Conspiracy (23 page)

"Somebody shot him and made it look like he did it himself."

Harrison took a plastic cigarette out of his pocket and shoved it into his mouth. "You can't be serious."

"I've never been more serious in my life. There's some type of conspiracy at work."

Harrison shook his head in disbelief. "You've been under tremendous pressure lately. You're imagining things. You have to let it go."

The respect she had for Harrison made her pause for an instant, but that was all. She knew she was right. "Let's think like lawyers," she said, motioning for him to sit down. "Let me lay out the facts in my case."

He moved to the chair she indicated and carefully took a seat. "Okay. Go ahead."

"Fact number one: He hated guns. He would never have had one in his house. He was one of the strongest advocates for gun control both in the House and the—"

"There are plenty of hypocrites on that issue."

She frowned, though she knew he was right. "Fact number two: He went out to St. Michaels to write a speech establishing his innocence. He told me and Kendrick before he left for St. Michaels that he would fight this all the way. His words."

He considered that idea, weighing it for a moment. "Not persuasive. The guilty always say that in the beginning."

"Fact number three: He would never have left a note like that for Sally. He couldn't stand the woman."

Harrison gazed at her keenly. "How do you know so much about their marriage? You weren't having an affair with him, were you?"

Her face reddened. She resented the suggestion, even when it came from Harrison. "No," she said emphatically. "Not ever."'

"Good. Then you have to agree with me that nobody knows what goes on in someone else's marriage."

"That may be true, but I knew the senator," she said. "We spent a lot of time together."

He nodded. "That's really what this is all about," he said in a fatherly way. "You admired and respected the man. You don't want to admit that he wasn't what you thought he was."

She stared hard at Harrison. She couldn't believe he was saying that. "That's not what this is about at all. He was innocent. There's some type of conspiracy at work here. I know it."

At the idea of a conspiracy, Harrison smiled sympathetically. "Can I make a small suggestion?"

"What?"

"I think you're tired—"

She slammed her fists on the desktop, ready to pounce on him. "No, I'm not."

"Listen to me, please. I'm your friend. At least let me finish."

She nodded.

"You've had a terrible shock. A man you put a lot of your faith in is dead. My advice is go away for a while. Down to the Caribbean, or maybe the South of Spain or the Greek isles. Someplace far from here. Take about a month off and travel. Forget about Washington totally." He held up a hand to stop her protests. "I'll make sure the management committee understands. I'll cover all of your cases and clients at the firm. I'll get a good litigator to argue the case in the Mississippi supreme court. I'll keep Fujimura happy on the new acquisition."

Taylor appreciated the sacrifices he was willing to make for her. "Thanks, Philip. You're nice to offer that. I really appreciate it. You're a good friend." Her face grew hard again. "But I'm not leaving town. Not until I know what really happened to Charles. I owe him that much."

Harrison frowned. "You're being unfair to yourself. The best thing would be for you to get far away from Washington for a long vacation."

"And besides, I want to help Crane defeat Webster in the election."

Harrison took the cigarette out of his mouth and fiddled with it, while shaking his head in exasperation. "Now I know you're not thinking clearly."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's not even certain Crane will be at the top of the Democratic ticket. From what I hear, there's total chaos in the party, not only about whom the presidential candidate will be, but the process for picking him. Brill's arguing that since he got the second-highest vote tally at the convention, he should be the candidate. It could take days for them to sort it out."

"Well, when they do, I want to help the candidate."

"That doesn't make any sense. You can be sure that whomever the Democrats pick, you'll be
persona non grata
with the candidate and his campaign staff. They'll want to distance themselves as much as possible from the image of Senator Boyd, and your very presence would bring Boyd front and center. So I would forget about any more political work for a long time if I were you."

Harrison's words rocked her back on her heels. She refused to believe what he was telling her. "But suppose there is some type of conspiracy at work here, and suppose the senator was murdered as part of it?"

"Enough with the conspiracy." His voice was firm. "Let go of this illusion before you wreck your own life."

"I'll never let go of it."

* * *

Harvey Gladstone was anxious to get home.

As his weary legs carried him up four flights of stairs and across title parking garage at the San Francisco airport, he was looking forward to the three-hour ride home by himself. It would be a chance to unwind and distance himself from the nightmare that had taken over his life. Climbing into his red Ford Taurus, Gladstone thought about his grandson in a Los Angeles hospital. For the first time in weeks he felt optimistic. When he had called from Dulles to tell Louise that he would be arriving at San Fran at five this afternoon, she had been ecstatic. The doctor had called from L.A. to say there was a good chance that a heart might be available for Carl. As far as Senator Boyd was concerned, Gladstone felt some sadness, but he had done what he had to do. He had no reason to feel remorse. With the senator dead, he wouldn't have to testify anymore.

Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge as a blanket of fog rolled in over the bay, Gladstone told himself, "Forget about everything that happened with Senator Boyd. It's over."

* * *

Half a mile behind Gladstone's red Taurus, Terasawa drove a bulky black Lincoln Navigator. There was no need to follow any closer. After he had confronted Gladstone when he was fishing on Saturday, Terasawa had installed a homing device under the rear bumper of the Taurus. This evening he had picked up Gladstone's trail the instant the car moved toward the exit at the airport. Now that they were crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, Terasawa had another reason to relax. He knew exactly where Gladstone was going. He had already been there once.

An hour later the two cars were traversing the floor of the Napa Valley. Terasawa still kept his distance. There was no need to do anything that would alert Gladstone to his presence. He had a plan. He knew exactly what he wanted to do.

* * *

As Gladstone turned west, climbing into the mountains, a light drizzle began to fall. Exhausted and afraid of falling asleep, he opened the window halfway on the driver's side, letting a blast of cold air hit him in the face. The radio was playing country-western music, a ballad about unrequited love. He turned up the volume.

The rain began to make the road slick. Gladstone knew this mountain road like the back of his hand. He also knew how hazardous it could be, even in daylight. The road was full of turns.

Gladstone hunched over the wheel and strained his eyes to see. The fog thickened. He clicked on the lights.
Take it slow and easy,
he told himself.

From nowhere, a large, dark object suddenly appeared along the road in the trees on the right.
What the hell's that?

A second later the object darted across the road. It was a deer with large antlers. Gladstone slammed on the brakes. His car skidded to the left, crossing the center of the road and crashing against the soft dirt of the hill on the other side.

He didn't think he'd done any serious damage, just dents and some scrapes, so he straightened his car out and continued the upward climb on the winding road. "Goddamn deer," he muttered. "There are too many of them. The state should give the hunters more time."

Gladstone became aware of a car coming up from behind. Nearer and nearer the vehicle approached, until it was sitting on Gladstone's bumper.
The bastard's following too closely,
Gladstone thought. He hated it when another driver tailgated. If the road weren't so narrow and winding, he would have pulled over and signaled the other driver to pass.

He honked the horn and held his hand up above the roof, waving to the rear, hoping the other driver would get the hint. In defiance, the asshole honked back and kept getting closer.
What the hell is this?
Gladstone thought.
Some nut must be trying to play a stupid, dangerous game.

Nervous, Gladstone kept glancing in the rearview mirror. The car behind turned on its high beams, sending a blinding light into his rearview mirror.
My God, what's he trying to do?

Gladstone was hugging the edge of the road. A quick glance to the right confirmed what he knew: There was a long, sheer drop into the void below.
What kind of idiot does something like this?

In terror, Gladstone gripped the steering wheel and pushed everything else from his mind. All that counted right now was that he was alone on this mountain with some lunatic. There were no other cars, no one who could help him. He had a hunting rifle in his house. Once he got home he'd be okay.

It was dangerous on the slippery road, but Gladstone increased his speed, hoping to outrun the jerk. The other vehicle kept gaining. Even worse, it was one of those big monster SUV's.

Then he felt a bump as the SUV struck the rear fender of the Taurus. He was on the verge of panic.

The car's lights shifted to the left, as if the idiot intended lo pass.

Let him go,
Gladstone decided. It was the only way.

Gladstone edged his car over as close to the precipice as he could.

The driver of the SUV took aim with his car, hit the accelerator, and rammed the Taurus from the side.

The angle was perfect for what Terasawa wanted to do. His Navigator bashed Gladstone's much smaller car off the road and sent it hurling down the hill, flipping over and over as it rolled.

Terasawa braked his own car on the edge of the road and made a 180-degree turn, facing back toward San Francisco. Before he began driving, he kept his eyes riveted on the steep hill and Gladstone's car. There was a stream at the bottom of the ravine and lots of rocks. Gladstone's car hit a large boulder. It burst into flames and exploded. Then the assassin drove away.

* * *

"Terasawa successfully completed his assignment," R.L. said to Sato on the phone. "He can fly back to Tokyo from San Francisco."

He had expected to hear relief and appreciation from Sato. Instead Sato said, "What about the girl?"

"Taylor?"

"Yeah. I don't think she'll quit."

"You don't have to worry. I have a plan to get her out of circulation until after the election. At that point nobody will care what happened to Boyd."

"What if your plan doesn't work?"

"It will. I can assure you of that."

There was a long pause. Finally Sato said, "Your assurances about Boyd dropping out of the presidential race were worthless. I have too much at stake not to have a backup plan. Have Terasawa fly to Washington."

"I don't think—"

Sato was getting angry. The man didn't realize who was in control. "I don't care what you think. If your plan doesn't work, I want Terasawa to be in Washington. He'll know what to do about Taylor."

 

 

 

Chapter 19

 

There was nothing relaxing about Taylor's morning run. She couldn't stop thinking about the senator's death. She knew that it hadn't been suicide. That meant someone had killed him.

That conclusion sent shivers up and down her spine. Her eyes kept darting from side to side, looking for an assailant hiding in the bushes. Twice she thought she spotted someone, and she increased to a sprint, only to realize she was being paranoid. The perspiration that soaked her jogging suit was due in part to physical exertion, in part to nerves.
I'm being stupid,
she told herself. Even if someone killed the senator, there was no reason for them to attack her.

The doorman in front of the Watergate apartment building stopped Taylor as she slowed to a walk, gasping for breath. "A courier just brought a package for you. They have it at the reception desk."

As she looked at the words typed on the upper left corner of the brown envelope—
New York Times, Tokyo Bureau—
her heart skipped a beat. She waited until she was back in her apartment to rip it open. Inside was a typed note from Don Berry clipped to a white business-size envelope. Perspiration was dripping from her face onto the note as she read it:

I found the envelope in Alex's center desk drawer. We still have not received any further information from the Tokyo police about Alex's death.

Pulling off the note, she saw that the envelope had her name on the front. The unmistakable scrawl she recognized as Alex's.

She sat down and opened the envelope with care. What she saw was a handwritten note on Alex's stationery. The lines were uneven and words ran into each other. Her guess, as she struggled to comprehend the letter, was that Alex had been drinking when he wrote it, which didn't surprise her. He told her that long dinners with lots of sake were a great way to get information from Japanese men. She began reading: