Forgotten Witness (21 page)

“That’s just not so, Amelia. The government had nothing to do with your father’s death,” Stephen assured her.

“Whatever was done to him drove him to suicide,” Amelia answered.

“Then find out who prescribed the stuff and what it was supposed to cure.” Stephen threw up his hands. “Good grief, I cannot believe there is no doctor to talk to the poor souls in that place.”

“I’ve tried every which way from Sunday to find out where it comes from.” Amelia drew in a breath and pulled her lips tight together as she calmed herself. “I would sit up with my dad while he ranted. I’d try to figure out how to get him to take the medicine. I put it in his drinks and he’d figure it out. Then he wouldn’t drink anything for days. It was the same thing with food. Nothing could have been weirder than the life we were living, so why not go to Washington? Why not try to find you? Why not try to save Emily? It seemed so important at the time. He could make everything seem so important.”

“Balls, woman, you make it sound as if we’ve stumbled upon the Island of Doctor Moreau.” Stephen snorted. Josie cast him a look. She had heard Ian Francis’ voice, she had looked into his eyes, and she had gotten caught up in his madness. Stephen, though, wasn’t buying any of it. “Please, Josie, this is just ridiculous. I’ll grant the man was sick, but this girl has bought into his paranoia. I shall call it what it is. Par – a – no – ia.”

“Look. I liked the way things were.” Amelia looked straight at Josie. “I know you were hurt to find out that Emily thinks I’m her daughter but that is her world. She thinks my dad is her husband. We were happy thinking that. I didn’t want anything to change. Emily doesn’t know it has changed.”

The apology and protestations and laments of Amelia Francis drifted Josie’s way on a Hawaiian breeze but all she heard was the sad truth. Under the table Stephen Kyle put his hand on Josie’s knee and gave her a squeeze. She took no offense at Amelia’s outburst or Stephen’s touch. It was painful to realize her mother had chosen another family and harder still to acknowledge Stephen’s sympathy.

“All right,” Josie murmured.

“I never saw any harm in it. I didn’t know you existed until a few weeks ago. Maybe calling me her daughter was her way of remembering she had one.”

“I said, all right.”

Josie shot up and walked away, stopping when she stood at the edge of the circle of light. Crossing her arms, she rocked a little on the cushion of her flip-flops. Behind her Stephen reassured Amelia that Josie would be fine. Josie knew that was debatable: Fine came in all forms. She might look fine, she may act fine, but she never would be truly fine. Only Archer would understand that the mountain of hurt and regret and pain that was breaking through the crust of her soul made her not fine. Like a good soldier reluctant to join the battle but dedicated to the cause, Josie went back to the table.

“Okay, let’s hear it.”

***

Half of Washington D.C. slept and the other half were awake and watching. The ones who were awake patrolled the streets, were glued to computer screens, and listened in on telephone conversations. When mischief was detected, the watchers called other people whose job it was to stop it. Sometimes, mischief made their jobs easier because it came directly to them. Usually it didn’t appear late at night, but there was always the exception and that night the exception was Eugene Weller.

He had put on his overcoat and braved the bad weather to get to a small building on a side street in a middle class neighborhood where some of the watchers worked. He doubted more than a handful of people knew the building housed a very specific unit of the NSA.

On the stoop, he took off his hat – a fedora that he was particularly fond of wearing in the fall – but didn’t unbutton his coat. He held his identification up to an almost impossible to detect camera eye embedded in the grout between two bricks. The lock was disengaged. He went in. A security guard sat at a table reading a magazine. Without a word, Eugene handed him his identification again and the man indicated a pad on his desk. Eugene pressed his thumb onto it.

“Do you know where to go?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

Eugene took the stairs to the second floor. He was at home in the silence and emptiness. Only one of the desks on the second floor was occupied and it was there that a young man worked diligently. Eugene walked right up to him and stood by his side but the young man kept working. When he was ready to talk, he laced his hands behind his head, looked at Eugene and said:

“Yeah.”

Eugene took Ian Francis’ cell phone from the pocket of his coat.

“I would very much like to know who this phone belongs to, a print of the histories: text, email, phone records. I would like to know where it was purchased. I would be especially grateful if you can pinpoint specifically where the user has been for, say, the last year.”

The young man took the phone. “Cheap.”

“Can you?” Eugene asked.

“Give me twenty,” he answered.

Eugene went to the small coffee room down the hall. Without unbuttoning his coat he put a printout in front of him and highlighted items pertinent to his report. When he was done he had highlighted seventy-five that interested him out of four hundred and eight. He had also spent exactly twenty minutes doing his chore. The young man came in with a printout and handed it to Eugene. He waited neither politely nor impolitely as Eugene perused it.

“Thank you.”

“Anything else?” the young man asked.

“No,” Eugene answered. “I’ll take it from here.”

The man melted away. He was like Eugene’s friends in college. Once they had served their purpose they were forgotten.

“
You want a smoke?” –
Resident of Cozy Motel

“No, thanks.” –
Archer

“Nice place here.” –
Resident of Cozy Motel

“A little woodsy for me.” –
Archer

“That’s funny. Don’t get many funny people up here.” –
Resident of Cozy Motel

“What kind do they get up here?” –
Archer

“People who keep to themselves.” –
Resident of Cozy Motel

CHAPTER 15

Lydia Patriota’s party shoes were very pretty. That night she wore gold satin pumps, the four-inch heels studded with Swarovski crystals. Those shoes had cost a fortune and had been all but hidden by the sweep of her chiffon gown, but Ambrose didn’t care. The fact that he was sitting with her sharing a brandy, her shoes glittering against the carpet, her long dress gathered between her knees like a farm girl astride a bale of hay, made every penny he spent on her worthwhile. There wasn’t a man in the world that wouldn’t have paid a king’s ransom for the pleasure of watching her. In fact, seeing her dressed this way was almost more titillating than seeing her naked and Ambrose knew why. Coming from an evening such as they had, the scent of the men she had danced with still clung to her, the envy of the women she spoke with still trailed her, the delight she took in it all still flushed her cheeks.

“Don’t you ever get tired, Lydia?” Ambrose asked.

“Do you?”

“No, but I’d think you would be bored by all this now.”

“Never.” She sipped her brandy and he could see the curve of her lips through the bowl of the glass balloon. She reclined on the satin sofa, put her legs on the back of it, and crossed them, ankle over beautiful ankle. Her lips glistened as she licked off the liquor. The hand holding her glass dropped to her side.

“So, what did we learn tonight?” Ambrose rested his head on the back of his chair and closed his eyes.

This was how they ended every evening since they were first together: Lydia talking, Ambrose listening. He valued her instincts and her insight. Some might have thought this simply a habit, but habit was something one did thoughtlessly. He and Lydia had no habits.

“Where shall I start?” Lydia laughed her throaty laugh. “Senator Bidly? Mona Kluger? How about the waiter who is now in possession of the money clip that fell out of Ambassador Hargerfeld’s pocket?”

“You are sharp eyed, Lydia,” Ambrose chuckled. “Start with Mona.”

“That twit? How she got elected I’ll never know,” Lydia scoffed. “All right. Her gown was off the rack, her hair reeked of cheap hairspray, and her jewels were paste.”

“Lydia,” Ambrose chided.

“Girl stuff, honey, otherwise Washington would be boring with all you men strutting around like peacocks. I’m telling you, you all look the same to me after awhile.”

“I hope there’s an exception,” Ambrose didn’t open his eyes. He liked to feel her voice melting as thick as liquid gold into his brain.

“Only you, darlin’. You are the right peacock.” She chuckled. “Well, Mona says she’s getting plenty of grief from the good folks at home about all sorts of things. They’re not happy with the immigration stall; they’re furious about this new insurance crap; they’re still harping on the lack of jobs. She’s got five cities in her district going bankrupt and everybody’s wondering why they can’t get bailed out.”

“Because the world has gone to hell in a hand basket is why,” Ambrose answered as he opened his eyes. “There is no money. Besides, her districts are of no importance.”

“She knows that, but she’s looking for something, anything. She hasn’t got one thing to crow about during her campaign,” Lydia pointed out.

“And?”

“And she’s thinking if you could just throw her a little bone she would be ever so grateful.”

Up came Lydia’s hand. She took a drink but she was lying at an odd angle and the brandy spilled into the indentation at the base of her throat. She swiped at it with one finger. When that didn’t do the job she used the silk chiffon of her gown as if it were an ordinary napkin. Ambrose was enchanted the way one might be when a particularly beautiful dancer falters on stage and goes on without embarrassment.

“What does she want?” Ambrose asked.

“She wants you to talk to Tom Critchfield and have him shoot some transportation bucks her way. It wouldn’t have to be much. A hundred million.”

“And in return I would get what?”

“Her undying support for your presidential run.”

Lydia turned her head. That gorgeous, perfectly formed face of hers wore an expression more suited to a gambler with a good hand than a trophy wife.

“I don’t need it,” Ambrose reminded her.

“True,” Lydia agreed, “but she’s part of the women’s caucus and you know they’ve been having second thoughts about you.”

“I don’t know why,” Ambrose objected.

“Oh, honey, everyone on the hill knows Sylvia Dias’s people have done everything but bought a bed and spread her legs for you and you haven’t given her a second look. She’s the only one who has any viability as a VP and you act like she’s the last person you’d invite to the prom. And don’t you think I know, honey, that you had Eugene leak a short list two weeks ago? Undisclosed source, my ass. There wasn’t one woman on it even as a nod.”

Lydia threw her legs over the side of the sofa, shot the rest of her brandy, put the glass on the table, and planted her feet.

“I don’t know why you won’t do it. Far be it from me to lobby for someone just because we are the same sex. Most women in politics are idiots, but it only makes sense to look at a one for the ticket. You’d make history with a woman VP and it’s not like a woman could hurt you, Ambrose. Every damn poll shows you winning by a landslide. Why not bring a honey along for the ride?”

Ambrose laughed, “That is precisely why I will not choose a woman. I do not want to make history because of my running mate.”

He pulled at his black bow tie until it was loose. No one wore a tuxedo like Ambrose Patriota and even at his age no one looked better discarding one, but his wife was not to be seduced.

“Sylvia Diaz is perfectly acceptable, but she’s young. She’ll have her time. There’s someone else I want,” Ambrose said.

“Blazes, sugar. You’ve decided?” Lydia’s eyes widened and Ambrose was thrilled to have surprised her. “Come on, honey, who is it?”

“I will not divulge the name until I am positively sure and that includes talking with said person.”

“Not even a pronoun to give me a hint. Now that is intriguing, Ambrose.” Lydia slipped off her shoes. She wasn’t wearing any stockings and Ambrose wondered if she was wearing under things. She got off the couch and her gown cascaded to the floor. She walked over to him and put a hand on his face. “I dare say I love a challenge. Let’s see if I can’t coax it out of you upstairs.”

“It will do you no good.” Ambrose took her hand and kissed her palm. “I will tell you this. Mona was going to get the money from transportation anyway. This way she’ll think it’s my doing. You call her in the next day and a half and breathlessly tell her that you think I’ll be able to swing it for her. Will that keep you happy for a bit?”

“A day or two maybe.” She withdrew her hand. “I love that people think I have that much sway over you.”

“But you do, my dear. Yes, you do,” Ambrose stood and reached for her. She melted into him.

“Just not enough when it comes to the big stuff like who will be your running mate.” Lydia’s beautiful brow furrowed but it was only because she was truly concerned for her husband. “You don’t want to lose too many friends with a dark horse, Ambrose.”

“In Washington friends are easily lost. It’s alliances that are important. I’m confident in those,” Ambrose reminded her. “You, my dear, are my only true friend.”

“Honestly, Ambrose, if I could package you I’d be a rich woman.”

“You are already a rich woman.” He switched off the table lamp. His hand had just gone around her waist and they were headed upstairs to find out about her lingerie or lack thereof when the doorbell rang.

“A bit late,” Ambrose groused and sent her up without him. “I’ll take care of it.”

The bell rang again, annoying Ambrose even more that whoever it was at this hour didn’t have the decency to be patient. When he opened the door his irritation grew two-fold.

“Eugene?”

***

“My dad taught college, but then he got offered the research job at Ha Kuna House so my parents moved here before I was born. My mom was a piece of work, so I just took off after high school. I finally came home and found my mom gone and dad pretty much living at Ha Kuna House. He was like the others, just wacko. My dad didn’t deserve to be alone. He was always good to me so I stayed.”