Bloody Politics (19 page)

Raymond started to laugh, until that cough began to rise in his throat. “I'll think about it. As long as there's some of this Scotch, I'll be fine.”

Spencer grinned, one of his old familiar grins. “There's a whole case of it there, Raymond. My private cache. Oh, and if you want any adult company, I can arrange for that too.”

This time, Raymond started laughing and didn't even try to stop.
Damn the cough
. A few years ago, he'd have taken Spencer up on his offer. Right now, however, an evening's entertainment might kill him.

_____

“Keep the change,” Raymond said as he handed the cabbie a large bill, then climbed out of the taxi.

“Good evening, sir,” the Willard bell captain greeted as he sped down the steps to meet him. “Will you be staying with us tonight?”

“Yes, I will. No luggage,” Raymond said as he slowly walked up the carpeted steps to the Willard's old-fashioned grand entrance.

The bell captain quickly sped around him and was up the steps and already holding open the polished brass door.
Might as well enjoy all this
, Raymond thought. It would be easier to get an early start on clearing out his office tomorrow.

Remembering that he hadn't yet called Trask, Raymond reached inside his suit jacket for his cell phone as he walked through the door into the Willard's large foyer, which opened in several directions. He stopped and was about to scroll through his cell phone's directory for Trask's number when he glimpsed not one, but two familiar faces. Very familiar faces.

Molly Malone and Daniel DiMateo. They were walking out of the Willard bar and heading toward the front doors. Raymond couldn't help but stare.

Well, I'll be damned. What are they doing here? Wonder if Trask's around?

Raymond poised his finger over the cell phone again, pretending to be busy, while he watched Malone and DiMateo from the corner of this eye. They actually stopped not that far from him. Malone smiled up at DiMateo, and he gave her a quick kiss before they walked outside.

Raymond watched them through the glass as they stood at the bottom of the steps.
They made a nice couple.
An attendant brought DiMateo's car around and Raymond watched them drive off.

He pushed Trask's number and listened to it ring a couple of times before he answered. For all he knew, Trask was outside somewhere.

“Hey, I called earlier, but it went to voice mail.”

“Yeah, I was with Spencer. Listen, we're gonna have to break down the office tomorrow. Spencer wants it cleared out completely. They're folding their tents. They sure won't be needing our services. So we need to get those computer hard drives out and destroyed. Bring a truck with you tomorrow. We'll need it. I'm going to get there by eight.”

“Okay, will do. I kind of figured they'd go to ground, what with old man Ryker getting hammered. Those reporters have dug up stuff from thirty years ago. He's gonna be in court for years. Hope he has a good lawyer. The committee will probably help him with that.”

“Yeah, as long as he does what he's told and resigns. That's what Spencer's doing too. He's heading out of Washington, out of the country.”
That's what he hopes.
Raymond had a bad feeling. “And we're gonna have to get out of here too. After we clean everything, so there's no trace.”

“Copy that.”

“Hey, did Malone go anywhere tonight? Did you follow her?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact. Escort dropped her home, but she left right after that, walked to Wisconsin, then took a cab to the National Gallery. I figured she was going to meet someone. She waited down in the café over an hour, looking all around, but whoever it was didn't show, so she left. She ran off to get a cab before I could follow her. Probably went home.”

“Nope. I just saw her leave the Willard bar with DiMateo, so they must have met. Who knows? Maybe he was supposed to meet her at the gallery. Funny you weren't following her. You're usually right on her tail.”

“Well, she kind of ran out of there real fast. So I just let her run.”

Raymond picked up on the slightly amused sound in Trask's voice. “That's not like you, Trask. What happened? Don't tell me you made contact.”

Trask laughed softly. “Not exactly. The gallery was closing, so it was empty, and sound really echoes in those marble halls. I couldn't resist. She was on the stairs just ahead and couldn't see me. So I started whistling that little Irish tune. You know, the one about the lass that wheels her wheelbarrow through Dublin.”

“Molly Malone.
Damnit, Trask!
You broke cover just to taunt her? You know better than that!”

“Relax. She never saw me. But she heard me, all right. She started running up those steps fast. By the time I got outside, she was already flagging down a taxi.”

“Congratulations, Trask. You just succeeded in scaring an unarmed woman in an empty building at night. What's next, frightening little children in the street?” Raymond didn't bother to hide his sarcasm.

Trask just laughed.

“Well, Malone didn't stay scared for long. In fact she and DiMateo looked pretty happy when I saw them a few minutes ago.”

“For now.”

Raymond didn't like the sound of that. “Leave 'em alone, Trask. This is over. We've finished this job. Nobody has any reason to look for us. Unless you give them one.”

“Don't worry about it, Raymond.”

Trask's voice had that smug sound Raymond had been hearing lately. Clearly, Trask wasn't taking advice. “Whatever. Make sure you get a good-sized pickup truck for tomorrow, okay? We'll need it. See you at the office.” Raymond clicked off before Trask could reply.

twenty

Saturday morning

Larry Fillmore pulled his
cell phone from his pocket and
stared at the name. He quickly stepped away from the sidewalk bordering the National Mall as a group of tourists approached, tour guide in front. November did not bring a slowdown in tourists visiting from all over the world. Washington, D.C. was a twelve-
month, 365-days-a-year tourist destination.

“Hey, Spencer. It's good to hear from you. I'd left a few messages. When I didn't hear back … well, I wondered. What's happening? With Ryker, I mean?”

“You can see it on the news like everyone else. He's fighting a losing battle.”

Spencer's voice had a flat tone that Larry hadn't heard before. It chilled him. “Jeeez … is he really gonna resign?”

Spencer snorted. “He'll have to. The press isn't going to let him go. They've found people from the past who're willing to testify against Ryker now. They'll finish him off. There'll be nothing left but a grease spot on the pavement. If he's as smart as he used to be, he'll retreat to the Montana ranch and huddle with his lawyers. Try to stay out of jail.”

How the mighty have fallen
, Larry thought to himself, but all he said was, “Damn.”

“Yeah, that about sums it up. Listen, Larry, sorry I haven't gotten back to you. I've been pretty busy. I'm putting everything on hold over here at my office for a while. I've sent my other clients to associates, because I'll be taking a leave of absence. Spend a little time in Europe, change of scenery, you know. So … I won't need your assistance on any more research assignments, if you know what I mean.”

Larry stared out onto the nearly empty green expanse of the Mall; the Capitol and the Lincoln Memorial anchored each end. In between, the Washington Monument stood tall and proud like a sentinel. Keeping watch, perhaps.

Larry knew exactly what Spencer meant, and that little chill spread inside. “Uh, yeah. Sure. No problem.”

“Oh, and Larry, my advice is to forget about any of those past projects. Erase them from your memory. You just concentrate on taking care of Congressman Jackson and staying in his good graces. And it wouldn't hurt to be nicer to your staffers. You don't need to make any more enemies than you already have. Understand?”

“Yeah … I understand,” Larry said, as that chilly feeling turned cold.

“I thought you would. You're smart, Larry. So, keep your head down and stay out of trouble, okay?”

“Okay,” Larry said obediently, but Spencer had already clicked off.

Larry looked around at the tourists parading by. Young and old, they looked happy as they walked across the grassy green, laughing, talking, and taking photos. It was sunny outside, but there was a hint of winter's cold on the breeze that brushed against his face as Larry silently joined the tourists who were heading across the Mall.

Saturday afternoon

Raymond stood in the front room of his office, empty now except for the desk and chair. Bright midday sun shone through the front window. The office building Raymond had been watching as it slowly took shape was now finished. And it did indeed block off part of his view, just as he thought.

Trask's voice came from the hallway behind him. “Okay, those file cabinets are emptied. I've got it all in trash bags, ready to take the last load to the incinerator.”

“Did that guy who works there give you any trouble?”

“Naw,” Trask shook his head. “I slipped him three hundred bucks this morning when I brought over the first load. Told him I'd give him more this afternoon. He's even staying around to make sure no one else comes along to get in the way.”

“Good. Here, give him something extra.” Raymond dug out his wallet and removed several bills, then handed them to Trask. “That should ensure his cooperation and a poor memory afterwards. Did you strip the computers and destroy the files?”

Trask stuffed the money in his pocket. “Yep, circuit boards, memory, storage—you name it, all smashed and burned in the incinerator as well. Empty shells, monitors, dumped into trash bins behind a movie complex on Georgia Avenue.” He jerked his thumb toward the back room. “Shelves are empty. All that's left is the table and couple of chairs. Oh, and your little fridge.”

“Good, good,” Raymond said. He walked over to the desk and sat down in his worn desk chair. “Thanks for bringing the sandwiches. I appreciate it.” He gestured to the empty fast-food bag.

Trask sat on the edge of the scarred walnut desk. “I figured you wouldn't take time to eat. How's that Scotch holding out?” He pointed to the silver flask Raymond had filled just this morning.

“Okay. I've got enough to last me till I get home tonight.” He gave a small smile. “I've got to clear out a small file cabinet at home, but that's all. I'll have a little roast in the fire pit outside tonight.”

Trask looked at him with that concerned expression Raymond had spotted from time to time. “You also need to get that cough taken care of. It's a lot worse.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm gonna take care of it. Spencer suggested I go to one of those resort health places. Maybe I will. There're some in Mexico.”

“I hope you're serious.” Trask looked toward the back room. “Let me load those trash bags. I've got the truck parked in the alley behind the building. I'll be back in a minute.”

“Good idea. I'll give Spencer a call and let him know we've finished.”

Raymond pulled out his cell as Trask retrieved the black plastic bags and headed out the office entry. Spencer's phone rang and rang. Five times, ten times. No answer. No voice mail even. First time that ever happened in all these years.

Raymond knew immediately.
They'd gotten to Spencer.
They'd be coming for him soon. As soon as they found out who and where he was. Spencer had always tried to keep identities hidden. But nothing stayed hidden in Washington forever. Raymond slipped his cell phone back in his pocket as Trask came through the door.

“All tied down. Anything else you want me to do before I take this over to the incinerator?”

Raymond sank back into his chair and stared at Trask. “Yeah. You need to get out of Washington tonight or tomorrow. I just called Spencer's number and there's no pickup, no voice mail. First time ever. That means they've gotten to him. He's either been wiped already or soon will be. I'm going to get the hell out of here tomorrow. And if you're smart, you'll get the hell out, too, while you still can.”

Raymond saw the reluctance in Trask's eyes.

“Stop trying to settle old scores. Give it up and get away from here. Take your boat and sail far away and stay away. You've got enough money to live life large. Enjoy it, Trask. Take a new identity. Give up trying to get even.”

Trask's face hardened into a cold mask. “I just need to tie up a few loose ends.”

Raymond stared at him. “Don't be a fool, Trask. Get out before DiMateo finds you. You think that Prestige company hasn't been looking for you? You've slipped away from them so far, but after that little game you played last night, you just made it easier for them. I'll bet you could count on one hand the people leaving the gallery at closing time last night. They've nailed you already. Take my advice and get out of town before DiMateo can get his hands on you. If he does, it won't be pretty.”

Different emotions played across Trask's face for an instant, then the mask returned. “I'll be okay. Don't worry.”

Raymond saw the set of Trask's jaw and knew he was going to do what he damned well pleased, no matter what happened. Raymond shook his head. He'd warned Trask. That's all he could do. “Okay, then. Watch your back and be careful. And get out of here soon.”

Trask gave him a wide smile as he walked toward the door. “Roger that. Enjoy the Mexican resort.” He threw Raymond a half salute and was out the door.

Raymond pulled himself up and slipped the flask into his pocket. Time to head home, clear out whatever was there. Get ready to get away. He'd done all he could.

Another thought suddenly appeared out of nowhere. A crazy thought. Raymond paused and let it play through his mind. Maybe there
was
something else left to do. Maybe.

Late Saturday afternoon

“I made reservations for six thirty tonight,” Danny said as he
slammed his car door. “How's that?”

“Sounds good. Let me give a quick call to my mom and check on her,” I said, walking toward my front doorstep. Spotting a white, legal-sized envelope leaning against the door, my heart skipped a beat. “Oh, God. There's another envelope.” I stopped and pointed.

“Sonofabitch,” Danny hurried over and grabbed it. “I'll get it.”

“Wait!” I jerked his arm. “Maybe he's got white powder or something awful inside!”

Danny gave me a dark smile. “That's not his style. He wants confrontation. I can feel it.” He tore off the end of the envelope, held it over the grass, and shook it. No white powder appeared. Just a sheet of folded, white paper drifted to the ground. Danny retrieved the paper, then opened and scanned it. “It's not Trask.” He handed it over.

Only a few typed lines of text, all caps. Succinct.

“CONGRATULATIONS. YOU'VE OUTPLAYED THEM ALL. BUT THERE'S STILL ONE OUT THERE. IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO ERIC GRAYSON, COME TO LAFAYETTE SQUARE PARK, NEAR SIXTEENTH STREET BETWEEN JACKSON PLACE AND MADISON, TOMORROW AT NOON. ALONE. A PUBLIC PLACE, PLENTY OF PEOPLE, TOURISTS, PIGEONS. YOU'LL BE SAFE.”

I felt a slight tingle, ripple, something run through me. Part fear, part excitement. Those old competing voices awoke inside:

“Go! You've got to! Find out at last!”
Crazy Ass urged.

“Have you lost your mind? This is a killer!”
Sober and Righteous countered.

“Gotta be one of Trask's cohorts,” Danny said, peering at me. “I don't know what he's up to. But you can't seriously be thinking about meeting this guy.”

“I have to, Danny. I don't know how, but this guy knows things from the past. I
always
felt something wasn't right about Eric's accident. And this guy knows! I've got to find out.” I stared into Danny's eyes.

“On one condition,” Danny gave in and frowned. “Bennett's guys are going to be all over that park. And I'll be out of sight but listening. We'll bug you and the freaking pigeons if we have to.”

Sunday at Noon

“Thanks, Albert. You don't have to wait. I'll take a cab back to the house.” I leaned over and called through the passenger open window.

“Okay, Molly. Enjoy your lunch,” he said with a smile, then the window whirred closed.

I watched him pull into Jackson Place traffic before I turned and walked into Lafayette Park. At Danny's suggestion, Jeremy dropped me at Senator Russell's that morning as if I was working. Later, Albert and I drove off from the Russell garage in the back so that my shadow wouldn't know I had left the mansion.

The trees were shedding colorful leaves and some branches were bare already, revealing their graceful bone structure to move in the breeze. Today was wonderfully warm, in the low 70s, but it wouldn't last long. Colder winds and rain were scheduled to blow in this weekend.

I walked past several benches filled with couples surrounded by coffee cups, chatting and sharing lunches, enjoying one of the last autumn weekends before winter set in. I passed another section, benches on both sides. Tourists, weekend workers, talking on their cell phones as they ate sandwiches … pigeons. I passed another section, benches on both sides were filled with tourist families. Children chasing squirrels. Then up ahead, I spotted a man sitting alone on a bench, not eating lunch and not on his cell phone. And he was looking in my direction.

As I approached the bench, the man looked up at me and smiled. “Hello, Molly. I'm glad you decided to come.”

He wasn't what I expected. I thought this guy would be dark and swarthy and dangerous-looking. The man seated on the bench looked to be in his early sixties at least, stocky, short brown hair, mostly gray, and totally ordinary looking. The guy next door. He wore a drab brownish-gray suit jacket and dark gray pants with a raincoat overtop.

“You're the one who wrote the note?” I met his gaze. He had blue eyes.

“I am. Have a seat. Don't worry. You're safe. Besides, Prestige has at least six guys here, so if I so much as sneeze wrong, they'll jump me.” His smile turned sardonic.

“Turnabout's fair play,” I said as I sat, placing my purse with the bug between us. “You've been watching me for months now.”

“
Touch
é
.” He glanced around. “I don't see your boyfriend, but I'm sure he's not far. Where's the bug? In your purse?”

“They wired the pigeons,” I said, pointing to the gray and white birds picking morsels off the sidewalk.

He started to laugh, until a deep cough cut it off. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a white handkerchief and wiped his mouth. “I like you, Molly.”

“Who the hell are you?”

He took a silver flask from his other coat pocket and took a drink before answering. “You can call me Raymond. And I'm a service provider, Molly. I provide very specialized services to high-level clients. Your boyfriend will have my name soon enough, once Prestige identifies me. They're taking plenty of photos, I'm sure.” He shrugged. “No matter. I'll be leaving soon.” He took another drink.

Surprised by his relaxed, almost nonchalant manner, I decided to probe as far as he'd let me. “Who do you work for? Edward Ryker?”

He shook his head. “No. I work for Spencer Graham Associates.”

That name jumped from the back of my mind. “The lobbyist? He used to work for Ryker, didn't he?”