Take the Fourth (24 page)

“So we all think it’s a child molester?”

“All signs point to yes.”

“I disagree, true we may have a child molester on our hands but the facts remain, we have no idea. The girls could have been taken and sold to some sort of slave trade, smuggled outside the country, killed because this person is a serial killer or something… . we just don’t know… we haven’t found any of the bodies as of yet.”

“True, so very true but most of this work is about hunches and we again are going with yours and Garfield’s hunch because all the girls are almost identical in build. We are going with the bias that most child molesters are creatures of habit. If they like girls they stick with girls, if they like boys then the Catholic priests tend to stick with boys, altar boys I mean.”

“Low blow,” but said with a smirk.

“In more ways than one… . they tend to stay around the same area, and stick to a certain m o… . and we see all the signs with these cases but… but you already knew that didn’t you? We all did.”

With that idea lingering in his head, Lynch took a long deep look at the picture he was holding in his hand. The very thought of someone touching this little angel in that way was enough to make him revisit his turkey sandwich. In the back of his mind this theory was always there, that she was taken to be molested and so was the notion she was no longer alive and that made him pissed and at the same time helpless. As all good cops do, he simply buried those thoughts and got on with his work.

 . . .

Chapter 35
 

S
cott didn’t sleep much after his conversation with the big man during the rivalry match between the Hoyas and Wildcats. His mind was wheeling for weeks on end with many ideas on how to derail a political freight train the size of Anderson and Carson. His mind kept coming back to one word—the one word that has ruined many men and not just the political type either. This word was a simple word yet was powerful enough to engulf the egos of movie stars, pro athletes, businessmen, family men, and yes, even the fine men who ran the country. The word was sex and given the right opportunity it could take down mere mortals, the presidency, or even a candidate for president. For some reason or another, the American public regarded this natural act as a big taboo when it was aired on the evening news. Don Henley said it best, people love dirty laundry. It was never more proven when an entire population of a country watched in awe as their President tried to convince a nation that a blowjob wasn’t sex. Congressed watched. Hillary watched. Hell, everybody watched and really the only people who benefited from the cost of the trial were the teenagers. They were able to vindicate their perpetual lies to their parents based on facts brought on by a congressional hearing, a cigar, and a stained dress.

Whether it was a blowjob or intercourse, it didn’t matter to Scott, for Scott, sex was the answer and it was safe—only egos and feelings would be hurt when the dust subsided.

After he had his answer it wasn’t long until he had his target. His mind quickly ran through all the logical choices and settled in on Grace Carson. She was the most vulnerable and the easiest one to paint with a bull’s eye. Scott could tell that Grace was a lonely soul, couple this with a story of a potential vice president’s wife committing adultery and a nation would be salivating, more like foaming at the mouth, for a tabloid scandal of the tenth degree, then the A & C train could start its descent heading downhill without brakes.

Scott had his plan, his target, now all he had to do was set the whole thing in motion, which wasn’t going to be easy. It wasn’t like he could place a call to some gigolo, pay a few thousand dollars, have him seduce the woman that was Mrs. Carson, and ask him to say cheese for the camera. No, this was going to be the mother of all eggshell walks through some undisclosed governmental agency that did the so-called odd jobs of the Oval Office. Since Scott was the right-hand man he had access to Jonathan’s quote unquote advisors. He just needed to use discretion and a wink to imply his actions were authorized by the President himself.

“Hey Reynolds, this is Scott, any plans this evening?”

Reynolds knew to cancel any plans when the Oval Office dialed his extension.

“Nothing that can’t be postponed to a later date, what’s up?”

“I got the hankering for some red meat at our favorite steak house.”

“I should be able to pull that off and be on the five thirty-five out of Philly, how’s eight o’clock?”

“See you then.”

Scott had cleared his schedule with the President and was good to go when he hopped into his car at the White House. He arrived at the Prime Rib at ten after eight and went straight to the bar. The Prime Rib was a man’s steak house. Dark ebony walls, white linen table cloths, waiters in the traditional tuxes, just picture a 1940’s sophisticated supper club… . it was elegant and best of all the meat was USDA Prime, the best steak possible without paying the ridiculous prices for Kobe or Wagyu. Even for a Monday the place was pretty busy but Scott found an open seat at the bar right next to Reynolds, who was already done his first Tanqueray on the rocks. Scott wanted to order his favorite but went with a California Cab from Alexander Valley. He couldn’t pass up the 2003 Silver Oak by the glass, still a little young for his liking but an excellent full body beginning and finish with minimal earth tones and bold currants. They exchanged idle chit chat while they whetted their appetites with salted snacks. At quarter of nine they were seated in an out-of-the-way very private corner. A single halogen bulb illuminated the single bud flower in the center of the table. As soon as Scott took his seat he simply picked up the vase and handed it to his waiter in exchange for a menu which he really didn’t need.

The waiter then started his spiel but was interrupted with a list of orders from Scott—

“If you would please, one sparkling, one still, if you have the Silver Oak, anything older than a 98 please bring it but I want the Napa Valley this time, if not, bring the list, and to start, we each would like an order of your stone crab claws, jumbo, and we are in no rush.”

It was rare that Scott got to have a good meal without his boss in tow and he was going to take full advantage of the situation even if it was considered work. A bottle of 95 was brought and decanted at tableside. Scott picked up the cork and felt its moist tip then placed it back on the table. The wine was then poured without a drip on the white linens into some fine Riedel stemware. The first sip was ten times better than his o’three at the bar and he gave the nod to pour away. They each picked up their glasses by the stem and toasted to friendship, then rolled the silky texture of the wine through their gums and over their tongue in order to satisfy their palette. A few minutes later bread was brought to the table. Reynolds went straight for it; he loved bread no matter what kind it was, slab a pat of butter or on rare occasions, some extra virgin olive oil with cracked pepper and he was in heaven, besides he needed the bread to soak up the ten ounces of gin he had at the bar. Scott on the other hand, did not go near it. If there was one thing Scott disliked about this restaurant it was the bread. He was partial to the old country style, very crusty, baked in the same ovens for centuries type of bread, and not some mass produced yeast and water crap that comes frozen and baked on the premise; he simply waited for the first course.

Fresh from Florida, the stone crab claws arrived pre-cracked, accompanied by some lemon, a tiny fork, and the obligatory mustard sauce. These claws were Scott’s favorite dish in the world, bar none, and only available from October to May. Although they were already cracked, there was still a good amount of work involved but the meat was definitely worth every ounce of effort. Scott took his time and savored every succulent and sweet bite. He used just a dollop of his sauce on each tasty morsel. Yes, it was definitely worth the work. Things were a tad different on the other side of the table; Reynolds needed more sauce and another napkin and couldn’t wait for the finger bowl to arrive. He hated to be sticky and wanted the whole ordeal to be over with so he could enjoy his steak. When the waiter came to clear the plates Scott reminded him that they were in no rush and to wait a bit before he brought the salad, then the two men continued their conversation from the bar on Reynolds’ life in the suburbs of Philadelphia.

“You’re not going to believe me when I tell you this, but the one thing I do miss about D.C… . the metro.”

“You’re right, I don’t believe you.”

“No seriously, yeah it was a pain in the ass to wait for the next train, and many times just way too hot, but I miss the convenience, in the suburbs I have to drive everywhere, even for my morning cup and newspaper, drive, drive, drive, I hate it… . oh and then there’s the traffic.”

“There is traffic here too… or did you forget about the belt?”

“Okay, I guess there is traffic everywhere, you think someone would learn to design the infrastructure to support the urban sprawl.”

“It’s too late, but with the rising fuel cost people will start moving back to the cities just for the convenience as you say, and with that comes new money to help support the railways and other modes of city transportation.”

“Maybe we could get some of those maglev trains like they have in Asia. I would love to be at the airport in five minutes whereas it would be an hour by car.”

“All in due time.”

“Yeah, as soon as you get out of bed with the oil industry… .”

And before they could continue on a heated conversation on the injustice and criminal content of the government they were interrupted by hearts of lettuce with Roquefort dressing and vine ripe tomatoes. The discussion thereafter switched to the more subdued topic of sports and continued until the entrees arrived.

This is why they come to this establishment—the steaks. Reynolds ordered the bone-in prime rib steak, medium. The higher fat concentration allowed for a more flavorful mouthful but only when the fat was able to melt at a higher temperature. If this piece would have been ordered like Scott’s New York Strip, very rare, it would have been too chewy. In addition to Scott ordering his very rare, he also asked for it to be Pittsburghed or charred on the outside leaving a crunchy crust with a soft interior. They split sides of sautéed button mushrooms, sautéed in butter and cognac and an order of grilled artichokes with stems. Neither one of them had a sauce or a starch to go with the manly helping of heart attack on a plate. With knife in the right and fork in the left, the European way of dining, Scott sliced his steak right down the middle to get a glimpse of its doneness. Perfect. The same went for Reynolds’ side of the steer. Neither one of them were in any type of rush to finish their meal. They were both slow eaters when it came to the main course. At a little after eleven their plates were cleared, the table was de-crumbed, and two cups of black coffee were brought to the table. Both men passed on dessert but opted for a V.S.O.P. made by Martel. In glancing around there were only a few tables left in the 2020 K Street facility.

“That was a great dinner.”

“Zagat rated and never a disappointment.”

“So why do I deserve such a good meal, such a fantastic wine?”

“Well… I want our relationship to continue.”

“Why wouldn’t it, Jonathan and I have been long time friends?”

“That’s not what I’m saying… I mean with the American people, another term.”

“The approval ratings are still way in your favor, I see no need to worry.”

“Not good enough, never is, that can turn on a dime as we have seen in the past. We need a sure winner.”

“And you think I can help?”

“We need you to go to,” then a slight hesitation, “BAT for us,” with both men knowing the code for bait and trap.

“BAT, that’s an acronym from the past, old school, I didn’t know a youngin’ such as yourself knew it.”

“I didn’t, the big man himself told me,” a knowing lie.

“What are we talking about for the bait, money, sex, drugs?”

“We need a… well a compromising position so to say with a certain female.”

“So it’s sex.”

“Yes.”

“Photography?”

“Snap snap, grin grin, wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more.”

Reynolds broke into a slight laugh and almost couldn’t get a hold of himself with Scott’s reference to the Flying Circus skit but then popped the question, “On?”

Scott grabbed a pen from his jacket and wrote two initials on the edge of the cocktail napkin. Reynolds took a few seconds as he scanned his memory banks for a match; it didn’t take long, the reply took a bit longer as he once again probed his inner workings to see if this was really feasible or not. He then wrote RA on the napkin and slid it back to Scott. Scott nodded as these were the second letters of both the first and last name.

“Okay, I might be able to find someone within the group but it’s going to take some time.”

“The sooner the better and we need it before the big day.”

“That’s a given but we’ll need to setup the back storyline, a few months maybe, and there is a chance, strike that, a good chance that the bait remains on the hook.”

“Understood, I know it’s a tall order and if anyone can pull this off it’s you.”

“Even though I’ve been retired for the past five years?”

“You and I both know that’s not entirely true, we both believe in the world power that is America, that’s why you are not collecting social security.”

“That was a world power, that’s why I’m doing this, so we are again the dominating character in this play of life, deserving the respect we have lost.”

They each picked up their snifters, clanked the rims together, and finished their remaining sips. With that Scott signaled to the waiter, the international sign for the bill, writing a check mark on his hand, and seconds later it was promptly delivered. He opened his billfold and chose his platinum card. The waiter returned with the receipt and Scott applied twenty percent, attached his signature, and rose from the table. Reynolds followed suit.

The two men walked towards the door, Reynolds stopped by the maitre d ‘s stand to order a cab and picked up his duffel bag. Scott summoned his car via his cell. He would have given Reynolds a ride if he wasn’t heading back to the White House. When his car arrived they shook hands and departed.

While in the cab Reynolds punched up his old standby for hotel rooms in the city and booked a standard room with no problem at all, his gold status helped in the sold out hotel. As soon as he entered his room he fired up his laptop and scheduled a meeting with his group at nine o’clock sharp and did a bit of research on his assignment. He logged off, shut down, and then the ton of red meat and the alcohol took over, he was asleep in five minutes.