Whitewash (29 page)

Washington, D.C.

Jason started to get a little antsy. He wanted to get out of the limo and stretch his legs. They’d been driving around D.C. for at least an hour, maybe an hour and a half after leaving Old Ebbitt’s. Jason knew exactly why the senator didn’t want to go back to the office. He’d limited himself to one Chivas during lunch, but needed the extra two in the limo to convince himself that he had Senator Malone’s all-important vote for EchoEnergy.

“Worst-case scenario,” Senator Allen was telling Jason for the third time, “we have to split it. I’d rather split it with Malone and ethanol than those blood-sucking Arabs.”

When Jason’s cell phone rang he reached for it quickly, relieved at the interruption. He punched Talk before the senator could protest.

“Jason Brill here.”

“Mr. Brill, it’s Lester Rosenthal with
Good Morning America.
”

The call took Jason by surprise. He’d given up on hearing from
GMA.

“Mr. Rosenthal, what can I do for you?” It was another tactic the senator had taught Jason. Even when you want something badly from someone never let them know. Let them think you’re the one doing them a favor.

“Robin Roberts met Senator Allen back in 2005 after Katrina hit the Gulf Coast. He was one of the few senators in the area immediately after even though he had a mess of his own down in Florida. He made an impression.”

Jason couldn’t help but smile and nod, indicating to the senator who sat across from him that it was something positive. He could relax. Going to the devastated gulf areas had been Jason’s idea. When he realized Hurricane Katrina would certainly steal the media spotlight, he convinced Senator Allen to be one of the first senators surveying the damage. At every opportunity Jason had stressed that the senator’s experience with the aftermath of hurricanes and his position on the Appropriations Committee made it impossible for him to not come and lend a hand. When, in fact, Jason had to bargain with Senator Allen, promising it would be only one day and he would not have to go near New Orleans.

Instead, Jason had chosen Pass Christian, Mississippi, on purpose, when he discovered
GMA’
s Robin Roberts was from the area. He figured Shepard Smith with Fox News, who was also from the Mississippi area, would be a great backup.

He didn’t have to worry. The media coverage had paid off big-time, and for a few months—not much more, it was D.C., after all—Senator Allen became a sort of hero given permission by the taxpayers to rubber-stamp whatever he saw necessary through the Appropriations Committee.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Jason said. “Senator Allen simply tries to do the right thing.”

Jason glanced again at Senator Allen, who was now looking out the window of the limo. His complexion was pasty with the exception of a red nose. The bags under his eyes seemed a bit more pronounced today. He had his suit jacket off and his signature red suspenders held up baggy trousers. Jason hadn’t noticed the senator had lost weight. He was a small-framed man, wiry, with a nervous energy that Jason called passion. Other than the overindulgence in alcohol now and then he took care of his body. At the moment, however, Jason couldn’t help thinking his boss looked like hell.

“We’d like to do an interview before the summit,” Rosenthal explained. “This oil from chicken guts is fascinating stuff, just fascinating.”

Jason could no longer contain his grin. This was great news. Exactly what they needed. Senator Allen noticed, setting his glass aside. He actually sat forward, elbows on his knees, waiting, looking anxious and sober.

“We can do a live satellite feed on Thursday’s show with Senator Allen in Washington and Mr. Sidel in Tallahassee. I’ll call with details tomorrow. How does that sound?”

“Perfect,” Jason said, trying to keep the smile from sliding off his face. Why the hell did they have to include Sidel? “I’ll look forward to your call tomorrow.”

He flipped his phone shut. Senator Allen was waiting.

“Great news,” Jason began, trying to figure out how to word it. “
Good Morning America
thinks thermal conversion is a fascinating idea.”

Senator Allen started to smile just as Jason added, “They want to interview you and Sidel.”

The smile immediately disappeared, and he stared at Jason as if he had heard him wrong.

Then finally Senator Allen slumped back and said, “Well, that’s just fucking peachy.”

Tallahassee, Florida

At least Leon couldn’t say his job was ever boring. He had worked his fill of crappy jobs, including construction one summer in Arizona. Son of a bitch! You wanna know what hell feels like? Go to fucking Tucson in August. One hundred and sixteen degrees. No shade. Everybody says it’s a dry heat like that means something. Leon could still remember what it felt like after two or three hours in that scorching heat. At the time he swore he could smell his own skin baking, peeling back from the bone all red and crisp. It’s just not natural.

No, he couldn’t really complain. He traveled first-class, stayed in luxury hotels. He now had a stock portfolio worthy of any of those Wall Street big shots. Oh, and plenty of real estate. Leon liked the idea of owning land.

And Leon liked the idea of branching out, trying new things—bettering himself. He started reading mystery and suspense novels, mostly serial-killer ones ’cause those guys were really fucked up. He read Hiaasen and Evanovich, too, because they made him laugh out loud. He was trying to drink ale instead of beer and learn a thing or two about fine wines. Last year Leon had even taken up chess, at first sitting and watching the old men who played in the corner café a block up from Leon’s little square house in Wallingford, Connecticut.

That was just one of Leon’s houses. He owned a half dozen across the country in small, unpretentious cities like Wilmington, North Carolina; Terre Haute, Indiana; McCook, Nebraska and Paducah, Kentucky. Most of them he rented out, usually to little old ladies with a cat or two. Not like they’d ever run out and stiff him for the rent. And he never had to evict a single one…yet. Yeah, old ladies with cats were about as sure a bet as you could get.

No, it wasn’t a bad life at all. A long way from where he’d come. His first paycheck at fifteen came from repairing and replacing roofs. Nothing worse than sitting your ass on hot asphalt in the summer heat. No, compared to that this life was pretty good. This job, this business afforded him not just luxuries but time. So he couldn’t complain despite his current state of affairs, the string of unfortunate events. He decided that sounded much better than calling them bad luck or some fucking curse.

He pulled up to the guard hut. Before he punched in the pass code, one of the guards inside waved at him. They knew him by now. He wasn’t sure he liked that even if they were led to believe he was some head honcho in the security department. He gave the guard a nod and drove on through.

He liked this SUV. Too bad he didn’t have the son of a bitch four-wheel-drive V8 yesterday—he’d be on a flight home with the money in his bank account by now if he had been driving this machine. He shoved the previous owner’s one-eyed teddy bear back under the seat and tried not to concentrate on what coulda, shoulda been if only he had given that lady scientist’s car a better shove.

It only gave him heartburn. He didn’t like being back here, either. Returning to the scene was also bad luck. Leon didn’t need to be a rocket scientist or a fortune-teller to know that. But he’d been successful last time he was here and besides, he was told it would be all set up for him again. All neat and simple. Yeah, Leon thought, if it was so neat and simple, why the fuck didn’t they do it themselves?

He parked in the far-corner lot, away from most of the park activity. He pulled out the map they’d sent to him. This place was like a fucking town of its own and there were too many catwalks and too many doors with security key card boxes. They must’ve given him a master code because he hadn’t had a problem getting in anywhere…
yet.

Leon turned the map around, trying to match whatever corner of the processing plant he could see from this angle of the parking lot. They had sent the map weeks ago before he arrived in Florida and at the time he had studied it over and over again. The thing was stained with remnants of his study sessions and he even recognized the hot mustard from pastrami on rye at Vinny’s Deli. That was the first thing on his agenda when he got back home, stop in and see Vinny and the gang.

Damn! He hadn’t had a decent sandwich since he got to Florida. Leon had always heard Florida was full of retired New Yorkers, but evidently not a single one of them thought to bring down a decent deli with them.

The mustard stain actually covered the entrance to the fucking room he needed to get into. He scraped off the dried mustard with a stubby fingernail. Yup, there it was, Reactor #5.

As Leon left the SUV he noticed the white pipeline that ran alongside the edge of the parking lot. The pipe was about six inches wide and it stretched all the way from the side of the building down around the parking lot and into the trees. On the map it went all the way to the river and was labeled Flash Off.

As he made his way through the rows of cars, he found himself glancing back at that pipeline and wondering how much of that guy he shoved into the chicken guts had ended up making his final trip out that pipeline.

Tallahassee, Florida

At least Leon couldn’t say his job was ever boring. He had worked his fill of crappy jobs, including construction one summer in Arizona. Son of a bitch! You wanna know what hell feels like? Go to fucking Tucson in August. One hundred and sixteen degrees. No shade. Everybody says it’s a dry heat like that means something. Leon could still remember what it felt like after two or three hours in that scorching heat. At the time he swore he could smell his own skin baking, peeling back from the bone all red and crisp. It’s just not natural.

No, he couldn’t really complain. He traveled first-class, stayed in luxury hotels. He now had a stock portfolio worthy of any of those Wall Street big shots. Oh, and plenty of real estate. Leon liked the idea of owning land.

And Leon liked the idea of branching out, trying new things—bettering himself. He started reading mystery and suspense novels, mostly serial-killer ones ’cause those guys were really fucked up. He read Hiaasen and Evanovich, too, because they made him laugh out loud. He was trying to drink ale instead of beer and learn a thing or two about fine wines. Last year Leon had even taken up chess, at first sitting and watching the old men who played in the corner café a block up from Leon’s little square house in Wallingford, Connecticut.

That was just one of Leon’s houses. He owned a half dozen across the country in small, unpretentious cities like Wilmington, North Carolina; Terre Haute, Indiana; McCook, Nebraska and Paducah, Kentucky. Most of them he rented out, usually to little old ladies with a cat or two. Not like they’d ever run out and stiff him for the rent. And he never had to evict a single one…yet. Yeah, old ladies with cats were about as sure a bet as you could get.

No, it wasn’t a bad life at all. A long way from where he’d come. His first paycheck at fifteen came from repairing and replacing roofs. Nothing worse than sitting your ass on hot asphalt in the summer heat. No, compared to that this life was pretty good. This job, this business afforded him not just luxuries but time. So he couldn’t complain despite his current state of affairs, the string of unfortunate events. He decided that sounded much better than calling them bad luck or some fucking curse.

He pulled up to the guard hut. Before he punched in the pass code, one of the guards inside waved at him. They knew him by now. He wasn’t sure he liked that even if they were led to believe he was some head honcho in the security department. He gave the guard a nod and drove on through.

He liked this SUV. Too bad he didn’t have the son of a bitch four-wheel-drive V8 yesterday—he’d be on a flight home with the money in his bank account by now if he had been driving this machine. He shoved the previous owner’s one-eyed teddy bear back under the seat and tried not to concentrate on what coulda, shoulda been if only he had given that lady scientist’s car a better shove.

It only gave him heartburn. He didn’t like being back here, either. Returning to the scene was also bad luck. Leon didn’t need to be a rocket scientist or a fortune-teller to know that. But he’d been successful last time he was here and besides, he was told it would be all set up for him again. All neat and simple. Yeah, Leon thought, if it was so neat and simple, why the fuck didn’t they do it themselves?

He parked in the far-corner lot, away from most of the park activity. He pulled out the map they’d sent to him. This place was like a fucking town of its own and there were too many catwalks and too many doors with security key card boxes. They must’ve given him a master code because he hadn’t had a problem getting in anywhere…
yet.

Leon turned the map around, trying to match whatever corner of the processing plant he could see from this angle of the parking lot. They had sent the map weeks ago before he arrived in Florida and at the time he had studied it over and over again. The thing was stained with remnants of his study sessions and he even recognized the hot mustard from pastrami on rye at Vinny’s Deli. That was the first thing on his agenda when he got back home, stop in and see Vinny and the gang.

Damn! He hadn’t had a decent sandwich since he got to Florida. Leon had always heard Florida was full of retired New Yorkers, but evidently not a single one of them thought to bring down a decent deli with them.

The mustard stain actually covered the entrance to the fucking room he needed to get into. He scraped off the dried mustard with a stubby fingernail. Yup, there it was, Reactor #5.

As Leon left the SUV he noticed the white pipeline that ran alongside the edge of the parking lot. The pipe was about six inches wide and it stretched all the way from the side of the building down around the parking lot and into the trees. On the map it went all the way to the river and was labeled Flash Off.

As he made his way through the rows of cars, he found himself glancing back at that pipeline and wondering how much of that guy he shoved into the chicken guts had ended up making his final trip out that pipeline.