Savannah shifted to look at her niece. “Addy Jo, do you know what those girls were talking about?”
The girl sniffled and then nodded. “The article. Fifteen or twenty people emailed it to me.”
“While you were in school?”
She nodded again. “Aunt Savannah, we’re on laptops all day.” She flopped against the seat. “Did he do those things?” Her words were a whisper Savannah almost missed, but they reverberated through her soul.
“I don’t know.” But she would find out. For Addy. Her world was already being wrecked by the insinuations, and only truth would restore it.
The ride was quiet and Addy didn’t perk up when they pulled into the Five Guys location near Bailey’s Crossroads. Savannah remembered when there’d been one location on King Street, but this one had the same great burgers and fries that would have her car smelling heavenly. She kept an eye on Addy as she texted a warning to Stasi, her sister, that they were on the way to the apartment with food. After Stasi had been injured at work, Savannah had found and paid for their housing. It was a way to be present for her niece, though the young woman was a constant reminder of how terribly Savannah’s dreams had derailed.
When they arrived, Stasi had set the table and was pouring glasses of sweet tea. Savannah’s sister refused to remember that Savannah preferred unsweet, so Savannah would choke it down. It was worth it to have the time with Addy.
Stasi glanced at Addy, then stiffened. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” Addy headed toward her room with her backpack. “I’m just great. Thanks.” The door slammed behind her.
Stasi turned on Savannah, hands planted on her hips. “What did you do to her?”
Savannah set the bags on the table and then pinched the bridge of her nose. Dinner was a bad idea. She needed time and distance from her sister after a day filled with stark reminders of Stasi and Dustin’s betrayal. “Some students were tormenting Addy when I arrived to pick her up.”
“Why?”
“They wanted to make sure she knew her dad is a pervert.”
“What?!” Stasi’s nostrils flared and her eyes went wild.
“The Washington Source article about his activities in Thailand.” Savannah started pulling burgers and fries from the bags and placing them on plates so she didn’t have to look at her sister. “Have you seen it?”
“Yes, I’ve seen it. If you’d been on time that wouldn’t have happened.”
“On time? I arranged to get her fifteen minutes before I arrived.” Of course Stasi would make it Savannah’s fault. Life was always her fault as far as Stasi was concerned.
“You should have protected her.”
“You’re her mother!”
“Stop it!” The young teen had left her room and, in that moment, looked like her father. Her intensity overwhelmed the beauty she’d acquired from her mom. “Dad is here.”
Her face crumpled, and Savannah stepped toward her, then hesitated as Addy’s words sank in. Dustin? Here?
A knock at the door had Addy shuddering, then pressing past Savannah without a glance at her mother. She opened the door and stepped back. “Hi, Dad.”
Dustin stood there, dark hair short on the sides and mussed on top like he’d run his hands through it numerous times. There was a haunted look in his eyes as his gaze swung between Savannah and Stasi, but then he looked at Addy and something melted. “How’s my girl?”
“I’m scared, Daddy.”
“He doesn’t care about you, Addy.” Stasi’s words were laced with venom. “You should know that by now.”
“Stasi . . .” Dustin dragged out her name as a warning as Addy started to shrink. Savannah resisted the urge to get involved, but Stasi stalked from the room before anything else could be said.
Dustin turned back to Addy and tipped his chin slightly so he was looking into her eyes. “I’m sorry you had to see the article. Let me take you to get ice cream and I’ll tell you what I can. You can ask any questions you have, and I will answer them.” There was a hesitancy to his words as if he wasn’t sure Addy would let him.
Addy didn’t race into his arms as she normally did. But after she considered his words, she stepped into his embrace, muffling her words. “I know you didn’t do those things, Daddy.” A moment later she was following him outside, smiling and seeming to be lit from the inside.
As Savannah watched them leave, she had to acknowledge that Addy was something Dustin had done very well. Addy knew he loved her, knew she was adored.
Still, as the burgers and fries went cold on the table, Savannah couldn’t deny she hadn’t been what Dustin needed in the aftermath of 9/11. How easily he had walked into Stasi’s arms.
Some sins were hard to forgive no matter how willing she was to try.
Chapter Five
thursday, december 10
Jett sat in the driver’s seat of his rental car and stared at the Cape Cod bungalow’s door. More doors had closed in his face since he’d returned to Boston than Jett wanted to count, though he should be used to it at this stage in his career. No was his least favorite word, but if he hung in there long enough he chanced pay dirt that made each ignored question, slammed door, or dropped call worthwhile.
He just needed one open door.
Ted Lance pinged him a couple of times a day. Why he was so vested in this article, Jett wasn’t quite sure, unless there was something happening that played out at higher levels of the paper. But that didn’t quite make sense.
A tap on the passenger window startled him. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair that gave him a distinguished air was leaning down. Jett rolled down the window a bit. “Can I help you, sir?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you. You’ve been sitting here staring at that house for fifteen minutes. You all right?”
“Just wondering if the occupants are home.”
“We usually find that out by knocking on the door, son.”
No one had called him son in a very long time. “I suppose you’re right. I should go knock.”
“Or you could step out of your car and ask your questions while I walk the dog.”
Jett noted the dog seated next to the man. It had the look of an Australian shepherd with a bit of a brindle coat. The thought of stretching his legs while talking to the man sounded like a great idea. “It would be nice to get out of the car for a bit.” Jett stepped from the car and stuck his hand out. “I’m Jett Glover.”
“I know.” The man took off, then glanced back. “You coming?”
Jett speed walked to catch up. “How did you know who I am?”
“I read.”
“Sure, but you’re from Boston. I’ve never written for a paper here.” The walk had a faster clip than Jett had expected. The man took his walks seriously . . . or his dog did.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t read.”
“What’s your name?”
“Albert Donnelly. Logan’s dad.”
Jett took a closer look as it clicked into place. The men’s profiles were the same and with the still-athletic build, it was easy to see where Logan’s talent came from. “Did you play baseball?”
“In college. Then I coached off and on. The game’s been good to our family.”
“I can see that.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes, sir.” He supposed it was only fair to answer one or two before he asked them.
“What put you onto Logan?”
“For the article?”
“What else?” The man glanced at him with an expression that emphasized how dumb he thought the comment was.
“Got an anonymous call.”
“Noticed you only mention Logan and Dustin. Evan escaped the brunt of your focus.”
“He was pretty boring.”
The man snorted. “He likes to look that way.”
“I need to find the fourth member of their band.”
The man nodded, then paused for his dog to sniff a mailbox. “For
someone who published a long piece, there’s a lot you haven’t figured out.”
“Then help me.” Jett shoved his hands into his khaki pockets as he waited for the walk to resume. “I’m committed to the truth.”
“It’s not my story to tell.” The man sighed. “I don’t like what you’ve done, but it’s up to Logan to decide to share his side of the story.”
“Logan didn’t say much.” And that was the problem, especially when combined with the hostile interview with Dustin and a muddied conversation with Evan. The interviews hadn’t produced much more than his independent investigation had. “If I’m missing something, tell me. I’ll get the rest of the story.”
The man was silent as they continued around the block. As they neared Jett’s rental, the man paused and with a hand signal told his dog to sit. “The key to the story is the fourth person.”
“Then get me that guy’s contact info, and I’ll do the rest.”
“I don’t have it. Even if I did, they have to come forward on their own.”
Jett fished in his back pocket for his wallet and then pulled out a business card. “Give him this with a request to call.” He paused, hand extended. “I want to hear what he has to say.”
“Seems you should have done that before publishing the story.” The man finally took the card and studied it as if memorizing the information.
“Can I get your number?”
“In case you want to take another walk?” A mischievous glint lit the man’s eyes.
“Something like that.” He never knew when he’d need to confirm some tidbit.
The man rattled off the number, then paused. “Be careful about your assumptions.” He tipped an imaginary hat and then crossed the street and walked up to his door.
Jett took a couple of steps after the man. Paused in the middle of the street. “Can I ask one more question?”
“Sounds like you are.”
“Is Logan being traded to come here? Play for a Boston team?”
The man turned toward him and studied him a minute. “You’ll have to ask him about that.” Then he continued across the street.
Jett considered following him but was confident he wouldn’t get anything more. Instead he climbed into his car and made short work of jotting notes of all the man had said. It wasn’t much, but it reinforced he had to find this fourth man.
He drove from the neighborhood and stopped when he found a coffee shop. After he ordered a tall black coffee, he found a table and pulled out his laptop. He added his handwritten notes to the database he’d created for this investigation. Then he spent a few minutes trying to find new connections as he drew a mind map. Evan Spencer and Logan Donnelly had played together in college, then gone to different major league feeder teams, with Evan disappearing after a couple of uninspired seasons. Yet the two had maintained a friendship that led as far as Thailand.
Logan’s friendship with Dustin Tate started in college, where Dustin was the upperclassman. The point of connection seemed to be Logan’s first-semester foray into the flight club, where Dustin was president. He’d abandoned it but had stayed friends with Dustin even when Dustin shipped overseas on deployment after deployment.
Jett rubbed his forehead as he stared at the chart, looking for some connection to the identity clouded in smoke and shadow. Logan was the connection between the others, so he had to be the connection here. While Mr. Donnelly didn’t want to tell who that was, someone knew the fourth man.
Who would know the trio well enough to talk about the fourth?
His mind strayed to Savannah Daniels. While she’d argued she didn’t know her ex well, she had frozen in a way that suggested they were still in touch, probably through his daughter. More important, she might have a good guess or intuition about the mystery person. He pulled her card from his billfold and smiled when he saw the cell phone number. When she didn’t answer his call, he shot her a text, then followed it with an email.
The message was the same in both formats.
Did you see the article? He included a link in case she hadn’t. Comments coming in. Outrage like expected. Anything to add? He refrained from adding please. He hit send and prayed she’d answer. Then he turned to the article and noticed it had over ten thousand shares. Interesting. Nothing he’d written before had ever approached that number.
It would be interesting to see what people said when they shared the article, so he popped over to Twitter.
After a few tries he entered a search that pulled up a list of tweets related to the story. As he scanned them it was clear readers were split:
InsiderWDCStyle: The Source gets it wrong. Again. Donnelly a hero to have in this town for all his philanthropic work. No one works harder for no reason than Donnelly. Shoddy journalism needs to be corralled by those who care. Where’s congressional oversight when you need it?
The retweets and responses in agreement numbered too many to read. Fortunately, tweets like that were countered by other voices.
RightSideAllTheTime: Logan Donnelly another rich fraud. When will we learn . . . no one can be trusted. Those with the money do what they want while the rest of us follow the law.
Jett wanted to discount someone with a Twitter handle that cocky, but others agreed. Everyone had an opinion. It was good PR for his story. What he didn’t see was another news service picking up and running his article. Instead they summarized with snippets. Then one thread caught his attention.
SoulFreedomThaiNow: @RightSideAllTheTime be careful to talk about people you don’t know. There’s always more to the story. Sometimes the truth has to be cloaked for the protection of others.
UndergroundVigil486: @SoulFreedomThaiNow
“Want the trueth? You can’t
handle the trueth.” Trueth is
hidden in front of us, but we refuse
to see the evil under our noses.
The handle struck him as odd. UndergroundVigil486? And what was the consistent misspelling about? Someone channeling their inner Shakespeare?
The next tweet from the paper reduced his 1,500-word story to 280 characters.
Flight manifest. Hotel receipts. Shaky video. All the proof to show Logan Donnelly and team were on the ground harming minors in Thailand. Proof looks robust and unassailable. Pitcher not a darling anymore. Will team keep him? Time will tell. @WashingtonSource4You
His phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. It was an unknown number, yet it niggled at the corners of his mind. Maybe Savannah getting back to him? “Hello?”
“Is this Jett Glover?” The voice was maybe male but muffled and nondescript.
“It is. What can I do for you?”
“You’re off base on your article.”
“Which one would that be?”
“The athletes are there to save the girls.”
Jett hesitated just a second as he pulled his phone from his ear long enough to turn on a recording app. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve got the story all wrong.”
A slither of unease traveled through him. “You’re misinformed.”
“No, I’m not. I’ve been there.”
Could this be the fourth man? “Do you have proof?”
“Of course.”
“I’m in Boston. When can we meet?”
“This weekend.” The man hesitated. “In DC. I’ll contact you with a time.”
“I’d like to set that now, before either of us gets pulled into other meetings.” Jett scrambled to fill the gap before the man could hang up. “My sources are solid, but I’m willing to listen if you can send me anything that raises a question.” He’d invested weeks in researching the story to get it right. He’d spoken to a dozen witnesses and corroborated the flight manifests with taxi driver interviews and hotel receipts. “I’ll be back in town tomorrow.” He’d change his flight to an earlier one as soon as he got off the call. “I can meet you anywhere.”
“I’ll get back to you about a time.” The man’s voice was unwavering.
/> The disconnect beep burned Jett’s ear, and he quickly hit redial only to have the call go straight to a generic voice mail. All right. This was a call he couldn’t miss. He’d make sure his phone stayed charged.
In a 24–7, all-the-news-all-the-time world, patience to let a story grow organically was nonexistent. To level up to the New York Times or Wall Street Journal, he’d need a Pulitzer or similar award. This story fit the bill for one of those awards, and readers were eating it up, but the call churned his gut. It wasn’t simple to find his cell number. This caller was someone he’d met or was connected to him somehow.
And the call highlighted an unease he’d ignored in the face of Ted’s demands to get the article out yesterday.
While the proof seemed unassailable, something made it difficult to reconcile the men’s wild parties in Thailand with their straitlaced, stateside image.
He’d keep the meeting and would know soon enough if the source had anything of value. He could also request insights via his social media profiles. Readers liked to feel he was accessible and their input mattered. It was possible he’d find the person who could fill in the missing information about the fourth traveler. Lacking an ID for the fourth didn’t change what the other three had done. He quickly typed a message in Twitter: Seeking fourth person who traveled to Thailand with Logan Donnelly. Comment here or DM me.
Chapter Six
friday, december 11
Friday morning Savannah headed straight to the firm and her office. She needed to get her head down and work without distraction—either internal or from her team—before her clients arrived for mediation that would start after lunch.
This needed to go well or her client Mnemosyne, a software development company that planned to launch a primarily digital black-box alternative, risked running out of money.
She sank into her desk chair and blew out. The buttery yellow walls of her office didn’t match the grège the pricey designer had used everywhere else. If she couldn’t have a window, she could pretend the room was filled with a soft light. Paired with the cherry wood of her desk, credenza, and bookshelf, the color made for a space that had a hint of femininity. The bold art on the wall over the credenza behind her desk was a piece she had found at a local artist’s shop tucked inside the Arsenal. Today it made Savannah think of a flurry of thoughts racing out of control into a collision, matching her own fractured thoughts. Maybe the designer had been right in advising against it all.
Flight Risk Page 3
