Mistress (15 page)

“Oh, please do tell me, Ben.” The CIA deputy director seems amused. “I’m waiting with bated breath as to why and how I’ll help you—a reporter for some rag that nobody reads, pushing a story that nobody will believe.”

I’d really like to smack this douche bag. I’ll have to settle for scaring him.

“Mr. Carney,” I say. “You remember Gary Condit?”

Typical of his manner, he doesn’t move an inch, but the giveaway is a slight twitch of his eye.

“Congressman Condit didn’t kill Chandra Levy,” I go on. “All he did was sleep with her. Affairs happen all the time, and they sting you politically, but you almost always recover from them. You hold a nice press conference with your stoic wife at your side, humbly concede your imperfection with vague statements like ‘I’ve made mistakes’ or ‘I haven’t been perfect,’ throw in a reference to God and, if necessary, some rehabilitation or therapy—and voilà, you win reelection.

“But Gary Condit, he had the bad luck of having an affair with a woman who wound up dead. So even though he had nothing to do with her death, he was tainted by asso—”

“Do you have a point here, Mr. Casper?”

So now it’s
Mr. Casper
. “Oh, I just wonder how it’s going to affect your political career when it comes out that you had an affair with a woman who killed herself.”

Carney wets his lips. His face reddens, but he’s doing his best impression of a mannequin. It’s not hard for him. He’s had a lot of practice.

“Kind of a catch-22, isn’t it, Mr. Carney? I mean, if we’re supposed to believe she’s dead, then you have to stick with that story, right? So now it’s former congressman and current deputy CIA director Craig Carney having an affair with a woman who jumped off a balcony. How do you think you come off in that story? Good? Bad? Ugly?”

(Possible Clint Eastwood mind-scroll here. But I’m a little busy right now.)

Carney’s jaw clenches. I know what he’s itching to say:
That affair with Diana ended years ago.
Which, according to Diana, is true. But we both know that’s just a detail. He’ll have to admit to the affair to make that distinction.

“You look like the cat who ate the canary, Mr. Deputy Director.”

He blinks his eyes rapidly, digesting that comment. Damn. I think I was right the first time, and Ashley Brook was wrong. I should have gone with the hand-in-the-cookie-jar line. Another lesson to all of you—go with your first instinct.

After a long pause, which I have to put down as some of the best thirty seconds of my entire week, Carney clears his throat and comes forward in his chair.

“Young man,” he says evenly, but I detect a tremble in his voice. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you can get in by blackmailing the deputy director of the CIA?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Is it worse than a needle in my arm for murder? Remember, Mr. Carney, you all have done such a good job of fucking with my world that I don’t have much to lose.”

I get out of my chair and button my sport coat. It’s a new one I bought yesterday at J.Crew on M Street, as I continue my nomadic existence. It’s a denim job, a more casual look for Benjamin Casper, reporter turned fugitive.

“I have proof of your affair and I’ll publish it,” I say, framing my hands for the headline. “A conservative, law-and-order, family-values politician, now guarding our central intelligence, caught in steamy affair with top aide who killed herself in despair. Ah, but the police are also looking into the possibility that she didn’t jump, that maybe she was
pushed
off that balcony. She was
murdered
. Gee, who might be a suspect? It could take as long as, oh, ten or twelve seconds before every mainstream news outlet in the country is running the story. Are you ready for that kind of publicity? Is your wife?”

I lean over the desk, so we can have a nice eye-to-eye parting. “The words
Operation Delano
might find their way into the story, too. It’s already been written, by the way. Killing me won’t stop the story.”

I straighten up, nod to a visibly shaken Craig Carney, and head for the door.

“You have twenty-four hours, Mr. Deputy Director,” I say. “Give me some answers, or you’ll be back in Des Moines selling tractors to farmers. And the president will be thinking of someone else as his next CIA director.”

When I leave the Hart Building, I run down 1st Street to the Capitol South metro station. I look behind me for any sign of men in black chasing after me, or cars following me, but don’t see any. It had been a risk all along, scheduling that meeting with Craig Carney, but I’m hoping my threats held him off for at least a few hours while he ponders his next move.

I spend an hour on the subway, jumping from one train to another, hoping to throw off anyone who might be following me. Everyone is a suspect—the kindly grandmother, the well-dressed young woman who looks like she’s headed to an interview, the homeless guy with food in his beard. Trust no one.

In between stops, I find an ATM and withdraw five hundred dollars in cash, then jump on another train before anyone can trace that transaction.

I spend the evening at a deli on 14th Street and look over the notes I’ve written up for the story on Craig Carney and Diana Hotchkiss. I was bluffing, of course, about having the article written, but I need to finish it now. The story is largely unsubstantiated; I also lied when I said I had proof of Diana’s affair with Carney. I don’t. I only have Diana’s word. In terms of editorial standards, I’d never sign off on this article without more confirmation. But I’m not worried at the moment about journalistic integrity. I’m more concerned with saving my ass.

Will I run this if Craig Carney calls my bluff? I don’t know.
Capital Beat
may not be the most popular news website going, but we’ve never gone with sensationalism. We’ve never compromised our standards. Am I willing to do so now?

No point in worrying about that yet. Just write it, Ben.

So I crank out a draft, e-mail it to Carney’s office and to myself for safekeeping, and close my laptop. I force down a roast beef sandwich, because being sleep-deprived
and
malnourished makes Ben a vulnerable target.

Now it’s nearing nine o’clock. The sun has fallen, but my spirits are slightly elevated with the completion of this article. It’s a chit. It’s something.

Then I pull out my cell phone—my original one, not the prepaid piece of shit I’ve been using. From my other pocket I pull out the cell battery. I saw in some movie that a cell phone can’t be traced if the battery is removed. So now I’m going to put it back in, just to check any messages, then get the hell out of here and move to another part of the capital before any black helicopters can swoop down on me.

When I pop in the battery and check my voice mail, I see four messages. One is from an unknown caller. Two are from George Hotchkiss in Wisconsin.

The last one is from fifteen minutes ago, from Anne Brennan. I punch that message and raise the phone to my ear.

“Ben…it’s Anne. I—they just—I need you to come here, Ben. They—they said if I—they said next time they’ll kill me—please, I don’t know who else to call—”

I jump out of my seat, grab my bag, and head for the door.

“It’s Ben,” I say to the door. “It’s me. Open up.”

When Anne opens her door, my heart sinks. Her shirt, a button-down long denim thing, is ripped at the collar, and most of the buttons have been torn off. Her eyes are bloodshot, her eye makeup smeared, her lip bloody. Behind her, the living room looks like a tornado swept through it.

She quickly closes the door behind me and double-locks it.

“Let’s sit,” I say to her in the calmest voice I can muster, but my heart is shredded and my blood is boiling.

“O—okay,” she says, but she collapses to the floor before she can make it to the couch. She bursts into tears, her petite figure shaking uncontrollably. I sit on the floor and take her in my arms, as if I were rocking an infant to sleep. It’s a long time before she can speak, and I don’t rush her. I keep repeating, “It’s okay, I’m here,” as if that’s any comfort at this moment.

“It was…two of them,” she says, audibly gulping between sobs. “They said they were from…the government and…and they just wanted to…talk.”

“Did they have credentials? Badges?”

She shakes her head.

“You let someone in without—” I cut myself off. The last thing she needs from me is a lecture. I don’t know her all that well, but from what I’ve discerned so far, it seems just like her to be trusting enough to let strangers into her apartment.

“Go ahead,” I say. “Tell me what happened.”

The story comes out amid sobs and deep breaths. She stumbles around it, but I get the point. They forced their way in. They put a knife to her throat. They ripped off her shirt and pulled down her pants.

“They said, next time—they’d—they’d rape me and then slit my throat,” she stammers. “They said if Benjamin Casper doesn’t stop poking his nose where it doesn’t belong, it will be me who…pays.”

I hold Anne for a long time, my jaw set in a death lock, my body trembling with rage.

“You want me to stay?” I whisper. “I can sleep on the couch—”

“I want you to stop,” she blurts out. “I want all of this to…
stop
.”

A door closes in the apartment upstairs. We both jump at the sound. The goons who delivered this message probably won’t be back tonight. But maybe they knew I would come.

Anne looks up at me. “I know I don’t have a right to ask that. I know Diana was important to you. She was to me, too. But is it worth the cost?”

She’s right. It’s one thing to risk my own life. I don’t really have a choice in that. But I’m endangering people I care about. First Ellis Burk, now Anne—innocent victims, punished for nothing more than listening to me and trying to help me.

“I’ll think of something,” I tell her, which is about the emptiest promise I could give.

I spend the night at Anne’s, sitting up on the couch, dozing off occasionally, but mostly watching the front door and trying to figure a way out of this mess.

In the morning, my head is cloudy, my limbs are shaky, and a permanent dull ache has taken up residence in my stomach. I use my prepaid phone to dial George Hotchkiss, who called my old cell phone twice yesterday but didn’t leave a message.

“George, it’s Ben Casper. I know you’re anxious to learn more about Diana. But I need more—”

“You don’t know what I’m going to say,” he says, interrupting me. “What I’m going to say is I want you to forget about what you told us. I don’t want to make any noise about Diana. I want to let it go.”

He wants me to let it go? “George—”

“She’s gone, Ben. And the sooner my wife and I accept that, the sooner we can move on with our lives. We’ve lost two children in the space of a week.”

I sigh. I can see his point, of course. But if there was a chance my child were alive, I’d chase that hope like I’ve never pursued anything in my life. Why wouldn’t George Hotchkiss do the same?

Oh. Oh, of course.

“They got to you, didn’t they, George? They—”

“Nobody did anything.” His voice is rising, as if in panic. “Nobody did anything, you understand? I still have a wife, and I don’t want to lose her, too. So I’m not going to ask the government to hand over Diana’s body or perform a DNA test or anything else, and I don’t authorize you to do those things, either. And I’m telling you that I want you to stop pursuing this. I want you to let this go. Diana is dead, okay? She’s
dead
.”

Shit. These guys are smart. They’re hitting every pressure point they can find. They got to George and threatened him.

“I
need
you to let this go,” George says. “Please, Mr. Casper.”

“It’s not good, Ben.”

Eddie Volker says these words before he says hello. I’m in his law firm after taking the most circuitous route I possibly could to his office. “Not good at all.”

Eddie is the
Beat
’s lawyer—the one who represents us in the rare cases when someone tries to sue us for defamation or has some other beef with an article we published. But his principal practice is criminal defense, which is why I had him contact Detective Liz Larkin to discuss my case. I’m here now for a report, and Eddie’s first words aren’t what I wanted to hear.

He has the office of a busy lawyer—piles of paper everywhere, the fancy diplomas and honors framed on his wall, the piping hot cup of Starbucks on his desk. He’s losing his hair as well as his battle with the bulge these days, but he remains a formidable presence. I feel a small measure of comfort with him on my side.

“As you know, they searched your house. They had a warrant, and it looks fine to me. No basis to quarrel with it. Anyway, what they found wasn’t good for us, Ben.”

I don’t answer. There are plenty of things they could find in my town house that would be embarrassing to me, but I can’t imagine what would prove that I killed Diana or Jonathan Liu, especially considering the small detail that I
didn’t
kill either of them.

“I made a lot of noise about the First Amendment, that cops can’t steal a reporter’s notes or work product, threats to run to court to get a protective order. But I didn’t see anyone trembling in their boots, Ben. I wouldn’t be, either, if I were them.”

“Why not?” I ask.

Eddie rearranges some papers on his desk. Avoidance behavior, something you do when you don’t want to deliver bad news.

“They found traces of carpet fibers from Diana Hotchkiss’s apartment on your shoes.”

“So what? I’ve been in Diana’s apartment many times.”

“They found traces of carpet fibers from Jonathan Liu’s downstairs carpet on another pair of your shoes.”

“That’s impossible.” Since leaving Jonathan Liu’s home, I haven’t been to mine. I’ve been on the run.

Eddie gives a curt nod. It’s not the first time in Eddie’s career that somebody sitting where I’m sitting has denied doing something. It’s probably not even the first time today. The words
I didn’t do it
have probably echoed off the walls of the office so often that they’re embedded in the plaster.

“Ben, they say you killed Jonathan Liu the same way you killed your mother. They say you either snuck up behind him or you subdued him, put a gun against his temple, and pulled the trigger. Then you made it look like a suicide.”

I stare at the ceiling. “They have no proof of that. They don’t even have proof that I was in his house when he was murdered. A carpet fiber—”

“And your fingerprint on Liu’s computer mouse—”

“Okay, fine, both of those might prove I was there at some point, but not when he was killed.”

Eddie looks at me like he has more to tell me, like the bad-news express hasn’t stopped yet.

“Spit it out,” I say to him.

He sighs. “Ben, they found Jonathan Liu’s wallet in your bedroom.”

“That’s bullshit,” I say. “That’s bullshit!”

“And he used his credit card to buy a plane ticket for himself the evening he was murdered. So anyone who stole his credit card must have done it after that time. Basically, that means they’ve got you in his apartment right about the coroner’s estimated time of death.”

I jump out of my chair. “I can’t believe this is happening. They planted Jonathan Liu’s wallet and those carpet fibers. They framed me. They fucking framed me!”

“I believe you and I’ll fight for you,” Eddie says. “But it’s very bad. They want you to come in for more questioning. And if I don’t deliver you to them by the end of the day, they’re going to issue a warrant for your arrest.”

I cover my face with my hands and drop my head against the wall. They’ve finally got me in the corner.

Eddie comes over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s time to cut your losses, my friend. I’ll take you downtown. They’ll book you, print you, and I’ll see if we can do something about bond.”

I let out a bitter chuckle. “Bond for a double murderer? Is there a good chance I’ll get bond?”

“Not really, no.” Eddie’s always told it to me straight. “You’re looking at a long time in lockup awaiting trial. But we’ll pull out all the stops—”

“I’ll never get to trial,” I say. “They won’t let that happen. If I go inside, I’ll never come out.”

I take a breath and nod to Eddie.

“I’ll be in touch,” I say.

“They’ll issue the warrant, Ben. They’ll come looking for you. It won’t be pretty.”

Please stop this
,
Anne said.

Please stop,
George Hotchkiss pleaded.

Surrender to the police
,
Eddie’s telling me.

I release my arm from Eddie’s hand. “Give me a couple of hours to think about this,” I say. “I’ll be in touch.”