High Crimes

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Whoa, girl,” Kelly said. “You had forty-two thousand potential suspects to check out, remember? Marriotti was just one.”

  Georgia shot him a look. “Yeah, but—”

  “And don’t forget about the Prairie Rats. They were manipulating Ruth.”

  “They came later,” Georgia said. She turned to Erica. “They were hired to settle a score with Carl for failing to move fracking legislation forward. Their timing was lucky; Ruth fell into their lap. She—and your ex—were up against a force that few, including Carl, could resist. They owned Ruth. Not only did they threaten her to make sure Jarvis killed Dena, but they forced her to blow up Jarvis afterwards.”

  “They didn’t trust Jarvis to keep his mouth shut?” Erica asked.

  “That was part of it. They didn’t want any evidence leading back to them or their employers.”

  “Employers like Congressman Jackson Hyde,” Kelly said.

  Georgia nodded.

  “But Ruth knew everything,” Jeffrey said.

  “I’m sure they had plans for her, too,” Georgia said. “Eventually.”

  The door to Kelly’s office opened, and Nick LeJeune stuck his head in. “Hello, everyone. Sorry to be late to the party.”

  Georgia and Jimmy exchanged glances, both trying not to crack a smile. They were well acquainted with the FBI agent and his unrepentant, but occasionally charming, narcissism. Two other men, presumably agents as well, were with him.

  “So glad you could join us, Agent LeJeune,” Kelly said. Introductions were made and LeJeune pulled up a chair and sat on it backward. The other two men stood behind him.

  “Couldn’t help but overhear you talking about my favorite new organization,” LeJeune said. “Last I heard, private militias based on political ideology aren’t illegal. But they can be tricky. If they get too ambitious, they might be charged with fomenting a coup.”

  “Is that what the Prairie Rats were doing?” Erica asked, wide-eyed.

  “Well, lemme put it this way. One of the biggest financiers of the Prairie Rats is a fracking producer, and he just happens to have a horse farm in northern Virginia, not too far from DC. Lots of land, good for training horses. And kidnapping pretty PIs.”

  “You bastard.” Georgia seethed. “You knew about Jackson Hyde and the P-Rats. The Bureau knew.”

  “We didn’t know, cher. We suspected. But it became a lot more credible after your boy Reince killed Vic Summerfield.”

  Reince. One of the thugs in DC. “So they were with the Rats, she said. ”What about Ruth Marriotti?” Georgia asked. “Did you suspect her, too? You went through the tapes from the White Star Hotel, didn’t you?”

  LeJeune turned to the agents behind him. “Well?”

  They both shrugged.

  “You didn’t see her on the tapes?”

  Both men shook their heads. LeJeune turned back to Georgia. “Apparently not, cher. That was all your doing,” LeJeune said cheerfully. Georgia knew that his cheerfulness was just a pretense. Those agents were going to be in big trouble once they left Kelly’s office.

  “So what you’re saying is that not only did I do your work for you, but you painted a giant target on my back.”

  “We don’t see it that way. You are a brave, courageous investigator who gave her all for her country. We’re rounding up the Rats now,” he added. “Thanks to you. You broke them wide-open.”

  “They were the ones who followed me.” She paused. “And broke into my apartment,” she said more to herself than to the group. “Hey, wait a minute. What about Remson, Dena’s virtual lover? You had to know about his criminal background and where he works now. Why didn’t you warn me? You let me walk into DataMaster.”

  “We’ve had our eye on DataMaster for a while, cher. And now that Remson is—uh—in a vulnerable position, we intend to probe more deeply. Again, thanks to you. We’ll find out what they’ve sold to who, and what the damage is.”

  “Christ, I might as well have a badge, I’ve been helping you so much.”

  “You should consider it, cher. I’d love to have you on my side.” He winked.

  Georgia changed the subject. “You know the person I feel sorry for? Besides the grief you and Jeffrey have had to bear? Jarvis. Everyone was using him, poor guy. He enlists in the army, obeys orders without question, and then when he’s out, realizes he’s lost. He was ripe to be exploited. And they did. The P-Rats, Beef Jerky, and Ruth.”

  “Don’t feel too sorry for him,” Jimmy said. “He killed a woman. First-degree murder.”

  “I’ve been wondering something,” Erica cut in. “Based on what you’ve explained, do you think he changed his mind at the end? Besides killing Dena, do you think he was persuaded to kill Ruth, too? Or Nicole?”

  “Hard to say,” Georgia replied. “He was an expert sharpshooter and was supposed to hit her in the shoulder. Instead he went for what could have been a kill shot. Maybe he missed. Maybe he didn’t. I’m not sure we’ll ever know.” She went quiet for a moment. “But I’m glad Ruth Marriotti will spend the rest of her life in prison trying to figure it out.”

  “So, I’ve got another question,” Jeffrey piped up. “If Kitty Jarvis’s boyfriend sent the ‘Beef Jerky’ email, how did he get the encryption key for our system?”

  “That’s a good question,” Kelly said.

  “Well.” LeJeune’s brow furrowed. “The people who financed the Prairie Rats gave their people whatever intel they needed. Most of it was hacked, and I’d wager their hackers are from that Eastern European country we love to hate. We figure that’s how they worked out Nicole was Ruth Marriotti. So, if Russian hackers worked for the P-Rats, it could have come from them.”

  “You can ask him yourself,” Georgia said. “He and Kitty will be back tomorrow.”

  Erica nodded. “That leaves just one more question. At least for me. Who was making all those hang-up calls to Dena before she died?”

  Silence caromed around the room. Then Jeffrey looked up and said quietly, “I think I know.”

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  A man shuffled along the Eastern Shore of Maryland near St. Michaels. Bent against the sharp March wind, he walked like a man much older than his sixty-two years. He wore a down jacket but no hat. His eyes and cheeks stung from the cold, which stubbornly refused to yield to spring. This place, so close to the sea and still part of the bay, had always called to him. He would visit whenever he needed perspective.

  Yet he seemed impervious to the heavy overcast and slate water of the Chesapeake Bay. His life as he knew it was over. In a way, he understood. He wasn’t at peace; he’d never be at peace. But he was resigned. For years he’d given as good as he got. Now it was reversed, and he was getting shafted left and right. The universe had its own way of self-correcting.

  He hunched his shoulders against the wind and kept going, avoiding the driftwood on the beach, the shells, and the dead fish that the bay coughed up.

  In the distance a figure appeared. A man. He wasn’t moving, just waiting. The hunched man assumed this was the end. As soon as he was within range, the guy would whip out a semiautomatic, and it would be over. He’d always anticipated this moment, idly wondering how he’d feel. Strangely enough, now that it was upon him, he felt nothing.

  The man called out. “Dad? Is that you?”

  Carl Baldwin frowned and closed in on the man. At first Carl didn’t recognize his son. Then as comprehension dawned, a panoply of emotions played across his face. Fear, then shame, then curiosity.

  “Jeffrey? What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve come to take you home.”

  Carl gazed at Jeffrey as if he thought the boy was crazy.

  “I know what it’s like to want redemption. Someone gave it to me.” He hesitated. “It’s my turn to pay it forward.” He extended his hand to his father.

  As the words slowly sank in, Carl understood the gift his son was offering. His eye
s filled. He clasped his son’s hand and allowed him to lead the way.

  • • •

  Georgia threaded her way through the labyrinth of Evanston Hospital, where at least eight banks of elevators and serpentine halls that all looked identical undermined her sense of direction. She found her mother’s room on the third floor. Still in intensive care, JoBeth lay in one of a dozen rooms arranged clocklike around a central nurse’s station. Georgia stopped at the desk and conferred with the nurse on duty, who told her JoBeth was doing well, all things considered. The bullet had ruptured a kidney, which had to be removed. But, as Georgia no doubt knew, people could function with just one kidney. Her mother was conscious for longer periods of time now, and Georgia could pay her a short visit.

  Georgia tentatively went to the entrance of the room. The door was open. The TV was on, but her mother’s eyes were shut tight. Georgia put on a mask over her nose and mouth and went in. She found the remote control and muted the sound. Her mother’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Hi, Peaches,” she said weakly.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Like a few eighteen-wheelers ran over me.”

  “The nurse says you’re doing well, all things considered.”

  “That’s what they’re telling me. A few more days and I’ll be out.”

  “You never were one to overstay your welcome,” Georgia said dryly.

  Her mother cocked her head, as if trying to figure out where Georgia was coming from.

  “It was supposed to be a joke.”

  “Ahh.”

  Silence ping-ponged across the room. Then Georgia said, “I have a proposition for you.”

  Her mother raised her eyebrows.

  “Why don’t you overstay your welcome some more and recuperate at Jimmy’s apartment in Northfield? It’s only about fifteen minutes from Evanston. We can have someone come in a few hours a day, and Vanna and I can take turns the rest of the time.”

  JoBeth gazed at her daughter. “Are you sure about this?”

  Georgia told her the truth. “No.”

  Her mother smiled.

  “But you saved our lives. It’s our turn to save yours.”

  “Even after everything?” When Georgia nodded, JoBeth said, “And what happens when I’m well again?”

  Georgia sighed. “I don’t have a clue.”

  “Neither do I,” JoBeth said.

  “Then I guess we’ll have to figure it out.” Georgia paused. “One day at a time.”

  “One day at a time.” Her mother smiled. “Sounds like a plan.” She closed her eyes.

  Georgia watched her mother fall asleep. Then she tiptoed out the door.

  Author's Note

  By ten pm November 8, 2016, along with most of the world, I had traveled through the looking glass. How could this man have become our next president? It wasn’t possible.

  But it was. Every day since then, we’ve seen him chip away at our democracy, norms, and world standing. From the nearly five thousand lies the Washington Post claims he’s told, to flimflam meetings with the leaders of North Korea and Russia, the past two years have seen continuous assaults on the media, the FBI, and the agencies charged with protecting our health, safety, and freedom.

  Personally, the effect on me was calamitous. I felt paralyzed: I couldn’t write, and I couldn’t talk about anything except the state of our nation. I probably drove away many people who previously thought I was a nice person. For a year I let my rage control me. My only solace was journalists and people like Louise Mensch, John Schindler, and Claude Taylor . . . and of course, my refuge, the Resistance Facebook group, Investigation of the Trump-Russia Conspiracy in the 2016 Election. Suzy Fischer (no relation, by the way), to whom this book is dedicated, started the group about three days after the election. I joined the first week.

  By last November, however, I came to realize that I had given the occupant of the Oval Office all my power, especially where my writing was concerned. I’d brainstormed two different novels during the fallow period, but they didn’t resonate with me. Then came the eureka moment. I was reading posts on the Investigation site one day when I realized my next novel had been staring me in the face. I needed to write about the group, its leader, and the climate in which we Americans find ourselves.

  One thing to keep in mind: I write suspense fiction, so I’ve taken many liberties with characters, plot lines, and action. Some characters might remind you of specific people—I assure you they all came from my addled brain. But the theme of the story didn’t. It is a cautionary tale, which I hope is nearly over and one that our country will not face again.

  I also beg your indulgence. I was born and raised in Washington, DC. It’s the only place I know that when you’re at the dinner table gossiping about the neighbors, you’re talking politics. It’s in my blood.

  Acknowledgments

  I had plenty of help with High Crimes . . . Among the experts are Fred Bedrich, who walked me through the cybermechanics of disappearing emails and encryption systems; and UK chemist/biologist Brian Price, who helped me with things that go boom. His website, dedicated to ensuring that authors and screenwriters get the science right (crimewriterscience.co.uk), is an invaluable resource.

  I also want to acknowledge authors Cara Black and Zoë Sharp. Cara got me going, and Zoë helped me finish (with a few white cows thrown in). All hail also to Kent Krueger, an early reader, as well as Eric Arnall, whose own star will soon shine. To Kevin Smith, who edited the manuscript, you made some brilliant suggestions. And to Eileen Chetti, copyeditor extraordinaire who picked up inconsistencies far and wide, I am grateful. Thank you one and all for your expert opinions, ideas, and gentle criticisms.

  Teresa Russ Ellert, Miguel Ortuno, and Sue Trowbridge help keep me sane with their talent and extraordinary work. I couldn’t do anything without them. Thank you.

  About the Author

  Libby Fischer Hellmann left a career in broadcast news in Washington, DC and moved to Chicago over thirty-five years ago, where she, naturally, began to write gritty crime fiction. Sixteen novels and twenty-five short stories later, she claims they’ll take her out of the Windy City feet first. She has been nominated for many awards in the mystery and crime writing community* and has even won a few.

  Her novels include the now five-volume Ellie Foreman series, which she describes as a cross between “Desperate Housewives” and “24”; the hard-boiled 4-volume Georgia Davis PI series; and four stand-alone historical thrillers. Her short stories have been published in a dozen anthologies, the Saturday Evening Post, and Ed Gorman’s “25 Criminally Good Short Stories” collection. In 2005 Libby was the national president of Sisters In Crime, a 3,500-member organization dedicated to the advancement of female crime fiction authors. She also hosts a monthly TV show called “Solved” with the Author’s Voice Network. More at libbyhellmann.com.

  * She has been a finalist twice for the Anthony, three times for ForeWord Magazine’s Book of the Year, the Agatha, the Shamus, the Daphne, and has won the IPPY and the Readers’ Choice Award multiple times.

  Thanks for reading to the end! I poured a lot of energy into this story and I hope you enjoyed every moment. Now that you’ve finished, would you be so kind as to go to your favorite e-tailer and/or Goodreads and leave a review? Reviews help other readers find new books and authors.

  * * *

  To see more of Libby’s crime thrillers, read on. Or click on this link which will take you to all of Libby’s novels. When you do, check out her Store where you can buy via Pay Pal “Direct From Libby.” You’ll find the prices are substantially lower than other ebook retailers.

  http://www.libbyhellmann.com/my-books/

  You can also explore Libby’s website, get her 50 Writing tips on Pinterest, or join her mailing list for a free copy of An Eye For Murder, book news and deals, and fun!

  Facebook , Twitter , Instagram

  Follow Me on Book Bub

  THE ELLIE FOREMAN SERIES

  “L
ibby Fischer Hellmann has already joined an elite club: Chicago mystery writers who not only inhabit the environment but also give it a unique flavor… her series continues in fine style… (Ellie)… lights up the page with courage and energy.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Not only has Hellmann created a compelling group of believable characters, but the mystery she places them in is likewise plausible and engrossing. Highly recommended, even if you don’t live in Illinois.”

  —David Montgomery, Chicago Sun-Times

  “Hellmann owes a debt to fellow Chicagoans Sara Paretsky (complex plotting) and Barbara D’Amato (excellent research)—but she’s the brash young thing making this formula new again. I can’t wait for the next book!”

  —Robin Agnew, Aunt Agatha’s

  “Hellmann has surpassed herself. Well-crafted, intense and exciting, right up to the last page… a must read!”

  —Laurel Johnson, Midwest Book Review

  “A masterful blend of politics, history, and suspense… sharp humor and vivid language… Ellie is an engaging amateur sleuth.”

  —Publishers Weekly, November 4, 2002

  “Ellie is a particularly believable protagonist… she’s a pleasure to spend time with.”

  —Reviewing the Evidence

  JUMP CUT: An Ellie Foreman Thriller

  “Exceptional… offers no easy solutions to the various security threats America faces today… As Hellman’s convincing, conflicted characters face impossible choices, the tension is real and memorable.”