by A. C. Fuller
“You snore?”
“Not sure. Been sleeping alone a long time.”
“Matt snored sometimes.”
Warren grunted something inaudible.
When Cole closed her eyes, the videos of the Meyers shooting appeared immediately, as though they’d been playing in the back of her mind the whole night. If it was true that the shooter hadn’t been on the roof of the Watergate, he must have been on one of the surrounding buildings. This matched the M.O. of the Ambani killing. Plus, the picture of Wragg’s computer screen indicated that Meyers—“The Silver Squirrel”—had been the next target. She felt certain the murders were connected. But she’d been wrong about things she’d been certain of before. “Rob, how confident are you these two murders are connected? I mean, what if we’re wrong?”
He didn’t reply.
“Rob?”
She listened closely. His breathing had changed. Longer, slower, more audible breaths. He was already asleep. At least he wasn’t snoring. She tried to relax into sleep, but Warren’s breath and her swirl of thoughts made drifting off even more difficult than usual.
12
Thursday
Warren sat up in bed and looked around the room. Cole was already wide awake, leaning against the headboard, eyes on her phone. She had a look on her face he was coming to recognize. Her eyes wider, her lips pursed. The look implied laser focus. “Cole, what is it?”
“Twitter is saying the murder of Alvin Meyers has been solved.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Read me what you’re seeing.”
“It’s a thread of about six tweets. Hold on.”
Warren sat up in bed as she scrolled, then said, “Here, I’ll read them. ‘According to multiple sources within the Metropolitan Police Department, a gunman believed to have killed former Vice President Alvin Meyers was found dead on the roof of the Virginia Suites Hotel in Roslyn, Virginia. The shooter, yet to be identified, was spotted when a news helicopter passed over the hotel on its way to the Watergate, which sits across the Potomac River from the hotel where the body was found.”
Warren wanted to hear the rest, but couldn’t get past a key detail. “Wait, it said the shooter was on the roof of a hotel across the river? How far is that?”
“The story addresses that. Lemme keep reading. ‘The body of the alleged gunman was found next to a sniper rifle, and multiple sources say the shot—approximately one mile as the crow flies—would have been difficult but not impossible. According to one source with knowledge of the situation, “A good sniper can make that shot. Wind was low, and he had a favorable angle. It’s not easy, but it’s a long way from impossible.” Police sources believe the shooter may have rented a room in the hotel and found a way to access the roof. Though details are not yet known, multiple sources believe the suspected shooter may have been killed by a self-inflicted gunshot.’” Cole let out a long sigh. “The reporter goes on to say that details are emerging, she’ll update the original Twitter thread, blah, blah, blah.”
Warren watched her scroll. Something about the report didn’t sound right and, judging by Cole’s concerned frown, she agreed. “Looking for more information?”
“Always.”
“Here’s the thing: I don’t buy it.”
She set down her phone. “Me neither. But it sounds like good reporting.”
“Why take out a guy from a mile away if you’re just gonna kill yourself?”
Cole frowned, but said nothing.
“If you’re going to kill yourself right afterwards,” Warren continued, “why not walk right up to him on his way into the Watergate? Make it easier on yourself.”
“Maybe he hadn’t planned to kill himself but someone came to the roof and he thought he’d been caught.”
“Possibly.” He wasn’t convinced, and something else didn’t sit right, but he couldn’t articulate it.
She stopped scrolling and locked eyes with him. “People are debating whether the shot was possible.”
Warren reached under the pillow for his prosthetic, attached it, then paced the room, stopping every few seconds to shake out his right leg. It always took a few minutes to get comfortable. “That was my first thought. But if the reporter is right and it was a mile, it’s possible. I’d want to look at the angle and check the exact wind conditions, but with a good weapon—a custom fifty-cal, for example—and a great shooter, a mile is doable.”
“They’re also debating motive, they’re even arguing about whether the reporter’s Twitter account was hacked.”
“Like whether the report is fake?”
“Right. I don’t know her, but it’s a verified account. I’m guessing it’s real and…wait…another news organization just confirmed it.”
“Who?”
“CNN, and now Fox News. Plus…yeah everyone is saying it now.”
“Secret Service? FBI? They’ll be all over this case and I’d trust them more than some unnamed source.”
She scrolled for a minute, then said, “They’re not even ‘no-commenting.’ Metro police, too. Radio silence from all official sources. But everyone else is confirming.”
“Probably the same two damn sources in every one of those reports. Just because everyone is saying it doesn’t mean it’s true.”
She gave him a look.
“I’m not saying they’re making it up, but haven’t we seen enough Twitter stories go viral that turned out to be bullshit? Isn’t that enough to chill a minute before believing?”
“If this many sources are saying it, though…”
“I’m not saying the journalists are lying, I’m saying maybe the sources are wrong.”
“Wrong about a dead guy on the roof?” Cole asked.
“I’m sure there was a dead guy on the roof, it’s just…” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. His gut was wrong about a third of the time. Maybe this was one of those times, but he doubted it. “Your guy email you back?”
“K Street lobbying firm at eight.”
“What’s his name?”
“Martin Goldberg. Used to call him Goldilocks because he had long blond hair, like eighties-metal-band hair, except he was no rock star. We were interns together twenty years ago. Kinda dorky and the last guy I’d have picked to become one of the most powerful lobbyists in the city. They say D.C. runs on information. Figured he’d have some.”
Warren checked his watch. 7 a.m. “Then let’s go.”
13
They waited in a sleek lobby with large windows that looked down on Farragut Square, a small park bustling with activity despite the bitter cold. Watching people hurry to work, Cole pressed a palm against the cold glass, as if reaching for the White House, which was framed against a light gray sky four blocks to the north. She remembered this weather from her one year in D.C.—“pre-snow” they’d called it. In the center of the park, a statue sat atop a stone pillar. She assumed the bronze man was the “Farragut” for whom the square was named, though she didn’t know who he’d been.
“Damn the torpedoes!” Warren said. “Full speed ahead.”
His voice startled her. “Huh?”
He took a sip from a mug engraved with the logo of Goldberg & Plotts Government Relations. “The Battle of Mobile Bay during the Civil War.” He pointed at the statue. “That’s David Farragut, first admiral of the U.S. Navy. That was his famous line at the Battle of Mobile Bay.”
Cole searched her memory, but came up empty. “Interesting. Didn’t know that.”
“No one knows whether he said exactly that. You newspaper folks got stuff wrong even back then. Historians now think he may have said something like, ‘Damn the torpedoes. Four bells.’ Not as catchy because no one knows what ‘four bells’ means.”
“What does it mean?”
Before Warren could answer, Cole heard a familiar voice. “It means ‘full speed ahead.’”
Marty Goldberg—Goldilocks as she and her cohort of interns had called him—had appeared from the back. He looked nothing like the awkward twenty-something s
he remembered. His hair had been dyed dark brown and cut short, and instead of a wrinkled, off-the-rack suit hanging loosely from a lanky body, a slim-fitting navy suit displayed a muscular physique. He was surprisingly handsome.
“They rang four bells,” he continued as he approached, “to signal the engine room to give the boat full power as they navigated through a field of mines, which back then they called ‘torpedos.’ Crucial battle of the Civil War.” He held out a hand to Warren.
Shaking it, Warren said, “You a war historian?”
Goldberg chuckled. “Nah. Memorized that to impress clients.” He waved an arm in a sweeping gesture toward Farragut Square. “It comes up a lot.”
Turning his attention from Warren, he took in Cole—face, then a full body scan, then back to her face. “Good to see you, Jane. You look amazing.”
She accepted a brief hug. “You too, Goldilocks.”
“I was so sorry to hear about Matt.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
They followed Goldberg to his corner office and sat across from him at a large desk. His back was to the window and, from her seat, Cole had a direct line of sight to the White House.
Goldberg crossed his right leg over his left. “They don’t call me that anymore, by the way. Goldilocks, I mean.” He said it with a forced casualness, like he wanted her to think it was no big deal.
“I guess not, now that you’re a brunet. It works for you.”
“Phoniest town in America. Gotta look the part. You get a pass, though. You can call me whatever you want.” He took her in again. “What can I do for you? I’ve got a busy morning ahead.”
“Right.” Cole cleared her throat. “We’re looking into the murder of the VP. Did you know Meyers?”
“I didn’t. Had drinks at the Watergate last week, though. Got an invite to the fundraiser he was at when...well...I could have been there.” He looked down and shook his head. “I spoke with him on the phone a couple times for various projects. But no, I didn’t know him.”
“What kind of projects?” Cole asked, trying to sound disinterested.
Goldberg smiled. “Seriously, Cole, that’s how you’re going to come at me? Hoping I’ll casually drop something to The New York Sun because I don’t pay attention to what I’m saying? I’m sure you think I’ve sold out, but at least respect the fact that I’m good at it.”
Cole returned his grin. It was nice to talk with someone who knew the game. “Too big time for me, huh? Got your name on the coffee mugs and everything. Anyway, I’m freelance now. I quit The Sun.”
Goldberg turned to Warren. “You a reporter, too?”
“Research assistant,” Cole said quickly.
Goldberg studied Warren’s powerful physique, and Cole wished she’d picked a different lie. “A research assistant, huh?” He didn’t even do her the courtesy of pretending to believe it.
She scooched to the edge of the chair, placing her hands on the desk. “Look, Marty, I’m here on the Meyers murder. You got anything on that? Anywhere you can point me?”
“Didn’t you hear? Looks like that murder has been solved.”
“The dead guy on the roof?”
“So you did hear.”
“Sure, but…” She trailed off, eyebrows raised, inviting him to share her skepticism.
Goldberg considered, then leaned across the desk so their faces were only a couple feet apart. “Don’t know if this is out there yet,” he whispered conspiratorially, “but I’m hearing it was a crazy leftist. Meyers was Target-1 for the far left’s hatred of so-called ‘Corporate Dems.’ If you could kill a guy with Reddit and Twitter memes, Meyers would have been dead years ago. He sat on the boards of an oil company, a bank, and a private prison company.”
“I know all that.” Cole shook her head tightly. “But…”
“Far left hated him,” Goldberg continued. “Turned him into the symbol for everything wrong with the Democratic Party. Not a shock some nutjob went too far.” He leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “Ask me, the far left and far right have gone—and I mean this literally—totally insane because of social media. Leaves guys like me—the guys who do the deals that actually keep this country running—wondering what the hell is going on in the world.”
“Where are you getting that? The far left stuff?”
“Can’t say because it’s a client, but it’ll likely be out soon. Hold on, I heard it would break this morning.”
He worked on his phone briefly, then passed it to Cole, who leaned toward Warren so he could read with her. “Just broke on Buzzfeed,” Goldberg said. “Not a surprise. They’re usually first on these stories that dig through a killer’s old social media posts.”
According to the report, the shooter had been identified as Baker Johnston, a former school teacher who’d been fired for refusing to make his students recite the Pledge of Allegiance in class. Screenshots of his social media accounts showed him ripping Meyers and other Democrats for caving to corporate interests.
“From Twitter it’ll filter up to the networks,” Goldberg said. “Looks like you and your research assistant”—he shot Warren a quick look—“wasted a trip to D.C.”
Cole glanced at Warren, wondering whether he believed the article, but his face was expressionless. “Can you connect me with anyone on Meyers’ staff?” she asked.
Still leaning back in his chair, Goldberg closed his eyes, then opened them. “No, but it just occurred to me why you’re here. Raj Ambani. You think there’s a connection.”
“We…” Cole faltered.
“Couple days after you get involved in the Ambani and Michael Wragg thing you show up in D.C? I feel a little insulted. Did you always think I was stupid?”
She regained her composure. “It’s my job to think there might be a connection, but it’s just a hunch. Sounds like the guy who killed Meyers was a lone nut.” She didn’t believe it, but it wasn’t a good idea to press Goldberg. The view of the White House from her seat was no accident. He’d set his office up to impress and intimidate guests—to show them he was connected, had power in this town, and that they were out of their league. She shifted gears. “I wonder if you can help with something else.”
“Will if I can.”
“You work with the DOD sometimes, right?”
He nodded.
“You know anyone who knows about military records, emails, how communications work from troops stationed overseas?”
“That’s…kinda out of left field. Never thought about it, but yeah, I’m sure I know people who know about that. Hell, I helped get votes for the ninety-billion-dollar spending bill that upgraded the communications equipment of the entire military two years ago. But what are you getting at? Something about Matt?”
He lowered his voice when he said her husband’s name, trying to sound compassionate, mournful. It unnerved her that he’d guessed what she was driving at so quickly, and there was no way she would share that Michael Wragg knew about her husband’s pet name for her. “It’s nothing. I lost all the emails from an old account. The one Matt used to email me. Was hoping they were still on a server somewhere and…never mind. We’ve taken enough of your time.”
Goldberg leaned toward them. “You guys want to know a D.C. secret?”
Cole looked at Warren, who nodded.
“Well, you know the Watergate is famous for the DNC break-in that brought Nixon down. Most people don’t know, though, that Nixon was set up by the Bushes.”
“C’mon,” Warren said.
“Seriously. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, the Bushes were some shady folks. And a lot better at politics than Nixon. George Senior didn’t get to be head of the CIA by accident. Don’t get me wrong, Nixon was guilty, but the only reason we know about it was because the Bushes made it happen, leaked it. Forty-five years later and we all get to sleep at night telling ourselves the fairy tale of two dogged reporters—Woodward and Bernstein—bringing down a president.”
Cole felt a knot
in her stomach. Woodward and Bernstein had been heroes of hers since J-School. “Why are you telling us this?”
“No reason.” He smiled strangely. “Cole, how about a drink tonight? I’m sorry I can’t help you more on Meyers, but let me buy you a drink and teach you more about D.C.”
“Find out whether emails from deceased military personnel are available somewhere, and how I’d go about getting them. Do that, and I’ll have a drink with you.”
Warren frowned.
Goldberg stood. “Consider it done. I’ll text you later.”
14
The first snowflakes drifted to the ground as they walked the circular path around the statue in the center of Farragut Square. “It’s supposed to be a few inches by the end of the day,” Cole said.
“How’d you know?”
Cole turned her phone towards him, open to the weather app.
“Let’s get somewhere warm.”
They crossed the square and Cole bought them coffees while Warren secured a table in the back of a crowded café. When she joined him, Warren was reading something on his phone. She slid a paper cup of coffee across the table. “They said they didn’t have any burnt coffee. Store policy to dump it out after sixty minutes. I got you a dark roast.”
“Thanks anyway,” Warren said, but he didn’t look up. He looked concerned.
“What is it?”
“Text from Gabriella. Says Mazzalano is being investigated.”
“For the rape?”
“No, for providing police protection to dropgangs in the city.”
“What the hell is a dropgang?” she asked.
“New kind of crime that’s sprung up recently. If you want to buy drugs or weapons—usually drugs—you can do it using Bitcoin or other digital currencies, all anonymously online. But you have to pick up the drugs somewhere, right? That’s where the dropgangs come in. It’s the criminal version of Uber or TaskRabbit. Each member handles a piece of the overall transaction, then one leaves the drugs in a location in the city. For example, in an empty soda can in a particular bush in Central Park. It’s pinged with a GPS tracker so the buyer can locate it using a smartphone. No one ever meets. And the key for the gang is that each person handles a different part of the transaction, and no one knows everything, so it’s much harder to track. Almost impossible to prosecute.”
