The Dirty Secret

by Brent Wolfingbarger

  They briefly stared at one another in silence before resuming their work.

  Scanning through the disc, Dave clicked on a folder entitled “MMS,” and a chronological list of files appeared. Clicking the first one, sent at 2:45 p.m. on January 28, revealed a short message from Tabatha that read, “c u in the room @ 4:30. im waiting 4 u.”

  The message had an attachment entitled, “IMG_1224.JPG.” Dave opened it and exclaimed, “Holy crap! Check out this picture she sent with one of her text messages!”

  Rikki scurried around the desk. Gazing over his shoulder, she saw a digital photograph of Tabatha McCallen standing in front of a mirror in a cream corset, matching G-string and thigh-high stockings. Wearing a seductive smile, Tabatha held a cameraphone in her hand.

  “What number did she send that message to?” Rikki asked.

  Dave pointed to the number and scribbled it down. “That one.”

  “Did she send any other messages to it?”

  “I don’t know,” Dave replied. “Let’s find out.”

  Scanning through the files in the MMS folder, Rikki tapped on his shoulder. “There’s one,” she said. “November 29th at 8:31 p.m.”

  “That was during the Pitt game,” Dave said. “She was upstairs alone while we watched the game in Jack’s family room.”

  Dave opened the message. It read, “Don’t you miss Pleasants County hospitality?”

  “I think we’ve found Tabatha’s paramour,” Rikki said. “I wonder what titillating little tidbit she sent him this time.”

  The attachment was entitled, “bass_fun1.mpg.” Dave leaned back in his chair to watch the festivities.

  The videoclip showed Tabatha lying on a bed in a room with wood-paneled walls.

  Dave grew visibly excited. “Hey! That looks like a room from the motel here in Saint Marys!”

  “What makes you think so?”

  He smiled mischievously. “You apparently don’t recall our senior prom as fondly, or as vividly, as I do.”

  Rikki felt her face flush. If my skin wasn’t so brown, I’d probably be turning beet red right now.

  Clad in black lingerie, Tabatha looked at the camera and said something while making a seductive ‘come hither’ gesture.

  “Did she say something about a governor?” Dave asked.

  Then the digital image of Luke Vincent appeared on-screen.

  “Oh, my God,” Rikki softly uttered as the scene unfolded. “I don’t believe it.”

  Dave emitted a war whoop. “Hot damn! Vincent is a dead man!”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Rikki interjected. “This doesn’t prove anything.”

  “It proves Vincent is a lying piece of shit that cheats on his wife.”

  “That’s beside the point! Yes, he may have been less than faithful …”

  “From the way he keeps thrusting himself into Tabatha and the sounds she’s making, I don’t think there’s any doubt he’s been unfaithful.”

  Rikki sighed loudly. “But that doesn’t prove he had anything to do with Jack’s death.”

  Dave stared at her, slack-jawed. “Are you kidding me?! He was boning Jack’s wife! He stands to become vice president if Jack’s out of the picture because his mistress will cast the decisive ballot in the Electoral College! I don’t see how you can look at this video, knowing what has transpired, and not assume Vincent is up to his eyeballs in this plot.”

  Rikki glared. “What the man has done in his private life is wrong. But that’s between Vincent, his wife and God, and it has nothing to do with his fitness for office.”

  Dave started to attack that assertion, but stopped himself cold. She holds all the cards here, and we have to play by her rules.

  Gritting his teeth, he exhaled softly. “Okay. I promise I won’t rush to judgment if you’ll remain open-minded that Vincent may be guilty of more than marital infidelity here.”

  Rikki eyed him closely. “On one condition.”

  “What is it?”

  “You promise not to reveal the existence of this video to anyone,” she said. “I gave you access to these files because I trusted you and hoped you could help me get to the bottom of Jack’s death. If our investigation thwarts this plot and costs Melanie Wilson the presidency, I can handle Democrats calling me a traitor. If that’s the price I pay to uphold the Constitution, as screwed up and illogical as it may be, so be it. But I will not be able to sleep if you betray my trust and use this information to humiliate Luke Vincent and destroy his marriage, because his wife is a sweet woman and she doesn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

  Staring into her pale green eyes, Dave saw she was deadly serious. But the video’s publication alone would likely end this plot and keep Tabatha from serving as an Elector.

  After 15 years of not speaking to you, she has finally forgiven you. Would you really be willing to throw that all away just to win an election?

  CHAPTER 91

  1140 CONNECTICUT AVE. NW

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 12, 8:00 P.M.

  As Tyson Vasquez nursed his gin and tonic, waiting for the comedians to take the stage, his eyes were drawn to four attractive, professionally-dressed women in their early thirties sitting about five feet to his right.

  “So where’s this new guy you’ve been gushing about?” a brunette asked playfully. The question was directed toward a blonde with shoulder length hair.

  “Dave had to fly back to West Virginia this afternoon,” the blonde replied. “He wouldn’t say much except that an Electoral College voter may have been bribed to switch sides.”

  Vasquez kept sipping his drink while listening more closely. Dave? I wonder if that’s who I think it is. He turned toward them with an easy smile. “You’re not talking about Dave Anderson, are you?”

  The blonde smiled back. “Maybe. How do you know Dave?”

  A-ha. That’s what I thought.

  “He did some lobbying for us. Great guy.” Vasquez stuck out his hand. “I’m Tyson Turner. And you are?”

  “Monica Boley.”

  Boley? What are the odds?

  Vasquez squinted an eye. “Say … didn’t I see somebody in the news a while back by the name of Marcus Boley?”

  Her eyes lit up. “That’s my brother. He supervised one of the county election recounts in West Virginia.”

  I knew those bastards were up to something in Berkeley County. Now to prove it!

  Vasquez smiled. “Small world! So did you say Dave is flying to West Virginia today?”

  She seemed to stiffen, but kept smiling. “Yeah. There’s some political stuff going on.”

  Clamming up on me, are we? That’s okay, Monica. You’ve said enough already.

  “That sounds like Dave,” Vasquez remarked, then glanced at his watch. “Well, I hate to run, but I have dinner plans. The next time you see Dave, tell him Tyson sends his regards.”

  “I will. Have fun!”

  Vasquez threw a twenty down and casually left the club. Buttoning his wool great coat with one hand, he used his other to make a call.

  “Hello, Yuri? This is Tyson. We have a situation …”

  CHAPTER 92

  PLEASANTS COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  SATURDAY DECEMBER 13, 10:10 A.M.

  Rikki rubbed her forehead while brushing up on the law governing search warrants:

  “To constitute probable cause for the issuance of a search warrant, the State’s affidavit must set forth facts indicating the existence of criminal activities which would justify a search. State v. Hlavacek, 185 W.Va. 371, 407 S.E.2d 375 (1991)”

  “Probable cause is defined as facts sufficient to support a reasonable belief that criminal activity is probably taking place or knowledge of circumstances indicating a fair probability that evidence of a crime will be found. It requires more than a mere ‘hunch,’ but less than proof beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  Rikki exhaled. Their current evidence just wasn’t enough to ge
t a search warrant for Tabatha’s house.

  And in Pleasants County, word would spread like wildfire if we tried to get a search warrant and failed. Then Tabatha would just destroy any evidence she might still have.

  No, Rikki glumly realized. Without additional information, they were stuck.

  The phone on Martha’s desk rang. Rikki went next door and answered it. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Rikki. This is Sheriff Vaughn. I can guess why you’re working on a Saturday.”

  “I’m certainly not here for my health. What do you have?”

  “There was nothing under Beria’s name in NCIC and the only fingerprints on the DNR citation were the officer’s. Apparently Beria wore his gloves the whole time they were talking.”

  Rikki sighed. “That figures.”

  “I have another idea,” Vaughn said. “The FBI’s biometrics unit is in Clarksburg. They can access the feds’ database of facial photographs, national driver’s records, and immigration records. Maybe they could run Beria’s picture through their database.”

  “That’s a great idea!”

  “The problem is, today’s Saturday and nobody is in the lab.”

  “Super,” she said sarcastically. “So much for that idea.”

  “Don’t throw in the towel yet. I go fishing with a guy who works there, and I hope he’ll do us a favor.”

  “Would it help if I drove over there and showed him some cleavage?”

  Vaughn chuckled. “Probably wouldn’t hurt.” Then he paused. “That’s a joke, Rikki. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  She giggled. “Well, I’ll use ‘em if I have to. That’s the least I could do for Jack.”

  “I’m sure he’d appreciate it. I’ll be in touch.”

  Three hours later, Rikki and Dave met for a status update.

  “We should receive Jack’s emails by 5:00 today,” Rikki said. “With any luck, they’ll include the purchase agreement or this mysterious Addendum.”

  Dave looked puzzled. “How can you get access to Jack’s emails but you can’t get a search warrant for Tabatha’s?”

  “Because Jack is dead. Dead men have no constitutional rights, and the State must determine whether his death was criminal or accidental. Moreover, as executor of Jack’s estate, I’m authorized to obtain his records. Tabatha, on the other hand, is quite alive and protected by the Fourth Amendment. Thus, the State cannot access her private records under these time constraints without a search warrant.”

  “Which requires ‘probable cause,’ huh?”

  “Yep. And the circumstantial evidence alone doesn’t rise to that level.”

  “Why can’t you just use that Power of Attorney again?” Dave asked.

  “Because Jack is dead,” Rikki shot back. “When Tabatha signed the Power of Attorney, she authorized Jack to do certain things on her behalf; not me. The POA does me no good.”

  Dave scowled. “What a pain! We’re almost certain Tabatha has been bribed, and there’s not a damn thing we can do because we can’t prove it. But how can we prove it if we can’t get access to her house or her email?”

  “It’s a catch-22,” Rikki admitted.

  The sound of footsteps approaching caused them to turn around just in time to see Magistrate Chuck Flowers stride into view. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Flowers asked with a grin.

  “Nah,” Rikki said. “I’m catching up on my backlog, and Dave graciously agreed to help me chip away at it while he’s in town.”

  “Well, that’s thoughtful,” Flowers remarked. “I wouldn’t be here on Saturday afternoon, myself, if not for a mental hygiene petition. Some nut has voices telling him to cut his penis off with a steak knife. Now I’m supposed to figure out what to do with him, and I don’t think the Supreme Court would appreciate me asking him if he needs any A-1 sauce.”

  “Probably not,” Rikki chuckled.

  Flowers stuck his hands in his pockets. “I just figured I’d stick my head in and see what was up. You kids have fun. I’ll be downstairs dealing with crazy people if you’re bored.”

  “Thanks, Your Honor,” Rikki called. A moment later the stairwell door slammed shut.

  “I wonder why we didn’t hear that door open earlier,” Dave said.

  “Probably because he was being sneaky,” she replied. “He may be a good Democrat, but he’s kinda shifty, if you know what I mean.”

  Dave shrugged. “Seemed nice to me.”

  “Yeah? Well, Luke Vincent appointed him to that position when another magistrate retired. Does that change your opinion?”

  “He’s a lying, malevolent piece of cow dung, then. I’ll ask the sheriff to keep his one good eye on him.”

  Rikki laughed loudly. “Twisted, twisted, twisted. What am I going to do with you?”

  Dave cocked an eyebrow. “I’m just happy you’re talking to me again. Anything beyond that is gravy.”

  ***

  Magistrate Flowers walked into his office, locked the door behind him and picked up his phone. After four rings, a man gruffly answered, “Hello?”

  “Dick Bowen? This is Chuck Flowers up in Pleasants County. How ya doing?”

  “Not bad. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

  Flowers leaned back, hoisting his loafers onto the desk. “I just overheard an interesting conversation in our prosecutor’s office. I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t want to know what’s going on. But if anyone you know is trying to influence Tabatha McCallen’s vote on Monday, they should know what I overheard.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  CHAPTER 93

  MARTINSBURG, BERKELEY COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 13, 2:25 P.M.

  “The wife and daughter are away for the weekend,” Vasquez said. “That means the Boy Wonder is the only one home.”

  Petrenko nodded. “It’s still daylight, but I say we go for it.”

  “I agree,” Vasquez said.

  As Petrenko reached for the door handle, his phone started playing the Deliverance theme. Vasquez looked confused.

  “It’s Bowen calling,” Petrenko explained as he answered the call. “Hello, Dick.”

  “Howdy, Yuri. I’ve got a bone to pick with you. You have a minute?”

  “Now’s not a good time. Can I call you back?”

  Bowen mumbled something, then said, “It’ll only take a minute, goddamn it.”

  Petrenko clenched his jaw. “Fine. You have 60 seconds. Go.”

  “If Senator Wilson’s campaign is still conducting operations in West Virginia, they’ll be more likely to succeed if I know about them, as I have access to certain resources that might remain unutilized if I’m outside the loop.”

  “What’s he saying?” Vasquez asked impatiently.

  Petrenko hit the mute button. “He’s whining and wants to know what’s going on.”

  Vasquez scoffed. “Ha! Everything he’s touched has turned to shit. The hillbillies should step aside and let the Big Boys handle things.” Yuri nodded and unmuted the phone.

  “The prosecutor thinks Tabatha McCallen has been bribed to vote for Senator Wilson on Monday,” Bowen continued. “I need to know if that’s the case. The prosecutor’s a Democrat, and I could call her and tell her to back off.”

  “I appreciate your offer to help,” Petrenko asserted. “But access to our current operations is on a strictly ‘need-to-know’ basis. Unfortunately, you don’t meet that definition right now. If we decide your expertise in managing the local officials is needed, we’ll call.”

  Bowen mumbled something again, a tad harsher this time. “It’s your dance card. I’m just trying to help. Don’t come crying if things go wrong.”

  “I’ve been forewarned.” Petrenko hung up and turned to Vasquez. “You ready for this?”

  Vasquez nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Then let’s hit it. As the rednecks say, ‘Time’s a’wastin!’”

  ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

&nb
sp; SATURDAY, DECEMBER 13, 3:30 P.M.

  Rikki stretched out on her couch, facing the television. Her mother walked in and gently rubbed Rikki’s forehead. “How are you feeling, daughter?”

  Rikki smiled wearily. “A little run down. But all things considered, not bad.”

  Madhani walked around the couch. Rikki lifted her legs, giving her a place to sit. “As tired as you are, you haven’t been this lively and happy in a long time. This new job must agree with you.”

  Rikki pondered the question. “That’s part of it, but I think it may also be due to how much I’m enjoying spending time with David again. It’s so strange, but I didn’t even realize how much I had missed hanging out with him and laughing until he reappeared in my life.”

  Madhani beamed. “Have you told him how you feel?”

  Rikki shook her head. “No. What would be the point? So much has happened between the two of us, and it’s been years since we dated. Besides, once this case is over, he’s heading back to D.C. to become Jonathan Royal’s chief of staff or something. It’s not like he’d come back to St. Marys just for me.”

  Madhani patted her daughter’s thigh. “You’ll never know if you don’t ask.”

  Rikki pursed her lips but said nothing. The awkward tension was punctured when the phone rang. The prosecutor swung herself off the couch and answered it. “Hello?”

  “Madam Prosecutor,” Sheriff Vaughn greeted. “I’m looking out my back window and I see your car in the driveway. Why aren’t you at the courthouse fighting crime?”

  Rikki chuckled. “Settle down, neighbor! I’m taking a break. Have you run down your buddy at the FBI?”

  “Well … I’ve got good news and bad news.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “The good news is he’s willing to help us out. I’ll shoot you his email address so you can send him that picture.”

  “Okay. And the bad news is?”

  “He won’t be back in town until tomorrow afternoon,” Vaughn said. “In the meantime, keep your eyes peeled for Rooskies and let me know if you see any lurking around.”

  “I don’t think I have to worry about anybody coming after me, Sheriff.”