna lie, a thirty-year-old letter isn't exactly a smoking gun, even if it contains threats."

  Alex walked to the door of the shed. "But you said the crash never felt right from the beginning, right?"

  "I was a new officer then, so I didn't trust myself yet. But, yeah. My concern had to do with why your parents—" Endo stopped himself and went quiet.

  "It's okay," Alex said. "I can take it."

  "Why your parents didn't get out of the car. They definitely swerved off the road, could have been to avoid a deer, could have been . . . well, who knows? But they hit the tree while they couldn't have been going more than forty. Didn't seem fast enough to knock them out, and according to the coroner, they didn't die from . . . well . . . the impact wasn't strong enough to . . ."

  Alex braced himself internally. "Just say it."

  "They burned alive."

  As he pictured it, Alex's head dropped into his hands.

  "Do we really need to go over this?" Camila asked.

  "No," Endo said. "We don't. But I had no idea there was so much here, and I can't take it all now."

  Alex looked up at Endo. "I can give you the key. I want to stay with their things a little while longer, but I'll give you the key now, then lock the door with the padlock when I leave."

  Endo nodded.

  As Alex tossed him the key, he said, "One more question. Say they swerved off the road and didn't get knocked out. Was there any evidence that they'd been trapped in the car?"

  "There wasn't. But, honestly, we weren't looking for any. At first, the crash seemed pretty obvious. We don't get much of anything out here, so we weren't even looking."

  Endo stuck the key in his pocket and turned to leave.

  "Wait, can you take Camila back to the hotel?"

  Camila glanced at Alex. "Why?"

  "I want to spend a little time with this stuff. We've got a few hours before we need to head to the airport, and I . . . I don't know. I'm alright. I just want to be alone, you know?"

  She stared at him for a few seconds, then said, "Okay. Don't stay more than an hour, though."

  Alex nodded and Camila threw him the keys to Betty's car, then followed Endo toward the parking lot.

  When he'd told Camila he was alright, he'd been telling the truth. He figured that he knew what he needed to know, and a little time with his parents' possessions would bring him closure.

  But one question was still nagging at him: how could his source know Bice had killed his parents, unless the source was Bice himself? And, regardless of who his source was, why was he being led to the evidence now?

  He cracked open the box in which he'd found the letter from Bice, and thumbed through a scattered mess of papers—birthday cards from his mother's mother, letters to and from prospective publishers and poet friends, even some old, unopened bills.

  He found a few more letters from Bice and read them, not sure what he was looking for. They were all similar in tone to the one he'd read the day before. Mostly rambling, some containing vague memories of Bice's father, some recalling fond memories of his relationship with Alex's mother—referred to throughout as "Dearest Martha." None contained explicit threats, but he stacked them neatly for Endo. He hoped that, when reviewed together, they'd be enough to establish a pattern of stalking behavior.

  After finishing the letters from Bice, he leaned over and opened the box of books Camila had been sorting through. On top was the large pulpit bible his mother had kept in her office. She'd been a bit of a scholar, like Camila, and liked to use religious imagery in her poems.

  At the bottom of the box was a small red bible with a smooth, red leather cover. He thumbed through the pages, which were crisp and new. It didn't appear to have been opened before.

  He flipped through the book, reading the first few lines of several passages, hoping for inspiration.

  Corinthians 2:1: Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ by the will of God, and Timothy our brother, unto the
church of God which is at Corinth, with all the saints which are in all Achaia . . .

  James 1: James, a servant of God and of the Lord Jesus Christ, to the twelve tribes which are scattered abroad, greeting . . .

  Peter 2:2: But there were false prophets also among the people, even as there shall be false teachers among you, who privily shall bring in damnable heresies, even denying the Lord that bought them, and bring upon themselves swift destruction.

  He didn't know what he was doing. He slammed the book and threw it on top of the box. As it landed, it cracked open to the flyleaf.

  That's when he saw an inscription, written in neat cursive and dark blue ink.

  He grabbed the book and swiveled around so that his back was to the opening of the container, allowing in just enough moonlight to read the note. He scanned down to the end, and saw that it was signed "D.B." and dated July 2, 1971, just after the end of the school year his mother had spent at Tulane.

  He swallowed hard and read.

  Dearest Martha,

  When you left, I felt nothing for a while. About two weeks later, I found myself at the drugstore, the one on the corner next to the hamburger place where you spilled the vanilla malt on your sweater.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I was filling a prescription for sleeping pills. I went to the lawn in the quad, under the oak tree—the one where we shared our first kiss—and I took the whole bottle. Thirty of them.

  I woke up in the hospital. My stomach had been pumped. Apparently, campus police found me unconscious.

  But I was alive.

  I realized then that I hate my life. As you know, I was not raised with religion, and I have not adopted one. Those of us without religion, without faith, have to find a way to live.

  Remember that night we talked about Nietzsche and Rumi? The place beyond good and evil, the field beyond right and wrong? Those of us who live there need to make up a way to live. Something to live by.

  So, I've chosen to believe that if I kill myself, I will be doomed to repeat this life. Maybe it will be in hell, like some believe. And maybe I will be reincarnated on a lower rung, as others believe. Or maybe it's Nietzsche's eternal recurrence. I'm not sure.