Mortal Faults (6 page)

6

Reynolds needed to relax. The town-hall meeting had gone smoothly enough—no combative questions from the audience, no slip-ups on his part—but
she
had been there again. Tucked away at the back of the room, in a dim corner, alone, saying nothing. Watching him.

He hoped Abby Sinclair was as good as she claimed.

Keyed up, he had driven Stenzel back to the campaign headquarters to pick up his car, then parked the minivan at his office. The minivan was solely for business purposes, its maintenance and miles tax-deductible. In the parking lot he kept his real car, a blue Mustang hardtop with a three-valve V-8.

He drove the freeways. Years ago he would have ridden a Harley, with no buffer between the wind and his body, feeling the lash of air as he screamed through tunnel of roaring noise. But a bike didn’t fit his image now, and besides, he was too old for that crap.

The long drive had calmed him down. Reynolds was feeling good as he parked near the condo in Costa Mesa. He had no key to the place, so he had to buzz the intercom. “It’s me,” he said when she answered. She let him in without another word.

He stepped into her apartment, and she shut the door behind him. She was in a nightgown and fuzzy slippers.

“It’s late,” Rebecca said, peeved.

“Out driving.” He said it without apology. He didn’t have to explain himself to her. She was his goddamned secretary, for Christ’s sake. All right, technically she was his constituent services coordinator, the intermediary who dealt with the various real and imagined crises in the lives of the voters in his district. She was stationed permanently in Orange County, the only staffer to run his office here when he was in D.C. They saw each other whenever he was in town. Fortunately it was an election year, and he was in town a lot.

They went into her bedroom. “Do anything tonight?” he asked, not caring, just making conversation as he stripped off his clothes.

“Watched TV.”

“Huh.”

“Nothing much on. Who was that woman?”

He glanced at her. “Woman?”

“Four o’clock appointment. Sinclair.”

“Personal matter.”

“You can’t talk about personal matters with me?”

“Oh, I can. I just figured we’ve got better things to do. What do you care about her, anyway?”

“She’s very attractive.”

“Didn’t notice.”

Rebecca made a face. “Right.”

“What are you, jealous?”

“Just ... curious.”

“You know what they say about curiosity and the cat.”

“No, what?”

“It killed the cat.”

“What did?”

He was exasperated. “Curiosity.”

She frowned. “I don’t get it. What is it, a riddle?”

“It’s a saying. An old saying. I guess it’s from before your time.”

“Must be.”

Suddenly he was feeling old. He didn’t like it. It made him angry. Made him hot.

“You’re a dumb bitch,” he said quietly, “you know that?”

“Jack—”

He shut her mouth with a searing kiss. He was tired of hearing her talk. He never wanted to hear her talk. He had enough conversation in his life.

When he broke away, he had silenced her. He unbuttoned her nightgown and let it fall away. “On the bed,” he ordered.

She sank onto the mattress, naked, supine, her ash blond hair fanning across the pillows.

“Roll over,” he said. “On your belly.”

“Do we have to ...?”

“
Roll over
.”

She obeyed, her bare back displayed for him like a side of beef. He whacked her hard on the ass, and she gave a little yelp of pain.

“You like that, bitch?”

“Yes, Jack.”

Another smack. The cheeks of her buttocks reddened.

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

A stinging wallop.

“Like it?”

“Yes.” Tears in her voice.

He grabbed her by the knot of hair at her nape and yanked her head back. “Say it louder.”

“Yes, Jack.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I like it.
I like it
!” Her eyes glittered, wet.

He reached under her, cupping a breast, squeezing hard.

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

He made a fist, crushing the flesh in his hand. “Like it?”

“Yes ...”

“Louder.”

But she couldn’t say it louder. She was crying.

Well, if she wouldn’t talk, she would scream. He knew how to make her scream. Some of the bruises still hadn’t healed from last time. Now there would be more.

And she would like it.

***

An hour later, he pulled into the driveway of his home in Newport Beach. He went in via the side door, disarming and rearming the alarm system, then made his way through the ground level.

The house was big, but not quite big enough to be ostentatious, decorated in a simple but elegant style that looked more costly than it was. The décor had been his wife’s assignment, one of the few times in their twenty-five year marriage when Nora had actually contributed something to the partnership besides her family’s money. For the most part she was only a prop for him to lean on, an attractive prop, plumper then she once was but still curvaceous enough to draw admiring glances. She was neither shrewd nor wise, she had little imagination and limited ambition, but she did possess the cardinal virtue of loyalty. She had been faithful to him, always. He couldn’t say the same about himself.

“Jack.” Her voice drifted down from upstairs. “Is that you?”

“It’s me.”

He climbed the spiral staircase, shedding his jacket. He found Nora in bed, a book in her hand and a mildly annoyed expression on her face.

“Your meeting must have ended hours ago.”

He wondered why both of the women in his life insisted on criticizing him. “I took the Mustang for a spin.” He went into the bathroom and began to undress.

“Sometimes,” Nora said from the bedroom, “I think you love that car more than me.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“How did it go? The meeting, that is?”

“The usual.”

“Press coverage?”

“No.”

“Good turnout, at least?”

“Not bad. What are you doing up so late? That book keeping you awake?”

“Actually, I was waiting for you.”

He had removed most of his clothes by now. Distantly he wondered why he never undressed in front of his wife. He had no qualms about stripping with Rebecca in the room. “Waiting? Why? Something you need to talk about?”

“I was just ... feeling lonely, I guess.”

He ignored the obvious implication. “You have plenty of friends around here.”

“Yes. I suppose I do.”

He threw in the pajamas and came out of the bathroom. Nora was pretending to read, her face set in a blank stare.

“Now you’re mad at me,” he said with a sigh.

She didn’t look at him. “How long has it been since we were ... together?”

It had been four months, but he feigned ignorance. “I’m not sure.” Before she could pursue the point, he went on the offensive. “As I recall, I’m not the one who kept saying no.”

Now she did look at him. “You hurt me, Jack.”

“Because of what I just said? It’s the truth.”

“It’s not what you said. I mean, you hurt me. The last time we ... you
hurt
me.”

“I got a little carried away.”

“More than a little.”

“It was a scratch.”

“Go on and tell yourself that, if you want to.”

She returned to her book, but her eyes were wet.

“Maybe I’ll sleep in the guest room,” he said.

She didn’t answer. That was fine. He’d had enough of this conversation, anyway.

He took the pillow from his side of the bed and carried it down the hall. He was pissed off now. The drive and his recreational outing with Rebecca had cooled his jets, and now he was all tense and edgy again.

He lay in bed, eyes shut, and took himself back to Rebecca’s bedroom, his hands working her over, her mouth issuing soft grunting protests that rose gradually to screams. Muffled screams, choked off by the pillow she pressed to her face so her neighbors wouldn’t hear—but screams, nonetheless.

Eyes closed, he shivered with pleasure, and unaccountably he thought of Abby Sinclair.

He would like to make that bitch scream, too.

He really would.

7

Abby was a downward facing dog, or more exactly she had arched her body into the yoga position of that name, when her cell phone rang. Her first thought was that Tess was calling with news on the witness protection thing. It was only eight o’clock in the morning, though. A little early to be hearing about that.

She pushed herself to a standing position and answered. “Abby Sinclair.”

It wasn’t Tess. It was Reynolds’ assistant, the ice princess, Rebecca somebody-or-other, who’d rejected Abby’s sisterly appeal. “Please hold for—”

“Congressman Reynolds,” Abby finished. “I know the drill.”

Evidently the congressman was too important to dial his own phone. She waited for a half minute, wondering how much she should reveal about last night’s less-than-successful enterprise, until Reynolds came on the line.

Surprisingly, he didn’t ask any questions. “I’ll be in L.A. for lunch today at the Brayton,” he said without preamble, and with none of his synthetic charm.

Abby was confused. “You’re asking me to lunch?”

“No.” His tone registered impatience with her stupidity. “I’m having lunch with some contributors. I’ll meet you at the hotel beforehand. The rendezvous court, eleven thirty. Go through the lobby and the galleria, past the elevators, and you’re there. Got it?”

“There’s not much I can tell you so far.” And there was even less she wanted to tell.

“I want any information you have.”

Click, and the call was over.

Abby was beginning to seriously dislike this man. What was worse, she was beginning to distrust him.

There might be some connection between Andrea Lowry and Jack Reynolds, but she didn’t think it had anything to do with housekeeping.

The Brayton Hotel was downtown. L.A.’s central library was right across the street. It had been a while since Abby had done any research there, the Internet having rendered it largely unnecessary to comb the stacks. But there were some items she couldn’t find online. On its Web site, the
L.A. Times
archived its articles as far back as 1985, but included no photos. It was the photos that interested her. The library would have the complete editions—text and pix—on microfilm.

She decided to head downtown early.

***

It took her ninety minutes of scrolling through microfilm, but she found it.

An article in the
Los Angeles Times
, dated July 14, 1991, about Orange County District Attorney John Reynolds. He hadn’t been Jack then. The populist persona appeared shortly afterward, upon his entry into politics.

The story was a puff piece, a human interest item on the D.A. at home. A tough man on the job, but tender with his kids, ages seven and five. There was a description of Reynolds flying a kite with the children on a windy bluff overlooking the ocean. Daddy at home making pancakes—“griddlecakes,” as he charmingly called them—on Sunday morning before packing the kids off to church. His wife Nora speaking of her hubby’s soft side.

But not to soften up the D.A. too much, there was also much talk of his stern dedication to the law. Asked if he had any hobbies, he answered, “I like to put people in jail.” It was reported that he said it with a smile.

Buried in the story was a brief acknowledgment of the real reason for the sudden interest in the life of a district attorney—rumors of a run for political office next year. The
Times
story was obviously a way of testing the waters, and of putting out a favorable impression of the potential candidate.

None of which mattered. All that interested Abby was the photograph accompanying the article. The Reynolds clan at home—husband, wife, kids ... and their housekeeper, Rose Moran.

Rose was in the background of the shot, serving up a plate of hot dogs at a family dinner in the backyard. In the fuzzy black-and-white photo her face was hard to make out. Abby fiddled with the knobs that controlled magnification and focus until the woman was centered in the microfilm reader’s blue crosshairs in blurry close-up. She had a sharp, thin face with narrow lips and close-set eyes.

Not Andrea Lowry. Even the passage of fifteen years could not turn this pinched bone structure into Andrea’s broader, squarer face.

There was no way Reynolds could have looked at Andrea Lowry and seen Rose Moran. His story was a lie. As lies went, it was a pretty good one, but not quite good enough.

Abby hated being lied to. It really frosted her corn flakes.

She fed a coin into the slot and printed out the page with the photo. Suddenly she was no longer worried about what she would say to Jack Reynolds. She had questions for him.

And she wanted answers.

8

Tess didn’t want to think about Abby. She wanted to forget she’d gotten the phone call last night. She wanted to put the whole thing out of her mind and make it go away.

This attitude sustained her during the first hour and a half of her workday, which began at eight fifteen with the weekly squad supervisors meeting. Her self-control continued when she returned to her office. It lasted long enough to allow her to dictate two letters and review three reports on ongoing investigations, sign out some mail, and initial a variety of paperwork, transferring it from her in-box to her out-box.

None of this was very glamorous, nothing at all like a day in the life an FBI agent in the movies, and yet she took a secret thrill in even the more mundane aspects of her job. She never took her position for granted. To be in charge of a regional field office was a major accomplishment for any agent, rarer still for an agent who was not yet forty, and almost unprecedented for an agent lacking a Y chromosome. Only fifteen percent of special agents were female, and before Tess there had been just one female SAC, whose resentful male colleagues had dubbed her Queen Bee.

There were plenty of agents who looked back fondly on the Hoover years, when women had been permitted in the Bureau only as support staff. Some of those nostalgic types were the old guard, dwindling as they hit the mandatory retirement age of fifty-seven, but most were too young to remember Hoover as anything other than an unsmiling face in one of the official portraits that hung in FBI offices everywhere. Still, they kept his traditions alive, including the casual, almost jocular misogyny that had been part of the Bureau’s culture from the start.

In her days as a street agent, Tess had heard herself referred to as a skirt, a split tail, and—her personal favorite—a breast fed. She tried not to take offense. A certain amount of ribbing and rough talk was normal in law enforcement. In theory the Office of Professional Responsibility could be summoned to investigate sexually derogatory comments, but the policy was rarely enforced. No agent, female or otherwise, wanted to be known as a troublemaker who couldn’t take a joke—not in an institution that valued loyalty to the team above almost any other virtue. Anyway, she was an SAC now, at one of the country’s larger field offices, and nobody called her a split tail these days. At least, not to her face.

Her office was large and well appointed, with the customary leather chairs and matching leather sofa, the properly intimidating desk with an American flag beside it, and a large bookcase stocked with reference volumes and the Bureau’s Manual of Rules and Regulations, known as the Big Manual; but the walls were curiously bare. Tess had eschewed the collection of photos known as an I-love-me wall, in which highlights of an agent’s career were illustrated for the benefit of visitors. Handshakes with the director or the president usually got the best display.

Tess had shaken her share of hands and had the photos to prove it, but they were in a cardboard box in a closet at home, not demanding attention on her wall. The only photos she had put up were a couple of cityscapes she liked—Miami and Phoenix, two cities where she’d been assigned earlier in her career, and Denver itself. And there was a photo of Hoover, of course. Not to display J. Edgar’s picture would be the ultimate act of sedition.

At nine forty-five the willpower that had carried her through her morning routine finally failed. There was no way around it. She had to know what Abby had gotten mixed up in. If there was a federal connection, Abby might come to the attention of the Bureau and be called in for questioning. Someone would link her to the Rain Man case. The truth would come out. Tess’s superiors would learn that for the past year and a half she had been covering up the participation of a civilian in a federal law enforcement action. And not just any civilian. Abby wasn’t some FBI groupie, she was an unlicensed private investigator, very nearly a vigilante, exactly the sort of person who should have no input into an official investigation. The repercussions would almost certainly prove fatal to Tess’s career.

Switching on her desktop computer, she used the Bureau’s secure intranet to connect with the mainframe in the Hoover Building in Washington, then logged onto the federal internal computer system. The FICS was a database containing the details of every FBI investigation, while affording access to the records of other federal law enforcement agencies as well. Through the system she accessed the U.S. Marshals Service and ran a keyword search on “Andrea Lowry.”

No hits. No Andrea Lowry was listed in the WITSEC program as a real name or an alias.

She returned to the Bureau’s own database and repeated the search. Nothing there, either. The FBI had never investigated any case involving Andrea Lowry—or if they had, the case was too recent to have been entered into the system.

So that was that. She had kept her promise, and it had cost her nothing. She could truthfully tell Abby that Andrea Lowry, whoever she was, had not reinvented herself with the help of the federal government.

Part of her, oddly, was disappointed. She really had wanted to help Abby. Though it was true that they’d each come to the other’s rescue in Los Angeles, Abby had taken far greater risks on Tess’s behalf.

But if WITSEC was a dead end, there was nothing she could do. She would call Abby later, when she was safely away from the office, and give her the news.

She had settled back to work when her intercom buzzed with word that Assistant Director Michaelson was on the line.

Michaelson ran the L.A. field office. Tess had worked with him twice—first during the Mobius case and more recently on the Rain Man. There weren’t too many people in the Bureau she actively detested, but Richard Michaelson, known as the Nose in recognition of his most prominent facial feature, was one of the few. He was, in fact, at the top of the list.

“Richard,” she said, putting on her best pretense of affability, “what can I do for you?”

“You can tell me why the hell you’re interested in Andrea Lowry.”

This was so unexpected she needed a moment to process it. “Andrea Lowry?”

“Cut the bullshit. I just heard from Tenth Street.” The address of Bureau headquarters. “You ran a search on her.”

“How could you—” She stopped herself. Her knowledge of computers was minimal, but even she knew that the system could be programmed to red-flag any unusual searches. Though why the name Andrea Lowry would trigger such a response she had no idea.

“I didn’t realize Big Brother was watching me,” she said carefully.

“Why in God’s name would you think she was in witness protection, anyway?”

“I was just, uh, running down a long shot.”

“It’s not your case. You shouldn’t be running down anything. How did Lowry come to your attention?”

“I’ve heard things.”

“From who?”

“I believe the proper question to ask is: from
whom
. I’m not at liberty to divulge my sources. Maybe you’d like tell me who called you from Washington?”

He simmered. She was happy to let him think she knew more than she did. He might not call her bluff.

“If you have any leads, solid or not, pertaining to Andrea Lowry,” he said after a moment, “you’d better damn well hand them over to us. We’re running the investigation. It’s our project.”

“I don’t remember you being such a glory hog, Richard.”

“Glory?” He snorted. “You think I
want
MEDEA? Goddamn thing is so hot it’s radioactive.”

MEDEA. The code name of the case, presumably. Usually cases had unimaginative code names, shortened to facilitate computer entry. THERMCON, for
Therm
ite
con
spiracy. UNABOM, for
un
iversity and
a
irline
bom
bings. Occasionally someone would get more creative. One name she’d always liked was CASTAWAY, a mob-related investigation aimed at putting a Mr. Paul Castellano away. That one had a certain charm.

And now MEDEA. Somebody had been in a mythological frame of mind when coming up with that one. Who was Medea, anyway? Some figure in Greek mythology. Tess had been given a thorough exposure to the classics in parochial school, but all she remembered about Medea was that she played a role in the story of Jason and the Golden Fleece.

“Come on now.” She tried a little fishing. “You’ve never been afraid of a high-profile case.”

“Ordinarily that’s true. But when it’s political ...”

“Politics is your specialty.”

“Not this kind. One wrong move on MEDEA, and I’ll be posted in Anchorage.”

“I’m not trying to horn in on your territory, Richard. But from what I understand, the seventh floor is unhappy.” That floor was the power center of the Hover Building, and its very mention could inspire fear in a dedicated rung-climber like Michaelson. “They seem to think you’re having trouble with MEDEA. They feel you might be in over your head.”

“Ridiculous. I have the situation fully under control.”

“That’s not the way they’re reading it back east.”

“Well, if they have concerns, they ought to come to me personally. You tell your friend that the L.A. field office is entirely capable of handling MEDEA on our own.”

“If they felt that way, they wouldn’t be talking to me.”

There was a pause. “Are you saying you might be coming on board? Is that what they’re telling you?”

She hadn’t intended to say that, but if the threat of her direct involvement would keep him talking, she would use it. “It’s a possibility.”

“Oh, hell.”

“Try not to sound so thrilled.”

“Why would they bring
you
in? It doesn’t make sense.”

She thought fast. “Look at it this way. At some point MEDEA may go to trial. When it does, you’ll need somebody with credibility in L.A. to testify. They seem to feel that yours truly has the most credibility of anyone. I mean, given all the favorable coverage I got on the Mobius case and the Rain Man.” She didn’t like bragging, but she thought he would buy this angle.

He did. “Yes. Yes, I could see how they might think that way.” He sounded worried.

She tried to get on his good side, assuming he had one. “Believe me, Richard, it’s not that I want to go. Or that I think I can handle things any better than you can.”

“That’s a lie. You always think you can handle everything better than anyone else.”

Apparently his good side was a lost cause. “I don’t see why you’re being so territorial. It seems to me that MEDEA is big enough for both of us.”

“You’re saying you want a piece of this case? Tess, I always thought you were trying to commit career suicide, hanging out in that little cow town when you could be in the spotlight by now. This confirms it.”

“Maybe I just have very poor judgment.” And Denver is not a cow town, she added silently.

“There’s no maybe about it. Look, MEDEA is a tightly held secret. There’s only a handful of people who even know the case has been reactivated.” Reactivated—she noted the word. “However you found out about it, we can’t have you sniffing around and making waves.”

“That’s a mixed metaphor.”

He sighed, a sound of undisguised exasperation. “How certain are you that you’ll be assigned to MEDEA?”

“It’s looking likely.”

“Damn. Well, then you might as well come on in right now .”

She leaned forward, uncertain she’d heard what she thought she had. “Are you inviting me on board?”

“If goddamned D.C. is going to send you anyway, I’d rather take the initiative.”

Now it made sense. “And get the credit,” she said with a smile, “if I come up with a way to clear the case?”

“You overestimate yourself, as usual.”

She asked herself how badly she wanted to help Abby—and ensure she stayed off the Bureau’s radar screen. The answer was: almost as badly as she wanted to piss off the Nose.

“Thanks for having me on your team, Richard. I’ll be there by two p.m.”

“Wonderful.”

“Fax me the case report. I’ll read it on the plane.”

“Why don’t you ask your friend in Washington fax it to you?” he asked in a sullen tone.

“Just do it.”

“If you know so much, you don’t even need to read the case report.” He paused, and she thought she could hear the click of mental tumblers starting to fall into place. “How much
do
you know, anyway?”

The conversation was veering into a dangerous area. “Enough to know that I’ll regret getting involved,” she said briskly. “Fax the report, but don’t bother arranging a pickup at LAX. I’ll catch a cab.”

She ended the call before he could say anything more, then buzzed her assistant.

“Cancel my appointments for the next two days. I’m going out of town.”