The Inner Sanctum

by Stephen W. Frey

  “Don’t worry. I know people in New York who can help. I’ll make a few calls at the appropriate time. It’s amazing how many friends I’ve developed in the financial community since becoming a senior official at the IRS.”

  They exchanged knowing glances. Everyone wanted a friend at the IRS.

  “I couldn’t ask you to help me again, Neil,” she said loudly as a commuter bus roared past. “You’ve already done so much.”

  “Stop. I’m glad to help. I respect how hard you’ve had to work to get where you are. I had to do the same thing. I had people help me, and I promised myself to do the same thing for others when I got to this level, at least for people who deserve it.”

  “I really appreciate that, Neil.”

  Robinson slowed down as they came to the next corner. “Light Street.” He nodded at the street sign as he wiped his mouth with the handkerchief once more. “This is where I get off. I’ve got a meeting at the Hyatt Hotel in a few minutes.”

  “Are you all right, Neil?” Jesse had noticed the perspiration above his upper lip even as they were leaving the office. It was a sure sign he was nervous about something.

  “What do you mean?”

  Robinson had seemed distracted all day, now that she thought about it. “Is anything bothering you?”

  “No, everything’s fine.” He touched her elbow gently, as if to reassure her. “I hope class goes well. And keep your chin up. It’ll all work out.”

  Jesse smiled. “Thanks.” Neil Robinson was a wonderful man. There was no way she could ever repay him for all his kindness. “See you tomorrow.” She began to walk away.

  “Oh, Jesse!”

  She stopped and turned back. “Yes?”

  He began to reach into an inside pocket of his suit jacket, then slowly let his hand fall to his side. For a few moments he gazed at her intently as pedestrians flashed between them.

  “What is it, Neil?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said finally. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the office.” Then he waved and walked away.

  Jesse shrugged, shifted the bag to the other side of her body, and headed for her car.

  Five minutes later, Robinson was standing in the Hyatt’s third-floor lobby, scanning the crowd.

  “Mr. Robinson?”

  Robinson felt a tap on his shoulder. “Yes?”

  “I’m Gordon Roth.”

  “Oh, hello.” Disappointment overtook Robinson as they shook hands. He had been so close to walking out. “Please call me Neil.” Roth was not what Robinson had anticipated. Sandy blond hair fell to the bottom of Roth’s suit collar in the back, and he wore a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. “You aren’t exactly what I expected. I thought you guys all had crew cuts and no facial hair.”

  A thin smile crossed Roth’s face, as if he found irony in Robinson’s remark. “Why don’t we find a place where we can have some measure of privacy?” Roth pointed toward a small table in a secluded corner of the lobby. “How about over there?”

  “Okay.”

  The two men threaded their way through the couches, tables, and chairs of the hotel lobby, now packed with business types. Finally they reached the table in the corner, where the hum of conversation was not so loud.

  “Is this all right?” Roth asked.

  “Sure.”

  Here they enjoyed a panoramic view of Baltimore’s inner harbor. It should have been a popular spot, and as Robinson sat down he wondered how this table could still be available with the room so crowded. “We certainly have a nice look at the USS Constellation,” Robinson observed, pointing down at the Revolutionary War ship—now a maritime museum—moored in the harbor.

  “Mmm.” Roth had no interest in the history floating beneath him. “Waitress?” He motioned to a young woman.

  The woman finished taking another table’s order and moved toward Roth. “What can I get for you, sir?”

  “I’ll have a scotch and water, Glenlivet if you have it.” Roth nodded at Robinson. “What would you like?”

  “A beer. A long-neck National Premium would be perfect. Nothing tastes better than a cold beer at the end of a hot, humid Baltimore day, Gordon.”

  “Right.” Roth smiled insincerely as he turned to the waitress. “You’ll bring a nice chilled glass for my friend, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” The waitress scribbled on her order pad and moved quickly toward the bar.

  Robinson admired the Constellation again, then shook his head. He shouldn’t be here. He had piles of paperwork in need of attention. Being branch chief was no bargain—not even in September, five months after the April rush. But Gordon Roth had been extremely persistent over the phone the last few days, and Robinson wanted to keep this thing quiet.

  Roth crossed his legs and relaxed into his chair. “Tell me, Mr. Robinson, why are you so interested in Elbridge Coleman?”

  Robinson felt his pulse accelerate instantly. Roth was picking up exactly where he had left off on the phone.

  “Why have you pulled all of Coleman’s personal tax returns for the last seven years? Why have you pulled the corporate tax returns for Coleman Technology?” Roth launched the questions rapid-fire.

  A strange, almost inaudible alarm triggered deep within Robinson’s brain. Roth was pushing too hard, too fast. “I need to see your identification,” he said firmly.

  Roth reached inside his suit coat, removed a large black leather wallet, and flipped it open so Robinson could see the heavy gold badge and photograph inside. “As I said over the phone, I am special detail to the Assistant Attorney General.” Roth flipped the wallet closed and replaced it inside his suit pocket.

  For a moment Robinson considered asking for another look at the identification. He was suspicious because Roth had snapped the wallet shut so quickly. But the badge had seemed official enough, and how in the hell was he going to tell if it was authentic, even if he did get another look? The second request would only irritate Roth, and Robinson wanted no part of that. Within the federal government the Justice Department had the reputation of being hard-nosed and vindictive.

  “Let me ask you something, Gordon,” he said. “Why are you so interested that I’ve pulled a few tax returns?”

  Roth nodded. “That’s a fair question.” He tapped the arm of the chair with his fingers before answering, as if carefully considering how much to reveal. “As you know, Elbridge Coleman is running as the Republican Senate candidate against the incumbent Democrat, Malcolm Walker, in the upcoming November election.” Roth automatically lowered his voice as he noticed the waitress returning with their drinks. “We think we may have uncovered some irregularities with Coleman’s campaign. Therefore, we want to know what, if anything, you have. We assume you aren’t pulling those tax returns just for something to do.”

  Robinson sat up in his chair. “Irregularities?” That sounded interesting. Perhaps this was going to confirm what he had found.

  The waitress finished pouring beer into Robinson’s chilled glass and walked away to take another table’s order.

  “Yes, irregularities,” Roth said, after the woman had gone.

  “The nature of your suspicion does interest me, I have to admit.” Robinson tried to contain his enthusiasm. “What do you have?”

  Roth deflected the question for a moment by raising his glass. “To cooperation by different units of government.” He took a long drink of scotch.

  “Right.” Robinson took a sip from his beer as well. “But what do you have on Elbridge Coleman?” He was becoming impatient.

  “No.” Roth shook his head. “First I want to know why you are pulling Coleman’s tax returns.”

  The alarm intensified. Listen to it, Robinson told himself. “So much for cooperation within the government, I guess.” He grimaced and took another swallow of beer.

  For a moment Roth said nothing, just strok
ed his beard. Finally, he pointed a finger at Robinson. “You’ve done very well for yourself. IRS branch chief—that’s a nice position for a man who grew up in the projects of Jefferson Heights.”

  Robinson nodded warily. He had pulled himself out of the predominantly black ghetto with a great deal of hard work. But why did Roth know so much?

  “And from what my superior tells me, they have bigger and better things planned for you. I wouldn’t think you’d want to jeopardize all of that.”

  “How am I jeopardizing anything?” Robinson was annoyed by the other man’s arrogance.

  Roth rolled his eyes, as if the risk should be clear. “Mr. Robinson, I didn’t know it was standard procedure for an IRS branch chief to perform an audit completely on his own, especially an audit of a man running for the United States Senate. I thought that duty fell to the revenue agents. From what we understand, you haven’t assigned this audit to any of the agents reporting to you. You have requested the returns very quietly. You haven’t told anyone else about it at all.”

  Robinson felt his temper rising. Roth probably had the office bugged and the phone tapped—it was the only way he could be so well informed. And Justice could put those things in place very easily. “That’s correct. I haven’t told anyone.” Robinson was angry, but uneasy too. It was far from common practice for a branch chief to pull tax records on his own. Revenue agents were supposed to initiate audits, and only with justifiable cause—unless the audit was part of an authorized random program. The senior people were constantly worried that the ACLU would uncover an example of an IRS employee using the tax code to carry out a personal vendetta.

  “I doubt you’d want your senior people in Washington to know you were initiating audits of Senate candidates without their prior approval.” Roth launched another missile. “That could become a political nightmare for you if anyone just happened to find out.” The insinuation was clear.

  Robinson had met only a few Justice people, but they were all the same—arrogant and full of information. Unfortunately, in this case, the information was accurate. If his superiors in Washington were to find out what he had done, it would become a political nightmare. One that could damage the solid reputation he had worked for many years to build.

  The missile had found its mark, and the effect was etched into Robinson’s face. “So why have you pulled the returns?” Roth asked triumphantly, as if there was no doubt the question would finally be answered.

  The alarm was screaming at Robinson now. Tell Roth nothing. “I had a gut feeling.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Elbridge Coleman came from nowhere. He showed up back in the spring, started burning a whole lot of money on ads, and walked all over the other Republican candidates in the primary. Some of them were seasoned politicians with name recognition, and he crushed them. Now Coleman is running strongly against Malcolm Walker in the general election because he continues to buy advertising and, in my opinion, votes. Malcolm Walker is a popular man in Maryland. Coleman must be spending a lot of dollars to do as well in the polls as he is. Maybe there’s something else going on.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with spending one’s cash, Mr. Robinson. Coleman made a great deal of money when he took his software company public. If he wants to spend it on a Senate campaign, I think he’s allowed to do that. It was a free country last I heard.”

  “Coleman started that company less than four years ago knowing absolutely nothing about software. Now he’s sold sixty percent of it to the public for fifty million dollars and suddenly he wants to move Malcolm Walker out of the Senate. Walker is an outspoken critic of the Defense Department, and I’ve ascertained that Coleman Technology quietly does a great deal of business with several large defense firms. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the Pentagon brass and the senior executives at the big defense firms wouldn’t mind seeing Walker defeated and Coleman take his place.” Robinson showed his cards. The alarm went eerily silent.

  Roth leaned forward. “So you think Coleman is the tip of some sort of conspiracy.”

  “It’s possible.” Robinson paused. “And I intend to find out.”

  “Sure it’s possible.” Roth laughed sarcastically. “Seriously, if people were going to go to so much trouble to get Walker out of the Senate, why wouldn’t they just kill him? It would be much easier and cost a lot less money.”

  “Maybe they will.”

  “You thought this up yourself, did you?”

  “Yes, I did.” Robinson glanced around uncomfortably.

  Roth lowered his voice. “Does your interest in Coleman have anything to do with the fact that you are black and so is Malcolm Walker? That you want to see Walker beat a man like Elbridge Coleman who represents the establishment?”

  “What?” Robinson almost spilled his beer.

  “Malcolm Walker is a respected man in Maryland, a man blacks hold up as a role model. Maybe you just want to do your part to see him stay in the Senate. To see him remain a role model for your people.” Roth hesitated. “Or maybe it runs even deeper than that.”

  “Look, I’ve had just about enough—”

  Robinson was interrupted by a scream from the bar. He turned quickly in his chair to see what had happened.

  “You’re an ass!” a young woman yelled at a man wearing a charcoal suit and red tie. “You aren’t going to talk to me like that and get away with it!”

  The man shrugged nervously as the lobby went silent and he became the focus of the crowd’s attention. Suddenly the woman reached toward the bar, picked up her glass and splashed its contents in his face, then ran for the exit.

  Robinson watched the commotion a moment longer, then turned back to face Roth, who seemed to have found the incident amusing. Robinson picked up his glass. He was irritated and took a long swallow. “Gordon, I don’t appreciate your accusation that I would use my position at the IRS to investigate Elbridge Coleman because he is white and Malcolm Walker is black.” Justice Department or not, Robinson wasn’t going to put up with a comment like that.

  Roth waved a hand. “I’m sorry. It was an inappropriate remark. You have every right to be angry. Look, the truth is that we suspect there might be something strange going on in Coleman’s campaign. I don’t think we at Justice would go as far as to suspect conspiracy, but we want to do some more digging.” Roth placed his glass down on the table. “Are you all right, Mr. Robinson?”

  Robinson felt his pulse suddenly racing out of control, his heart beating as if it would burst. “I don’t know. I’m feeling a little light-headed.” He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. “God, my tongue!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s so dry I can barely feel it.” He slurred his words as his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  “Maybe I should call a doctor.”

  “No, I…God!”

  Roth stood, deliberately knocking over Robinson’s beer glass. “What is it?”

  Robinson grabbed his chest. “My heart,” he gasped. “Jesus Christ, it feels like somebody’s stabbing me with a knife!” He stood up, wavered for a moment, then stumbled forward and fell to the carpet.

  Roth turned to the crowd. “Help us here!” he yelled. “Is anyone a doctor?”

  A man from a nearby table jumped up and raced toward them, dropping to his knees as he reached the stricken Robinson. A waitress ran to call 911. People stood, pushing forward to see what was going on. And without attracting attention, Gordon Roth slipped through the onlookers to the outer edge of the crowd, then walked calmly to the escalators.

  Robinson gazed up at the young man about to administer CPR. The table in the corner of the lobby had been available because Roth wanted a secluded place in which to operate. Roth had made certain the waitress brought a glass for Robinson’s beer because it was easier to drop poison in a wide-mouth glass than a thin bo
ttle. And the woman throwing the drink in the man’s face had been the diversion. It had given Roth the opportunity to slip the drug into the glass undetected. Everything made so much sense now. If only Robinson had listened to his instincts, to that alarm screaming at him from within.

  The young man bent over to breathe oxygen into Robinson’s lungs. It wouldn’t make any difference, Robinson knew. They were too efficient, too careful. There would be no second chances. Then his eyelids fluttered shut, and he was gone.

  A few moments later, Gordon Roth climbed into the passenger side of the white Explorer parked on a side street near the hotel.

  “So, how’d I do?” The young woman who had thrown the drink in the bar smiled at Roth from the driver’s seat.

  “An incredible performance.” He leaned across the seat and kissed her, pausing to stroke the pearl necklace he had purchased for her earlier in the day. “Oscar potential.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  The young woman giggled. “Now what?”

  “Let’s have some dinner.”

  * * *

  —

  The police officer moved slowly toward the Explorer, parked beneath a light near the loading dock of a deserted warehouse. His senses were on alert, but he wasn’t overly concerned. It was probably nothing more than a drunk couple fooling around. It happened here in the Fell’s Point area all the time. Probably just a man and woman who had met at a nearby bar and couldn’t go home because they were both married and were too cheap to rent a hotel room. The policeman shook his head. What a wonderful world.

  He flashed his light inside the truck and instantly realized the situation was much more serious than he had anticipated. A young woman sat behind the wheel, hands at her sides, head back, eyes wide open but unseeing, her throat slashed from ear to ear.

  Gordon Roth watched the officer from the darkened window of an abandoned building overlooking the loading dock. As the officer trotted back to his squad car to radio for assistance, Roth removed the wig, beard, and mustache, stuffed them into a bag already containing the bloodied clothes he had worn to kill the woman, and headed toward the stairs.