“Well, I know it says Federal Reserve on our money. You’d think it was a government agency.”
“Is Federal Express a government agency?”
“No.” Sullivan laughed. “They’re too damn efficient.”
“As I understand, the Federal Reserve tells Treasury to print more money or simply creates it on its balance sheet by buying Treasury bonds with its own Federal Reserve Notes. Money flows into the financial system and commercial banks charge you interest. As a taxpayer, you’re also on the hook for the Treasury bonds purchased to back the currency. A growing number of people think that’s a raw deal, even unconstitutional. They think the U.S. government should be directly responsible and accountable for the country’s money.”
“What do you think?”
“The argument’s above my pay grade. Like most things, there are probably points on both sides. I do know disagreement doesn’t give anyone the right to assassination.”
“Did you make Luguire’s security arrangements?”
“Hell, no.” Mullins waved to the building in front of them. “Do you think I’d have him in an apartment building accessible with a keypad? Luguire conceded to the bare minimum of having an armed escort when working. And we provided protection if he attended some big event on his own time. He stayed here because it was close to his grandkids.”
“What was his job?”
“He was the guy who interfaced with Treasury. He made sure enough money flowed into the banking system.”
“His daughter said you were his main bodyguard.”
Mullins caught his breath. “Did she find him?”
“Yes. She got the text that he was tied up. Then, after practice, when she and her sons got to their car, they found a flat tire. She had to call her husband to put on the spare. They didn’t get home till after eight. She tried her father several times, but he never answered. She got a funny feeling. Even if he was busy, he’d always text her during a break. She was afraid he’d fallen, or maybe had a heart attack. She drove over after eleven, leaving her husband with the kids.”
“She found him by herself?”
“Yeah. You can imagine the shock.”
Mullins sighed. “No, I can’t.”
The two men drank their coffee in silence for a moment. Then Mullins gestured to the evidence bag on the dash. “Did he leave the note for his daughter?”
“I guess. And the rest of the world. He wrote, ‘I’m sorry. I want to be with Elaine. I’m not as tough as I thought I’d be. Please understand.’ His daughter said Elaine was her mother.”
“Yeah. She was killed in a car wreck three years ago. He’d talk about her sometimes.”
“Did you get the impression he’d die to be with her?”
“No. Not a chance. The fact that he was hurting would keep him from doing something so stupid. He would never pass that kind of pain along to his family.”
Sullivan studied the other man over the rim of his coffee. “You liked him, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. We kinda hit it off. We found we had things in common. My wife died about the same time as his. My daughter lives close by. I’ve got a two-year-old grandson who means the world to me.”
“What happened to your wife?”
“Ovarian cancer. Laurie thought she had the flu. The cancer that whispers, they call it. When the symptoms arise, it’s in the late stages.” He paused as the remembered horror of the diagnosis flowed over him. “Laurie showed me how to die with dignity.”
“I’m sorry,” Sullivan said.
“I am too. And so was Luguire about his wife. But Paul Luguire would also die with dignity. Not as a bloody mess for his daughter to discover.”
“I saw powder burns on his hand and on his temple.”
“He didn’t swallow his gun?”
“No. I know. That’s the way most people do it so they can’t jerk the gun away at the last second.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“What bank did he use for the ATM?”
“The BB&T in Clarendon.”
“That is odd, and that he’d set up the Saturday T-ball date.”
“Did you check his phone to see if he got any calls after I left him?”
“Yes. Nothing. We saw the text he sent to his daughter. We’ll review the records from his cell service as well.”
Mullins eyed the evidence bag again. “You brought that with you. Can I take a look?”
Sullivan switched on the courtesy light. “You should be able to read it through the plastic.”
Mullins angled the bag toward the light. A few bloody spots stained the right edge of the paper. Maybe blowback from the head wound. The letters were written with shaky cursive script in royal blue ink. He read the words Sullivan had told him. Then he re-read it. This time one phrase stopped him cold. “It’s a double s,” he whispered.
“What?” Sullivan leaned over to see.
“Here.” Mullins touched the protective cover. “It’s not ‘as tough as I thought I’d be,’ it’s ‘as tough ass.’ Luguire learned Rusty wasn’t my only nickname. Some of my Secret Service colleagues call me Rusty Nails. Luguire teased me in the car yesterday, calling me ‘tough-ass Nails.’ He didn’t write this note to his daughter. He didn’t write it to the world. He wrote it to me.”
Chapter Five
Amanda Church maneuvered her black BMW convertible off Connecticut Avenue and down Tilden to Rock Creek Parkway. The woodland road was her favorite route into the heart of D.C., and with the morning traffic pattern turning both lanes inbound, it was also her fastest.
At seven, the June humidity had yet to build to smothering oppression. The car’s open top allowed the cool air to flow over Amanda like an invigorating stream, energizing her for the challenges of the day. As she neared the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, she cranked up the all-news radio station to catch the morning headlines. The lead for the local news grabbed her attention.
“The Arlington Police have reported the death of Federal Reserve executive Paul Luguire. Mr. Luguire’s body was discovered by his daughter late last night at his residence in Clarendon. Preliminary evidence suggests Mr. Luguire took his own life. A statement is expected later this morning by Federal Reserve Chairman Hugh Radcliffe. Financial markets are expected to pay close attention, and it is anticipated Chairman Radcliffe will speak prior to the opening of the New York Stock Exchange in an effort to alleviate any investor jitters. Unofficial sources say Mr. Luguire had suffered bouts of depression since the death of his wife.”
Amanda clicked off the radio. Yeah, she thought, that’s what they would say. Anything to divert concerns away from the Federal Reserve. The day would become a zoo at the office. At least she was in Federal Reserve security and not public relations, but something this big would affect all departments.
She wanted to call her husband Curtis. He’d taken the previous night’s last red-eye from Dulles to Paris where he was researching his new thriller. He’d crash at his usual hotel, the Odéon Saint-Germain on the Left Bank, and though it was early afternoon in France, he probably wouldn’t be up till supper. Curtis claimed he wrote best at night. Amanda now felt like a character worthy of one of his intricate plots.
She wanted to wake him up and tell him what the newscast reported. She wanted to review her options. But that might put both of them in danger, as much danger as Luguire had encountered.
No, she’d head straight to her office and act the way she’d be expected to act if she didn’t know there was more to the story.
There was only one person she would tell, one person she felt confident would believe her. She had to arrange a meeting as soon as possible. No one else could be trusted. Now everything depended upon Rusty Mullins.
***
Over 3800 miles away, Amanda’s husband wasn’t
asleep. Instead, Curtis Jordan sat alone at a table in Aux deux Oliviers and finished a light lunch of an assortment of cheeses, a baguette, and a half bottle of Tavel Rosé. Since the restaurant was across the street from the Luxembourg Gardens, he planned a short stroll and counted on the wine and exercise to relax him enough that he’d catch up on his sleep during the afternoon. He wanted to be well rested before facing the task of reining his story into the structure that would create a satisfying conclusion.
Gimmicks like coincidence or the introduction of last-minute characters who provided solutions weren’t the trademarks of a consummate craftsman. Curtis Jordan prided himself on developing stories whose endings weren’t predictable but were inevitable. The conclusion was the only one possible and every brick, every stone of the story had been chosen and constructed to provide the climax and resolution.
Sometimes minor characters would take over or events cause unintended consequences that propelled the story in a new direction. Jordan liked that part of the creative process as long as he controlled the final destination.
He signaled the waiter for his bill and pulled his iPad from the small briefcase he always carried. The Coach-leather satchel also held his fountain pen and writing journal—a spectrum of technology spanning centuries. Jordan neither wrote nor surfed the Internet during a meal, but while the waiter brought his check, he logged on to his home page, the website of the International Herald Tribune.
The headline on the lower lefthand column read “Federal Reserve executive found dead.” Jordan enlarged the font to avoid pulling his reading glasses from his pocket. The story was rudimentary coverage: Paul Luguire’s daughter discovering his body, Chairman Radcliffe planning to make an announcement, an anonymous police quote of suspected suicide, and the link to Luguire’s possible depression. Jordan exited the page and dropped the electronic tablet back in his briefcase.
He understood his wife’s morning had just been shot to hell. He thought about calling her, but at this point he had nothing to offer. She’d reach him if she needed him. The Fed would circle the wagons, its security department would react to Luguire’s death as a threat until proven otherwise, and Amanda would rely on her old Secret Service confidant, Russell Mullins, the man Jordan suspected would do everything in his power to discover the truth of what happened to Paul Luguire.
Jordan left eight Euros for the waiter, exited the restaurant, and started walking through Luxembourg Gardens. He blended in with the Parisians, trim and fit, not like so many of the fast-food-fed Americans swarming over the tourist sites. His good looks and charm even drew the attraction of French women. As a class, Jordan considered them the most beautiful in the world.
But Amanda was now the most important character in his life and he wouldn’t screw that up over something as mundane as an affair. That might work in fiction, but Curtis Jordan knew the line between fantasy and reality was one he never crossed.
Chapter Six
Rusty Mullins splashed cold water on his face and stared into the bathroom mirror. Two hours of fitful sleep left him looking like he’d been on a three-day drunk.
It was seven in the morning and the man he was supposed to pick up in an hour lay dead in the Arlington morgue. Mullins’ day wouldn’t be much better. The overnight interrogation by Detective Sullivan was only the beginning.
Prime Protection would put him through an extensive debriefing and then draw up an official report. At least that should insulate him from any direct contacts with the media or the security department at the Federal Reserve. If Luguire’s death drew the interest of a congressional committee, then that was a different matter. He’d be called to testify and there would be no hiding behind a company document.
Whether Prime Protection or anyone other than Detective Sullivan cared about Mullins’ assertion that Luguire had been murdered would soon become apparent. And without compelling physical evidence, even Sullivan would move on to other cases.
Mullins’ cellphone scooted along the vanity toward the basin. He snatched it up before the vibrate mode dumped it in the water. “Kayli” flashed on the caller ID.
His heart rate jumped. “Everything all right?”
“Yes, Dad. But are you okay?”
“You heard about Luguire?” He grabbed a towel from the rack and dabbed his cheeks and eyes.
“Sandy called a few minutes ago.”
“Who?”
“Sandy Beecham. You met her. Her boy Luke is Josh’s age.”
“Right. Your neighbor.” He folded the towel and set it on the vanity. “She called this early?”
“Her husband works for the Fed. She knows you’re with Mr. Luguire.”
“Not any more.”
His daughter said nothing. Mullins knew his bitter tone put her off.
“Sorry. I got called by the police last night and went to the scene.”
“I figured as much, but I wanted to make sure you knew.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
“So, you want breakfast?”
“Where?”
“Here. Josh is still sleeping. But seeing Paw Paw when he wakes up will make his day.”
Mullins glanced at his watch. Five after seven. “I’ll be there in thirty. Have a fresh pot ready.”
He clicked off and then speed dialed the number to his supervisor’s direct line. As he expected, voicemail answered the call. “Ted. I spent most of the night with the Arlington police. I’ll be in at ten. Obviously, we need to talk.”
Mullins pulled a clean blue suit and white shirt out of the closet. His face might look like hell but his wardrobe would be fresh.
He checked the safety on his Glock and dropped an extra ammo clip in his pocket. His request for a leave of absence would be a courtesy. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He knew what he had to do. He just didn’t know where to start.
Chapter Seven
“Start at the beginning.” Ted Lewison slid Mullins a mug of fresh coffee.
The two men were alone at the conference table. Lewison, the younger by a few years, could see his employee was upset. That was a first. The veteran Secret Service agent never got rattled, never displayed emotion. In a company with low-maintenance professionals, Mullins was no-maintenance.
Lewison respected Mullins. He learned things from the man, things the U.S. Army hadn’t taught him. The military had been the quickest way for Lewison to get out of his poor African-American neighborhood in Baltimore. He’d spent twelve years in the service, gaining experience as an MP and warrant officer. He commanded protection details for politicians and high-profile civilians visiting war-torn regions all over the globe.
Twice he’d lost so-called dignitaries, and both times the men had deviated from security protocol, claiming they knew how to take care of themselves. Their deaths had been blemishes on his record even though they’d clearly gone against Lewison’s orders. He resented being held accountable for someone else’s arrogance and stupidity.
He took an honorable discharge, applied for a minority business loan from a Washington community development organization, and spent ten years building Prime Protection into one of the premier personal security firms in D.C. His company couldn’t be held responsible for Luguire’s suicide and therefore he placed no blame on Mullins for the desperate action of a troubled client.
Lewison knew Mullins had developed a good relationship with Luguire and suspected the man was grieving for the loss of a friend. Understandable. Once they got this debriefing behind them, Lewison would find Mullins a new assignment. The best therapy would be to get him back in the field as soon as possible.
Mullins took a sip of coffee, his fourth cup of the morning. “When’s the beginning?”
“Yesterday morning will do. I’m not interested in trying to reconstruct some psychological profile. I’m confident if something seemed wrong before the
n, you would have reported it.”
“Yesterday was no different. I picked him up at eight.”
“Where?”
“The garage under his apartment building. I always phone him after I enter and check the location. Luguire steps straight from the elevator into the car. No more than six feet.”
“How did he seem?”
“A little preoccupied, but that’s not unusual. We exchanged pleasantries. He opened his briefcase and started reading documents. He had meetings at his office, and then I took him to an economic symposium at Georgetown. One of those lunch and panel deals. That went till two. I drove him back to the Fed. He had a late afternoon security meeting.”
Lewison cocked his head with heightened interest. “Security? Did that involve you?”
“No. Transaction security.” Mullins smiled. “Luguire said he wished we could create a virtual me who could stand guard at the window.”
“What window?”
“He was referring to when the Regional Federal Reserve Banks made funds available to banks through a discount window, not so dissimilar to you or me going up to a teller. Now it’s all done electronically.”
Lewison relaxed. “Nobody carries cash anymore.”
“Including Luguire.” Mullins detailed the drive to Clarendon and the swing by the ATM. “And that’s one of the reasons I know Luguire didn’t commit suicide.”
“He didn’t?” Lewison asked the question with genuine surprise. “An accident? Was he cleaning a gun?”
Mullins leaned across the table. “Luguire was murdered. I don’t know how or why, but there’s not a doubt in my mind.”
“Do the police think that?”
The 13th Target Page 3
