BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (31 page)

For all of the trappings of wealth and position, Ashton Conn was not a happy man this evening. Despite the assurances that Stu had received from Crane at EPA, Conn still worried whether the fracking moratorium was truly a done deal. Then there was the deliberate destruction of the Capital Resources offices, which gave him the jitters. That, on the heels of those
Inquirer
articles by that son-of-a-bitch reporter
.
At least he hadn’t revealed the names of investors in CarboNot or Capital Resources. Nor had his stories been picked up by the rest of the media, which sympathize with environmental causes. At least, not yet. But the unwanted media spotlight was shining too close …

Conn took a deep breath to calm himself. His eyes rested on the imposing crystal chandelier blazing brightly through the big foyer window. He listened to the faint, rhythmic
ticking
of the Bentley’s cooling engine, and to the sound of the American flag rustling softly on its tall steel pole in the nearby lawn …

You’ve spent a great deal of money to live like this, Ash—too much, really. What you haven’t spent, you’ve leveraged in green energy ventures. Which only makes sense. They are the wave of the future: not only the
right
things to invest in, but the
smart
things to invest in, too. And up until the past few weeks, those investments have paid off handsomely …

He thought of his many friends throughout the federal bureaucracy who had helped, fast-tracking the Energy Department loan guarantees for CarboNot, and putting the screws to those predatory fracking companies and greedy landowners back in Pennsylvania …

It’s poetic justice that you are building Capital Resources on the rotting carcasses of the dying fossil fuel industry. That’s your legacy, your investment in the future—one that is going to pay off big for you.

And for the planet, too—that’s the important thing, of course. It’s never been about yourself, not really. As anyone reviewing your career can see. Your articles, speeches, books, legislation—all of it has been devoted to creating a more sustainable world. Nobody could possibly imagine how much you’ve sacrificed for that, how much you’ve been willing to do and to give.

Still … crusading for a sustainable future doesn’t mean you have to live like a monk. That’s silly. There isn’t anything wrong with civilized living, not as long as it’s sustainable. And no one can say that you aren’t doing your part to reduce your own carbon footprint. Didn’t you also purchase carbon credits to offset your energy consumption—from a company that you yourself launched? So, no one can question your commitments and principles.

Naturally, though, a U.S. senator has to maintain a certain lifestyle. You really don’t have a choice about that, not in this town. Especially if you are about to take the next big step up the ladder. It’s like they say: You must look, talk, and act as if you already have the job, before anyone is going to hire you for it.

But in every way, you’ve
earned
this lifestyle. Why shouldn’t virtue be rewarded? You don’t have to pay attention to the critics. Just answer them as you always do:
“Yes, I do well—by doing good.”

If only you can get through the coming week and that SAB hearing. And past that prick reporter. Sloan and Trammel promised to take the lead on doing something about the guy. What are they waiting for? Maybe tonight you can pull them aside and find out. Well, at the very least,
they’ll
be here, and they’ll open their checkbooks for you …

He jumped at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Oh! Barry!” He took in the lean, well-dressed figure of the head of the security team, who was walking up the driveway.

“Sorry, Senator. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just checking in with the men on the grounds and saw you drive up.”

“I understand. I gather they are all present and prepared?”

“Yes, sir. Two will be positioned at the gate to check IDs against the guest list. Three at the rear and sides of the house, providing perimeter security. I’ll be here, at the entrance.”

“That sounds fine.” He checked his watch. “You won’t have to worry for at least another half-hour, though. The caterers will arrive first. Just send them around to park near the kitchen entrance. I expect the jazz trio around six to set up. The guests won’t begin to show until closer to seven for the reception.”

“We’re all set, sir. I hope you and your guests have a wonderful evening.”

Conn flashed him a grin and slapped him on the back, then turned to enter his home. Normally he hired only one or two security people for social occasions with prominent guests, and mostly for show. But the destruction of the Capital Resources offices made him nervous. Better safe than sorry.

Inside the foyer, Joseph—a tall, distinguished-looking black butler—greeted him. Juanita, the frisky Hispanic maid, smiled coyly as she darted past with a tray bearing folded white napkins. He watched her ass, remembering, as she disappeared into the dining room. Both were part-time employees he hired from a local agency whenever he had to impress visitors.

“Is Emmalee home, Joseph?” he asked as the butler helped him out of his overcoat.

“Yes, Senator. Mrs. Conn arrived home just a few minutes ago. She said she was going upstairs to get ready.”

He felt a wave of relief. “Good. I am going to do the same.”

But the feeling didn’t last. Conn felt his earlier mood returning and growing even darker as he climbed the broad walnut staircase. He entered their bedroom and found her seated before her vanity.

Emmalee Conn wore a pale blue silk bathrobe. Her hair, tousled and dirty blonde, fell to just below her shoulders. A highball glass, half-empty, sat within reach. She glanced at him in the mirror and, without a word, continued removing her makeup.

“So. You decided to attend after all,” he said. A flat statement of fact.

“So it appears.”

He couldn’t resist. “What’s the matter? Did this month’s boyfriend get tired of you?”

Her hand, wiping her cheek with a small towelette, paused in mid-stroke. She met his eyes in the mirror and a slow leer formed on her face. Then she rose, pirouetted in her bare feet to face him, and untied the belt of her silk robe. With a little shrug, she let it slide off her shoulders to the floor. She stood there, tanned and insolently naked. And laughed at him. Her breasts, taut and high, jiggled a bit with each laugh, but nothing else on her did—the result of long hours with personal trainers and tennis instructors, half of whom he was certain she was screwing. He noticed a small new bruise low on her belly. She spun again, a half-turn, and he saw two more on her ass. She ran her hands down her hips and, turning her head only, looked at him over her shoulder coquettishly.

“Do you really think any man would get tired of me?” she said, her voice low. “Have
you
, Senator?”

He felt himself stirring, in spite of himself. He was used to wielding power over others. He hated himself for her power over him.

“You goddamned slut,” he said, his voice tight.

She turned again to face him. Ran the tip of her tongue around her lips. “You love the fact that I’m a goddamned slut.”

It was true, dammit. Images from their vacations floated up from memory, occasions when they experimented with threesomes and foursomes, in delicious anonymity … obscene images of her with other men, other women …

He swallowed and said, “Knock it off. We’ve got to talk.”

She pouted, then bent over slowly to pick up the robe, making a show of it.

He sat on the edge of the bed. “Have you read the papers this weekend? Heard the news?”

She laughed. “I’ve been busy.” She resumed her primping at the vanity.

“Well, while you were screwing your brains out,
we
were getting screwed in other ways.” He told her about the vandalism at Capital Resources Development and the insurance cancellation. Her mocking expression vanished and grew solemn. “As a partner with Gavin’s wife, Emmalee, you two are on the hook for the loss.”

She whipped around on the stool. “
I
am?”

“All right. We are. You, legally, but me financially. Yes, we had to put the investment in your name, but it’s my money at risk. And that’s on top of the hits our CarboNot stock has taken this month. The bottom line is that we’re stretched really tight right now.”

“How tight?”

“Tight enough that we have to start watching our spending around here. At least until that EPA hearing is behind us and the moratorium finally issued. Once fracking is finished, our CarboNot stock will soar again.”

“But what happens now with Capital Resources?”

“For the moment, we’ll have to eat the loss of the facility and operate out of rented offices. But after the moratorium, the company will be able to buy up property deeds at fire-sale prices from all the holdout owners in the Allegheny. Then, within the next six months, CarboNot will announce its surprise plans to build its new alternative energy project up there. All sorts of workers and service businesses will have to move into the area. At that point, the property values will shoot sky high. And whatever land we don’t sell to CarboNot directly, for its windmills and solar panel field, we can sell off at a big profit to developers. We’ll make a killing.”

She swallowed more of her drink. “It all sounds good … Speaking of killing: that poor scientist you told me about, the one who got himself blown up a couple weeks ago. Is there any more news about that?”

“Horrible, isn’t it?” Conn stared at his shoes and shook his head. “My sources say the cops have questioned some local fracking protesters. But they aren’t sure those people are involved. From a message sent to the media, it seems that it was some ‘animal rights’ group that targeted him—not for his work on fracking, but for past product testing he did using lab animals.”

She paused while applying eyeliner. “Well, I don’t like how they test cosmetics in the eyes of rabbits, either; but
murder?
Goddamned mental cases.”

“You can say that again.”

“Well … how is his death going to affect all this?”

“Ironically, out of that tragedy at least
some
good will come. Now, the fracking company that hired him can’t challenge the scientific grounds for the moratorium. And without any challenge, the EPA moratorium is as good as granted.” He looked up at her. “So, from the perspective of the greater good, that finally will open the market to give alternative energy a chance. Which will mean a brighter future for the planet.”

“And for us.” She saluted him with her glass.

“Always thinking of yourself, aren’t you, Emmalee? Well, okay, yes—you can relax. From the personal perspective, a year from now we should be in great shape, both financially and politically.”

She drew the robe open a bit and giggled. “Physically, I am already in great shape.”

He got up, strode over, and grabbed the glass from her hand.

“You don’t need any more booze this evening, Emmalee. And please—wear some underwear tonight, for a change. At least pretend to act like a future First Lady, will you? Try to remember that these initial contributions are the seed money for the presidential run. The last thing I need is for my core donors to wonder if there will be any future personal scandals.”

“Then you’d better keep it in your pants, too, Ash. Like when you’re around that Robin Manes bitch. And I’ve seen how you look at Juanita, too.”

He turned on his heel and stalked out.

“But I don’t understand! Why are you shutting me out?”

Dawn sat on the bed in tears as Boggs stomped back and forth across the threadbare carpet of the dingy motel room, trying not to snap at her, trying to tamp down a raging mixture of exasperation and fury.

The exasperation was directed at her. Two mornings after the Silva bombing, they had been spooked by the surprise visit to their camp by several cars filled with Pennsylvania State Police detectives. The cops corralled the whole group inside the big tent, then singled them out for individual interviews that took most of the day. He and Rusty had feigned shock; they were used to lying to authorities. But like the rest of WildJustice’s members, Dawn’s shock had been authentic, and they all persuasively pleaded complete ignorance to the investigators.

But in the days since, she began to look at him strangely, and to ask him more questions about where he was going, what he was doing. She also insisted on coming along with him whenever he and Rusty left the camp.

Assured by his friend that the EPA moratorium was imminent, Boggs was also told that there was no further need for him to continue their direct action campaign. The man congratulated him: He had fulfilled an indispensable role. Now, they could break camp and go home. Boggs also knew that it made sense not to stick around, with the cops crawling all over the area asking questions.

Still, he knew from experience that deals in Washington had a way of coming undone. So rather than head back to North Carolina, he told Rusty to drive to D.C. Until the EPA ruled, they would lie low in this New York Avenue dump and await the outcome.

Which meant that Dawn was now glued to his hip, probing him for more information.

Which, like the failed
Inquirer
bombing, left him exasperated.

But what he had just learned, after going online to the
Inquirer
website tonight, left him furious. And the fury was directed at his … should he still even think of him as his
friend?
After tonight’s revelations, he was almost certain that he was being played, perhaps for years.

Almost
certain.

He had to be sure. It was time they had it out, face to face. And he was just about to send him a text message, demanding a meeting, tonight. But he had made the mistake of telling Dawn that he had to meet with somebody privately.

“Why do you want me to stay here? Why can’t I go along with you? You keep acting so secretly, Zak.”

He spun to face her. “Look. The meeting is private, just between me and one other important contact. Rusty will drive me there and drop me off; not even he will be involved.”