Power Play (An FBI Thriller) (9 page)

N
atalie was thoughtful for a moment. “How many of us can even conceive of a hatred that deep pointed at us? That we ourselves could have brought on? Honestly, there isn’t anyone I can point to. The Foreign Service has its share of political backstabbing, jealousies and resentments over appointments, awards someone else wanted, but what field doesn’t? Is someone after my job? Well, sure, hundreds of people might want to be the ambassador to the United Kingdom. But enough for”—she waved her hands—“for all this?” She looked at her daughter. “Perry, do you resent me for not joining you on the sidelines with your father at football games?”

Perry said, “The only thing I resent is you chose not to tell me about Buckner Park until I found out about it from Davis last night. And about that black truck.”

Perry took her mother’s hand. “Mom, I’m scared. That black truck last night? It’s too much. He’s here, close by, waiting. I wish you’d trusted me, told me everything. No, I know, you were trying to protect me, but no more, all right?”

Natalie slowly nodded.

Sherlock studied Natalie Black. She liked her poise, her intelligence. She was keeping herself together and focused, despite all the misery that was being visited on her. Sherlock thought she was
one of the good ones. She had a strong notion if Natalie Black had been carrying a gun as Sherlock had yesterday, that black sedan would be a wreck now, like the Kawasaki. Sherlock rather hoped she could be like Natalie Black one day. Odd how they both had red hair.

Perry said, “About George’s death. Maybe it was someone after him, an enemy.”

Natalie said, “I can’t think of anyone who would want him dead. Certainly not the McCallums. They’re a large family, and their many homes and Lockenby Manor are expensive to keep up. George wasn’t rich, very few of the old families are nowadays, and now there’ll be George’s death taxes to pay. If I had married George, some of my own money would have been available to them, and they knew that. But if George died first, they also knew the money would stay with me.”

Savich said slowly, “Let’s place it back at you. Tell us about your own family.”

“There’s only my half-brother, Milton, and his family,” Natalie said. “And, of course, my parents.”

Perry said, “Uncle Milt was the crown prince until Mom was born. He always resented her. He was at the party last night. He’s not staying with you, is he?”

Natalie said, “No, he very much prefers The Willard. Milton showed up Monday without bothering to let me know he was coming. He claimed he wanted to share my burden, but I know him too well to confide in him. He went on about how worried he, his wife, and our parents are, patted my back and looked sorrowful, you get the picture. I didn’t tell him anything he hadn’t read about, not then or at the party last night.

“Perry’s right, he never liked me. Actually, as far as I can tell,
he’s never been happy. He’s always wanted more than he has, spent more than he has. He’s weak, dependent on our father and his stepmother financially. I’ve always thought him harmless. He swims well in state political waters, but now he wants to try for Congress, and he needs money to do that. It’s a level Milton couldn’t manage, I’m afraid.” She paused. “He doesn’t have the guts for those sharks. I’d say that would pertain both to politics and to killing his half-sister.”

Savich poured more tea from the Georgian silver pot. “Milt’s married? Kids?”

“Yes. He went through his wife’s trust fund before the end of his second campaign for state office. He’s always got his hat in his hands to our parents.

“He’s got a son, Allan, who’s an MBA, stolid and unimaginative—like his father, really—but unlike his father, he does have a backbone. He’s thirty-five, married, a couple of kids.”

Davis was wiping croissant crumbs off his fingers. “Natalie, if you died, what would Milt get?”

“Nothing. Perry gets everything.”

Sherlock said, “If Perry were to die, would he get something?”

That was a conversation stopper.

Perry said, “What a fun thought. I don’t have a will. If I were to die tomorrow, I suppose Mom would get my money, what there is of it. If she were dead, I suppose it would go to my grandparents, who, believe me, don’t need it. But if Uncle Milton was willing to kill someone for money, why wouldn’t he go after my grandparents? They’re swimming in it, and he’d inherit half of it if they died, wouldn’t he, Mom?” She paused. “That’s a gruesome thought.”

Natalie cleared her throat. “My mother told me their will gives
Milton a set amount, a goodly amount, don’t get me wrong, but the bulk of their estate comes to me.”

This was a kicker. Savich said, “Why? He’s their son, the first born.”

“I believe,” Natalie said, “that he’s disappointed them too often and they want the estate preserved for the family.”

Perry said, “Mom is being too nice. My grandparents don’t want their estate flushed down the political rat hole.”

Savich sat back and drank his tea. When he and Sherlock left, he knew what he was going to set MAX to do.

Washington Post
offices

Wednesday afternoon

B
ennett John Bennett looked at Perry over the top of his glasses. “Lolita tells me you’re a mess, what with all this talk surrounding your mother. Care to explain this to me?”

Note to self: punch out Lolita.
She didn’t want to punch Bennett out because he was sincerely unaware of the world outside of sports. What had bigmouthed Lolita told him? “I’m not a mess. I don’t know where Lolita gets her information. Nothing to worry about, Boss.”

“Whatever that means—all right, here’s the deal: I’m only asking because I can’t have you distracted by all your mother’s troubles.”

“You don’t have to worry about anything like that. I’ve got two different brain compartments. The football compartment has a locked-door policy.”

“Look, Perry, maybe Lolita’s right. I read your blog this morning and I gotta tell you, you wrote way too many lines praising John Clayton. Three words, not three sentences. I’m hoping you
did it because Clayton shot off firecrackers to you on ESPN about the Tebow scoop, your setting everything straight. A little tit for tat is always a good thing, but if you did it because you’re off your game, well, I can’t have you twisted up. You’ve got to keep on top of your story. I don’t want to get beat out by those two big scoopers Shefter and Mortensen. You know they’re working this around the clock, trying to find another angle on what you wrote or found something you got wrong.”

Had she praised Clayton because he’d credited her? Well, yeah, probably so. He’d commented on her
acumen
. What a fine word that was. Had she really given Clayton three whole sentences? She hadn’t realized—not good. “I promise, sir. No more than three glowing words about any competitors, even if they tell me I’m the greatest sportswriter born in the last century.”

Bennett grunted. “I heard it really pissed Walt off when Clayton blew your horn. I thought you’d appreciate knowing that. You got anything else on the burner besides what’s in your blog? Something new, another perspective? Some doomsayer predicting Toronto will lose all its upcoming games with a QB who should really be playing tight end?”

“I’m exchanging texts with an Argonaut assistant coach who tells me they’re going to find the perfect coach for Tebow, train him up and watch him fly. In short, nothing but enthusiasm about him. However, as everyone knows, this is all still only talk, since they haven’t signed him yet. It’s all so obvious I didn’t bother to mention it in my post.”

“Even though you’ve gotten a gazillion tweets? Everyone wants more, obvious or not. Dig deeper, Perry, question everyone. And fast. You’ve got the markers, call ’em in.

“Oh, by the way, you’re going to get an offer from ESPN, maybe a sideline job on the Sunday-night game, maybe a part-time anchor. Heard that at the sports bar from a reliable source.”

Perry shook her head. “TV? You know I’m not interested, not in this lifetime. Can you imagine suffering all that crap female sports announcers have to go through to get camera-ready? And then they get to spend all their time on the sidelines no matter what kind of weather? No, thank you. I’d probably also be as wooden as a chair leg as an anchor and get booed off the set.

“Listen, sir, about my mother. Things are all tangled up, that’s true, but I’ll keep it away from my job.”

“I know, in your other compartment.” Then Bennett asked, sounding as if the words were being pulled forcibly out of his mouth, “Do you need time off to take care of this?”

“No, sir, don’t worry. I’m fine.”

“Stay fine or I might have Alonzo write your byline for a week or two.”

Perry actually paled. “Would you put up his Einstein photo under the byline?”

Bennett laughed. “You know the score with the fans, Perry, it’s always what have you done for me lately? Now get out of here and think fresh and new and exciting thoughts.”

She gave him a salute, turned on her heel, and walked back toward her cubicle, considering running through her Rolodex for anyone she could bribe, threaten, or cajole.

Alonzo called out as she passed his desk, “Hey, Perry, you need to see the graffiti in the men’s room. At first I thought it was a joke, from some sicko like Walt, but it’s not funny. You need to see it.”

Graffiti about her in the men’s room? Here at the
Post
? That
would be pretty outrageous, even from Walt, though he’d already threatened to steal her Harley and run off to Mexico with it. But Walt worked for ESPN, and he couldn’t walk through this huge room without sirens going off, without people bringing out fire extinguishers. So, no, it couldn’t be Walt. At the dead-serious look on Alonzo’s face, she turned and walked straight into the men’s room. Only one guy there, Potwin from the crime desk, and thank heaven he was through with his business and washing his hands. Good to see a guy washing his hands. She ignored him and looked at the block letters written in red Magic Marker above one of the urinals:

YOU’RE NEXT, PERRY. BUTT OUT.

What kind of graffiti was that? The threat was obvious, no mystery there, but back off of what, exactly? The Tebow story? That was silly, no one would get his nose out of joint that much, and besides, the feel of it wasn’t like a beer tossed in her face or a threat to pull her tonsils out through her ear. No, this was scary; it made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Was it about her
mom
? But why a freaking message left for her in the men’s room about her mom?

Potwin strolled over as he wiped his hands on a paper towel. He looked at the message. “You must have written a really good story to merit this little gem. The guy’s rancor made it all the way to the men’s room. Good job, Black.” He started to stroll out, whistling, but then he stopped, turned slowly. “It’s got a strange feel to it, Perry. You want I should talk to some of my detective buddies at Metro?”

And here she’d turned him down for a dinner date three months before. “Thanks, Tommy, but I’ll take care of it.”

He cocked his head to one side. “I’m sorry about all the trouble your mom’s been having.” He gave her a small wave and left.

Alone again, she looked closely at the words and felt a punch of fear. No way was this about her Tebow story.

But she’d hardly stuck her oar in at all about her mom. She surfed a wave of cold anger and wanted to strike out, but at whom? Someone was trying to keep her out of her mom’s business? Yeah, right, like this moronic message on a men’s room wall would do that. Why, then?

Her cell rang, an old-fashioned ringtone that made everyone under thirty look her way.

“Yo, Perry. My boss wants to speak to you. Only you this time, you by yourself, without your mom.”

It was Davis. “Why on earth would Agent Savich want to see me again? I told him everything I knew this morning. I’m on salary here, Davis, I got things to do, a dozen calls to make, scoops to, well, scoop, a byline to write. Unlike you, I’m in a cutthroat business. Have him call me.” Then she realized she really needed to see him.

“Wait, I’ll be there. You’re not going to believe what’s happened.”

She said nothing more and had the pleasure of listening to his indrawn breath and a lovely sputter. “What? Are you all right? Come on, Perry, what happened?”

“Tell you when I see you.”

She’d gotten him. Even with the threat of the graffiti stuck in her throat, she smiled briefly.

“All right, get your butt to the Hoover Building now. Third
floor—everyone knows where the CAU unit is.” And the jerk hung up on her.

Perry shrugged into her leather jacket, slipped her cell into her pocket, and said to Leon, her assistant, and also Alonzo’s assistant, “Gotta go. Back in an hour,” and she was out of there.

Forty-five minutes later, she was sitting in Special Agent Dillon Savich’s office in the CAU on the third floor of the Hoover Building.

“—and it was block-printed in big red Magic Marker. That’s it, all that was written. Why would someone come into the men’s room on my floor in the
Washington Post
building and write nonsense like that?”

Savich said, “They could be sure whatever they wrote in the men’s room would get all over the workplace, and they didn’t need to risk getting close to your work area to deliver the message. I assume everyone in the sports section knows all about your mother’s troubles?”

“I think everyone in the known world knows about them.”

“Nah,” Davis said. “Everyone in the known world knows about your report on Tebow. Your mom’s small potatoes in comparison.” In the next moment, he was dead serious. “I don’t like this. The feel of those words, it isn’t good.”

Perry said, “You’re right about that. That message really creeps me out.”

Savich said, “I’ll send some agents over there to see if we can lift any fingerprints, ask the staff if they saw anything unusual.”

Wonderful. Bennett’s going to love this.
“Let me give my boss a heads-up, okay, so he doesn’t freak?”

She and Savich made their calls together. Bennett had already
heard about the message above the urinal in the men’s room. He didn’t blow a fit when she told him the FBI were on their way to 15th Street NW to the
Post
building, he remained quiet, and that worried her maybe more.

Savich rose. “Perry, I’d wanted to ask you more follow-up questions, but that can wait. This graffiti at the
Post
is more important now. Go back to work and check in with the FBI agents there, all right?”