“I don’t need the particulars,” Karen said, again looking over her shoulder to the wriggling kids in the Suburban. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Karen protested. “My son’s last game of the season is tomorrow. My parents are flying in from North Carolina.”
“Mom!” Nelson called out from the car.
“I’m coming, darling,” Karen called back.
“I apologize for the short notice, but I’m afraid it’s unavoidable,” Lazarus pressed on. “The jet will be waiting for you midnight tonight and will fly you into my hanger in Long Beach. The pilot will remain at-the-ready the entire time you are on the ground and fly out of the city the moment you step back onto the plane. You’ll be back home in plenty of time to catch the game and to have dinner with your parents.”
“Any preference on how it’s done?”
“I’ll leave that up to you. No need for anything fancy. I’ve sent you his entire file. Bank accounts, passport, sexual proclivities, his routines. . . the works. He swims in his pool every morning at exactly 6:00 a.m. He orders Chinese food every Thursday night from Yang Chow’s on Sunset, and he goes to the gym on Mondays and Wednesdays after work. Take your pick. There’s plenty of opportunities for you.”
The line went dead.
“I’m sorry, guys,” Karen said jumping back into the SUV. “Is everyone buckled in?”
“Yes, Mother!” Nelson exclaimed impatiently. “Can we go now, please?”
Camille stood behind the podium on the steps of city hall. The afternoon sun covered her like gold dust sprinkled from the hand of a generous God. Cameras pointed at her from every direction, feeding the image live to televisions across the city.
On this day Camille would officially announce to the millions of her adoring constituents that she had made good on her promise. Construction of the new Doberman Stadium would begin in exactly one week. Within a year, they would be able to buy Dober Dogs and garlic fries from one of the hundreds of concession stands, purchase a luxury condominium, or watch their favorite team in comfort from one of the 175,000 cushioned seats with the beautiful California sunset over the Pacific Ocean as their backdrop.
“It has been over two years in the making,” she said confidently into the cluster of microphones attached to the podium. “But this day has finally come. Exactly one week from today, the city of Los Angeles will break ground on the new state-of-the art Doberman Stadium.”
Strands of her silky black hair lifted gently in time with the breeze drifting through the city. “The stadium will be built completely without the use of tax dollars. Corporate sponsors, bonds, investors, and generous benefactors have already committed 90 percent of the $1.6 billion needed to make this dream a reality.”
Gideon Truman blended in, as best he could, with the sea of reporters. He was the only person in the crowd not holding a recorder, camera, notepad, or cell phone aimed at Camille. He stood with his hands in his pockets and looked up at her disapprovingly.
Camille provided only broad-stroke descriptions of the mammoth project, intentionally omitting the pesky details so as to not confuse the masses.
“Construction will be completed in exactly one year, and we’ve built in an incentive for the contractor, stating that for every day they complete ahead of schedule they will receive a $10,000 bonus.”
The gaggle of reporters seemed anxious for her to finish so they could pepper her with questions. She pressed on with the precisely crafted speech, punctuating each line with a dazzling smile, wave of her hand, or point of her finger. Despite their eagerness to ask questions, they each silently acknowledged she was a gifted orator and extremely pleasing on the eye.
“The people of Los Angeles made this stadium a reality. It is my honor to serve as your mayor and to be a resident of one of the greatest cities in the world.”
Hands in the crowd flew into the air the instant the last word escaped her lips.
“Mayor Hardaway,” one aggressive reported shouted over the rest, “some people want to name the stadium after you. What do you think of that?”
“Mayor, over here!” shouted another. “How will this success factor into your decision to run for governor?”
The barrage of questions collided in the air like fireworks. Camille carefully selected which to answer and ignored those offering no political gain. Starting with, “Doberman Stadium was the name the fans chose over fifty years ago, and it will continue to be the name fifty years from now.” Then, “It will have absolutely no bearing on whether I run for governor. This isn’t about me. It’s about baseball and the fans who love the game.”
Gideon waited patiently for the frenzy of adoration to peak, and at that precise moment shouted, “Mayor Hardaway! Gideon Truman from CNN!”
The crowd fell silent in the two seconds it took for his words to register. Local newspapers and news stations, public access channels, and free weekly throwaways were small fish in the media pond, and CNN was the whale.
Camille saw Gideon for the first time. The unpleasant memory of her last interview flashed in her mind. “Yes, Gideon?” she said forcing her smile to remain in place.
“Did your husband play a role in the purchase of the land the stadium will be built on?”
The crowd fell silent.
“Absolutely none,” she answered confidently. “Next question,” she said, opening the floor to the group.
But Gideon was not done.
Again the crowd fell silent, sensing more was going on between Camille and Gideon than met the eye. CNN’s lens was pointed squarely at Camille Hardaway during her most significant moment of glory. Ink pens stood at the ready over notepads, and recorders were lifted high above the crowd.
“Are you absolutely sure about that?” he piped up again.
The two locked eyes as if they were standing ten paces apart and preparing to fire off a blaze of bullets until only one remained standing. It was, after all, high noon, and they were in the center of town. The crowd braced themselves in case there was suddenly a need to duck and run for cover.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Truman, but today is about Doberman Stadium,” Camille said with a smile. “I would be happy to answer your questions privately some other time”; then she refocused on the group. “I’m afraid that’s all the time I have for questions. Thank you all for coming and have a good day.”
The press conference ended as abruptly as it began. Camille disappeared behind the main doors leaving the dazed members of the media to only guess what the cryptic exchange was really about.
She rode the elevator to her office in silence with two stunned assistants. “What was that all about?” the braver of the two asked.
Camille did not respond.
She entered her office in a huff. The cell phone rang when the oak door slammed with an echoing thud.
“Hello,” she snapped.
“Don’t worry about it, Camille,” Lazarus said. “I’ve already made arrangements for Gideon Truman,” and the line went dead.
The room at the Bonaventure Hotel was cold and impersonal compared to the master suite in the mayor’s mansion. Sheridan checked in shortly after he and Camille found themselves rolling on the floor and pounding each other’s bodies in rage.
His world had imploded, and there appeared to be no way to contain the flying debris. Playa del Rey was not going to become a part of his already-substantial portfolio. His marriage to the mayor was over, and Tony . . . was no great loss.
His dignity lay in tatters on the finely woven rug in Gloria Vandercliff’s mansion, and at any minute, federal agents armed with a warrant for his arrest would surely be knocking at the door. His only option was to liquidate KeyCorp assets, leave the country, buy that shack, albeit palatial, on some remote island, and wait until the statute of limitations ran out.
Could be a hell of a lot worse, he thought, reclining on the bed and tapping the iPad icons: Sun-drenched beaches, Rum Bahama Mamas, and lobster served by a lovely island gi
rl, or boy, depending on his appetite at the moment.
His prospects became less and less bleak the more he thought about it. Sure, I’ll miss being in the public eye. The power. I’ll probably miss that the most, he lamented. But at least I won’t have to pretend to love her anymore.
Or was it pretend? Sheridan looked at Camille’s smiling face on the front page of the Los Angeles Times sitting next to him on the bed. God, she is beautiful, he thought. And those lips. It was like kissing a peach. Soft, luscious, and so sweet, he grudgingly conceded. A tent began to form in the white towel around his waist. He suddenly could smell her perfume. A warmth seemed to brush across his cheek, feeling just as it did on the many times she touched his face and said, “I love you, baby.” He could almost hear her saying the words as the towel continued to rise.
He did love Camille, and tonight, sitting alone on the bed in the Bonaventure Hotel, in the middle of her city, was the first time he admitted it to himself.
“Fuck!” he said out loud. “Fucking bitch. Get out of my head.”
She somehow found her way into his heart undetected. Sheridan believed he was impervious to love. “Love is for the weak and simpleminded,” he often said. People who rely on love for fulfillment only do so because they are too weak and afraid to go after the things in life that really matter.
Power was Sheridan’s version of love. The acquisition of it was his courtship. The use of it was his form of lovemaking, and the exploitation brought him true ecstasy and bliss. But now that the source of his wealth was depleted, he surprisingly found himself still feeling love. If his philosophy on the matters of love and romance was true, then, when there was no money to be made, there should be no emotion. The only feeling that should remain was a hunger to acquire more money.
But tonight, the only hunger he felt was for the touch of Camille’s hand. The only urge was to hear her voice and to bury his lips in the deep luxurious nape of her neck. Since this was now far beyond the realm of possibility, he was left with only the void her love once filled.
The earliest flight out of Los Angeles to Florida was in the morning at 5:35. Until then, his plan was to remain in the hotel room and transfer millions from seven accounts to banks in the Bahamas, Switzerland, and the Cayman Islands. There would be enough to start over, and over, and over again.
The Bank of the Bahama’s Web site appeared on the screen. Sheridan entered his username, “nadirehs,” and the password, “kissmyblkass.”
The page opened. “Welcome back, Michael Kenigrant,” were the words at the top of the screen.
He tapped the tab, “View My Statement.” As he scrolled through the five-page PDF, his spirits lifted and Camille’s voice slowly faded.
$4,347,825.09 Deposited via Electronic Transfer
$1,965,662.37 Deposited via Electronic Transfer
$756,813.59 Deposited via Electronic Transfer
The list seemed endless until finally the total account balance crept up from the bottom of the screen showing $187,407,389.17 in transfers from KeyCorp accounts. I can live with that.
In the next fifteen minutes, Sheridan transferred an additional $127 million into the three accounts. By the time the feds connected the dollar signs, he would have vanished into thin, very rich air.
Sheridan logged off after making the final transfer. Thoughts returned quickly to Camille as soon as his head rested on the pillow: her full breasts pressing against his chest, the feel of silk when her hair brushed against his cheek, the smell of her . . . the taste of her. The towel began the familiar rise. Sheridan placed his hand under the Egyptian cotton, encircled his erect penis and slowly moved his hand up and down the full length. The insides of his eyelids served as screens upon which played the epic passion he and Camille shared.
Sheridan’s breaths became shallow as he continued manipulating his now fully exposed member to the sight of Camille’s legs clamped tightly around his back and his hips thrusting deep inside her. Her moans inside his head made his hand move faster and faster. “I love you, Camille,” he panted out loud. “Make love to me.” He could see the ecstasy on her face as he moved the camera of his mind to a bird’s-eye view. Her eyes looked up as she moaned, “Fuck me, Sheridan. Fuck me harder.” Her face shined as if it were glowing by the soft light of a flickering candle.
Sheridan responded to Camille’s intense pleas by pounding her, and his hand, with a fury. He gaped open his mouth and thrust his head back violently onto the pillow as he crossed the threshold of no return. The milky evidence of his passion, without warning, spurted onto his heaving chest. Then suddenly his body tensed. His heart began to beat at a furious rate. His eyes bulged open as he gasped for air.
Time seemed to stand still as he stared helplessly at the ceiling. A thousand memories rushed through his mind, and all included the woman he believed he never loved. The blinding flash of cameras in the lobby of city hall on the night she announced with him at her side, “We are getting married.” His hand sliding a diamond ring onto her finger and the words, “I do.” Whitney Houston singing “I will always love you,” as they danced their first dance as man and wife. His head buried deep between her legs in the back of the limousine.
Sheridan tried to break free from the unrelenting pull of death, but there was no escaping. His body no longer belonged to him. He lay transfixed on the bed, captive to the scenes of his love, and prayed they would never end. But the fierce pounding of his heart gradually slowed to a sporadic thump, and then sputtered to a whimpering halt. He grudgingly released his hold on life, and his body went limp on the bed. The last thing he saw was Camille’s candlelit face looking at him and calling his name.
A collective gasp was heard over the city when the morning newspaper announced the shocking news, “SHERIDAN HARDAWAY DEAD OF APPARENT HEART ATTACK.”
“Sheridan Hardaway, husband of the city of Los Angeles’s glamorous mayor and rumored contender for the next gubernatorial race, died suddenly yesterday. Hardaway, forty-five, was considered Mayor Camille Hardaway’s closest advisor and was a major influence in her administration. ‘It appears to have been cardiac arrest,’ UCLA Medical Center’s Doctor Luis Calbrano told Reuters.”
Tony read the paper on the deck of his condo. Early-morning joggers with ponytails bobbing behind passed as he read. A whirling Zamboni swept slowly along the bike path just below the railing. Tony stopped reading and looked out over the horizon. The corners of the newspaper shook from his trembling hands. It wasn’t a heart attack, he thought nervously. Lazarus Hearst had something to do with it.
Tony could feel the weight of the telephone Lazarus gave him in the pocket of his white robe. He prayed silently it would not ring. Now, more than ever, he felt his life was in danger. He hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since the call from Lazarus and was never without the phone within arm’s reach. It sat on the sink when he showered. It was attached to the elastic waistband of his jogging shorts, and stared up at him from the desk in his office.
He knew it was inevitable Lazarus would one day conclude he too was a liability. It’s just a matter of time until he runs out of uses for me and decides I know too much. What if he ever thinks I’m lying to him? How can I get out of this? I want my life back. I’m a dead man walking, were the thoughts that would race through his mind in the late hours of the night when he lay staring up at the ceiling.
“Hardaway was found dead in a suite at the Bonaventure Hotel in downtown Los Angeles by hotel staff. According to hotel records, he checked in earlier that day and did not specify a checkout date.”
Danny rushed into the bathroom holding the morning paper. “Gideon!” he called over the sound of the running shower. “Gideon!” he called out again. “You are not going to believe this!”
Torrents of water splashed onto Gideon’s glistening body. He had been up until 3:00 a.m. the previous night pouring over KeyCorp documents and trolling the Internet for more information on the company. His usual 6:00 a.m. swim, a hot shower, followed by two cups of
strong coffee were the only proven ways to kick-start his days.
“I’m almost done,” Gideon replied through the stream. “Give me a minute.”
Danny swung open the shower door and held up the newspaper. “This can’t wait. Sheridan Hardaway is dead!”
Gideon froze under the flow. “What?” he asked in disbelief, and then saw the headline.
He joined Danny in the kitchen after quickly drying off and wrapping himself in a robe. A cup of coffee waited for him on the table.
Gideon read while Danny looked on with concern.
“Sheridan and Camille married shortly before being sworn in for her first term as mayor. He was born in Hawthorn, California, and attended Cal State Los Angeles with a major in business. At times, Mayor Hardaway received criticism for her seemingly overreliance on her husband’s advice on city matters. He is credited with assisting her through contentious contract negotiations with the Police Union.”
“It’s Hezekiah all over again,” Danny said. “I told you—she’s the same, if not worse than Samantha Cleaveland.”
“The paper says it was a heart attack,” Gideon replied. “No one else was in the room with him.”
“You can’t think it’s a coincidence that on the day you confront her at that press conference, her husband mysteriously dies? Come on, Sheridan,” Danny said. “I don’t care what the paper says. Camille killed him. Just like Samantha killed Hezekiah.”
Despite all the facts laid out in black and white in front of him, Gideon believed Danny was absolutely correct. Camille had something to do with it. Years of investigative reporting taught him there were no such things as coincidences.
However, for Danny’s comfort he contained his emotions and censored his words. Instead, he replied reassuringly, “It happens, honey. His world was collapsing around him. The pressure must have been too much for his heart. We don’t know what preexisting conditions he may have had. Believe it or not,” Gideon smiled, “husbands die every day, and most do it without any help from their wives.”
The Committee Page 18
