Flashpoint (11 page)

Pretty impressive. He would assume that I would assume Ruskin was behind the murder – maybe even committed it himself – so I would be trying to track him down. So why not tap me for any information I'd already been able to pick up and save himself some time in trying to nail Ruskin?

‘If I had anything, I'd share it with you. I want to catch up with the bastard as badly as you do.'

He kept his elbow on the table until the waitress brought his coffee. The longer I watched, the more I saw a professor under the investigator. He was judicious in his words, almost ruminative. ‘I can't tell you much about why we want him but I can say that it involves extortion.'

‘I'm surprised that it took till now to catch him at it. He's made a lot of money and I always assumed he was shaking people down. But I still don't know why you'd think I'd know where he is.'

‘As you say, Mr Conrad, you work a different side of the street. You may hear something I wouldn't be privy to. So I'd appreciate you sharing anything you have with me.'

‘Of course. I want him caught.'

‘Then we're on the same team.'

Our food arrived at the same time. Occasionally I glanced out the window at the men and women battling the invisible force of the wind, nearly getting knocked on their dressed-up asses for doing so.

The dialogue got rote – a little politics, a little sports and a little rote remorse about how pols so often went bad these days though, as I had to point out, we were living in a second Gilded Age and the first one had become the textbook the current plutocrats still used. In the 1880s and 1890s senators were so openly crooked some newspapers didn't identify them by state; instead, they said, ‘The Senator from Oil' and ‘The Senator from Railroads.' These days we had public relations agencies working for senators to make them more palatable to the public.

Yes, Senator Gleason did indeed drunkenly run over an eighty-six-year-old woman in the crosswalk, but he was on his way to a cancer fundraiser.
What a guy.

Toward the end of our conversation, he said, ‘I try to stay as apolitical as I can in my job. You know the US Attorneys took a hit a while back when they fired some lawyers for political reasons. I don't want politics to get in the way.'

The Bush administration had fired a number of sitting US Attorneys because they wouldn't carry out his political schemes. They had mostly been replaced by young graduates of Holy Shit University who came on with not only a political agenda but a religious one as well. They pretty much destroyed the integrity of the whole operation. I wasn't the only one who was still skeptical. I wondered how many of them had actually been driven out.

‘I appreciate that, Mr Hawkins.'

He nodded as he wiped his mouth with the paper napkin. The way he set the napkin down signaled that our meeting was over. He put a long hand across the table and we shook the way two guys do in used-car commercials where the sucker grins his pleasure at now owning a car that had been driven off a cliff six months earlier.

He picked up the tab and left a handsome tip for the waitress, and we walked back to the lobby together. He nodded to all the reporters who had divided up into small groups. Two or three of the better-looking female reporters were surrounded by eager collections of horny boozed-up admirers and seemed to be enjoying it.

‘I would appreciate having your cell number, Mr Conrad. I'd be happy to give you mine.'

When we finished punching the numbers into our respective phones, he said, ‘Good luck to both of us.'

I
n my room I dumped my clothes so I could sit in my shorts and T-shirt with a Blue Moon beer next to my laptop and get to work. The first thing I did was log on to the US Attorneys website and make sure Hawkins was legit.

It took a few minutes but finally there he was. He was so gaunt in his official photo he resembled one of those early New Englanders who enjoyed burning witches. DePaul University graduate, Cincinnati homicide detective five years and five years at Global, a giant security company that was as insular and mysterious as the Vatican. Four years working as an investigator for the Illinois Attorney General's office. This was his third year with the US Attorney's office in this jurisdiction. He was official all right.

I consulted the sacred Rolodex I had on my computer. I remembered an attorney I knew from the Chicago Democratic machine. Decent guy. He'd invited me and my woman of the moment to a party at his house a few years back. Tom Neil. I dialed his number and asked the young girl – maybe eight or nine – if her father was home. ‘Yes, he is. May I tell him who's calling, please?'

I smiled and thought of my own daughter at that age. All the times I'd been on the road and her only contact with me was phone calls from afar. The kind of memory you hate yourself for till the day they plant you.

‘My name's Dev Conrad.'

‘Thank you.'

When he came on the phone, he said, ‘This is a pleasant surprise, Dev. Great to hear from you. We never did have that drink. I'm sorry I had to cancel that time. A hysterical client, as I recall.'

‘Happens all the time. No problem, Tom.'

He got quieter. ‘I can't believe what's happening with Senator Logan.'

‘I don't have any choice. I have to believe it.'

‘They've already got him in the execution chamber.'

‘That's one of the reasons I'm calling. There's a guy up here from your office. I just met him and I wanted your opinion of him.'

He hesitated. ‘Everything is between us, of course. And I'm pretty sure you're talking about Michael Hawkins. One of the best. I hope that makes you feel better.'

‘It does. And I apologize for calling. I just like to know who I'm dealing with. And Google doesn't tell you if he'd leak things to the press or anything like that.'

‘Not Michael. On the contrary, he's very competitive. Likes to take credit for everything. So he keeps everything close till he's ready to attack.'

‘Good. He can have all the credit he wants if he can help us get the senator out of this disaster.'

‘Think it's all over for Logan no matter what happens?'

‘Fifty-fifty.'

‘How about sixty-forty in favor of Empire News?'

‘I try not to watch those bastards but every once in a while I'll catch a link and I can't resist.'

‘This is like the biggest sexual thrill in recorded history for them. One of the bimbos hinted that Logan should do the honorable thing and eat a gun.'

‘Yeah. I'm surprised she didn't offer to buy him the gun.'

‘That'll be later tonight.'

‘Well, thanks, Tom. Good to know about Hawkins.'

‘I wish I was a praying man. I'd say a few for you and the senator. And let's have that drink sometime.'

After the call I opened up all the computer material from the Sullivans.

Tracy Cabot – real name Louise Tracy Cabot. Daughter of noted fanatical right-wing New England newspaper publisher. In constant trouble at Smith for interrupting her professors to imply they were Communists. Became icon of campus conservative movement. After graduation – 3.1 grade point – went to work for a shadowy ultra-reactionary think tank. Then for a few years she was listed as a ‘political consultant.' But there was no record of a client. Surfaced on her twenty-ninth birthday as the woman Senator Peter Boggs, Democrat, was videotaped leaving a motel room with. In a tight race Boggs lost. Two years later she was revealed to be the paramour of a Dem congressman who went on to lose a third term. At this point a left-wing blogger named Daniel Marlowe, who had been tracking her, learned she worked for a virtually invisible group called The Alliance for Liberty. It was during this time that she began working with Howie Ruskin for the other side on everything from voter suppression to funneling illegal money to candidates.

Her taste in men seemed limited to a roster of married conservative movers and shakers. If she and Ruskin had ever been lovers that part of their relationship had been short-lived, because both of them were linked to numerous partners during their tenure as political saboteurs.

There was a page of thumbnail photos of her. Babe-o-Rama. Not difficult to understand how she had her way with so many men. Not one of them showed her in any kind of reflective mood. The images left the impression that she was always at her alluring best even when she was – as in one shot – standing in some kind of religious shrine. But always upper crust. Nothing downscale about her. You knew she didn't know how to sweat.

And Robert had gone for her.

All of it was useful information, but hardly the kind of bombshell we needed.

I had just about finished my beer – I'd been at it long enough for the bottle to be warm – when my cell phone rang. I was happy to hear Jane Tyler's voice.

‘You missed the excitement.'

‘Do I want to hear this?'

She laughed. ‘Probably not. But I'm going to tell you anyway. James woke up and came back downstairs and started hassling Ben. And Ben knocked him out with one punch.'

Now I was the one laughing. ‘I was hoping I'd get first crack at him. Ben's a pretty controlled guy. James must've pissed him off big time.'

‘Ben was very controlled. He just kind of blew off all the insults until James grabbed him and that was that. Ben didn't even get a clear shot at him. But he knocked him out. Then Ben grabbed him and dragged him to the couch. He pulled over an ottoman and sat there until James came back and then he apologized for hitting him.'

‘How'd James take it?'

‘He was the perfect gentleman, of course. He started shouting that he was going to sue Ben for so much money Ben'd be declaring bankruptcy. I tried to help calm him down but then he started on me. He called me a whore and said that everybody knew that was why my husband beat me up.'

‘I'm sorry you had to put up with that.'

‘Robert had been on the phone the whole time. He came in on the end of it and got so mad that he tried to punch James himself. And then he said, “You can forget about me bailing you out this time.” I don't know what he was talking about but it certainly calmed James down all of a sudden. He got all apologetic to everybody and begged – and I'm not exaggerating when I say begged – Robert to go to the study and talk to him.'

They must have been arguing about that damn loan, I thought. ‘I've wanted to tell Robert to dump his brother but that's easy for me to say. Blood's blood.'

‘I know. I still feel guilty about leaving my husband and I shouldn't. I used to feel superior to all those women who put up with abusive spouses. I didn't put up with it for long but I still think about the days when it was good.'

‘You have a history with him. That'll be with you a long time. Maybe for life.'

‘You sound as if you know what you're talking about.'

‘I do. I was a terrible husband. I didn't abuse her physically or anything like that but I was always on the road as a consultant so in a real sense I deserted her. By the end she was a stranger to me. I'd forced her to be one. There's a part of me that can't let go of that. Can't ever forgive myself.'

‘Are you in touch with her?'

‘We have a beautiful daughter in common who lives in Boston and is about to marry the intern she's lived with the past few years.'

A yawn. ‘Sorry.'

‘Was that a comment on my life story?'

A giggle this time. ‘Hardly. But aren't you as exhausted as I am?'

‘Yeah. In fact, I'm probably going to hit the bed as soon as we hang up. And as soon as you agree to have dinner with me tomorrow.'

‘I'd like that. Thanks. And by the way, Ben's press conference will be in front of the county courthouse at nine tomorrow. He said he likes early ones because the reporters are hungover and not as sharp as they'll be later in the day.'

‘Ben's a genius.'

‘And a very nice man. I like him.' Another yawn. ‘God. Sorry.'

‘See you tomorrow.'

For once the demons didn't come to wake me up. Usually I go through a list of those I'd done wrong and a list of those who'd wronged me. Sleep is at a premium on those nights.

Tonight I dropped off quickly.

B
en Zuckerman appeared on TV promptly at nine a.m. looking well-rested, relaxed and well turned out in a boardroom gray suit. He wore a stony expression.
Don't fuck with me, buddy, or you'll regret it.
He stood in front of the courthouse without notes of any kind.

There were at least fifteen upright microphones in front of him and at least twice as many hand mikes being pointed at him. As the camera panned the press, familiar faces were seen. Network faces and recognizable ones. This was the big time. A US senator involved in the murder of a beautiful woman.

‘I know we're all busy here so I'll keep my remarks brief and allow only five minutes for questions. I would ask you to remember that this situation is less than twenty-four hours old so despite all the rampant speculation nobody – and I repeat – nobody knows anything for certain yet. With one exception. Senator Robert Logan, my client, categorically denies having anything to do with the death of Tracy Cabot. And I emphasize the word “categorically.” He is innocent of the charges some of the media have accused him of. I would ask the press to do their job responsibly. The senator and I are well aware of why this story has dominated every news cycle. But we do ask for you to be fair and wait for solid facts before making any implications about his role in this tragic event. Now I'll take questions.'

Then came the deluge.

Was Tracy Cabot his mistress? How long had the senator known her? Why would she be at his cabin if the senator didn't know about it? Did the senator have an alibi for the time of her death? How about the reports that the senator had a long-standing reputation as a womanizer? Had the senator taken a lie detector test? Would the senator step down in light of the suspicions the press had about him?