Access to Power (11 page)

Frank tossed the remote on the table, sat down and opened his briefcase. He could feel Juliana’s eyes on him as she took a seat beside Jake.

“We’re in trouble, aren’t we?” she said.

Frank found the file he was looking for and opened it, trying to shake off his bad mood. “Lou Kay’s making your residency the main issue in the mind of the voters. They’re controlling the dialogue. They attack. We react. It’s an issue they know we can’t win.”

She seemed surprised. “I thought we were outspending him?”

“We can’t win this issue,” he said. “We need to clear the board and set our own agenda.”

“How?” Merdock asked.

Frank spotted the Bible on the table beside Merdock’s briefcase and looked away from it. He knew that Merdock was religious, but didn’t want to know about that part of his life. When he glanced at the titles on the bookshelves, it occurred to him that they were probably supplied by the interior decorator along with the furniture. Frank decided that he didn’t want to know about that part of his client’s life either.

“Talk radio,” he said flatly.

They stared back at him without understanding. Frank passed out copies of his plan, then got up and started pacing.

They were losing the war. They were under heavy attack on all fronts. And Frank felt certain that they weren’t going to make it if they remained on the straight and narrow course of an open battle field. It was time to run for the woods and hide behind the trees. Time for guerrilla tactics. Time for him to lay out his scheme and see if they could take it.

“I want to hire thirty people,” he said finally. “I want to put them in a room with telephones and headsets and hit every talk radio show twenty-four hours a day. I want to hear Lou Kay being attacked for running a negative campaign in real people’s voices. I want to hear them say that Mel Merdock’s the only candidate concerned with the issues. Within three days, people will have doubts about Kay. Within a week, they’ll believe in you, Mel. Then we’ll finish Kay off on TV.”

They were stupefied. Frank waited, unable to get a read. Then Jake gasped.

“Is it legal?”

Frank shrugged. “It happens every day.”

Jake thought it over and began laughing. Juliana lowered her brow.

“The callers are fake,” she said, still trying to understand.

“Not at all,” Frank said. “They’re real callers and everybody stuck in traffic is really listening.”

He saw the confusion on her face and wondered if part of her world of light and good had just come tumbling down. It was a bold idea. Something that they would have to keep away from the telephone marketing firms and set up on their own.

But Frank also knew that the risks were minimal. If the location was ever found, it wouldn’t look any different than a volunteer phone bank calling voters for their support. In fact, Merdock’s own attorney was in a high-rise building with available space that would be convenient for everyone. Frank had noticed the FOR LEASE sign when he’d scouted the building last month. They had shot their campaign commercials at the law firm and he guessed that the empty space he’d seen in passing would be perfect. He’d checked with the real estate agent this morning. The space was still open, the agent willing to work with him on a short-term lease. Once he made his decision, the lease and two sets of keys would be sent to Frank’s office on the Hill via messenger.

*          *          *

Merdock wrote a check for the additional money Frank would need to fund the operation. Frank slipped it into his breast pocket, guessing that they could be up and running by tomorrow afternoon. Both Merdock and Jake appeared grateful, their hope revived, their worry diminished at least for now.

As Frank passed through the foyer on his way out, Juliana walked down the staircase with her two young daughters, Bridget and Grace. All three were dressed in riding outfits, the two girls looking like five and six-year-old versions of their mother.

Frank opened the door for them and they stepped outside. Norman had brought the Lincoln around and was helping the girls into the car. When Frank turned to Juliana, he found her staring at him.

“What happens if you get caught?” she said.

There was a smile on her face. A certain kind of wonder.

“You need to keep an eye on your husband for me,” he said.

The look in her eyes changed, but the smile was still there.

“He’s new at this,” she said.

“Lou Kay’s just getting started. You need to keep Mel distracted and let me worry about the rest. If he’s upset, I want you to call me.”

She thought it over and then nodded.

“Where do you ride?” he asked.

“Just down the road. You should join us sometime, Frank. It’s lovely. Especially in the afternoon.”

She got in the car with her daughters, who waved at Frank from the rear window. Then Frank watched the Lincoln sweep down the long drive through the falling leaves. Juliana turned and gazed at him with the sun gleaming through her shiny black hair. When she smiled, Frank smiled back. She could have been on the cover of
Vogue
.

Chapter 26

Raymond looked at the people on the corner as he made a right and saw the white Lexus a half block ahead. He’d been following the car since it left McLean, Virginia and he found it hard to keep up with. Frank Miles had hit the George Washington Memorial Parkway at eighty-five miles an hour, weaving in and out of traffic like a madman until he crossed the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge. Raymond thought that there might be a problem at the office, some kind of political emergency, whatever that was. But now they were rolling through a run-down section of the city that gave even Raymond pause. Why?

There was a church on the right, free of graffiti. He could see the Lexus pulling into the lot.

Raymond parked at the curb, watching Frank get out of his car and walk up the steps to the church.

Why?

As Raymond thought it over, he looked at the people on the street and hit the door locks. It wasn’t that they were black. He wasn’t stupid and didn’t give a shit about that. It was that they were poor. Poverty had a way of turning the ground meat of your soul into a Sloppy Joe. He knew because he had been there himself and eaten a lot of Sloppy Joes. At a certain point your hope ran out and you became bored and stopped caring. Once you stopped caring, anything was possible.

He decided that he’d better leave the engine running and switched on his cassette player to tape 2, side 2 in the series:
coping with market fluctuations and how to predict them, defining the limitations of your competitor, it’s your turn to seize the day
. This was his least favorite tape in the series. The one where his mind always seemed to wander until it got near the end. Still, it was a familiar voice. One that he liked having in his head.

The tape started. He gazed past the church to the next corner trying to get his bearings. When he read the street sign, he finally realized where he was. Four blocks to the west stood an abandoned school wrapped in layers of spray paint. Every window in the building had been broken, yet the playground looked as if it was still maintained and still used. He’d found Sonny Stockwell there playing basketball. He’d shot him in the back with a single bullet as the kid looked at him and tried to run away.

Chapter 27

Frank entered the church lobby and found a young teenage girl doing her homework at the reception table. She had a gentle, trusting smile as she asked for his name and wrote it down. After speaking with the pastor on the phone like someone twice her age, she stepped out from behind the table and began leading the way.

Frank followed her to the back of the church, then up a narrow stairway to a waiting room outside Doc Neilmarker’s office. She pointed at the office and smiled before running back down the steps like the girl that she really was.

Frank turned and saw Neilmarker standing before his desk. The man shook his head at him and didn’t look pleased.

“Bingo, Frank,” he said in a voice that boomed.

Frank walked into the office and they shook hands. In spite of the adrenalin coursing through his body, Frank’s expectations were low. But then he noticed the boy sitting in a chair in the corner by the window. His eyes were pinned to the floor. As Frank moved closer, he noticed the boy shrinking in his seat.

“This is Alan Ingrams,” Neilmarker said.

Frank offered his hand.

“Shake his hand,” Neilmarker said to the boy. “That’s it.”

Ingrams’s hand was sweaty and Frank released it. For a split second their eyes met before Ingrams looked back down at the floor. But in that moment, Frank
knew
. The boy was grieving just as he was grieving. There was a certain sadness about him that would have been impossible to fake.

Neilmarker sat on the corner of his desk and folded his arms over his chest. Frank’s stomach began to churn.

“Now we’re gonna have a little chat,” Neilmarker said firmly. “You ready, Alan?”

Ingrams nodded, his eyes still on the ground.

“Good. Now tell Frank just what you told me. He’s a friend, Alan. Don’t be scared.”

Several moments passed before Ingrams could pull himself together. When he finally started speaking, his voice was barely audible.

“Sonny didn’t kill that guy in the papers.”

“Tell him what you saw, Alan. Frank can figure out the rest.”

“We were gonna meet and shoot hoops before I went to work. I got there late. I saw him talking to a white guy. Only we don’t know any white guys.”

Frank needed to sit down. As he turned the second chair toward Ingrams, he noticed a tear dripping down the boy’s cheek. The kid was facing the void just as he was.

“What did the white guy look like?” Neilmarker said.

Ingrams shuddered at the memory and took a deep breath. “Gray hair. A long crew with spikes. It was dark. I didn’t see him that good.”

“What did you do?”

Ingrams began to cry. A moment passed and Frank tried to remain calm. His thoughts and fears were rising to the surface. No longer grounded in feeling, they had a shape and body now. Frank flinched as he realized that his guess had suddenly become true.

“No one was around,” Ingrams whispered. “I got scared.”

“You ran away,” Neilmarker said. “What happened next?”

Ingrams buried his face in his hands, losing it again. “I heard a shot. I snuck back, but Sonny wasn’t there. No one was there.”

“So you’re saying Sonny got shot in the schoolyard and not at Frank’s office. Why should we believe you?”

Ingrams lowered his hands and turned to Frank. When their eyes met, it stung.

“We were friends,” Ingrams managed. “I’m sorry, mister. My friend’s dead, too.”

The kid turned away, wiping his cheeks and shaking. Frank moved to the window for a breath of fresh air. He couldn’t find the words. He couldn’t speak. No one else could either.

Chapter 28

“Bullshit, Frank!”

They were in a conference room off the detective bureau, Randolph and Grimes staring at him from their chairs as he stood at the end of the table.

“The ballistic report’s in,” Randolph continued angrily. “So is the goddamn autopsy. Gunshot residue was found on the kid’s hand same as it was on Woody’s. The bullets match. Fingerprints match. They shot it the hell out. What world are you living in, man?”

Frank took a deep breath and leaned over the table. “Don’t you understand? Somebody went to a lot of trouble to make it look like this.”

Grimes laughed. “He’s spinning again.”

Randolph shook his head in disbelief and lit a cigarette. “Who fed you this crap? Alan Ingrams? Sonny Stockwell’s partner in the burglary six months ago? What did he say, Frank? ‘I know Sonny didn’t do it ‘cause we’re
friends
.’”

Frank took the hit and sat down. He’d just told them everything he knew and it hadn’t made any difference. And now he had a clearer understanding of why Alan Ingrams had refused to talk to these guys and Doc Neilmarker had backed the kid up. The way things were going, D.C.’s finest would implicate Ingrams in Woody’s murder and charge him as an accomplice to the crime.

Frank turned back to Randolph. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“We’re closing the case, that’s what we’re doing. Just as soon as you answer two questions.”

Frank leaned back in his chair and sighed. Randolph opened a file and found the questions he’d written down on a notepad.

“Woody made a call to Metro Legal in Arlington just before he died. The call was so short, he must have hit an answering machine. Who’s Metro Legal and why is your partner calling them at that hour of night?”