Dev Conrad - 03 - Blindside Read online

  What had Waters gotten involved in? There are ops on both sides who break the law whenever they feel it’s necessary. Had Waters been spying for one of them on the other side?

  I started thinking about the dinner I’d planned to have with Waters. Had he been going to tell me something about spying or this DVD? For most amateurs involved in crime there comes a point where panic sets in. Second thoughts, doubts, terror. For the career criminal and the professional political op, the game has rewards that are both monetary and psychological. It’s pretty cool pulling off stuff and getting away with it. A few years back an op from the other side had been charged in federal court for numerous violations of law. He was a past master at brochures that gave his clients deniability. They just magically appeared. Mostly they were sexual innuendo. He went in for quotes from people who claimed to have known the opponent at various times in his life. Both the quotes and the names were bullshit. But they kept the drumbeat of sleazy whispers going strong.

  In a sleepy little town in Georgia he hired two white men gussied up in some kind of uniforms to misdirect the battered buses from a local black church. They told the drivers that there was a detour between the church and the polling places in town. They were directed to a dirt road that was laced with nails and broken glass and sharpened pieces of metal. The buses never made it to the polling places for the people to vote.

  His greatest hit was phone jamming one of our candidate’s lines for a day and a half so our man couldn’t get his calls out. The election was decided by sixty-seven votes and the other side won. When the prosecutor started listing all the crimes the guy had committed the op couldn’t help himself. He broke out in this grin that the jury could plainly see. He was proud of himself. The jury found him guilty on six counts and he was sentenced to eight-to-ten in a federal slammer.

  I called my hotel on my cell. ‘Is it possible to get a DVD player in my room?’ I had an older Mac that couldn’t play DVDs.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘I should be there within a half hour. I’d appreciate it if it was waiting for me.’

  ‘No problem, sir.’

  I spent ten minutes on the phone to the home office in Chicago.

  ‘So you’re not coming back tomorrow?’ Howard, who runs the day-to-day far better than I ever could, said with a fair amount of exasperation in his voice. I prefer to be on the road.

  ‘I know you owe Tom Ward a lot, Dev. But we really need to sit down with Finney and tell him to get his act together. He’s desperate and it really shows. We need to help him.’ Finney was a one-term congressman on our side who’d had, to be honest, a completely undistinguished first term. The word was he liked Washington nightlife a lot more than he should have and the newspaper back home had started printing the gossip right from the start. Now he was floundering, damaging himself with pontifical speeches about the rights of all mankind and the greatness of America that lay just ahead, neither of which he gave a flying fuck about and neither did anybody else. The amazing thing was that he was only trailing a few points behind his opponent, another John Wayne-type who was always seen on the tube fondling his rifle with a suspiciously sexual pleasure. Finney could still pull it out but he didn’t have much time. He’d dumped his previous consultant three months ago and signed on with us. Unlike Jeff Ward, he hadn’t accumulated enough gossip to do him terminal damage.

  ‘How about a Skype meeting?’ I said.

  ‘That’d be all right.’

  ‘Go ahead and set something up and I’ll be there.’

  ‘That murder of yours is all over the fucking place.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘But I like that granny.’

  ‘I’ve got an in with her. How about I line you up, Howard?’

  He laughed. ‘Actually, she is kinda cute.’

  I was just about ready to leave the Starbucks’ parking lot when my cell toned again.

  ‘Hi, Dev. It’s Kathy. I’m glad I caught you. There’s a detective by the name of Fogarty who wants you to stop by the police station as soon as you can. She said it’s important.’

  ‘But she didn’t say why, of course.’

  ‘Cops never say why. They have a badge. They don’t have to.’

  ‘Remind me to get one of those badges for myself.’

  ‘Get me one, too, while you’re at it.’

  I’d never seen so much glass on a police station. The architect had made it so friendly and accessible I almost thought I’d gone to the wrong place. Kathy had given me simple directions but maybe I’d misread them. But no, there above the wide glass double doors were the words POLICE STATION. And on the sloping landscaped lawn were hedges clipped with such fuss a king would have been pleased.

  The interior was bright and open and the front desk was more corporate than law enforcement. An attractive thirty-something blonde in a short-sleeved blue uniform shirt was typing on her computer. When she heard me she immobilized me with a white smile straight from a toothpaste commercial.

  I know men are supposed to have sexual fantasies every few minutes or so but I divide mine between sex and romance. I’d had a number of affairs since my divorce but none had led to anything lasting. My fault, I’m sure. So when I see somebody as fetching as this policewoman, sex and romance commingle in my mind and romance often wins out. Yes, I’d like to go to bed with her but first I’d like to get to know her. I gave up one-night stands after about two years of them following the divorce.

  ‘May I help you?’

  And then she did it. She raised her left hand and upon a certain finger was enshrined a certain kind of ring, one generally associated with the institution called marriage.

  ‘I’d like to see Detective Fogarty.’

  ‘Your name, please.’

  After I told her, she said, ‘Why don’t you take a seat over there. She’s got somebody with her right now. But she shouldn’t be long.’

  This was the same speech you heard in dental offices.

  I sat down on a tufted dark blue couch that was so comfortable I had to resist the impulse to close my eyes and take a nap. Detective Fogarty would no doubt be impressed if she had to wake me up.

  She appeared in a few minutes, a slender black woman barely tall enough to pass the height requirement. In her white blouse and black skirt and somber black-framed glasses she resembled a grad student more than a detective. Of course there were clues as to her real profession: the badge and gun clipped to her belt. She didn’t look much older than thirty.

  ‘My office is right down the hall. If you’ll follow me, please.’

  She stood aside to let me walk in first. She pointed to a chair in front of her small metal desk. She was apparently a woman of few words. She closed the door then walked around to her own chair and sat down.

  Numerous degrees, plaques, and a few photos of officials looking important covered the east wall. The right was given to framed photos of her family. All ages. A history there. If your eye was careful enough you noticed that the backdrop for many of the shots – including the two of her as a teenager – was the inner city.

  She caught me looking. ‘Vanity.’

  ‘Not at all. The vanity is all those photos with you and those city officials. The family pictures are great.’

  ‘You know I never thought of it that way. But you’re right. That’s a very good point.’

  ‘I’m not as dumb as I look.’

  She laughed. ‘That remains to be seen.’

  ‘Good one.’

  She picked up a yellow Ticonderoga pencil and began to tap it against her left hand. ‘I dragged you down here because you appear to be the last person James Waters talked to before he was murdered.’

  ‘The last person you know of, you mean.’

  ‘The last person we know of so far.’ Then: ‘I’m told you and he were going to meet for dinner.’

  ‘He didn’t show up.’

  ‘Did he contact you to say he wouldn’t be there?’

  ‘No. The next
time I heard his name mentioned was when I heard about his death.’

  ‘That’s when you met Lieutenant Neame, I suppose.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m taking over the case. The lieutenant is busy with two open cases that the mayor is very concerned about.’

  ‘I see.’

  She dropped the pencil in her pencil holder and then folded her hands on the desk. ‘I realize that you didn’t have much of a chance to talk to him. I’ve already figured out your itinerary for the day.’

  ‘I probably spent seven or eight minutes talking to him in total.’

  ‘But he still wanted to go out and have dinner.’

  ‘Nothing notable about that, Detective Fogarty. Political people love to talk. War stories about old campaigns, kibitzing about how the new one is going. From what I’ve been able to gather he was a pretty lonely guy. Probably needed the company.’

  She nodded and then gave me one of those assessing looks that are meant to intimidate. ‘What if he knew something he wasn’t supposed to?’

  ‘If he did I don’t know what it was.’

  ‘But he wanted to go out to dinner. You’d met him in a meeting for a very little time and yet you invited him to dinner.’

  ‘Well, “invited” is a little strong. We were going to have a little food, that’s all. It wasn’t anything formal.’

  ‘Did you get the sense that he wanted to tell you something? Was there any urgency when he talked to you?’

  In fact, there had been. ‘No – I mean, I didn’t notice any.’ She wanted to keep me talking in case I’d accidentally say something she wanted to hear. I had to be careful. As much as I hated it, I needed to protect Ward, at least for now.

  ‘I see. You weren’t concerned when he didn’t show up?’

  ‘There was no chance to be concerned. Lucy Cummings called and woke me up from a nap and told me what had happened. That changed everything.’

  ‘The staff people I interviewed this morning said that they were worried about James Waters. Said that he had seemed agitated lately.’

  ‘Again, I knew him so briefly I had nothing to judge that against. He seemed anxious I suppose, but everybody gets that way when a campaign is this tight. And Burkhart has a lot more money than the Ward people do.’

  ‘They’re both wealthy.’

  ‘True. But Burkhart has access to a lot of right-wing money. They’re spending millions this election cycle.’

  ‘That’s what I hear.’ She gave me the police stare again. ‘So you’re a hired gun.’

  ‘In a way. I’m here as a favor to Jeff Ward’s father. He saved my father’s life back when they worked together. Tom Ward was my father’s protégé.’

  Her phone buzzed. She hit the intercom button. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Just wanted to remind you that you have the meeting in the chief’s office in less than ten minutes.’

  ‘Thanks, Julie.’ Her full attention came back to me. ‘So you’re here just as a favor. You’re an established hired gun who’s seen all kinds of problems with campaigns over the years. I have the sense that you’re also good at reading people. Picking up on their moods, maybe even their thoughts through their expressions and body language.’

  ‘You’re giving me way too much credit.’

  She brushed aside my humble pie. Irritation crackled in her dark eyes. ‘But somehow you don’t pick up on somebody who to everybody else is clearly in some kind of distress. And he asks to talk to you and you don’t sense any urgency.’

  ‘I told you, you’re giving me too much credit. I’m no mastermind.’

  She stood up. ‘If I didn’t have a meeting I need to go to I’d keep you here until you started telling me the truth. I have pretty good instincts, Mr Conrad. To me it’s obvious that there’s something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘I don’t like being called a liar.’

  ‘Well, now you know how I feel. I don’t like being lied to. And holding something back is a lie any way you look at it. If you want to get technical, you left campaign headquarters before our people could interview you – after you’d been ordered to stay.’

  ‘Requested to stay. Not ordered.’

  ‘You also lied to the apartment house manager about Mr Waters wanting you to pick up something in his apartment. You got there ahead of the police.’

  ‘A good lawyer, and I have access to one, would be able to show that neither of those are violations of law. A) I’ve made myself available to you and other detectives and I’ve answered all your questions. And B) yes, I lied to the apartment manager but at that time there was no indication that Waters’ apartment was part of a police investigation.’

  ‘What were you looking for in Waters’ apartment?’

  ‘I’ll be honest. I wanted to make sure his apartment wasn’t some kind of drug den or sex den. Things the press could make something of. Very bad for our campaign.’

  ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘Somebody at headquarters loaned me a key.’

  Bitter amusement in her intriguing eyes. She touched her sternum as if her stomach was sending up fiery spears of pain. ‘No wonder people are cynical about politics with consultants like you running around. You’re not cooperating one damn bit and you know it.’

  She walked around the desk to the door. She opened it and stood back for me to pass through. ‘I want a call before you leave town.’

  Our gazes clashed.

  As I started to walk through the door she said, ‘And that’s an order.’

  TWELVE

  I drove straight to the hotel.

  The lobby was crowded. A banner read WELCOME PHARMACEUTICAL SALESPEOPLE! They were a prosperous-looking group standing outside the ballroom where their shindig was to start in a few minutes. I had nothing against any of them personally but their lobbyists were among the most treacherous in the business.

  A prominent retired senator from our side now worked for their major lobbying firm. He didn’t want to damage his rep as a progressive so he cheated. If you worked fewer than twenty hours a week lobbying, you didn’t have to register as a lobbyist. He worked eighteen, nineteen hours and still got lots of great sentimental accolades on progressive websites. That’s why I agreed with so much of the anger the anti-government people felt.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat in a chair in front of the TV screen. The DVD player the hotel had brought to my room was, thankfully, easy to operate.

  The DVD had slid into the maw of the machine and was now posting electronic blotches on the screen. Then the show began. According to the counter, the DVD ran eleven minutes and twenty-eight seconds and then ended.

  I watched it all, then clicked off the machine with the remote and just sat there thinking about what I’d seen and what it might have to do with the campaign and what it must have represented to Jim Waters. This DVD would have brought him money and the kind of vengeance he’d waited all his life to have. The outcast would have been the one in power now.

  I made the assumption that he’d stolen it. He’d been a bright guy but collecting the kind of material on the DVD would have presented him with an insurmountable problem. Likely this was the work of an oppo researcher or private investigator. Millions and millions of dollars are spent every campaign cycle collecting damaging information on opponents. Both sides do it.

  So we were back to stealing. Waters had somehow learned about it and somehow managed to steal it. And somebody took great angry exception to what he’d done. No doubt the object of confronting him had been to get the DVD back. But something had gone wrong. They’d killed Waters but had not gotten what they’d come for. Now I wondered what Waters had been going to do with it.

  I took the disk from the machine and put it back in its clear cover. Funny how the presence of an object can change once you know its true nature. Before, it had been just another DVD in a world of a billion DVDs. Not even a barely-dressed twenty-something on a cover. Grubby, utilitarian. But after seeing it, it now had the presen
ce of a highly classified document. The first thing I did with it was hide it in a suit jacket with a special liner. I never wore the jacket but I’d had it altered so that nobody could find its contents without ripping it apart. You’d have to pat the coat down to feel it.

  I left the room and the jacket. I didn’t want to haul the disk around. I didn’t know who I was up against. And right now I wanted to go see the very comely Mrs Rusty Burkhart and ask her just why she had been following Jim Waters around. And taking his picture.

  You could spot the Rusty Burkhart headquarters from several blocks away owing to the enormous American flag that had been set up on top of the two-story building. Given the weather, they’d probably been doing a lot of taking down and running back up lately.

  The headquarters itself was emblazoned with red, white, and blue. Large color posters of Rusty Burkhart in various poses with his rifle covered the downstairs windows. Tinny speakers played a really annoying country-western version of ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy.’ You wouldn’t think Burkhart would have much use for dandies, Yankee or otherwise.

  Out front were three vendors: one giving away hot dogs, one giving away ice cream cones, and one giving away an assortment of soft drinks. Right now, even with the goodies being given away, foot traffic was thin and none of the pedestrians seemed interested. The silver Porsche was in a PRIVATE PARKING slot on the far side of the building.

  When I walked in, a pretty teenaged girl in a red, white, and blue sweater rushed up to me and said, ‘Just sign this pledge, please. We want to get a list of people who are real Americans.’ Even her dark, curly locks were merry, bouncing away on her head.

  I took the pledge card and read it. ‘So unless I believe in every one of these points I’m not a real American.’

  Merriment and enthusiasm died in her violet eyes. She really was a beauty. ‘Well, I’d just say that if you don’t believe in these points it’s kind of funny you’d come here. If you’re press you have to make an appointment first.’

  ‘I’m not press.’

  Confusion and anger spoiled her prettiness. She scorned me silently then said, ‘Mrs Hawthorne, would you come over here, please?’ Her voice had gone up a notch. She sounded desperate.