Free Fall

by Kyle Mills

  It took considerable effort, but after a couple of tries, he managed to lift the box and work it through the door into the large, empty living room. When he let it drop, the impact caused a faint jingling in the empty beer bottles lined up on the hardwood floor. Sherman had just added this place to his collection and it didn’t have a stick of furniture in it yet. He made daily offers to let Beamon stay with him at his place—all of which Beamon had politely declined.

  He tossed his jacket on the floor and attacked the tape on the box with one of his keys. It took some doing, but eventually the flaps popped open and he was faced with what looked like a week’s worth of neatly stacked folders, books, and copied newspaper articles. He dug around in them at random for a few seconds, turning up a couple of errant videotapes and an eight-by-ten color photograph of J. Edgar Hoover’s head superimposed on the body of a woman wearing a bright yellow prom dress. There was a sticky note on the picture that simply read “HA!” in a neat, feminine hand.

  Beamon tossed the picture aside and grabbed a single sheet of legal notepaper covered in the same handwriting.

  Mark:

  Enclosed (obviously) is the information you requested. Since the parameters were pretty broad, and information pretty voluminous, I just hit the highlights. Almost everything here has a considerable amount of supporting data that I didn’t send. If you see something that piques your interest, call me and I’ll dig into it for you.

  Cindy

  Beamon dialed his home number on his cell phone and entered the code to retrieve his messages as he sat down on the floor next to the box. The machine beeped on and a high-pitched male voice that was unfamiliar to him came over the phone.

  “Mr. Beamon? I’m sorry I missed you. My name is Roland Peck and I work for David Hallorin. I was hoping to get together with you as soon as possible at my office in D.C. Please give my secretary a call at 202-555-2600 when you get this. I look forward to meeting you.”

  Beamon found himself staring across the barren room at the wall as the machine on the other end of the line shut itself off. Who the hell was Roland Peck and why the hell was David Hallorin still sniffing around? Was he still after the additional Vericomm tapes that didn’t exist? A little political blackmail to help his flagging campaign? This was getting ridiculous—the last thing Beamon needed right now was to be targeted by a desperate political candidate as his campaign went down in flames.

  Beamon set the phone down and looked over at the box lying on the floor next to him. There was a time that work had been an escape for him, something that he could completely immerse himself in and drown out the noise in his life—relationships, politics, financial problems, whatever. The longer he looked at that particular box, though, the less it looked like an escape and the more it felt like a trap. He couldn’t put his finger on why this supposedly straightforward case was eating a hole in his stomach—but it was. He smiled to himself. It was a feeling he had started to miss.

  Beamon made it through the bulk of the data in just under three hours. The incredibly gifted Cindy Whoever had separated everything into discrete packages, based on date and subject matter, and had included a concise but well-thought-out index. Most of the articles/chapters/files didn’t deserve more than a glance, consisting of little more than the poorly supported ramblings of the press—mostly dated well after J. Edgar Hoover’s death. Beamon was able to combine the information in the box with his own knowledge of FBI lore and do a fair job of separating fact from fiction.

  So far, the box seemed to hold nothing new. He already knew that Hoover had kept a watchful eye on the political store. But that was decades ago—who the hell would care now? The families of long-dead politicians? Unlikely. Even if there were a huge government conspiracy to uncover, the world Hoover lived in didn’t exist anymore. People were focused on the here and now.

  There was something, though. Something in the back of Beamon’s mind telling him he was on the right track. He dropped his hand into the box again and grabbed another stack of documents.

  It took an hour to get through the rest of the loose paper. He pulled out one of the last copied newspaper articles before he bit the dog-eared Hoover biographies that lined the bottom of the box and smoothed it out in his lap. It was one of the most current things he’d seen, dated April 1998.

  Washington—Recently released FBI documenta show that the Bureau kept tabs on former President John Kennedy as far back as World War II, when, as a young naval officer, he had an affair with suspected Nazi spy Inga Fejos.

  Kennedy’s involvement with Fejos, recorded on FBI surveillance tapes In 1942, was the first in a series of rumored flings that caught the attention of FBI director J. Edgar Hoover. The files were among seventeen thousand pages of documents made public Wednesday by the National Archives.

  The Information on Kennedy’s relationship with Fejos, stamped “Personal and Confidential,” was held in Hoover’s private files.

  Despite the fact that the FBI found no evidence that either Kennedy or Fejos passed state secrets to Germany, the release of this Information could have been devastating to Kennedy’s political ambitions.

  Beamon took a quick sip from the warm beer he’d found hiding in his collection of empties, wondering idly what Kennedy had done for Hoover to keep that little tidbit quiet

  It was this kind of renegade snooping that had prompted Congress to change the rules on how long an FBI director could serve. Instead of simply cleaning up their act so that a man like Hoover couldn’t go into the blackmail business, they’d limited the tenure of FBI directors to ten years. The theory was that the new director would be on his way out before he’d completely figured out the organization he controlled and therefore would never gain enough power and know-how to go on any political fishing expeditions. An interesting example of the surprisingly common practice of hamstringing government agencies that were just a little too efficient.

  In this case, though, maybe it hadn’t been such a bad idea. As much as had been written on the subject of Hoover, Beamon sometimes wondered if it even scratched the surface. Just how much control over the government had that crotchety old screw been able to exercise? Frightening.

  He was about to toss the article on the teetering pile of castaways when something he couldn’t identify stopped him. He laid the article back in his lap and stared at it for almost a minute, trying to figure out what it was that was suddenly bothering him. He lifted it closer to his face and reread the first paragraph.

  … the Bureau kept tabs on former President John Kennedy as far back as World War II, when, as a young naval officer …

  What if…

  Beamon leaned back against the wall behind him and turned his now empty beer bottle over and over in his hand.

  What if Kennedy wasn’t the only one? It would make sense—why would he have been? If you were interested in tracking politicians’ personal foibles, why wouldn’t you start early—keep tabs on young up-and-comers before they became older, more powerful, and more guarded. Hoover had almost unlimited manpower. So what if only one out of every ten of his subjects ever made it to a position high enough for the information to be useful? Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  Beamon did some quick mental calculations. If such a program had existed toward the end of Hoover’s lifetime, the subjects would probably be between sixty and seventy. Plenty young to still be concerned about the release of any graphic information on their youthful indiscretions—particularly now with the economy-driven shift in the public’s attitude from apathy to lynch mob. And, of course, in the midst of the most important presidential election in fifty years.

  Beamon grabbed the note that Cindy had written her number on and dialed it.

  “Hello, Cindy Abrahms.”

  “Cindy? Mark Beamon. What are you doing there? It’s eleven o’clock.”

  “Eight. This is L.A. Did you get the box I sent?”

  “I did. An amazing job. If you ever decide you make too much money and want to take on a frus
trating, thankless job, let me know. I’ll put in a good word for you at the Bureau.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks. Did you find any of it helpful?”

  “Maybe. There’s a newspaper article on Kennedy and the fact that Hoover was watching him when be was a kid—”

  “In the corner of it, there should be a handwritten number,” she interrupted. “Could you read it to me?”

  Beamon looked down at the article in his hand: 103-6B.

  He heard some shuffling on the other end, and then, “Okay. Here it is… yeah. Sure. Did you want some more stuff on this?”

  “The article says that a bunch of documents were released on the subject Any chance you could get ahold of them?”

  “Sure. I’ve got to deal with the government on this, though, so I hope you’re not in a hurry.”

  “As soon as you can will be fine.”

  “I’m on it Anything else?”

  “That’s it, thanks. And go home. It’s late.”

  He hung up the phone and leaned his back against the wall. Where the hell was this thing going? He had a young kid working alone in a warehouse going through government documents in a pattern that suggested a search. He gets excited by a group of boxes with old FBI documents misfiled in them, then he gets dead. Suddenly all kinds of people are interested in the girl who may have killed him and are willing to put some serious money into finding her.

  What really worried him was the name that kept popping up. Beamon had met with David Hallorin about the Vericomm tapes two weeks ago. It was Hallorin’s declassification program that Newberry was working on. There was a message on Beamon’s machine from someone who worked for Hallorin. Hallorin had been a young prosecutor in D.C. during the seventies and would have undoubtedly had a thorough knowledge of Hoover’s FBI. And…

  Beamon leaned forward and started going through the pockets of the coat he’d thrown on the floor. He finally turned up the crumpled notes from his trip to Conrad, Maryland. Shuffling through them, he confirmed what he already knew. The house he’d broken into was owned by a wealthy businessman from Maine—Hallorin’s home state.

  The senator was a big fan of unorthodox and streamlined methods for getting things done. Was he applying that philosophy to his campaign? Perhaps Beamon had finally discovered the identity of his employer….

  No.

  It was just a coincidence, he told himself. It had to be. This was just a lover’s quarrel.

  But what if it wasn’t? If Hallorin was interested in an old FBI surveillance program, it stood to reason that it pertained to Robert Taylor—the man creaming him in the election. And if that was the case, the question Beamon needed to answer was: What could he possibly hope to gain by putting himself between Senator Robert Taylor, the insanely powerful former director of the CIA and next president of the United States, and David Hallorin, a man whose entire life revolved around ruthless efficiency? Not a hell of a lot, was the answer.

  So what were his choices at this point? Find the girl—if he could—turn her over, collect the better part of a quarter of a million dollars, and hope that he survived to blow it on attorneys. On the other hand, he could just make damn sure that he didn’t find the girl and see how far be could stretch the hundred and fifty grand he’d already collected. Or, finally, he could try to find the girl and the truth—whatever it may be.

  Not a good choice in the lot

  Beamon pulled out his address book and dialed a phone number from a business card paper-clipped into it

  “Hello?” The voice was still familiar after all these years, though a bit groggy.

  “Steve? Mark Beamon.”

  Stephen Rose had retired five years ago as the assistant director in charge of the FBI’s New York office and set himself up in a boutique investigation and consulting firm handling strictly high-class corporate stuff in the New England area. Since that time, they had made every effort not to speak.

  “Mark Beamon? Why the hell are you calling me? Jesus Christ—it’s almost midnight”

  “Yeah, sorry about the time, Steve. How’ve you been?”

  “Stephen. Fine. What the hell do you want?”

  The cop in Maryland had told him that an out-of-state trooper had been sniffing around for Darby just after Tristan had been killed. Interestingly, state cops were the people tapped to protect presidential candidates before they were assigned a Secret Service detail. And often even after the Secret Service signed on, they were kept around for odd jobs. This job, of course, being odder than most

  “Thought I’d throw some business your way, Steve—Stephen. How are your contacts with the Maine Troopers?”

  “Good.”

  No surprise. Rose was one weird son of a bitch and not an ounce of fun, but he was as competent as the day was long. “I’m trying to find a young trooper. I don’t have a name, just a description. Hell, I’m not even dead sure he’s from Maine. Just a hunch.”

  There was silence over the line for a moment. “I can do it. I charge two hundred an hour, minimum of fifteen hundred for the job—could be more. A lot more if I have trouble getting back to sleep. Fax me the description and I’ll send you the names.”

  “Actually, I need photographs, too. And I want them faxed to the police in Conrad, Maryland.”

  “Pictures? Your minimum just went to twenty-five hundred.”

  “Bill me, you asshole.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Mark. I have a special deal for potential employees. One-fifty an hour.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I understand you’re pretty much screwed at the Bureau. We’ve been looking for another hand here. Haven’t been able to find anyone we’re completely happy with.”

  Beamon didn’t say anything for a moment

  “Uh, Steve. You don’t like me. In fact, didn’t you take a swing at me last time I saw you?”

  “And I still can’t believe I missed that fat, ugly head of yours. Look, Mark, I had absolutely no incentive to put up with your shit when I was at the Bureau. But this is the private sector. I make money when my clients’ problems get solved quickly and quietly. A lot of money. I guess what I’m saying is that business is business and personal is personal.”

  This whole month was starting to get downright surreal. “How long on those photos?”

  “Get me the information tomorrow morning and I’ll have it in a couple of days.” Pause. “Mark. I’m serious about the job—we’ll put together a compensation package I guarantee you’ll be happy with. Think about it.”

  thirty-two

  The Washington, D.C., weather had taken a turn for the worse and the wind was driving the cold between the gaps in Mark Beamon’s topcoat. He adjusted his tie to be a more efficient wind block and stopped at the beginning of a brick walkway that split off toward a large brownstone set off from the road.

  It was more ornate than the one Tom Sherman called home, but was somehow less impressive. Perhaps it was the overly efficient use of landscaping to make the tiny front yard look larger than it really was. Or maybe it was just his mood. The far-fetched suspicions that he’d formed the night before hadn’t faded as he’d hoped. If anything, they’d gained force.

  He still didn’t know why he’d been summoned by Hallorin’s man, having had only a brief logistical conversation with Roland Peck’s secretary. Whatever it was, though, he was fairly sure it would further complicate his life.

  Beamon walked slowly up the walk and rapped on the heavy leaded glass that made up most of the front entrance. A moment later the door was pulled open and Beamon found himself face to face with the tallest Asian woman he had ever seen.

  “Mr. Beamon?” the woman said in thickly accented English that sounded strangely formal. “I am Mrs. Peck. Please come in.”

  Beamon stepped through the doorway, getting close enough to her to use his own height for perspective. She couldn’t have been any shorter than six one, with a haircut that looked like it had been done with a ruler, and makeup that favored shades of dar
k gray. The long, black dress she wore was buttoned high around her neck, but hung in a way that accentuated the obviously surgically enhanced beasts jutting from her chest.

  All in all, the impression was not that of your average corporate wife. She looked more like the product of an unholy union between a Russian power lifter and a Chinese witch.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Peck,” Beamon said as she pushed the heavy door closed behind them. “Call me Mark.”

  She didn’t smile and didn’t reciprocate his offer to put their relationship on a first name basis, instead she gave a short nod of acknowledgment and turned to walk down the entry. Something in her gait suggested that Beamon should follow. He did so at a safe distance.

  “My husband told me to offer his apologies for the last-minute change in plans. It seems that he was delayed at a meeting in Virginia and would have been inexcusably tardy if he had tried to make it back to the office for your meeting.” Beamon got the impression that she was less speaking than exactly imitating her husband’s words.

  “Not a problem, ma’am. In fact, your house is actually easier to get to from where I’m staying.”

  He looked around him as they weaved through the old house, trying to get a feel for the Pecks as human beings, but not finding much he could hold onto. Furnishings were clearly the work of a professional decorator, obvious from the way the artwork matched the color scheme and was exactly the right size for the space it occupied. There were no personal photographs in evidence, nor were there any objects out of place. Everything seemed to have been purchased in the spirit of old, brown, and too heavy for one person to lift “Perhaps you would like to wait in Mr. Peck’s office,” the woman said, stopping in front of an open door. Apparently she wasn’t on a first name basis with her husband either. Beamon let her have it with his warmest smile and walked past her into the deceptively large room.