by A. C. Fuller
She waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. Without another word, she turned and walked out.
32
Cole composed her text to Danny Aravilla at the bar across the street from Wragg’s apartment. Outside, TV crews were filming and a few print reporters hung around, trying to get information from local residents.
Cole: I think we both know this isn’t working. You’re a great guy, but I’m not ready for anything real. I thought maybe I could be, but you probably know better than anyone that I’m not. Let’s call it quits before you start hating me.
Breaking up with someone via text was terrible. She’d spent two days trying to convince herself to do it in person, but the thought of his hand on the redhead’s hips made her fear the confrontation. She wasn’t sure if she was more worried for herself, or for him.
She sent the text as Warren arrived and handed the bartender a credit card. “Coffee for me.” Warren pointed at the bar in front of Cole. “Patrón, neat, for her. And leave it open. Oh yeah—add on whatever we owe for yesterday.”
Bruce Springsteen’s version of Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town filled the air as they stared at the muted TVs above the bar.
Cole dreaded telling him what her boss had said, but she owed it to him to break the news in person. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“You gonna tell me that I’m getting fired?”
“What? How’d you know?”
The bartender set down their drinks and Cole gestured to the tequila. “You sure you want to pay for this? You’re contributing to my consumption of empty carbs.”
“Gotta look on the bright side.” Warren winked and took a long sip of his coffee. “At least it’s not a margarita.”
“The coffee sufficiently burnt?” Cole asked.
“Could have used an extra hour on the burner, but it’ll do.” He sighed before getting back to the subject. “My old training officer Gabriela called this morning. She got wind of it.”
“How do they justify that? I mean, I thought the police were supposed to protect their own and all that. That attitude used to infuriate me. Y’know, as a reporter.”
“Usually do.” He shook his head. “The relationship between the NYPD and the city is always on edge. Don’t ever print this, but I think it almost makes the department feel good to get rid of a black cop for brutality. They get enough bad press with the shit white cops do. Now they can say, ‘Hey look, black cops rough up suspects, too.’”
“That’s sick.” Cole shot her tequila. “So how’d you know that’s what I was going to say?”
“You looked like you were going to tell me my puppy died.”
“Speaking of puppies, what happens to the dog? Jefferson.”
“If there aren’t any relatives who’ll take him, and I’m guessing there aren’t, protocol is to take him to the shelter. But I know a retired cop who takes care of animals found at crime scenes. Nurtures them back to health and personally finds homes for each and every one. Already got a call into him about Jefferson.”
Cole smiled, relieved. “I’m glad he’ll be cared for.” She looked around the bar. “You know, I like this place. Not a cop bar, not a journalist bar.”
“Speaking of that, I want to apologize, for, uh, maligning your sacred profession and all that. You were just doing your job.”
“No, I should be apologizing to you. Threatening to call your wife and drag up all your issues in the past. The incident was newsworthy. The other stuff wasn’t. I never would have written about it out of spite. Empty threat, and I shouldn’t have said it.”
“We were both upset. Now, we’re square.”
They sat in silence, staring up at the flat screen TV. When CNN returned from commercials, a segment about Raj Ambani started. “They still have nothing,” Cole said. “It’ll take them another day to connect Wragg to Ambani.”
“You think he acted alone?”
“Of course not. He practically confessed to an international conspiracy. I told the officers who interviewed me what he said. They wrote it down, but kinda shrugged it off. What did you make of what he said?”
“Barely followed it.”
Cole closed her eyes and let the memory fill the void. “An international brotherhood, united by General Ki to carry out a singular mission: to bring an end to the great replacement, to restore the sovereignty of nations, to birth a new era of freedom.”
“What the hell does that mean? Sounds like some bullshit Nazi propaganda.”
“I don’t know. I googled it and nothing came up with that exact phrase. Best I can tell, it’s a part of an ideology that exists in many countries. Ultra-nationalist, anti-globalization, anti-immigration, pro-sovereignty. Sometimes tinged with racism and patriarchy, sometimes not.”
“Yeah. Like I said, Nazi bullshit.”
“It includes some, but there are a lot of other strains of thought mixed in. It often gets dismissed as far-right extremism, but it’s…I don’t know. The way he said it chilled me.”
“That reminds me,” Warren said. “In the apartment, you took photos of his screen. Why’d you do that, and what were they?”
“While he had me in there, he was looking at his screen, something was going down. When it fell to the ground, I don’t know, I thought, ‘What if it turns off and the data isn’t recoverable?’ I did what people do now, take pictures and look at them later.”
“So, did you? Did you look at them?”
She pulled out her phone. “Only got a few. Screen was covered with food at first. I got one clear image, but it didn’t make any sense.” She slid the phone to Warren, open to the picture.
It was a crooked image of Wragg’s screen with flecks of food and smears of sauce, but a small amount of text was legible in the center.
Kokutai-Goji:
2/9
(The Silver Squirrel)
Final Notice.
An international brotherhood, united by General Ki to carry out a singular mission: to bring an end to the great replacement, to restore the sovereignty of nations, to birth a new era of freedom.
2/9
Final Notice.
When he’d finished reading, Warren said, “You need to show this to the police.”
“Forwarded it to them. Plus financial records from Chandler Price. I gave them everything except you. Far as they know, you had nothing to do with anything.”
“You know, the First Amendment doesn’t protect you on those documents. You can’t go to jail for writing about them, but if a judge orders you to tell him where you got them, you’ll have to.”
“There are shield laws, and I doubt it’ll come to that. It’s weird, I feel like I’ve heard the phrase ‘Silver Squirrel’ before. Ring any bells for you?”
“I got nothing.” Warren paid the tab and slid his stool back from the bar. “I gotta get home. Get a workout in and get some rest. I’m seeing my daughter tomorrow.”
Cole smiled. “That’ll be nice. I’ll see you around.”
“See you around.” He headed for the door.
Cole let her eyes land on the TV above the bar. “Wait!”
CNN had a Breaking News banner on the screen. The bartender was fumbling with the remote. The bar grew quiet as every eye fixed on the screen. Warren stood behind Cole as the bartender turned on the sound.
“In shocking news tonight,” a male news anchor said gravely, “former Vice President Alvin Meyers has died in what appears to be an assassination-style murder in Washington, D.C. Born and raised in Virginia, Meyers served as a US Senator from 1970 to 1992, and Governor of Virginia from 1992 to 2000. He then accepted the role of Vice President. Details are still coming in. Sources tell CNN there are no known political motivations at this time. Since his retirement in 2008, Meyers sat on the boards of some of the nation’s top companies, and became an international ambassador for American business. Stay with us this evening as we bring in expert guests and former colleagues to mourn his death and speak about his legacy.”
> “It’s connected,” Cole said.
Warren sat. “Maybe, but possibly not.”
“It’s connected. I know for sure.”
“How can you know that? We don’t know if it was one of the other guns. Maybe you know of some connection between Ambani and Meyers, but I don’t. Why do you look like that? Jane, what’s going on?”
“The name Silver Squirrel. I remember why it sounded familiar. It was his Secret Service code name when he was VP.” She handed her phone to Warren. Together, they reread the message from the picture of Wragg’s screen.
“Two-slash-nine,” Warren said. “That could mean two out of nine. Nine rifles. Raj Ambani was number one. Meyers is number two.” He ran a hand over his head, letting out a long sigh. “I don’t even want to think about what this means.”
“I know what it means.” Cole steadied her eyes on his. “It means this is just beginning.”
—End—
Episode Two: Washington, D.C.
1
Wednesday
Through the din of punk music that filled the crowded bar, Jane Cole struggled to hear the TV news anchor stumble over the breaking news.
“Former Vice President Alvin Meyers has been murdered...we’re hearing...I’ve just been told…”
She waved down the bartender. “Can you turn up the television?”
A man rushed from a nearby table and slid onto the stool next to her. He pointed at the screen. “Holy hell! Meyers got shot. Turn it up!”
The bartender turned off the music and the sudden quiet drew more attention. Dozens of eyes locked on the TV above the bar. As the bartender turned up the volume, Cole relaxed, no longer needing to fight so hard to pick up the anchor’s words.
The newscaster brought his finger to his ear. “I’m hearing that...my apologies...all we can confirm at this time is that former Vice President Alvin Meyers has been killed. After this quick break, we’ll be back with more on this stunning news story.”
Next to Cole, Robert Warren sipped his coffee, eyes on the TV. She faced him. “Right now, every news producer in the world is trying to decide whether to air videos of a former Vice President being murdered. That poor anchor has a half dozen people arguing in his ear.”
“He’s doing a decent job, given the circumstances.”
She dropped her eyes to her phone. The shooting wasn’t trending on Twitter yet, but it would be soon. Her feed was cluttered with various versions of “OMG, Alvin Meyers is dead,” and “Who bothers to assassinate an ex-VP?” One Tweet stood out—a wobbly cell phone video claiming to show the moments just before he died.
Posted by someone at the event, the video showed the crowded rooftop of the Watergate. On the left, two bartenders in black and white poured wine behind a curved wooden bar. Waiters shifted in and out of the shot, setting glasses on trays, then disappearing from the frame. Between the bar and the railings that separated the rooftop from the sky, forty to fifty people chatted in small groups, sipping drinks. Some stood by the railings, staring in the direction of the apartment buildings and hotels that loomed across the Potomac.
“Looks like a typical D.C. cocktail party,” Cole said.
“You know what it was for?”
“I saw something on the scroll about a fundraiser for a world literacy program. Something like that. Alvin Meyers was one of the more involved former vice presidents. Boards of directors, international foundations, that kind of stuff.”
“Why didn’t he run for president?”
Cole shot him a look. “Really?”
“What? I don’t follow politics.”
“There are a few videos of him being a little handsy with female interns. Nothing too bad, but enough to get him burned alive by the Democratic base.”
“I thought getting handsy was a requirement for being president these days,” Warren said.
“Meyers made millions as a private citizen. That could also be why he didn’t run.”
Cole held the phone between them as the Twitter video made a quick, disorienting pan to the right, as though the person holding the phone had been bumped or turned quickly. The shot was now centered on a glass door where Alvin Meyers entered, flanked by two men in black suits. The one on the left muttered into the sleeve of his jacket. Secret Service.
Meyers was blandly handsome. Tall, with silver-white hair and a constant smile that was probably necessary in his line of work but struck her as phony.
For the next thirty seconds, the video followed Meyers as he shook hands, slapped backs, and repeated different versions of the catchphrase he’d used for years: “What’s good for the world is good for America.”
Then, in an instant, Meyers’ hand shot to his neck, like he’d been stung by an invisible hornet. He dropped out of the frame. People screamed. A Secret Service agent pointed at the railing. The other agent crouched, also disappearing from the frame. The video jerked and showed only a blur of backs and flailing arms. A shriek pierced the scene.
A woman shouted, “Meyers is down!”
“It came from over there,” a man called.
The video jerked again, a shot of heads and sky, then ended.
Cole scrolled for a few seconds, looking for information or other videos, then glanced at Warren. “No footage of Meyers after he was hit. And no footage of where the shot came from. At least not yet.”
“Right away, Secret Service would have had Meyers in the elevator, then in the back of his armored vehicle, racing away from the scene. Protocol, even if they knew he was dead.” Warren pressed his hands to his cheeks and let out a long breath of air. His pressure-release valve. “If he was the President, they’d have had bags of his blood in the limo. Not that it matters if the shot was on target.”
Warren nodded at the TV. The broadcast was back from commercial and the anchor had recovered his composure. “Initial reports from the scene—and please keep in mind that these are unconfirmed reports—but initial reports from the scene indicate that the shot may not have come from someone on the rooftop. Perhaps a neighboring building, we’re being told.” The anchor paused, focusing on the voice of the producer in his ear. “For those just joining us, in breaking news, former Vice President Alvin Meyers was shot and killed this evening, and we will be here all night with special coverage of his death, and his legacy. Stay with us.”
“First thing that pops to mind,” Cole said. “How does Alvin Meyers connect to Raj Ambani?”
“I don’t know much about him.”
“Moderate Democrat. Four-term Senator, two-term Governor of Virginia before being picked for VP.”
“And he cashed in when he left office?”
“Yup. Hundred-fifty grand per speech, seven-figure book deal, the works.”
“So he’s well off and powerful, two things he had in common with Ambani. But what do they have to do with each other?”
Cole did a quick search on her phone. She clicked the first link. “I thought so,” she said, holding it up to Warren. “Ambani hosted a fundraiser for Meyers, and has donated money to him.”
Warren was skeptical. “Don’t businessmen like Ambani donate to all the candidates, Republican and Democrat, just to make sure?”
“We need to start somewhere, and that’s a connection.”
Warren gave a short nod. “Why not start in D.C.?”
She stared at him blankly.
“I have a car.”
His meaning hit her suddenly. “You serious, Rob?”
He nodded.
Cole scrolled through Twitter as she considered. She’d quit her job on a whim less than six hours ago. She hadn’t given it much thought, but now she was hoping for some freelance work to tide her over while she looked for something permanent. And if the Meyers killing was connected to the Ambani murder, this was about to become the biggest story in the world.
She was about to ask Warren what kind of car he had when a text arrived from Joey Mazzalano—a scumbag Lieutenant from the fifth precinct, but also one of her best sourc
es.
The Italian Stallion: Buy me a drink tonight. Antonio’s at 10.
She considered ignoring him, but tapped out a quick reply.
Jane Cole: Why?
The Italian Stallion: You said you always pay your debts, and that Wragg tip was shit.
Jane Cole: The Wragg tip was spot on.
The Italian Stallion: He died before I could get any credit, and you could have called me when you found the apartment. Plus, I have something for you.
Cole let out an exasperated sigh and went back to Twitter. Her eye landed on another video from the roof of the Watergate, which showed a different angle on the scene. She held it up for Warren to watch with her.
While the video played, she considered Warren’s offer again. Until recently, she’d believed he was an abusive cop who should be fired and prosecuted. The dashcam footage had shown that he’d been provoked in the worst way possible. She didn’t think she would have been able to keep her cool if a pedophile rapist had made that kind of comment in her presence. But still, she felt uneasy about hopping in his car for the four-hour drive to D.C.
The new video didn’t have a clear shot of Meyers. Just people drinking casually before the shooting, and screaming in panic afterwards. When it ended, Warren plucked the phone from her hand and laid it face down on the bar. He waited until she met his dark eyes.
“Cole,” he said. “Right now, I’ve got nothing else in my life. Nothing but this case.”
“You don’t have this case. You’re not a cop anymore.”
“In America you need a special license to drive a taxi, need to pass the bar exam to practice law. Hell, you need a permit to serve hot dogs at the fair. Cops have to pass mental and physical tests, written exams. But you don’t need anything except a laptop to be a journalist.”
She didn’t know what he was driving at, but she wasn’t up for another fight about cops and journalists. “It’s called the First Amendment.”
“That’s what I’m saying. I want to get to the bottom of this. I bet you do, too. We can sit here all night watching the news and looking at blurry clips online, and my guess is there will be more and more blurry clips like this. But you and I are the only two people alive who know about the guns, about Chandler Price, and the screenshots. If Meyers is connected, we have a better chance of figuring out how than anyone. Let’s go to D.C. and do what we both do best.”
