And with that we’d arrived at the Saint George.
A holdover from the city’s post–Civil War past, the building that housed the Saint George was once a grand home, built when all of North America adored France’s Second Empire and its architecture. Constructed of red brick and gingerbread, with rising turrets and a squared-off tower capped by a mansard roof, the Saint George was nestled on a formerly residential street that had lost its curb appeal when the nearby Baltimore and Potomac Railroad Station was torn down in favor of the new Union Station, the National Mall, and concerns about presidential safety after President James Garfield got shot while on his way to board a train in 1881. As a result, Edgar Allan Poe would’ve felt right at home in the Saint George, though concrete-and-glass office buildings now rose on either side of it.
As Rappaport had foretold, the maître d’ didn’t so much as bat an eye when he looked at me. Instead, he conducted us to a table, tucked in a black-leather upholstered booth opposite the lengthy, intricately carved bar. A brass handrail and four short steps descended to a slightly lower level. There, tables draped in white linen, and glowing with candlelight from tapers capped with black-paper shades, crowded the heartwood-plank floor.
We could see just about everybody.
But they’d have to turn to see us.
“That’s Farnsworth,” Rappaport said, shaking out his napkin and laying it in his lap.
Across the way, in a booth nearly identical to our own, a skinny man with no hair and thick glasses perused the Saint George’s velvet-bound menu. His gray suit hung on him and his tie was askew. And to say he had a face for radio wouldn’t have been an exaggeration.
Throughout the noon hour and into the early afternoon, Rappaport and I watched him chow down on chowder, cucumber salad, oysters Rockefeller, and filet mignon. He guzzled a scotch to start with and then switched to red wine. Other diners stopped by his table, but none lingered long. It was almost as if the steady stream of visitors just wanted to see and be seen, rather than talk turkey. I recognized a few of them, but Rappaport could name them all as they came and went.
“That’s Frank Gianni. He’s the managing editor of that online political magazine. See Sandra Murino? Word is she’s looking to hire two new correspondents for CNN.”
It was all very interesting.
But it was getting us nowhere.
And then Farnsworth ordered coffee. When it arrived in a silver pot on the tray of a natty waiter, it was accompanied by a thick wedge of carrot cake the FCC chairman hadn’t ordered. He didn’t send the dessert back, however.
Instead, he ordered a second cup and saucer be brought.
As the waiter swanned off to fetch it, a man joined Farnsworth at his table. Well past middle age, this man wore a black suit with a red power tie, which lent him a good bit of gravitas in addition to his gorgeous head of white hair. And the sight of him sent a jolt of electricity down my spine.
“That’s the senator from Missouri,” I said.
“One of them, at any rate,” Rappaport replied. “That’s Grady Einhorn. Do you know him?”
“I’ve met him once or twice.”
But I remembered him from Fraley’s place, chattering on about the FCC and the country’s communications infrastructure on TV the night Dylan Pruitt attacked me—and died.
I said, “Einhorn’s got quite the interest in communications.”
“And in the presidency. He just announced his candidacy Saturday morning. He’ll face off against your father in the primary. Or didn’t you know?”
I blinked at Rappaport, trying to take all this in.
“No,” I admitted. “I didn’t.”
And now that I did, it didn’t make me feel much better.
“Think he knows Kenneth Jones?” I asked, watching the two men hobnob.
About what, I couldn’t tell.
Rappaport said, “I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“What about Madeline Donahue?”
“Wait.” Rappaport shot me an arch glance over the rims of his glasses. “Are you suggesting Senator Grady Einhorn is the missing link between government contracts and civilian companies like Stellar Unlimited? Or are you suggesting he’s the missing link between Madeline Donahue and you?”
“I’m not suggesting anything.”
Across the restaurant, both Farnsworth and Einhorn rose. The two men shook hands. I handed the Denali’s key fob to Rappaport.
“But I’ll tell you one thing,” I said, grabbing up my backpack. “I’m going to find out.”
Chapter 27
When Senator Grady Einhorn exited the Saint George’s gracious foyer, I was right behind him.
I’d donned my gloves, but had stuffed the ball cap in the backpack. In the black jacket, black trousers, and pink pima T-shirt Enid had arranged for me—and with my burner phone in my hand—I looked like a hundred thousand other female professionals hustling and bustling through the District of Columbia in the spring sunshine. And that’s when I made my move.
The senator stepped to the sidewalk, strolled toward a long, sleek car down the block, polluting the early afternoon with its exhaust. I hurried to hoof it alongside him. And when his no-necked driver materialized from the vehicle to open the rear door for him, I spoke.
“Senator Einhorn?” I asked, with all the enthusiasm of a long-lost relation. “I’m so glad I ran into you!”
The senator turned to me with an insincere smile as if he thought he was greeting a DC tourist. I turned up the wattage on my own grin. And I laid a light hand on his sleeve.
“Is there any chance you could give me a lift?” I asked. “My car’s been delayed.”
I held out my cellphone as if some incoming text was proof positive that a ride had indeed left me stranded in the urban wilderness. The senator frowned at the sleeping screen and then at me. And his defensive driver took a step toward us. The man was probably packing a Taser under his loosely tailored suit coat. But I wouldn’t have been surprised if he carried a handgun.
“Oh, you don’t remember me,” I said, borrowing a line from the resourceful Nathan Rappaport himself. “I’m Jamie Sinclair, Senator Sinclair’s daughter? We met at the Congressional Picnic several summers ago, and again at the Speaker’s Christmas party.”
All of this was perfectly true, even though we’d been more like worlds circling the same star in distinctly disparate orbits. But Einhorn had placed me now. The cold, hard gleam in his blue eyes said so.
“Aren’t you in a fair spot of trouble, young lady?”
“Well, I don’t know that there’s anything fair about it.”
My verbal barb hit home, and for an instant, Einhorn didn’t look so sure of himself. Senators were creatures who survived on an air of infallible authority. His had dried up for a split second.
“Of course,” I said, “isn’t trouble what lawyers are for?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Einhorn said stiffly.
“Naturally. But I really am in a jam. And I’d really appreciate a ride. I imagine my father would appreciate it, too.”
I could see Einhorn’s desire to mount his moral high horse and tell me off warring with the opportunity to appear as a public servant and my father’s fine colleague.
In the end, appearances won.
He invited me to slide into the butter-soft backseat of his chauffeur-driven car.
“How was your lunch?” I asked as his driver flicked on his turn signal and merged into traffic.
“Delicious. Yours?”
“Lovely.”
Einhorn, it seemed, wasn’t going to be one for small talk.
So, I hit him with a big revelation.
“I had a member of the press at my table.” And that was completely accurate. But presenting my phone once again, I executed a bait-and-switch and asked, “How well would you s
ay you know this gentleman, Senator?”
This time, I’d called up the photo of Kenneth Jones that I’d snapped at Fair Skies the night before.
Einhorn’s white brows knit together as he perused it.
“I’d say I don’t him at all.”
I smiled to myself. As a senator’s daughter, I knew: semantics were too often a politician’s best friend.
“Well,” I said, returning the phone to my pocket, “you can say you don’t know him—but would it be true?”
“See here!” Einhorn bellowed. “Are you accusing me of lying?”
His muscle-bound driver shot a concerned look over his shoulder.
“Here’s a strange situation,” I blithely continued. “Someone lied to a local TV news producer.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Einhorn insisted. “Hammond, stop the car. Give this young lady cab fare.”
“Everyone will know what I’m talking about—once the cyber expert I consulted last night pulls the proof from the producer’s laptop.”
The car pitched to a halt. Hammond wrenched open my door in a flash. I’d touched one foot to the asphalt of busy New York Avenue Northwest when Einhorn grabbed my arm.
“You’re making a serious mistake, Miss Sinclair.”
I looked the senator dead in the eye. Maybe I was a fool, but I wasn’t afraid of him. And I wanted him to know it.
“Mistakes don’t matter,” I told him, “unless you fail to learn from them.”
His fingers slipped away as I emerged from the car. His driver proffered a fifty-dollar bill. Brushing the man’s fist aside, I stepped up to the sidewalk, saw a familiar Denali rolling up behind us.
Rappaport got out of the SUV. I appreciated his willingness to assist me. But I couldn’t quite picture the lanky newspaperman knee-deep in a knock-down-drag-out fight.
As the senator’s car sped away, I joined the reporter.
“What was that about?” he demanded as tour buses and taxis streamed past.
“That,” I said, “was my version of an interview.”
“And?”
I hopped behind the wheel of the Denali. When Rappaport slid into his seat and fastened the passenger restraint, I said, “Senator Einhorn gave few answers. But that told me all I needed to know.”
“Are you going to share this newly acquired knowledge?”
“Will I see it turn up in the Washington News-Journal?”
“Maybe.”
A BMW pulled up behind us, flashed its headlights to let me swing into traffic.
“In that case,” I said, “I’ll tell you everything.”
I got the Denali going, executed a U-turn while I told Rappaport about my conversation with Einhorn. The man had denied too much. And then he’d had the poor judgment to try to scare me from saying any more.
“Here’s a question.” Rappaport was frowning. “When you pissed him off, why didn’t he simply have his driver call the cops? You’re a wanted fugitive.”
“Thanks for noticing. And I can answer that one. He wouldn’t want his name associated with the police report.”
I turned south on Fifteenth Street Northwest, zoomed along Constitution Avenue and the National Mall. Past the Daughters of the American Revolution’s Constitution Hall and the Federal Reserve, the roadway tangled with US 50 and a half dozen other byways. I took the chute onto Interstate 66 and headed west.
“Of course,” I said, “none of that means Einhorn’s guilty of feeding that bogus story to Jones.”
“It doesn’t,” Rappaport agreed. “Though you are headed toward Fairfax.”
“Huh. What do you know about that?”
“I know producers for the nightly news at local stations like Fairfax Fifty-five usually go to work about now.”
Rappaport fished his phone from his pocket. He called his buddy in charge of the newsroom. After a brief conversation, he disconnected.
“Kenneth Jones,” Rappaport told me, “just called in sick.”
“Poor guy.” I stepped on the gas. “I hope it wasn’t something Senator Einhorn ate.”
I didn’t bother with driving to Jones’s apartment in Fair Skies. He’d be there or he wouldn’t. I wanted to know, however, if he’d hurried someplace else.
In the fading light of the late afternoon, the parking lot behind a particular small-town library was crowded with cars, vans, and SUVs. Harried moms, in stretch fabrics and fleece, shuttled their kids into the building and back again, bags bulging with books for homework projects, because sometimes Internet research just won’t do. I admired these intrepid parents—and I was glad their vehicles provided cover for mine.
I’d parked nose first in a free space. But, with the help of Rappaport and my rearview mirrors, I was able to keep a keen eye on the Dumpster abutting the alley. This was a stake-out, and as far as I was concerned, the stakes couldn’t have been higher. Of course, it was a gamble, too. We could’ve arrived too late to prove my theory.
Twenty-six minutes into our wait, however, a white Jetta swung into the lot. It rolled up to the Dumpster. Kenneth Jones got out.
“Funny,” Rappaport said as he watched the man’s reflection in the Denali’s side mirror. “He doesn’t look all that sick to me.”
Jones stood on the balls of his feet to peer into the red rust bucket. He didn’t find what he was looking for. In a regrettable fit of temper, he balled up his fist and punched the side of the Dumpster.
He didn’t even dent the thing.
But he earned a sharp glance and a wide berth from a momma herding her twin sons toward their Cruze.
Jones doubled over in pain, danced in place until it subsided. Once he could stand straight again, he shook out his hand. It was a mangled mess, but he didn’t let that distract him. With help from the hood of his Jetta, he boosted himself onto the lip of the Dumpster. He swung his legs over and hopped inside.
I mused, “Good ol’ Einhorn didn’t waste any time calling his own personal news producer, did he?”
“This clinches it, Jamie. It’s proof that Einhorn sent Fairfax Fifty-five that fabricated news story before you ever arrived at Robert Fraley’s. No prosecutor in his right mind would bring you to trial for Pruitt’s murder now.”
Rappaport’s exuberance was contagious. Except I couldn’t quite catch it. Because there were one or two more things I needed to know.
I’d gone to Fraley’s in the first place to track down Madeline Donahue. I still couldn’t fathom why she’d set me up take the heat over the stolen CubeSat and to draw gunfire in the National Arboretum. Moreover, why would my father campaign for a nomination he’d surely lose? I doubted Kenneth Jones could tell me. And now that I could be certain Einhorn was implicated, watching Jones flounder in a Dumpster full of garbage didn’t help.
“I’ve seen enough,” I told Rappaport.
And I already dreaded what I’d have to do next.
Chapter 28
“Jamie, you’ve been quiet for an hour and a half,” Rappaport said, as we coasted to a stop across from his apartment building.
Full-on night had fallen as we’d driven in from that tiny town to the west. Along the way, Rappaport had loosened the knot of his tie. He’d turned back the cuffs of his dress shirt, too. He had fine hands, nimble and quick. When I didn’t reply to his comment, he reached across the console between us and touched a hand to my wrist.
He said, “You’re planning something, aren’t you? Something risky.”
I shoved the Denali into park. But I didn’t cut the engine. I didn’t intend to sit here long.
“You’re a reporter,” I reminded him. “You’re allergic to quiet.”
“No, I’m allergic to ragweed.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Great. We have something in common.” Rappaport huffed out a sigh.
“Jamie, whatever you’re planning, forget it. Come up to my apartment where the authorities won’t arrest you for vagrancy or vigilantism—or something worse.”
I shook my head. On the sidewalk, a young woman in Lycra and serious running shoes zoomed by as if she were racing for her life. I knew the feeling.
I said, “I appreciate the offer, Rappaport. Really. But I have something I need to do.”
He regarded me for a long moment. “Tell me about the army type.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Why didn’t you crash at his place last night?”
“His place,” I said, “is over the hills and far away.”
Of course, as far as Barrett was concerned, that wasn’t the whole story. And when it came to stories, Rappaport was an expert. But if he knew I was keeping the Bigger Picture from him, he didn’t comment on it.
Instead, he said, “For the record, Jamie, you’re always welcome on my couch. Always.”
I got the sense Rappaport might’ve been offering more than accommodation on his sofa.
But I wasn’t interested in finding out.
“Thanks,” I told him, “for that. And for everything else.”
Rappaport nodded. Resigned, he got out of the car. And when he disappeared through the swinging doors of his apartment building, I pulled away from the curb.
On my own once more, I took the Francis Scott Key Bridge from Virginia into my old stomping ground, the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington, DC. I hung a right on M Street, but between a certain patisserie and a high-end haberdasher’s, I turned left. The Denali had no trouble powering up the abrupt embankment to the historic streets high above the river. There, row homes crowded together, cheek by jowl. Some were new, some were old, but most were something in between.
The houses offered no front yards to speak of and bordered the enclave’s bright brick sidewalks instead. Streetlamps reflected the style of the late nineteenth century, but here and there a walled garden or a stone home dated to much earlier than that. The townhouse I was looking for was also gray stone, but it had been built in the 1920s, rehabbed, and rehabbed again.
The Kill Chain Page 17
