Despite his age, he looked dashing. Slim. Self-assured. Cocky.
“No, not at all . . . I mean, I’m sorry she can’t join us, of course.” She smiled at him slowly. “Perhaps another time.”
“Of course.”
She let him in. “Forgive the mess. I’m still unpacking. At least I have my furniture in place. Thank you for the bubbly. Why don’t you put it over on the counter?”
“Certainly . . . Does the apartment suit you? If not—”
“Oh, no! I love it!”
She strolled over to the floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading to the balcony. She felt his eyes on her as she moved, glad she’d decided on a short red skirt and matching heels instead of slacks. The dusk sky held a faint, glowing memory of the day. Below, the Friday evening traffic hugged the curves of the Potomac, and the lights of the city sparkled all the way to the horizon.
“What a gorgeous view.”
“It certainly is,” he said behind her, a slight stress in his voice.
She smiled to herself and remained silent, letting the tension mount.
“Perhaps I should open the bottle now,” he said.
“Perhaps you should,” she said, without turning.
In a moment she heard the pop, the clink of glass-on-glass as he poured.
“Where would you like it, Emmalee?”
“Why don’t you bring it over here, Avery?” she answered, still not turning.
She heard his footsteps behind her.
So, this is how it’s going to be . . .
2
Café Normandie looked out upon Main Street, just a few blocks up from the Annapolis city dock. It was a local favorite for its Old World ambiance, superb French cuisine, and excellent wine list. To get good seating on a Friday evening, Hunter had to make the reservation well in advance.
They faced each other across a table of gray marble, in a booth of dark oak. Above the matching wainscoting, rough plaster walls rose to a ceiling of exposed oak beams. Though the walk from the parking spot had been chilly, they now enjoyed the warmth of the glassed-in fireplace, which stood on a stone base in the middle of the dining room.
He looked up from the menu to catch Annie staring at his face, shaking her head.
“What?”
“I’m sure glad you warned me in advance about how you got those scratches and bruises. Otherwise, I would have thought . . .” She let the thought trail off.
“That I had broken my promise,” he finished. “That I’d gone after another target.”
She nodded.
“I told you: The Vigilante has retired.”
She shrugged. With her, even a simple movement like that was so graceful that he found it erotic. Like himself, she was dressed casually: a tailored jacket of chestnut suede over a white blouse and snug brown slacks. Strands of her deep auburn hair glowed red in the soft light of the wall sconce.
“But while I may look awful, you are a vision, Annie Woods.”
Her gray cat’s eyes sparkled. “Thank you. I just hope this fight doesn’t leave you with any more scars.”
“Aw, you love my scars. Maybe I’ll add an eye patch, and you can pretend I’m a pirate. Arrrrrgh.”
She laughed.
“Dylan . . . do you think Cyrano will be okay out on the sun porch till we get back?”
“Oh, sure. Nothing valuable out there for him to chew on. And that lets Luna have the run of the house.”
She nodded. But still looked pensive.
“You look far away,” he said.
She gave her head a little shake. “Sorry. Just bringing work thoughts to dinner with me.”
“So how’s it going?”
“Grant seems more worried by the day. Over the reorganization”—she lowered her voice and leaned in—“and over the mole. He’s been brooding and not talking much.”
“Maybe we can invite him for dinner again next week. I could try to draw him out.”
“We could. You’re good at that, Dylan.”
“I’m just sorry we can’t spend all day together tomorrow,” he said. “But I have to attend that funeral for Wonk’s friend. I’ll be back by mid-afternoon, though.”
“That’s okay. I brought a good thriller to read . . . It’s so nice to have an evening’s break like this. It takes my mind off the investigation. I’ll have to stay at my place and work overtime all next week.”
“Then let’s enjoy tonight.” He gestured toward the menu. “Have you decided?”
“Well, I’m in a French restaurant; they’re playing French-café accordion music over the sound system; and I’m sipping French Chardonnay. Should I go rogue and order a burger and fries?”
“French fries? Peut-être. But I think they stopped serving burgers at lunch.”
“Well, then, I’ll just have to suck it up and settle for the Scallops Provençale.”
“Excellent choice, mademoiselle. May I suggest we start with the Baked Brie?”
“Mais oui, monsieur . . . Et pour vous?”
“I’m in the mood for their Angus Steak with Bordelaise Sauce.”
He motioned to their waitress and she came to take their order.
Then he raised his glass of Château Greysac.
“To the love of my life,” he said softly.
She raised her glass to touch his.
“To my man.”
They drank, holding each other’s eyes.
After a moment, she said, “You know . . . we haven’t discussed our plans lately.”
“No. I guess we haven’t,” he said, swirling and studying the wine in his glass.
“Such as, when and where we’ll have the wedding. What kind of honeymoon we want.” She looked down for an instant, then back up at him. “And about maybe having a family.”
He felt his heart beat faster. “Yes. We need to set aside some time to do that.”
“What about now?”
He nodded slowly, but remained silent.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, looking at him closely.
He forced a smile. “Not a thing. I’m fine.”
“No, something is bothering you. Every time I bring up the wedding, you get distant.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit preoccupied with something.”
“Something? What?”
He took a deep breath.
“I’m being tailed by somebody. For the past several weeks.”
Her eyes widened. “Who?”
“It’s the guy from the Linden safe house. The other shooter.”
“What?” She almost dropped her wine glass.
“Shhhh! Take it easy. It’s okay. I—”
“What do you mean, ‘okay’? Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“Because of how you’re reacting right now. I didn’t want to scare you.”
“Shouldn’t I be scared?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. But after what I’ve already put you through—first with Adrian Wulfe, then with Boggs . . .” He stopped. “I just need to make sure you’re safe, until I can deal with this.”
“‘Deal with this.’ You mean deal with him. Like you always do.”
“Annie, please. That’s not what I meant, at all. Let me explain. You see, he saw me out there that day. And I think he must have recognized my face, maybe on TV or in the Inquirer. Once he knew who I was, he found out about my office downtown and tracked me there. Probably through the newspaper. So, I confronted him the other day. In a public place, where it was perfectly safe. I needed to know who he was, who he is working for, how much he knows about me . . . and if he knows about us.”
“And?”
“And he doesn’t. He doesn’t know anything about my past, or where I live, and I’m certain he doesn’t know about us. Now, we have to find out who he is.”
“Just how are we supposed to do that?”
“During our meeting, I managed to get his fingerprints. They’re on a beer glass. And probably his DNA, too, because he drank from it. I have it
back at the house. Since this guy knew about the Linden safe house, Grant will definitely want to find out who he is. And when that happens, I’m sure the Agency, or the FBI, will be able to deal with him, and leave us out of it.”
“That’s your plan?”
“That’s my plan. I mean it. And you can help.” He reached across and put his hand on hers. “Do you think you could ask Grant to run his prints and let me know what he finds out?”
She stared at him a moment. Swallowed hard.
“All right.”
“Until then . . . remember. This guy doesn’t know about us. About you. And we need to keep it that way. So for the time being”—he hesitated, then plunged ahead—“we can’t tell your dad about us, or go public about our engagement.
Something died in her eyes.
“Annie, really, it’ll be only a brief postponement of the announcement, until they find out who this guy is, who hired him and why—and arrest them.”
“Sure,” she said dully. “Just like you ‘briefly postponed’ the announcement last month—because that Damon Sloan guy sent thugs after you. And when Boggs planted the bomb in our cabin.”
His mind flashed back to the sight of the booby-trapped bomb above the door of their cabin in the Allegheny Forest. The bomb that had almost killed her, right before his eyes . . .
“Annie . . .” he began, then stopped.
She raised her eyes to him; they were the color of an overcast sky.
“It will always be like this. Won’t it.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Of course not,” he said, squeezing her hand and grinning. “You know how much I want to marry you. Don’t you remember my extravagant Valentine’s Day proposal?”
It evoked barely a flicker of a smile. “I remember.”
“Well, then. It’s only a matter of time.”
She shook her head slowly.
“I wish I could believe that, Dylan.”
3
“Hey, Betsy! . . . Here, Betsy! . . . Come on, girl!”
Bob Jenkins clapped his hands and whistled, wondering where the hell his young Lab Retriever had run off to. It was her first spring off the leash out here in the woods, and he needed to get her trained before this year’s small-game season. He heard a couple of distant barks, so he trudged down off Forest Service Road 209, right where it crossed the little bridge over Otter Creek.
Bob had lived in the Allegheny National Forest over twenty years, moving from northeast Ohio over here to Pennsylvania after his wife, Ginger, died of the breast cancer. He needed peace after that ordeal. And he found it in the Allegheny. He’d always liked the woods and hunting. Plenty of small game, and lots of deer and bear out here.
He’d bought himself a fixer-upper for a good price about a mile away, but decided to hike down here today because this stretch of woods was so isolated. Betsy could run loose without crapping up any neighbor’s yard. He saw her footprints in the mud, so he followed them along the creek bank, keeping up his calling and whistling. But no barks, now. She must’ve gotten into something interesting. Long as she didn’t tangle with some bear. They were out of hibernation, now, some with cubs. Which is why he carried his Mossberg loaded.
He heard a yip just up ahead, over a little rise. He whistled again, but she wouldn’t come. He headed toward the sound, following ruts from somebody’s ATV through the weeds. He saw a big old lone maple sticking up from the weeds and bushes. Getting closer, he caught sight of her yellow coat moving around underneath it. He stomped over, kicking rocks and trying to loosen the mud from the soles of his boots.
Betsy had her nose down and her tail was wagging furiously. He saw what looked like a heap of rags at the base of the tree trunk.
“What you got there? Come here, you bad girl!”
The dog turned around and loped toward him, dragging what looked like a branch in its jaws. She ran right up to him. He leaned down to see what she was carrying.
Something fell in the pit of his stomach. He almost dropped the shotgun.
Betsy’s jaws held a long, skinny bone.
The bone ended in the skeletal fingers of a human hand.
PART II
FOURTEEN
“Thank you so much for attending, Dylan.”
Wonk looked up at Hunter, reddened eyes visible through his dirty lenses. A smudge of cream cheese glistened at the corner of his mouth.
Just before the end of Arnold Wasserman’s service in the local Jewish funeral home, Wonk had left the chapel to embark upon the arduous thirty-yard expedition to its social hall, where the lunch reception was prepared. Before any other guests arrived, he already had made multiple pilgrimages to the food and dessert tables. Wonk could not risk a mere steel folding chair at one of the guest tables. Instead—accompanied by three paper plates piled perilously with slabs of cold cuts, mounds of potato and macaroni salad, a heap of cream-cheese-smeared bagels, fat wedges of Key lime pie, and thick blocks of chocolate cake—he occupied the entirety of a sofa on the periphery of the room.
“I’m honored you invited me, Wonk.” Hunter pulled over a folding chair and sat facing him. “How are you holding up, my friend?”
A ripple, meant to be a shrug, flowed across the shoulders of his navy-blue sports jacket, which was the approximate size and configuration of a tribal teepee.
“It has been difficult. I cannot believe that Arnold is gone.” His tongue discovered and snared the smear of cream cheese. He smacked his lips as he swallowed.
Hunter decided right then to give lunch a pass. “At emotional times like these,” he said, “I find it’s best to keep busy.”
“I entirely agree. I have done just that. I believe that the best way to honor Arnold’s memory is to continue his investigation. As you suggested, I have begun by concentrating on the Currents Foundation.”
“Have you learned anything interesting?”
“It was founded a decade ago with ten million dollars in seed money from The Avery Trammel Foundation. It was registered under the federal tax code as a 501(c)(3) charitable foundation. Since then, it has served as a conduit for donations from many sources, both domestic and foreign, into a host of other foundations, organizations, and activities. I have been creating spreadsheets to track the flow of funds, relying heavily, though not exclusively, on the 990 federal reporting forms.”
He paused to lick a wad of chocolate frosting from a plump thumb, then savor it before proceeding.
“Because most recipients of Currents Foundation grants are far-left activist organizations, their donors often do not wish that their identities become known. Thus they give what are known as ‘donor advised’ contributions to the Foundation. These allow them to maintain the appearance of a direct donation to the Currents Foundation itself. However, the Foundation then passes along their contributions to the beneficiaries they specify, without leaving any direct paper trail back to the sources.”
“So the Currents Foundation is a political money-laundering operation,” Hunter said.
“In fact, you may recall that Arnold himself used that very word, ‘laundered,’ to describe the deceptive flow of funds.
“I thought it was illegal for tax-exempt foundations and nonprofits to engage in political activities.”
“Yes. But various circumventions are commonly employed. In this case, to create further layers of distance and deniability between itself and its recipients, the Currents Foundation established a subsidiary nonprofit organization, the Currents Center. The Center serves as an incubator and funding source for many groups that do engage directly in lobbying and political activities, and offers organizational guidance.”
Wonk pushed aside his second empty plate and began to eye the third longingly. Hunter interceded quickly with a question.
“Wonk, do you have any idea to whom Arnold was referring when he said, ‘You won’t believe whose money is being laundered through the Currents Foundation—and where it is winding up’?”
“Not yet. This is p
roving to be an enormous financial spider web, Dylan. It will take me weeks to untangle all of the ways in which money contributed to the Currents Foundation has been redirected, and to whom. Also, we must remember that ‘money is fungible.’ Thus, a donation given legally, ostensibly for a non-political purpose, can free up resources that could be diverted to a political purpose.”
Hunter clapped him on the knee. “I hope you can make quick progress, my friend. I don’t want to give these people a lot of time to cover their tracks.”
“There is only so much that I can accomplish in limited time, working alone. However, Arnold’s colleagues at CAP are here.”
“Remind me: CAP is . . .”
“The Center for Advocacy Profiles. They investigate and report on political advocacy groups. Perhaps we can secure their assistance.” His eyes searched the room. “Oh, I see them over there”—he pointed with his plastic fork—“at that table, in the rear.”
“All right. I’ll see what they may know. I’ll be back shortly.”
2
Hunter headed to the back of the room. Several small tables had been pushed end-to-end there, to accommodate the roughly dozen staff members of the Center for Advocacy Profiles.
He easily identified the boss. A large man of about sixty, wearing an expensive suit, stood at one end, intercepting and shaking hands with those arriving at nearby tables. Hunter went over and waited his turn. The man turned to him, stuck out his hand, and flashed a broad smile.
“Hello. Dennis Hatcher, president of the Center for Advocacy Profiles. And you are . . . ?”
“Dylan Hunter. I’m an independent journalist, but I write mainly—”
“Oh! Of course I know who you are, Mr. Hunter!” Hatcher pumped his hand even more enthusiastically. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve been reading your Inquirer articles for a long time. Great stuff! Great stuff!”
“Thank you. And I’ve been hearing fine things about your organization from my research associate, Frederick Diffendorfer. He said I should meet you and your staff.”
WINNER TAKES ALL Page 13
