The Cotten Stone Omnibus: It started with The Grail Conspiracy... (The Cotten Stone Mysteries)

by Lynn Sholes

“I could take a flight to Miami and be there tonight.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “For the same reasons I gave you the last hundred times. Thornton, unless you’ve got some other business to discuss, I have to go.”

  “What’s so urgent that you have to hang up?”

  “I’m trying to figure out how to stop the sun from rising.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a long story.” She took a deep breath. “Really, I’ve got to go. Give Cheryl my love.”

  “Don’t hang up. Not yet. Okay, official business from now on.”

  Cotten lifted her finger from the end button on the phone. “Go ahead,” she finally said. She was a professional—she could do this—just business. And she did want to run the Wingate thing past Thornton, anyway. He had a sixth sense for news.

  “Ted told me you covered the Wingate dinner. How’d it go?”

  “Interesting. The guy is slick and very rich. He rented one of the most expensive party venues in Miami and had it catered first class.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “The speech was all about family values, protecting children, high moral fiber—the usual blah, blah, blah.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I requested an interview but haven’t followed up on it yet.”

  “Sounds like a wasted trip.”

  “I’m not down here just for Wingate, Thornton. I’m on vacation.” She switched ears. “There is one thing. Just before he gave his speech, he left for a secret meeting with some guy who wasn’t a guest at the dinner. I think the guy was just a courier delivering a message. He talked to Wingate and handed him a card. The perfect candidate lost his temper. He got really angry, jabbed his finger in the guy’s face, and hurled the card back at him.”

  “Do you know who he was?”

  “No, but I managed to get the card after they left. Nothing on it but a name and a scribbled message that says call immediately.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Ben Gearhart.”

  crandon park

  The distinctive rap beat of Eminem pounded through the palms and sea grapes from a boom box as two teenage boys sat on a concrete picnic table sipping canned drinks. Their heads bobbed to the Miami radio station.

  Gus Ruby shifted his gaze to them and lifted the binoculars. Too young to be drinking beer, he thought. Skipping school, no doubt. He watched through the windshield of his rented Grand Marquis behind a stand of coconut palms. There were a dozen other cars in the lot at Crandon Park on Key Biscayne, four miles across the Rickenbacker Causeway from Miami. A constant breeze blew from the ocean a few hundred yards away carrying the sound of the surf mixed with the music.

  The humidity attacked his huge frame, and Ruby’s body sweated profusely. He wiped his forehead with a paper towel he tore from a roll he kept on the seat next to him, already missing the cold of upstate New York. He knew once again why he had never migrated to South Florida—his body mass couldn’t survive the humidity, even in January. The summer would be intolerable.

  Ruby had used Velcro to mount a tiny digital video camcorder on the dash, and he glanced from time to time at the small monitor sitting on the passenger-side floorboard. He’d already recorded about ten minutes of Robert Wingate—baseball cap pulled low, dark glasses, and windbreaker with upturned collar—sitting alone at a picnic table twenty yards away from the two teens. Beside him on the table was a black briefcase. Wingate stared at the turquoise water of the Atlantic.

  Ruby had followed Wingate from the time the candidate left his Star Island estate and drove his 911 Turbo across the MacArthur Causeway, south on Biscayne Boulevard, and finally across the Rickenbacker to Key Biscayne. With twenty-three years of Interpol behind him and another ten running his own private security firm, Gus Ruby was a master when it came to such covert endeavors. Although he needed a large car to fit his bulky frame, his rentals were always white. He actually didn’t like the color white, it annoyed him, but it was the invisible color in investigative work. And he’d chosen a Grand Marquis with dark tinted windows because South Florida swarmed with them—a favorite among retirees.

  As he was about to light up a Camel, Ruby noticed one of the teens turn off the music, hop off the table, and walk toward Wingate. The other boy followed.

  Punks, he thought. Their waistbands sagged below their underwear, and at least three pounds of gold-plated, gold-filled, gold-colored jewelry hung from their necks down the front of their wife-beater muscle shirts. Ruby hated the cocky dress and mannerisms. The boy in the lead wore a black bandanna around his forehead contrasting his pasty skin and scraggly whiskers. Not even old enough to grow a decent beard, he thought. The other kid sported dreadlocks, cola-colored skin, and extra thick brows and lips. Both walked with a swagger.

  Ruby’s Glock sat on the seat beside him. Wingate hadn’t qualified for Secret Service protection yet since he had not officially announced his candidacy. A guy like Wingate, alone and driving a $120,000 sports car, was an open invitation for trouble.

  The boys stopped in front of Wingate, and Ruby moved the gun into his lap, just in case. He’d allow a theft, even a mugging—neither was worth giving away his cover. But he couldn’t let anything more serious happen to Wingate.

  Ruby held the binoculars firmly to his eyes and turned on the power switch to the directional mic. A small ear bud connected to a sound amplifier cord he’d threaded out the door and up the antenna—the tiny microphone attached at the top.

  “What do you want?” Wingate asked.

  “You got somethin’ for us?” Bandanna said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like a donation to the Boys Club,” Dreadlocks said, jabbing the air with his fingers, gangsta-rap fashion. His tightly woven ropes of hair swung back and forth.

  Wingate held the briefcase out to him. “Do I get a receipt? For tax purposes, of course.”

  “Open it,” Dreadlocks said, handing the case to Bandanna.

  Ruby heard the locks click.

  “What the fuck is this?” Bandanna said, throwing the briefcase at Wingate as pieces of plain, white paper, dollar-bill-size, flew out and floated through the air.

  “Fuck you, man,” Dreadlocks said, bouncing in a squat, shaking the briefcase, the remainder of the cut-up paper spilling on the ground.

  A caustic smile creased Wingate’s face. “Tell your boss I’m not making any donation to his club. Especially to someone who doesn’t have the balls to come here himself. He sends children to do his dirty work.”

  Dreadlocks stood and poked his finger close to Wingate’s nose. “You gonna fucking regret this, asshole. He ain’t playin’ games wit you.”

  “You’re right,” Wingate said. “No games. And tell him I said get fucked.” He slipped off the table, turned his back on the boys, and walked toward the parking lot.

  Ruby reached for the Glock, waiting to see if either of the teens pulled a weapon.

  “Fuck you!” Dreadlocks called.

  “Yeah, fuck you!” Bandanna kicked the case.

  Gus Ruby arched a brow. More than one person would be interested in this tape.

  * * *

  Gus Ruby paused the video playback, freezing the image of Robert Wingate walking to his Porsche.

  Cotten stood and went to the window overlooking the beach from Vanessa’s apartment. “He’s being blackmailed,” she said, her back to her uncle. “But for what?” She watched a formation of pelicans glide on patrol over the beach.

  “Here’s a guy who wants to run for president, and he’s being shaken down by amateur thugs. This has scandal written all over it.” Gus Ruby leaned into the couch. A flame jumped from his Zippo as he lit a Camel.

  Cotten took a sip of her Absolut—ice clinked. “Maybe he figured acting tough would scare them off.” Then she turned ba
ck to Ruby. “What did the boys do after Wingate left?”

  “One made a cell phone call.” He fast-forwarded the tape. “Here.”

  Cotten returned to the couch to watch.

  Bandanna said into the phone, “He tried to fuck us over.” There was a pause. “The case was full of blank paper.”

  Dreadlocks said to Bandanna, “Ask him if we still get paid.”

  “We still get paid?” Bandanna listened, then nodded to Dreadlocks. “What next?”

  A jumbo jet approaching Miami International drowned out the answer. Bandanna ended the call, hopped off the table, and grabbed the boom box. The two shuffled out of frame, and the screen went to snow.

  “Mr. Wingate has a secret,” Cotten said, finishing the vodka.

  * * *

  Cotten figured she would test the water with a phone call before confronting Wingate in person.

  “Hi, this is Cotten Stone with SNN. May I speak to Mr. Wingate?”

  “Mr. Wingate doesn’t take calls from the press at his private residence.” The female voice had not identified herself.

  “I apologize for calling Mr. Wingate at home, but I had a few important questions for him. I met him at Vizcaya the other night, and he told me I should call.”

  There was a long pause before the woman said, “One moment, please.”

  Cotten waited—hearing muffled voices on the other end. Then she heard the telltale clicks of someone picking up a receiver and another hanging up.

  “Ms. Stone. So nice of you to call.” Wingate sounded sociable and pleased. “I hope you enjoyed our little shindig last Saturday. I think Vizcaya is absolutely astounding, don’t you agree?”

  “It’s beautiful. I want to thank you for having us. Everything was delicious. And thank you for taking my call.”

  “What can I do for the woman who found the most valuable religious relic in the world?”

  “I’d like to sit down with you and conduct an in-depth interview. I’m sure our SNN viewers would love to know where you stand on all the key issues we face during the coming election year. Since you haven’t given any other network or publication that honor yet, I’d like to be the first.”

  “And I’d like to give it to you. My press secretary handles all those arrangements—it’s something I don’t get involved with. If you want, I’ll let him know you’ll be calling and to be sure to schedule you in.”

  “One of the topics I’d like to cover is your recent trip to Crandon Park.”

  Silence.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Wingate said, finally.

  “Yesterday, two thirty? Two punks, a briefcase full of blank paper?”

  “You must be mistaken, Ms. Stone. I was in a policy meeting all afternoon.”

  “It sure looks like you on the video. Sounds like you, too.”

  “What are you doing, following me? Videotaping me? Who the hell do you think you are?”

  His voice had changed from the pleasant, confident one she’d heard at the beginning of the conversation, suddenly taking on a razor edge.

  “Who’s blackmailing you, Mr. Wingate?”

  “What?”

  “Then you deny it?”

  “Yes. What is this all about?”

  “Just looking for the truth. The American people have had enough scandals. They want to know up front what the candidates are all about. They yearn for an honest politician, even if he isn’t squeaky clean; they just want somebody to be straightforward from the get-go, no cover ups, no more of the false watch-my-lips denials. You know what I hear Americans saying? They say, ‘I don’t care if you smoked dope in college, I don’t care if you had an extramarital affair, as long as you lay it on the table for me and don’t lie to me.’ This could work to your advantage. Maybe you’d like to do the exclusive and come clean.”

  “I don’t think so, Ms. Stone. Talk about blackmail, who’s blackmailing who now? Ratings, that’s all you’re interested in. You don’t care if you screw up somebody’s life to get a story. You’re nothing but a greedy piranha.”

  “You have a reputation for being press friendly. Look, if I’ve found out about this, someone else will, also. You might as well nip it right now. I can give you the media platform to do it. A preemptive strike of sorts.”

  “There’s no reason for me to go on the defensive. I haven’t done anything to defend.”

  She heard seething in his voice, though he made the attempt to sound unaffected. “I believe others will see it differently. They’ll see tarnish on their rising star. I won’t blow the whistle if you agree to the exclusive. Otherwise, I’ll have to go with what I’ve got.”

  “I’ve tried to be nice, but I think you’ve crossed the line. Tell your SNN buddies that you have managed to blackball the network. Got it? Any questions?”

  “Just one.”

  “What?”

  “Who’s Ben Gearhart?”

  Click.

  no strings

  “What do you think?” Cotten asked Thornton Graham as the video of Wingate at Crandon Park went to black. They sat in the conference room at SNN headquarters in New York.

  “I think you exposed a raw nerve—especially when you hit him with that Gearhart reference. Wingate’s reaction is definitely a red flag. Keep on his ass.”

  “Me? This is your story.”

  “I’m buried with the Iraqi situation—Ted said I may be broadcasting from the region by the end of the week. I’ll give you everything I’ve got on Wingate and suggest to Ted that you take over.”

  “You think I’m ready?” Cotten said.

  “You just came off a whopper. Now keep the momentum going with that beautiful face in front of the camera. That’s the key.”

  He brushed her bottom lip with his thumb, but she found herself not reacting to his touch like she would have a month or even a few weeks ago. “Are you trying to make yourself feel better?” she asked. “Tossing poor little Cotten a crumb to keep her happy?”

  “Do you consider yourself a first-rate reporter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I think we both are. The way I see it, we can help each other.”

  “I’ll tell you what I don’t want. If this story breaks big and I’m on it, I don’t want to see you in the wings with that I’m a martyr expression plastered on your face. The one that says what a magnificent sacrifice the big guy made for the poor little upstart female reporter.”

  “That’s not my intent, Cotten. Look, I’m telling you I’m overburdened, and you’re already on top of this. But if you’re going to be so goddamn stubborn, then I’ll ask Ted to give it to somebody else.”

  Cotten folded her arms. “Are you sure that’s all there is to it? No strings?”

  Thornton plowed his fingers through his hair. “Jesus, why do you always overanalyze? Sometimes you just need to jump on the horse and enjoy the ride. For God’s sake, can’t you let me do something nice for you without kicking me in the balls?” He leaned in close. “No strings—cross my heart. So do you want it or not?”

  “I want it,” she said, trying hard to believe him.

  * * *

  Cotten sat in her apartment staring at the evening news on TV—Thornton looked good, as always, as he reported the latest developments from the multilateral military buildup in the Middle East. She needed to call Gus and let him know she was the lead reporter on the Wingate investigation now. As she reached for the phone, it rang, startling her.

  “Hello.”

  “Cotten, it’s John. I’m just back from Rome.”

  She settled into the corner of the couch and pulled a throw pillow onto her lap. “It’s good to hear your voice. How was your flight?”

  “I’m trying to adjust to the time difference.”

  The small talk made her uneasy. She wanted to say she misse
d him, but reconsidered. “It usually takes a couple of days to get over the jetlag,” she said.

  “Cotten . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I was thinking maybe we could get together—catch up on things.”

  “I’d love that. I have some interesting things to tell you.” She closed her eyes and was suddenly back in Little Havana, the old woman whispering in her ear.

  “Really? What?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it on the phone.” She wished John were here now.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “John, I know the Cup is thousands of miles away and out of my life, but something happened a few days ago—I’m still a little shaken.”

  “How about lunch tomorrow? I could come into the city and meet you.”

  “Yes—wait.” She thought for a moment. “I can’t. I have a working lunch scheduled with my news director.”

  There was a pause. “Well then, first chance we get . . .”

  “Yes, first chance.”

  “So . . . you take care.”

  “You, too.”

  She started to hang up but squeezed her eyes shut hoping he hadn’t put the phone down yet. “Still there?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What about tonight? I mean, I know it’s short notice, but—”

  “Tonight would be great. I’ll catch the train and be there in a few hours.”

  Neither said anything for a moment. Cotten leaned her head back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

  “Where would you like to go?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. You pick the place.”

  “Give me your address.”

  She told him the directions.

  “I’ll be there soon,” he said before hanging up.

  Cotten flung herself lengthwise on the sofa and pulled the throw pillow over her face. She was afraid she was falling in love with a priest.

  * * *

  “Want to come in first and have a drink?” Cotten asked. “Priests do drink?”

  “Very funny,” John said, smiling as she let him in.

  “That won’t make it too much like a date, will it—if we have a drink before going to dinner?”