I climbed out of the limo at exactly fifteen minutes until four, right on our scheduled time.
I pretended to limp slightly, using the walking stick, as I made my way up the short flight of stairs and into the old bank. It had been a fixture in the Seattle area for almost a hundred years, with its high ceilings and marble floors and pillars. The place felt just cold to me, and I couldn’t imagine why anyone would bank in a building that felt more like a mausoleum than a place to do business.
I moved to the counter for signing in for the safe-deposit boxes.
The clerk was a young woman with a pristine look and a small wedding ring on her finger. She had to be very new on the job. Not too new, I hoped, that she had to have the bank manager’s permission for things like this.
She looked at my request, then at my ID, then said, “That’s a special box, sir. It takes nine keys.”
“I have all nine,” I said, patting my vest pocket like that was where I had put them.
“Good,” she said, having me sign Benson James’ name.
She checked it against a signature card while I stood and worried, without looking like I was worried. I had practiced that damn signature for hours and hours.
She nodded, then said, “This way, sir.”
She unlocked a big gate, let me pass, then re-locked it.
I was steps away from finding out what had killed my father and a bunch of other good men, and when that gate clicked shut behind me, all I wanted to do was bolt.
It was too much like a jail cell, and I was breaking far too many laws.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Seattle, Washington. September 8
THE YOUNG WOMAN put the bank’s key into its slot in the wide and very old-looking box.
“Just insert the keys one at a time and turn them,” she said.
With her watching, I took out the keys and inserted #1 and turned it.
It clicked solidly.
She nodded and said nothing.
I guess that was what it was supposed to do.
I went down the line to #6 without a problem, but that sixth key was the one that Mike had made, the one that worried me the most.
I inserted it and it caught for a fraction of a second, then also clicked.
I forced myself to breathe.
The last three keys fit just fine and I pulled out the covered, heavy box.
“You can take any room in there,” she said, pointing to where the privacy rooms were for the box holders.
“I will need to copy some private documents,” I said. “Do you have a machine in the bank I could use? I’d prefer not to take them out of the bank.” I knew the bank had the copier, but that was what Fleet had told me to say.
“Of course,” she said, smiling. “Just bring out the documents you would like to have copied and I’ll show you to the machine and how to use it.”
“You’ve been very kind,” I said, hefting the box and going into one of the private booths.
I set the closed box on the desk and stared at it. I had no desire to open this, to see what really had happened back in 1982, what had cost me my father when I was only six years old, but I had to.
I just hoped I was the first one to get here.
I lifted the lid.
Inside, on top of a very thin pile of paper, was a signed document with nine signatures describing the events of the night, including how R.A. Scott, Nyland Harrison, and Jeff Taylor killed Kevin DeFoe with rocks after he was caught cheating. The note said they had no intention of killing him, just stopping him from running away down the trail.
Such a stupid thing to do. Chances were Taylor would have been hurt or killed anyway, running on that trail in the middle of the night, if they hadn’t stopped him.
There, on the signed paper, as I expected, were Dolan Chase’s and Paul Hanson’s names, as well as my father’s name.
There was a small, hand-drawn map of the area around R.A. Scott’s house showing the airstrip, the river, and a mark showing exactly where they had buried Kevin DeFoe’s body.
There were also four pictures. Two graphic shots of Kevin DeFoe’s body that I didn’t linger over, another two of the men involved in different group shots.
My father and Dolan Chase were in both pictures. They did not look happy.
I felt sick just looking at it. Not because of the graphic nature of the pictures of DeFoe, but of what these papers in this box had caused. Far too many people had already died because of these six pieces of paper.
I opened my briefcase and put the documents and photos into the case, inside a manila envelope.
It seemed so light, so small, for something so powerful and dangerous.
I closed the lid on the box, leaving it empty, then stopped and made myself breathe.
There had been no surprises.
Just simple evidence of a single moment in 1982 echoing down through time, destroying lives as it went.
And to make sure it had no more effect on my family and friends, I had to finish playing out this last hand.
I put the box back and took the keys, then called for the woman.
She took her key from the slot above the special box, then showed me to the copy machine.
It took me less than three minutes to make two copies of everything, including the pictures. I put each set into its own manila envelope. And with the documents out of the box, I also put three pages of phone records that Mike had retrieved from Steven Harrison’s private phone, showing that Dolan Chase and Paul Hanson had called him from their own private lines over a dozen times, from before my father’s death to the day Paul was killed.
It didn’t take a genius to put together what had happened. Steven had called the President and his chief of staff, offering to round up all the keys in exchange for something in return. From that call onward, it had only been the President or Paul who called Steven.
It was now all together, the documents from 1982 and the phone records from the last three weeks. Three separate envelopes with the exact same thing in them. One envelope had only originals. I planned on keeping that one.
I thanked the young bank woman, told her I had decided to take the documents with me after all, and that I wouldn’t need to get back in the box.
Then I went to stand in line for a teller.
Stepping into line just ahead of me was Heather Voight in a very effective disguise of an overweight housewife in a plaid dress. I almost didn’t recognize her, even though she was right where she was supposed to be.
I handed her an envelope and she put it in her large purse without so much as a nod.
I stood there for a moment until Heather went up to an open window to ask a bogus question, then I turned away and went to a work counter.
A moment later Annie came into the bank, also in a disguise. Instead of brown hair, she had on a blonde wig, a tight blue dress that showed off her wonderful body, and red lipstick. The look just wasn’t her.
She stood next to me at the workstation and opened a briefcase in front of her.
“Any problems?” she asked.
I slipped her an envelope as I said, “None, except trying not to smile at your disguise.”
She put the envelope into her briefcase as if it belonged to her. “Not funny,” she said.
But I could tell she was also trying not to laugh.
“See you back in Las Vegas,” I said. “Watch your back.”
She nodded and said nothing.
I turned and headed for the front door, the original documents in my briefcase.
Outside, the fresh air and warm September afternoon calmed me down. Mike was in a van down the street and he gave me a thumbs-up as I glanced in his direction.
So far, all was clear.
The FBI now had a copy of everything.
The Las Vegas Police Department now had a copy of everything.
We now had the best hands in this game that we could get, considering we were playing against the most powerful man in the world.
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br /> CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Las Vegas, Nevada. September 9
SINCE I HAD the president’s private phone number from the phone logs of Steven’s phone calls, I didn’t bother to go through the White House switchboard. But I did wait until later in the evening, Washington, D.C., time, to make sure he was back in his residence.
With a quick call to Annie’s phone number at the police station, Heather signaled she had made it back to Washington. More than likely, she had already talked to the people she needed to talk to. When she had suggested she give her boss the papers, I had at first thought it was a bad idea.
“If my boss knows what happened with Paul, and has seen the documents, including the phone records, I will be a great deal safer. And more than likely retain my status once he learns how he and I were both used by Paul and the President outside of my normal line of duties. Director Smith is a friend of the President, but he doesn’t like being used.”
I had agreed. And I hadn’t asked where she would hide the envelope.
Annie had made it safely back to Las Vegas by commercial airline and this morning had put the papers in a bank safe-deposit box with her name and her captain’s name on it. If anything happened to her, her captain was instructed to go get the papers and release them to the press.
I had my set also well protected, slipped between the photo and the backing board of the large picture of me and my father in Carson’s bedroom.
Ace, Fleet, and my mother knew it was there, sealed and stamped and already addressed to a friend of mine on the Las Vegas Sun newspaper.
For the phone call with the President, I had Mike make sure the call could not be traced or recorded in any fashion on my side. And I used a cell phone that Mike said he had bought from a small-time pickpocket earlier that evening, and that would be destroyed ten minutes after I used it. I had no doubt it was freshly stolen, but I didn’t ask and Mike didn’t say.
The President answered with an abrupt, “Yes?”
“Doc Hill, sir,” I said. “I hope I’m not calling too late.”
There was a pause on the other end. I clearly had surprised him.
“Not at all. What can I do for you?”
“I have some items I’m sure you would like to own, for old time’s sake. Call them a connection with my father.”
For a moment I wanted him to think I was willing to give him the keys. To see if he knew we had already been to the bank.
“What would you like for this connection?” he asked.
He didn’t know. Good. That meant I needed to tell him.
“I’ve been to the box in Seattle and emptied it, sir,” I said, pulling the rug out from under him.
Silence.
“Yes,” he finally said.
“Understand, sir, that there are three full sets of the documents, plus copies of Steven’s private phone calls to this line with you.”
He inhaled hard, but said nothing, so I went on.
“All are in safekeeping with instructions to release to the press and law enforcement agencies if anything happens to me, my family, my friends.”
After a moment he said, “I understand.” His voice was just about as cold as I had ever heard a voice be.
“I would like to meet.” I said. “You, me, your wife, Detective Annie Lott from the Las Vegas Police Department, and FBI Agent Heather Voight. A private, unrecorded meeting.”
“I’m afraid Agent Voight is no longer in good standing with the bureau,” he said.
“I think you may be mistaken, sir. You might want to check with her superiors.”
Silence again.
“She is in custody of a set of the documents, sir. I felt it was only right to include her, since she was working for you when her boyfriend was killed. Don’t you?”
Silence again.
This President did not have a reputation of being silent, yet I seemed to leave him speechless a great deal.
Finally he said, “I will be in San Francisco in three days. I would be glad to meet there at that time. My secretary will call your home tomorrow and set it all up.”
“That will be fine,” I said.
And then for the second time, I hung up on the President of the United States.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
San Francisco, California. September 12
THE BUILDINGS OF San Francisco flashed past the limousine’s windows as we headed in from the airport toward the President’s hotel.
“I could get used to this,” Annie said, leaning back against me and putting her head on my shoulder.
“So you like the private planes, limos, all that?”
“You bet,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “What woman wouldn’t?”
Over the last three days, while we waited for this meeting, our relationship had gone to the next level, for lack of a better way of calling it.
Annie had called it “Sex like rabbits in heat.”
I just called it the next level.
And, I had to admit, it was a great level.
For years, I didn’t think I dared have a long-term relationship because of what my father had done to my mother. Some sort of strange thinking that it was hereditary or something that stupid. But actually, my father had stayed with my mother as best he could under the circumstances. They had spent years in a very strange relationship, yet still loved each other and remained faithful to each other. The more I thought about that, the more amazed I became.
My mother and I had finally had the “discussion” I had been putting off. We had spent an afternoon with me yelling at her sometimes, her in tears at times. But mostly we just talked about what had happened, why she and Carson had made the decisions they had made, and why they hadn’t told me when I became an adult.
I don’t know if I would ever get past every bit of the anger at her and Carson and Ace, but I was going to try. I couldn’t see any reason to not do so.
And now, maybe, just maybe, with a woman as smart as Annie, I could make something work with a relationship. I was sure going to play the hands to find out.
“Why the luxury all the time?” Annie asked, looking up at me. “You know, this doesn’t seem your style. You strike me as more of the covered wagon kind of guy.”
“Wait until you see my house in Boise,” I said. “You’ll think a covered wagon looks good.”
She laughed, then leaned against me and watched the city pass outside.
I could tell she was worried about the coming meeting. So was I. This wasn’t going to be easy on anyone involved.
At the hotel, after a number of security checks on different levels of the hotel, we were finally allowed to go upstairs, all the way to the top suite.
The President met us as we got off the elevator. His wife, Penny, was behind him. She looked tired and very, very worried. She had a right to be both.
Heather joined us from a side room and stepped into the presidential suite as we did, closing the door behind us all.
“Doc,” the President said. “It’s a pleasure finally meeting you. I’ve followed your career since you started. Carson was very proud of you.”
He wasn’t really smiling, but he at least shook my hand. Clearly the man was a politician right to the last gasp.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” I said. “This is Detective Annie Lott of the Las Vegas police.”
“Princeton grad, future great poker player,” the President said to Annie. “Glad to meet you.”
The President extended his hand, and Annie shook it. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I’m sorry this is under such trying circumstances.”
The President nodded, then glanced at his wife before moving into the middle of the big suite and taking a seat at a large dining room table, indicating that Annie and I should do the same. His wife sat beside him, but didn’t touch him.
Heather remained standing off to one side, her back to the door.
I took out of my pocket all nine keys and placed them in front of the President. They rattled o
n the table.
“Two of them match yours and Paul’s, of course.”
The man just stared at them as if he had seen a ghost. I imagined he had. Those keys were a ghost that had haunted his nightmares for decades.
The First Lady looked pale, as if she were about to faint. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the keys. Clearly, he had told her. But I had no idea if she had known all along, like Ace and my mother had. Or was just learning about this mess the last few days. It would go a lot easier on her if she had always known.
“I have the originals of all the documents,” I said. “Agent Voight has copies and Detective Lott has copies, all ready to go to the press and authorities, all well hidden and protected if something happens to any of us.”
The President waived my statement aside. “I understand your threats. What do you want?”
“Your resignation,” I said. “Nothing more.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
San Francisco, California. September 12
“WHY WOULD YOU want his resignation?” his wife asked, clearly shocked.
The President sat back, his eyes glazed.
“For the good of the country, if no other reason,” Annie said. “For the good of his party, for the memory of all the men in that game that are now dead. If we release those documents, the next year will be a living nightmare, and you will be impeached anyway I’m sure.”
“Why in the world did you think you could work with Steven Harrison?” I asked, not hiding the disgust in my voice.
The President came back as if I had slapped him.
“I didn’t work with him!” he shouted, coming up out of his chair at me across the table. He was a very powerful man and I could feel his anger.
It was very, very real.
His wife put a hand on his arm and after a moment of glaring at me, he sat back.
I waited for an answer to my question, the tension in the room almost suffocating.
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