Tyson Vasquez did not blink. “I have evidence of a crime and time is of the essence. I won’t entrust it with anyone but the elected Sheriff of Berkeley County, and that means you.”
The man eyed Vasquez suspiciously. The former congressman was holding a DVD.
“Suit yourself,” Vasquez said. “But when this disc hits CNN tomorrow, you’ll be the national laughingstock, not me.”
The sheriff snatched the disc. “Fine,” he growled. “But you’re staying right here while I watch this thing, and unless there’s something earth-shattering on it, I’m hauling your ass to jail even if I have to make up something.”
Vasquez calmly smiled. “Then I have nothing to worry about.”
CHAPTER 98
BERRY HILLS COUNTRY CLUB
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 14, 3:00 P.M.
Vincent grabbed his putter and stepped up to the ball. Gently rocking his arms backwards, he softly swung through the ball, but it hooked slightly, missing the hole. Shaking his head, he ambled toward the ball.
“That’s a gimme,” Bowen yelled from the cart. He was sprawled across the seat with a cigar in one hand and a beer in the other.
Vincent scooped his ball from the green, and then trudged to the cart like a death row inmate heading to the electric chair. Secret Service agents trailed nearby.
Bowen took a drag from his cigar. “You’re playing like shit today, Luke. Something on your mind?”
Vincent stepped on the cart’s parking brake and drove forward. “You could say that. I have to deal with Tabatha tonight, and I’m dreading it. It won’t be pretty.”
“Why tonight? And why won’t it be pretty?”
Vincent sighed. “She made me a proposition on Thursday: If I’d agree to leave my wife, she would switch sides and cast her Electoral College ballot for me and Melanie.”
“Holy shit! That’s great! We can still win this thing!”
Vincent’s eyes smoldered. “It’s not great! It’s horrible! I don’t want to get divorced; I love my wife!”
“You don’t have to actually do it. Just tell her you’ll do it. And after she casts her ballot tomorrow, you can tell her you changed your mind.”
The governor laughed caustically. “Right. Like she’d take that lying down. She’d be on the front steps of the Capitol, passing out her videos and telling everyone with a microphone that I took advantage of her grief-stricken ass by promising to leave Donna in exchange for her vote.”
Bowen frowned. “So what are you supposed to do?”
“She’s driving down to Charleston tonight,” Vincent replied. “She’s staying where she always does – the hotel that Marco Zakarias owns – and she said that as long as I come to her room and ‘make love to her’ tonight, she’ll switch her vote. She says she’d give me a year to actually leave Donna. You know … move to D.C. and then say the stress of the job had caused us to drift apart, etc. She had the whole thing planned out. It’s terrifying, really.”
Vincent shut off the engine. “I’ll call her on my way home and tell her I can’t go through with it. Dick, I can’t even have sex with her again. The thought of laying a finger on her makes me want to puke. I can’t bear the thought of doing that to Donna anymore.”
He sighed. “All I can do is throw myself at Tabatha’s mercy and hope she won’t drag Donna into it. I doubt it will accomplish anything, but it’s all I have left.”
Bowen stared into the distance and finished his beer. “I wouldn’t say that.”
BERKELEY COUNTY JUDICIAL CENTER
MARTINSBURG, BERKELEY COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 14, 3:30 P.M.
The Berkeley County magistrate stuck with weekend duty was Ernest Powell. A crusty retired policeman, he originally ran for magistrate to combat boredom. With his law enforcement background, Powell had a “friendly” disposition toward requests from the men in blue.
“What do you have here?” he asked, peering at the document the sheriff had given him.
“It’s a request for a search warrant, Your Honor.”
Powell smiled. “And who’s the unlucky sap getting served?”
The sheriff stiffened slightly. “It’s, uh … the County Clerk, Your Honor.”
Powell’s face shot up. “Marcus Boley? What for?”
The sheriff frowned. “We think he stuffed the ballot boxes during the recount. Hard to believe, but we have a video-taped confession. He described the whole operation in detail.”
Powell whistled and signed the warrant. “I’ll be damned. Never dreamed Marcus would do something like that. Hell, he grew up here – used to be an Eagle Scout even.”
“Well, we think he was encouraged to do it by some big shot with Royal’s campaign. The guy was raised in West Virginia, too. His name is Dave Anderson.”
Powell’s nostrils flared. “He’d better never come to Berkeley County, or I’ll throw him under the jail.”
The sheriff put the signed warrant in his pocket. “Once we look in the ballot boxes, we’ll probably be back with a warrant charging him with conspiracy to commit election fraud.”
The magistrate smiled menacingly. “I’ll look forward to seeing it.”
PLEASANTS COUNTY COURTHOUSE
ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 14, 4:15 P.M.
“So what do you think?” Dave asked.
Rikki scowled at the West Virginia Code book, hunched over her desk and rubbing her temple. “I think I’m getting a headache. How about you?”
“My brain feels like it was jammed in a blender. And with no criminal law experience, I’m probably not much more helpful than a chimp.”
Rikki giggled. “If nothing else, you’re good comic relief. I’m truly glad you’re here.”
Dave smiled and folded his arms across his chest. “Me, too.”
She turned to the Code again. “I know we’d get a search warrant if the other magistrate was on duty. There’s plenty of circumstantial evidence against Tabatha, if it turns out Beria – I mean, Petrenko – shot Jack.”
“So why wouldn’t Magistrate Flowers give us one?” Dave asked, incredulous.
Rikki pursed her lips. “I think he’d give us one for Petrenko’s records or residence. He was near the crime scene with a rifle and a fake ID after their $25 million deal went sour. But we don’t have that much against Tabatha. She has an airtight alibi, and she probably couldn’t shoot a rifle to save her life.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that. She’s one cold heartless bitch.”
“But even her one email to Petromica doesn’t show they were plotting to kill Jack! She thought Jack’s decision to spike the deal was foolish but that they could salvage the deal.”
“Or maybe they would need to ‘pursue the alternate plan,’” Dave clarified.
“It was carefully worded,” Rikki said. “Unlike the videoclips she sent Vincent.”
Dave sighed. “It’s a shame we can’t arrest her for being a no-good dirty whore.”
Rikki nodded sympathetically. Then her pale green eyes lit up, and she began to smile. “You know what? You might be on to something.”
CHAPTER 99
11 SUNNYSIDE CIRCLE
MARTINSBURG, BERKELEY COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 14, 5:30 P.M.
The sheriff stood on Marcus Boley’s porch with two deputies. Doorbell chimes echoed from the house but no one answered the door. “Maybe he’s in the shower or something. But we have a search warrant, so let’s go in.”
The door was unlocked, and they walked in single-file. The sheriff motioned the deputies to draw their weapons and follow him into the next room.
Entering the room, they smelled puke and shit and blood before they even saw the body.
Marcus Boley’s corpse lay in the floor with a pistol in his right hand. Chunks of brain and blood littered the far wall, and though he was wearing pants, the unmistakable stench of feces indicated he had lost contr
ol of his bodily functions.
A deputy sprinted into the kitchen to puke. The other pointed to the table. “What’s that?”
Looking where the man pointed, the sheriff saw a sheet of paper bearing Times New Roman print. It was splattered with tiny, pinkish drops of blood mist.
The sheriff leaned down, examining the document without touching it. “Looks like a suicide note. I guess Marcus couldn’t handle the guilt.”
“But we found nothing wrong in the ballot boxes,” the non-puking deputy said.
The sheriff shrugged. “He must have disposed of the evidence. Oh, well. Let’s get the crime scene kit out. We’re in for a long night.”
CHAPTER 100
PLEASANTS COUNTY COURTHOUSE
ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 14, 6:10 P.M.
“Maybe I’m stupid,” Dave said. “But since we have grounds to arrest Tabatha, why don’t we just go do it?”
Rikki sighed, exasperated. “This isn’t the movies, David! Once the sheriff charges her with a crime, what happens next is up to the magistrate on duty when the charges are filed.”
“Okay. So this guy Vincent appointed is on duty now …”
“Magistrate Flowers.”
“So what? He can’t dismiss the charges. Your case is airtight.”
“Doesn’t matter. Remember, the magistrate could handle this complaint two ways. He could issue a warrant for her arrest, directing she be hauled in to answer the charges …”
“I wasn’t always asleep in criminal procedure class,” Dave protested.
“On the other hand, he could just issue a summons, directing her to voluntarily appear and answer the charges at some future date.”
Dave’s eyes widened. “Ah! That would suck.”
“To put it mildly. Flowers could easily refuse to issue a warrant on this misdemeanor. And if that’s the case …”
“She’d still get to vote in the Electoral College tomorrow.”
“Precisely. Her appointment is final. If she’s at the Capitol tomorrow at noon, she gets to cast that ballot.”
“What happens if she doesn’t show up?”
Rikki thrust a book at Dave. “Here it is. Chapter Three, Article One, Section Fourteen. See for yourself.”
Dave turned to the relevant section:
Ҥ3-1-14. Presidential electors; how chosen; duties; vacancies; compensation.
…If any of the electors so chosen fail to attend at the time appointed, the electors present shall appoint an elector in place of each one so failing to attend, and every elector so appointed shall be entitled to vote in the same manner as if he had been originally chosen by the people…”
Rikki waited for him to finish. “If she’s not there at noon, the other four electors will appoint someone to take her place.”
Dave sunk into his chair. “Wow. Okay, I’ll call Gil Dean to make sure a dependable replacement is on standby. Then I’ll call my good old buddy, the Mayor of Charleston.”
Rikki looked at Dave, curious. “You’re good buddies with Booz Hancock?”
“Well … He’s a Republican, and Gil introduced us.”
“That guy’s a loose cannon,” Rikki said. “Why do you have to talk to him tonight?”
“Even if we get an arrest warrant for Tabatha, who would serve it on her if she’s already in Charleston?”
“Oh. Right. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Think how huge the Capitol is. If word gets out she’s a wanted woman, Vincent’s crew will try their damnedest to delay service of the warrant until after the ballots are cast.”
“That’s another one I overlooked,” Rikki said. “You see: I told you there was a reason I’ve been keeping you around here.”
Dave grinned devilishly. “And I thought you just wanted some eye candy around the office.”
You haven’t been hard to look at, for sure, especially when you smile like that.
Silent Doug walked in on cue, holding a chocolate chip cookie. “Don’t flatter yourself, Dave. If she wants eye candy, she can stop by the Sheriff’s Department.” Biting into the cookie, he sucked in his paunch and straightened his posture.
“Coming back to my point,” Rikki segued, handing the criminal complaint to Vaughn. “Because I’m afraid Flowers won’t issue an arrest warrant, I asked the sheriff not to file the complaint until 9:00 tomorrow morning when Magistrate Irwin’s shift begins. And she, on the other hand, has politics more to your liking.”
Dave’s face brightened. “She’s a Republican?”
“Dyed-in-the-wool. She thought Jack walked on water and it turned her stomach to see Tabatha treat him like dirt. She’d probably deny bail altogether if the law didn’t prohibit it.”
Dave chuckled. “Sounds like my kind of woman!”
This Sheriff looked up, slack-jawed. “I don’t mean to question your judgment, but is that all we’re charging her with? I didn’t even know it was against the law.”
“That’s it for now. But when we see Magistrate Irwin in the morning, we’ll ask her for a search warrant, too.”
“Ah!” Vaughn said. “Ostensibly to gather additional evidence on the initial charge …”
“But crafted so you can seize anything that incriminates her for more serious crimes.”
Vaughn nodded and signed the document. “I like it. I’m heading home for dinner, and I’ll meet you in Magistrate Court tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. I’ll bring a search warrant with me.”
“I think I’ll go home and get something to eat, too,” Rikki said. “Dave … You care to join me, say around eight?”
“Does a fat baby fart? My mom’s at her evening church service and McDonald’s doesn’t sound appealing to your humble, unpaid assistant. See you then.”
CHAPTER 101
BERKELEY COUNTY SHERIFF’S
DEPARTMENT MARTINSBURG, BERKELEY COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 14, 7:30 P.M.
Monica Boley’s eyes were bloodshot. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was disheveled and frayed as she struggled to digest the news that her brother was dead.
It’s my fault. He was such a sweet, innocent, upstanding man, and I dragged him down in the mud where he didn’t belong. Now he’s dead. Oh, God! What have I done?
The sheriff gave her a bottle of water and sat down. “You gonna be okay?”
She stared across the table. He must think I had something to do with it. It’s time to man up and change his mind.
“I’m in shock, but I need to see the video. I refuse to believe Marcus ‘stole’ the election. And I definitely don’t believe he committed suicide. Even if he did what you say, he loved his wife and daughter too much to put them through that hell.”
The sheriff silently nodded. His eyes did not blink. “It must be hard. Maybe seeing the video will help you make sense of it all.”
He double-clicked the laptop’s touchpad and spun it around to face Monica. The clip began playing and she leaned toward the screen.
Marcus’s image appeared onscreen. Looking distraught, he stared at the camera as he spoke. But the look in his eyes struck her as … wrong.
And what’s going on with his hand? His fingers are flopping all around the table.
“My name is Marcus Boley,” he haggardly said, pointing to his chest with his right index finger. Then he slowly moved both hands downward, fingers spread slightly apart, and brought them to rest on the table. “I am the Berkeley County Clerk. By my actions, I have illegally influenced the presidential election results, causing Governor Royal to be credited with hundreds of votes that were not cast. In so doing, I have thwarted the will of West Virginia’s voters and stripped Senator Wilson of five electoral votes she should have won.”
The audio dropped and then the video jerked, as if the camera had been paused. Five seconds later, the monologue resumed.
“I pursued this course after speaking with David Anderson, Governor Royal’s campaign liaison in West Virginia,” Marcu
s said, running his forefinger across his chin before returning his right hand to the table in its former position.
What?! He’s never talked to Dave! What’s going on here?
Then, the realization hit her like a cold washcloth to the face and she struggled for breath. Their maternal grandmother had been deaf and she taught both her grandchildren sign language at an early age. We decided not to use sign language during the recount, but it looks like he’s trying to send a sign here!
Watching her brother’s hands, she instantly recognized the word he was communicating.
Helpless.
“Rewind this! I need to watch the whole clip again, but turn the volume down a little.”
The sheriff looked puzzled but complied. As the clip played, Monica watched Marcus’ hands instead of listening to his words. The message revealed was dramatically different.
“My name is Marcus Boley,” he began.
He’s pointing to his chest, which means, “I am …” Then he moves both hands downward and leaves them lying on the table. “ … Helpless.”
As Marcus described Dave’s role in the scheme to steal the election, he subtly ran his right index finger across his chin.
That means he’s speaking out of the side of his mouth. That statement’s a lie.
“Throughout this process,” Marcus said, sweeping his right index finger across the table from left to right a few inches, then shifting the position of his thumb so that it looked like the hammer of a gun in relation to the barrel shape of his finger.
They. Guns.
“I received updates from a staff member regarding the recount figures being reported from Mingo County,” he said, pointing to his chest again. This time, after placing both hands palms down on the table, he subtly shifted them to the right and flipped his right hand over, palm up.
Monica gasped and started sobbing.
I am helpless. Dead.
As the video played on, Marcus stared into the camera like a robot, impassively reciting words Monica knew he had been forced to say. His left hand remained motionless, palm down on the table while his right hand slowly twisted into carefully camouflaged sign language letters.
The Dirty Secret Page 34
