The Committee

by Terry E. Hill

  Come on, Gideon thought. Get angry. Show the bitch hiding under that beautiful façade.

  “So now would be a good time for you to address the rumors circulating about your plans,” he continued, unfazed by the slight change in her demeanor. “Are you going to run for governor?”

  “None of those rumors originated from me or anyone in my administration,” she said, delivering the well-rehearsed reply.

  Gideon smiled. “That doesn’t answer my question,” he pressed.

  “I will be honest with you, Gideon. I am considering it. But no decisions have been made.”

  “And what are you factoring into your decision?”

  Camille flashed a “don’t fuck with me” look that went unnoticed by the cameras but registered 8.5 on Gideon’s “shade” scale. The test of a good interviewer is to know just how close you can push a victim to the edge, and then gently guide them away from the cliff. Gideon knew he’d reached the limit with the line of questioning and decided to accept whatever answer she provided, regardless of how vague.

  “Most importantly, I need to know for myself that I was leaving Los Angeles in a better place than when I took office six years ago.”

  “And do you feel that is the case?”

  “Honestly, I do,” she responded with a dose of humility. “The crime rate has dropped to single digits. The economy is back to prebanking meltdown days. The housing market has not fully recovered, but all economic indicators tell us we are moving in the right direction and at the right pace.”

  “The most recent polls show a majority of voters agree with you,” Gideon responded slightly loosening his grip.

  “Now everyone knows you were married just before you took office,” he said as if poking a bear with a stick. “Some have said it was a political move on your part to soften your public image and make you appear less threatening to women voters. How do you respond to that?”

  An image of Camille in a stunning gold, form-fitting Versace gown, arm in arm with Sheridan in a sleek black Armani tuxedo flashed on the monitor behind Gideon.

  You son of a bitch, was her thought. Much too clever for such obvious bait, Camille responded with, “Nothing could be further from the truth. The idea of marriage hadn’t entered my mind during my first campaign. I was focused on the issues and winning the race. I considered a relationship to be a distraction. But when I met my husband, I’m sorry for the cliché, but it was love at first sight. We married shortly after we met, and he has been my biggest supporter ever since.”

  “How involved is he in your work? For example, do you consult with him on any of the bigger issues you face?”

  “Unfortunately, for me, my husband, Sheridan, couldn’t be any less interested in politics than he is,” Camille said. “I’m afraid he leaves the running of the city to me.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “He’s in real estate, dealing primarily in high-end residential properties.”

  “I imagine he has to walk a fine line doing business in the city,” Gideon poked a little harder. “Every deal he is involved in has the potential to pose a conflict of interest for you.”

  Camille appeared genuinely off-put by the statement. “I can assure you and the people of Los Angeles, my husband’s work never intersects or interferes with the work I do as mayor.”

  Looks like I hit a nerve, he silently surmised. Gideon was satisfied, for the moment, by her obvious discomfort and set the stick aside. “So tell us about your plans for the new baseball stadium,” Gideon said, fully conscious of the short time remaining. “Have you identified a location yet?”

  Finally, she thought. “I’m glad you asked. As some of your viewers may know, Angelinos love baseball. Our team, the Los Angeles Dobermans, are currently housed in an arena built in 1927 and is in desperate need of major repairs, retrofitting and renovation. In the last midterm election, the voters authorized me to move forward with building a new home for our team. Well, I’m very pleased to announce, as of this week, we have identified a location perfect for the needs of the new Dober Stadium, and the fans.”

  “Congratulations,” Gideon beamed. “Where will it be?”

  “Due to the generosity of a loyal Doberman fan, who shall remain nameless for now, we will build the new stadium in Playa del Rey on 110 oceanfront acres. The site is perfect for a number of reasons, including, minimal impact on neighbors because it is an unoccupied portion of the beach, with excellent access to public transportation and plenty of space for not only the stadium and parking, but mixed development projects like housing and commercial space.”

  “Has the city already purchased the property?” Gideon asked cautiously reaching for the stick again.

  “We are in negotiations with the owner as we speak and hope to have the deal sealed by the end of the week.”

  “Aren’t you a bit nervous about going public with the location before you’ve taken pen to paper?”

  “Not at all,” Camille replied confidently. “The benefactor is a long-time Dober fan and sees this as an opportunity to give something back to the team and to the city she loves.”

  “Is your husband assisting with the acquisition?”

  The smile that dotted the interview instantly vanished. Camille couldn’t hide her displeasure, and Gideon found it difficult to contain his satisfaction from piercing her seemingly impenetrable armor. He had no idea, however, how closely his instincts brought him to the truth—and neither did she. Three silent seconds in television time seemed like hours in real time.

  The two locked eyes and neither blinked. No words were exchanged, but the silence was deafening. Camille immediately recognized Gideon as a problem that may have to be dealt with if she was to become governor. Be careful, my handsome friend, or you may become Madame Gillette Lemaitre’s next victim.

  “Let me assure you and the people of Los Angeles,” Camille said shifting effortlessly into campaign mode, “my husband will in no way be affiliated with the acquisition or construction of the Dober Stadium.”

  “Well, best of luck, Mayor Hardaway,” Gideon said delivering one final jab of the stick. “It has been wonderful having you on today. I do hope you will come back when you’ve decided whether you will run for governor.”

  “I certainly will. I’ve already promised, you will be the first to know.”

  “You all heard it,” Gideon said playfully looking directly at the camera. “Thank you again to Mayor Camille Ernestine Hardaway. Stay tuned. Coming up next we’ll be speaking with the lovely and talented Halle Berry about her upcoming summer blockbuster movie, Blood Alley.”

  The microphones went dead, but the cameras remained on Camille and Gideon for an additional ten seconds showing a pantomimed conversation.

  “Thank you, Mayor,” Gideon said as a technician removed Camille’s microphone. “Excellent interview.”

  Camille ignored the feeble attempt at a compliment and calmly said, “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Truman.”

  “I’m sure all your husband’s business dealings are aboveboard, but I hope you understand I did have to ask.”

  “I do understand. And you should understand, I don’t appreciate being blindsided on national television. I did this interview because you assured me there would be no surprises.”

  “It wasn’t my intent to blindside you.”

  “Intent or not, that is exactly what you did.” Camille dropped the charming politician mask on the studio set floor with a splat. The smile that lit up the seventy-inch monitor vanished as quickly as it appeared. She looked Gideon directly in eye and said coldly, “Trust me, Mr. Truman, I am not the person you want to fuck with.”

  Chapter 5

  “Sheridan Hardaway. I have a 1:00 appointment with Miss Vandercliff.”

  The man at the gatehouse looked like a six-foot-six brick wall tightly wrapped in a grey security guard uniform. The shirt barely contained his bulging biceps, and buttons struggled to cover his enormous chest.

  The guar
d looked at Sheridan suspiciously. It was as if no one had ever come to the gate before. “May I see your identification please, sir?”

  “License?” Sheridan exclaimed. “I didn’t realize I would need it,” he said retrieving his wallet from his breast pocket. Sheridan waited patiently as the half man-half wall compared the image on the license to his face. The guard walked back to the little booth and dialed a landline.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” the guard said into the tethered receiver. “Mr. Sheridan Hardaway is here to see you.”

  Sheridan saw the outline of the home in the distance through the eight-foot wrought iron gate. His real estate calculator kicked in automatically. Forty to fifty million easily, he thought as the guard returned to the car.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hardaway,” he said. “Is this your first visit to the Vandercliff Estate?”

  Sheridan noted the man’s hands looked like baseball gloves. “Yes, it is,” he replied.

  “Then welcome. There are a few things Miss Vandercliff would like you to know before you enter the property. You will be greeted by another member of the security staff when you reach the home. The Vandercliffs have been the target of numerous kidnapping and assassination attempts over the years so you will be searched with a handheld metal detector.”

  Sheridan looked surprised as the guard continued.

  “If you are wearing any type of cologne, Miss Vandercliff asks you remain at least five feet away from her as she is allergic to certain chemicals found in most mass market fragrances. She does not wish to be touched in any way, so please do not attempt to shake hands. Miss Vandercliff is unusually susceptible to germs and, as a precaution, asks that all guests to the estate take advantage of the powder room you will see to the left of the foyer when you enter the residence. She asks that you wash your hands using the special antiseptic soap provided.”

  “Is she a germaphobe?” Sheridan asked tactlessly.

  The well-trained guard ignored the question and continued his recital. “After you enter the gate, stay on this path. It will take you directly to the main entrance of the home.”

  The giant turned abruptly to the guardhouse on the last word. The electric gate slid open, and Sheridan drove up the path as he had been so efficiently instructed. The lush grounds of the estate were immaculate. The flagstone path sliced through the center of ten sprawling acres of the most expensive soil in California.

  Towering white bark eucalyptus trees stood like sphinxes along the entire length of the winding driveway. Sheridan saw a sparkling swimming pool glimmering like a sapphire lying on a bed of green through the trees. To the left was a gazebo surrounded by a well-appointed redwood deck, tennis courts, and other houses he assumed were once used to entertain the family’s rich and famous guests.

  After the last sharp turn on the path, the house appeared. Make that seventy million, Sheridan thought when he saw the French-inspired chateau, aptly named Le Belvédère. Even from the road, the stunning 280-degree city views could be seen. Sheridan had thoroughly researched the reclusive Miss Vandercliff, including the particulars of her magnificent estate: 48,000 square feet, 5,000-bottle wine cellar, three master suites, seven additional bedrooms, nineteen fireplaces, elevator . . . he recalled as the car slowed to a stop in front of the main entrance.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Hardaway. Welcome to Le Belvédère,” a clone of the enormous gatehouse guard said as Sheridan exited the car. “If you would please follow me, Miss Vandercliff will be with you shortly.”

  “They grow them big in Bel Air,” Sheridan joked as he followed the guard to the main entrance of the house.

  “Yes, sir, if you insist,” was the humorless reply.

  Upon entering the house, the giant removed a handheld metal detector from his jacket and said, “Would you please place any metal objects you have in your pockets on the table. This will only take a moment.”

  The foyer was three stories high. A grand oak circular stairway wrapped around an eight-foot Tiffany chandelier that cried a thousand crystal tears. The Blue Nude by Henri Matisse hung casually on the wall directly opposite the front entrance.

  “Is that . . .” Sheridan asked pointing to the masterpiece in awe.

  “Yes, sir, it is. A gift to the family from Matisse himself.”

  The guard traced Sheridan’s body with the wand that beeped at his belt buckle.

  “I hope you don’t expect me to take off my belt.”

  “No, sir, that won’t be necessary. After you have utilized the facilities,” the guard said, pointing to the infamous powder room, “Miss Vandercliff will join you in the living room.”

  Sheridan replaced the contents of his pockets and obediently entered the powder room. He ran the water in a gold basin, but a drop never touched his hands. Fuck the crazy bitch, he thought. I’m more likely to catch something from her than she is from me. Just hope crazy ain’t contagious.

  His senses were immediately overwhelmed by the ocean of oak accents in the living room. Gaudy French provincial décor and old-world masterpieces lined the walls like hand-sewn panels on an antique quilt. He walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows at the rear wall and gazed out over Los Angeles, the kingdom that belonged to his wife.

  “Mr. Hardaway,” came a soft voice from across the room, “I’m Gloria Vandercliff. Welcome to my home.”

  The lady of the house mirrored the grand home. The rarified heights of Bel Air had been kind to her. At seventy-one years of age, she carried her petite frame across the room like a woman of much-younger years. She was casually dressed in a flowing kaleidoscope blue, white, and yellow Emilio Pucci caftan and black Christian Louboutin cage sandals. The fashion world had clearly not left her behind. A shock of perfectly tousled blond hair took ten years off her face.

  “May I offer you a drink?” she asked, pointing to a fully stocked wet bar near the window where Sheridan stood.

  Miss Vandercliff stopped exactly five feet away from Sheridan to inspect the air around him. After finding no hint of cologne, she closed the distance between them.

  “Thank you. Gin and tonic,” he replied with his usual sense of entitlement.

  “A good-looking and decisive man with good taste,” she said walking past Sheridan to the bar. “I can see we’re going to get along just fine. I’m sure you’ve been told I don’t invite many people into my home.”

  “Yes, so I’ve heard.”

  “But when we spoke on the phone yesterday your offer intrigued me.”

  Miss Vandercliff returned to Sheridan with their drinks in hand. “Cheers, Mr. Hardaway,” she said lifting the glass to her lips. “So tell me more about your offer,” she said directing him to a nine-foot sofa in front of the fireplace.

  Sheridan noted she left only three feet between them when she sat down. I guess I passed the sniff test, he thought.

  “As I said to you on the telephone, my company, KeyCorp Development, would like to purchase your land in Playa del Rey. We are prepared to offer you a substantial amount more than what you’re asking.”

  “You do realize I’ve already promised the land to . . .” she paused dramatically before continuing, “your wife?”

  “Yes, I am aware of the city’s interest.”

  “Does she know you’re making this offer?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you doing this?” she asked already knowing the answer.

  “Because I love my wife, and I want to stop her from making a mistake that could cost her the governor’s race.”

  “So she is running for governor,” she replied as if just being slipped a juicy bit of city hall gossip. “How could building Dober Stadium on my land prevent her from becoming governor?”

  “If she isn’t able to raise the additional funds for the development, or if she, for some other reason, isn’t able to complete the stadium, she’ll look like a fool. Her poll numbers are so strong now she doesn’t need this project to become governor. She could win on name recognition and her record alone. I’ve tri
ed to tell her this, but her advisors are telling her otherwise.”

  Miss Vandercliff listened intently before speaking. “So you’re willing to invest millions to prevent your wife from making a mistake?” she asked skeptically.

  “I told you, I love my wife and would do anything to protect her,” Sheridan responded with such sincerity it even convinced him.

  “She doesn’t need much protection from what I can tell. She seems quite capable to me.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. She is one of the strongest and smartest people I know, but I think she’s in over her head when it comes to this stadium.”

  “And what do you intend to do with the land?”

  “Maybe build low-income housing or a school for underprivileged kids. At this stage I’m not sure, but I know I have to move quickly before she makes a terrible mistake.”

  “What’s to stop her from buying another property and building the stadium there?”

  “She won’t. Her real estate division has looked at every possible option in the city and this is the only location that could work.”

  Sheridan allowed Miss Vandercliff’s brain to marinate in his last impassioned words. Old bleeding heart probably loved the school for underprivileged kids line, he thought, studying her face.

  She stood from the sofa with drink in hand and walked to the window. “Do you know how much I’m worth, Mr. Hardaway?” she asked looking out the window.

  “I imagine a great deal,” he responded cautiously.

  “A great deal indeed. At last count, it was just under 3 billion. So I’m surprised you think I am a fool,” she added casually.

  Sheridan froze when he heard the words. “Not at all. You’re obviously a very intelligent woman.”

  “Then why else would you come into my home and lie to me?”

  “Lie? I don’t know what you mean. I want to buy the property to protect—”

  “If you want this conversation to continue, Mr. Hardaway,” she said turning abruptly to face him, “I suggest you tell me the real reason you’ve come here behind your wife’s back.”

  Sheridan stood and quickly recalibrated his approach. “All right, Miss Vandercliff,” he said, knowing there was nothing left to lose. “I’ll tell you. My wife doesn’t know I own KeyCorp Development. My intent is to purchase the property from you, and then sell it to the city for a small profit.”