Divine Fury (19 page)

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Bud Walters’ farming operation north of Salinas held a small complex of warehouses and a packing plant surrounded by farm fields with a one-story building in front that housed the office staff.
 
There were no suits and ties in sight.
 
The entire operation had an informal, small-town feel except that it was clear that enormous amounts of green vegetables moved through the place.
  

The young receptionist at Earth’s Own Produce sent Lee straight back to Bud Walters’ secretary, a formidable middle-aged woman who didn’t look as if she’d be easily pushed around by anyone, including her boss.
 
She explained that Walters was attending a convention in Las Vegas that week.
 
When Lee manufactured some reason for wanting to talk to him, she merely raised an eyebrow and had no comment.

When he turned to leave, Lee noticed the vanity wall in the outer office that he’d ignored when he came in.
 
There were wood and metal plaques – evidence of Bud Walters’ many professional and civic achievements – and also photos of Walters with politicians, celebrities, sports figures, even a former president.
 
Several were taken at the Pebble Beach golf resort, probably at the annual pro-am tournament when Hollywood’s better golfers got to team up with the pros for a couple of days.

In the center of the display, right at eye level in a position of honor, was a photo of Walters sitting next to a taller, younger man.
 
They were by a swimming pool, wearing golf shirts.
 
They looked relaxed, sitting in two patio chairs with a small table between them.
 

Lee recognized the other man. He was a few years older now.
 
Lee had seen him a couple of days earlier gesturing earnestly with a Bible in his hand as he preached on a muted television.

Chapter 23

IF HIS EFFORT to stop Andrew Harper from becoming California’s next governor was akin to a holy war, Brent Daggart was under no illusions about the actions he had coordinated so far to upset
 
Harper’s campaign.
 
They were little more than petty sabotage – small-scale disruption designed to distract the campaign, demoralize its leadership and slow its momentum.
 
The fact that it was giving the campaign a public image of ineptitude was a bonus.

But Daggart had made clear to the Terminator that the seven-figure payment they had discussed was contingent on him living up to his nickname.
 
The earlier actions were just the appetizers served up while the main course was prepared.
 
The call this morning was to learn exactly what weapons the Terminator had in his arsenal that might put an end to Harper’s candidacy once and for all.
 
Daggart was hoping for something nuclear.

Daggart dialed yet another new telephone number with a different area code for the Terminator.
 
He never knew whether the man was a block away or four time zones.
 
But he knew enough not to ask.

“Yeah,” answered the Terminator.

“It’s me,” said Daggart.
 
“You know you missed with the Jefferson River thing.
 
They were nowhere near there when the washout occurred.
 
A wasted effort.”

“This isn’t a perfect science,” said the Terminator.
 
“They changed the time.
 
Or made a mistake themselves.
 
I don’t know which.
 
It’s not worth trying to find out.
 
You don’t hit the bull’s eye with every arrow, you know.
 
You just make sure you’ve always got another one ready in the quiver.”

“Speaking of which…” said Daggart.

“Right.
 
That’s the purpose of this call,” said the Terminator.
 
“Well, I’ve got two things going that might…uh…be called possibly ‘terminal’ issues for Harper.”

“The first involves one of his clients, a real estate developer,”
 
he continued.
 
“It’s called Santiago Partners.
 
They have projects in Mexico, somewhere near Puerto Vallarta.
 
Vacation homes and condo developments.
 
Their main clientele is in the states – a lot of people in California but other places as well.
 
People in the west just tend to look at Mexico for vacation homes more than on the East Coast where it’s more Florida or the Caribbean.”

 
“Okay,” said Daggart.
 
“And how does Harper fit in?
 
Is he just their lawyer or what?”

“First of all,” said the Terminator.
 
“Santiago Partners is getting sued a lot right now.
 
American customers aren’t happy.
 
Inflated lot prices.
 
Misleading sales pitches.
 
You name it.
 
The state attorney general’s office has opened an investigation.”

“I’m still looking into this,” he continued.
 
“But Harper’s fingerprints seem to be on this more than normal.
 
I mean he didn’t just review a contract or draft a set of bylaws, collect his fee and send them out the door.
 
His name appears in city applications when Santiago set up their offices in Los Angeles.
 
They needed some city planning approvals.
 
And, he was named in a lawsuit involving the dismissal of a salesman who later sued for back commissions.”

“Hmmm.
 
Interesting,” said Daggart.
 
“Okay.
 
And, what else is there?”

“Best for last,” said the Terminator.
 
“I’ve got a guy who was a high school basketball player.
 
This was…what…16 or 17 years ago.
 
Played for Glendale High School in Southern California.”

“Anyway, he was in a basketball camp, one of those summer deals, where Harper was an instructor,” he continued.
 
“This was after Harper had graduated from UCLA.
 
He must have come back from law school for the summer or something.
 
Anyway, this guy says he and Harper were involved and I don’t mean just holding hands at a movie.”

“How old was he at the time?” asked Daggart.

“Fifteen,” said the Terminator.
 
“Just fifteen.
 

“Wow!” said Daggart.
 
“This could be the one.
 
This could do it.”

“Yeah.
 
I knew you’d like this one,” said the Terminator.

“This just proves everything we’ve been saying about Harper…and all the gays for that matter,” said Daggart.
 
“How can you ignore the perversion?
 
The sickness?
 
How can you?
 
This could really be it!”

“Before you get too excited, there is some more you should know,” said the Terminator.
 
“The bad news is that this guy is not Mr. Clean.
 
He’s a recovering – quote-unquote – meth addict.
 
He’s been busted a few times for drugs.
 
And he wants money.
 
It cost a thousand just to have the first conversation.
 
It will take a lot more to get him to go public.”

“The good news,” he continued, “is that he’s got email.
 
He exchanged a couple of
 
emails with Harper two years ago.
 
I got a peek.
 
They talk about the camp...their relationship.
 
It confirms they were…uh…intimate.
 
And…you’ll like this…Harper gives the guy $3,000.
 
He says it was to keep him quiet.”

Daggart was silent for a few seconds while he thought.

“Pay him,” he finally said.
 
“And I don’t want you to stop your other efforts.
 
Keep the pressure on.
 
If this works out, though, it could end Harper’s run.
 
He could go down in flames.
 
It’s too bad that this guy is a bit of a…uh…scumbag.
 
But what can you expect?”

 
“Well,” said the Terminator.
 
“I guess we’re all scumbags in this biz aren’t we?
 
What we’re doing ain’t for the squeaky clean.”

Afterward, Daggart’s elation was tempered by what the Terminator had said.
 
A scumbag?
 
Him?
 
As he often did when trying to decide the proper course to take, Daggart tried to frame his actions in a biblical context.
 
What would God say about what he was doing?

His thoughts turned to the Old Testament.
 
God had used disease and pestilence against the Egyptians to free the Israelites.
 
He had put to death the sinners of Sodom and Gomorrah, turning some into pillars of salt.
 

Daggart recalled the Ecclesiastes verse:
 
“
A time to love, and a time to hate; A time for war, and a time for peace.”
  

For each one, there is a season.

Chapter 24

HARRY BLOUNT LOOKED at the four others around the table in the Bunker.
 
There was Hillary Adler who had a fundraising Rolodex of Democrats that was worth ten times its weight in diamonds.
 
The other three were nicknamed the three ‘Sals.’ There was Sally Bradford, director of volunteers, Salvatore Watkins, media manager, and Lenny Salvuchi, the campaign’s finance director.

“First of all, what we discuss here goes no further than the five of us,” said Blount.
 
“Not even Andrew will know about this.
 
And, no mention of this goes into your computer, or any other phone or electronic device except as we discuss here.
 
Nothing goes out as email or gets placed on anyone’s voicemail.
 
I don’t even want any of you discussing it with each other when you leave this room.”

“Understood?” he asked.
 
Four heads around the table nodded their assent.

“We have a leak,” said Blount.
 
“I’m sure of it.
 
Too many of our events have been deliberately sabotaged.
 
Some of them were publicized.
 
But others were not.
 
And the Jefferson River deal cinches it in my mind.
 
Someone keyed off the mistake I made in the email that got passed around but didn’t get the correction.
 
That’s the only reason that flooding was four hours late.
 
It was designed to be yet another PR disaster for us.”

“Okay, Harry,” said Adler.
 
“Say you’ve convinced us.
 
What do you plan to do?”

“Our plan is misinformation,” said Blount.
 
“Look, I trust everyone in this room.
 
But I don’t trust the people you talk to, your assistants, your families or even the security of your phones and computers.
 
We all know email and phones can be hacked.
 
The reason I asked you to leave all your computers and phones outside is that it’s even possible for a hacker to turn them on and remotely listen through them to any conversations within range.
 
It’s happened before.”