Conspiracy (43 page)

“A favor? What do you need, Chris?”

“I'd like to talk to you in person, if you don't mind. I'm in town, actually.”

“LA?”

“It's kind of important. I know you're busy.”

“Busy.” O'Rourke made a derisive sound as if he were spitting into the phone. “They're humoring me here, Chris. I could go away for a month and they'd never miss me.”

“I doubt that's true.”

“Close.”

“Want to have dinner?”

“Already ate.”

“Let's grab a drink then,” said Ball. “I know a place.”

 

THEY MET AT
a small bar Ball had picked out before making the phone call. O'Rourke had retired as a zone sergeant for the New York State Troopers before signing on with McSweeney, and like most of their conversations, this one began with him recalling a minor incident they'd watched unfold in the local court, where the citizen judge had actually fallen asleep several times during the proceedings. Ball chuckled, though he felt bad for the judge. They were on their second beers before O'Rourke asked what he had wanted.

“I need a job, actually,” Ball told him. “I was wondering if there might be something on the senator's staff.”

He wove a story of political intrigue, claiming that his foes in the village had finally outmaneuvered him.

“Well, I'm sure Senator McSweeney would help. Somehow. There isn't much to do now. I mean, there are plenty of things to do, but the Secret Service takes care of most of it.”

“You're not involved at all?”

“Of course I'm involved.”

Ball bought another round, encouraging O'Rourke to talk. He picked up as much information as he could about
the security arrangements, pulling out names and data about the routines.

By the time they were done, O'Rourke had convinced himself that he was going to get his old friend a job. They were going to have a great time together.

O'Rourke had also had quite a bit to drink, more than enough to make him tipsy.

“I think I better drive you home,” said Ball.

“Nonsense. I'm sober.”

“If you get stopped, it'll look very bad for the campaign. And I won't get my job.”

It took another round to convince him.

 

KILLING AMANDA RAUCI
had taken so much out of Ball that he decided he wasn't going to kill O'Rourke; instead, he'd leave him locked in the trunk of the rental car and park it somewhere no one would find it for a day or two. But when Ball pulled off the road and got out of the car, pretending that he was going to relieve himself, the sleeping O'Rourke suddenly stirred.

“Where you goin', Chris?”

“Gotta take a leak.”

“Where the hell are we?”

“Damned if I know,” lied Ball.

And then suddenly O'Rourke became belligerent, pointing out that they should have been back at his hotel by now.

“Look, I don't know the damn state,” said Ball. He had already taken O'Rourke's pistol; he put his hand on it as he walked around the car toward the field.

“We're out in the middle of nowhere,” said O'Rourke, getting out of the car. “Hey, where's my gun?”

“Here,” said Ball, and he killed O'Rourke with a single shot to the head.

A sharp edge of panic struck Ball in the ribs as O'Rourke fell. Had someone seen him stop? Was he close enough to the nearby houses to be heard?

He'd checked the place carefully, he reminded himself, but his paranoia continued to grow. He picked O'Rourke up
and put him in the trunk, then took off his shirt, worried about bloodstains. Ball went to the ground and kicked at the dirt.

Get out of here, he told himself. Go! Take the car and go.

He felt better as he drove. By the time he left the car in the long-term parking lot at LAX and queued up for a cab to take him back to his hotel, he was back to his old self.

Not the police chief self, but the man who'd lived on his wits in the city years before, the man who knew how the night worked, and how to take advantage of it.

The man he needed to be for the next twenty-four hours.

 

RUBENS STOOD AT
the back of the Art Room, surveying the room. It was nearly empty, with only two runners and the supervisor, Chris Farlekas, on duty. It had been a long, fruitless day, and Desk Three's center of operations was eerily quiet—never a good sign.

“Nothing?” said Rubens when Farlekas glanced up at him.

“A few things. The analysis of the DNA sample from Chief Ball should be available soon. Ambassador Jackson checked in from Secret Service headquarters. There was a threat against another candidate. The Service isn't sure if it was a copycat or not. It was sent by e-mail and they know where it originated. They're in the process of seizing the computers. I volunteered our help, but they said it was under control. The network is in Las Vegas, and they have plenty of agents there. It was sent from a Starbucks,” added Farlekas. “A little different than the others.”

“The President?”

“Due in LA around five
A.M.
tomorrow. The Service is confident they can protect him.”

“Have Mr. Dean wait for him at the airport. He wants to be briefed personally.”

“I already told him.”

Rubens glanced around the room. There was nothing for him to do here, and he had more than enough work waiting back upstairs. Still, he wanted to stay.

No, what he wanted to do was solve this, apprehend Chief Ball, and find out who was trying to assassinate
McSweeney—assuming Gallo was right and it wasn't the police chief.

“I'll be in my office. Let me know if anything develops overnight.”

“You're going back to your office?” asked Farlekas. “It's past seven.”

“I have a few things to wrap up,” said Rubens. “Thank you for your concern.”

 

DEAN HAD NEVER
been in the presidential limo before, and his first impression was one of disappointment. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but the reality seemed almost disappointing. The back consisted of two bench seats facing each other. The leather seats were plush, but otherwise the interior seemed no more luxurious than what you would find in a standard Mercedes S. There was a bit more room, but still, Dean's knees nearly touched the President's.

“And what did Senator McSweeney say when you told him about the money?” asked President Marcke.

“Not much. He just took it in.”

“Did he react when you mentioned Tolong?”

“Not that I saw.”

Marcke nodded. The two men were alone; the President had pointedly asked his aides to stand outside the car while Dean briefed him at the airport.

“George Hadash used to speak very highly of you, Mr. Dean,” said Marcke. “He was the reason you came to Deep Black.”

“Dr. Hadash was a very good man,” said Dean.

“A straight shooter,” agreed the President. “Rare for an academic, don't you think?”

Dean nodded.

“Marines have a reputation for straight shooting,” added Marcke. “And I'd like you to do that now. What's your impression of McSweeney—do you think he took the money?”

“Hard to say. The evidence seems to point that way.”

“If he did take the money, he's responsible for another man's death,” said Marcke. “At least one.”

“It's possible he didn't know anything about it,” said Dean. “He might have been oblivious. Maybe one of the noncommissioned officers in his unit really ran things.”

A faint smile appeared on the President's lips. “You're trying hard not to jump to any conclusions, aren't you, Mr. Dean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because he's a fellow Marine, or because that's the way you are?”

“Probably a little of both.”

Marcke nodded, then reached for the button to lower his window. “Stay with me today, Mr. Dean. If you can.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

TWO THINGS WERE
important—the faked credentials Chief Ball waved in his hand and the strut of his body as he entered the Paley house. He wouldn't have been able to say which was more persuasive.

“The first thing we need are two people at the top of the driveway, next to the gate,” he said, to no one and everyone as he flipped his wallet closed. “And there's no one on the back fence—I could have hopped it and climbed up on the patio and no one would have noticed.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Chris Stevens,” said Ball, using the name on the ID. “Who the hell are you?”

“It's twelve hours before the reception,” said one of the men standing in the foyer.

“Who are you?” asked Ball.

The man identified himself as a member of the sheriff's department. Ball frowned for just a moment, then made a show of becoming more conciliatory, his voice hinting at forced congeniality. “I don't want to bust your chops. I'm just doing my job.”

“What is your job?” asked a woman, appearing from the top of the steps.

“Christopher Stevens, ma'am.”

“You're from LAPD?”

Ball smiled without answering.

“Who are you with?” she asked again, coming down the stairs. Two other agents, both male, followed her down. Ball
could tell they were Secret Service by their lapel pins, but they didn't identify themselves.

“I work for the senator,” Ball told the woman. “Tim O'Rourke sent me over.”

She smirked. “Let's see some ID.”

“Sure.”

Ball pulled out the campaign ID he had made a few hours before at the campaign headquarters.

“Driver's license,” said the woman.

Ball reached into his pocket and took out the license. The agent held it sideways, making sure it contained the holographic imprint used by New York State. Then she studied the ID number.

“Run this,” she told one of the men. Her eyes still locked on Ball's, she asked for his Social Security number.

Ball repeated the memorized number. The man who had taken the license nodded, then retreated to another room inside the house.

“He's going to remember that?” Ball asked the woman.

“He's good with numbers.”

The Social Security number and the ID on the license belonged to the real Christopher Stevens, who was in O'Rourke's files as a backup driver and occasional extra “suit” for work in the district. Ball had met Stevens a few times. He was a few years younger and two inches taller, but otherwise the general description was close enough that the scant information on the license matched.

Ball stood quietly, waiting while the information was checked against the criminal and Secret Service databases. He knew the criminal check would come clean, and as long as Stevens hadn't made any threats against the President in the last few weeks, the Secret Service files should have nothing against him, either.

The female agent stared at him the whole time. Ball stared back. The last thing he wanted to do was seem weak. Finally, the man returned with Ball's license. The agent handed it to the woman, nodding almost imperceptibly. She
took it, looked at it again, flipped it over in her hand, then handed it back.

“So who did I just give my credit report to?” asked Ball, taking the license. “I want to know who to call when the phony charges hit my account.”

One of the male agents smirked. The others didn't.

“Lucinda Silvestri,” said the woman.

Ball extended his hand. Silvestri looked at it a moment, then finally shook it. Ball had expected a crusher grip, and he got one.

“Where's O'Rourke?” said the man who had smirked.

“I don't know whether he's under the weather or what. He told me a couple of days ago to come out in case I was needed. Called me this morning, told me to be here.”

“He didn't have you shovel him off a barroom floor last night?”

“That's enough,” snapped Silvestri. “Mr. Stevens, stay out of our way.”

“I'm only here to help,” said Ball, holding his arms out in protest. “I'm just doing what I'm supposed to do.”

Silvestri frowned, and went back to the stairs.

“O'Rourke's a bit of a joke,” said the agent who'd spoken earlier. “No offense to you.”

“Look, the guy's my boss. I can't bad-mouth him,” said Ball. “I know you guys run the show.”

“Preston Dell,” said the agent, extending his hand. “You come from New York?”

“Yeah, upstate. I was a cop in New York for twenty years. Took retirement. Have a little security firm. They call me mostly when the senator's back home, you know? I first met him when he was a congressman.”

“You like Rockland?”

“That's the next county down,” said Ball, not sure if the agent had made an honest mistake or was testing him. “I live in Goshen. That's Orange County. Not much difference, I guess, except for the house prices. Damn hard to afford anything now.”

“I have a cousin in Pearl River.”

“I don't know Rockland too well,” said Ball, “but that's pretty close to the city, right?”

They traded geographical references for a few minutes. Ball had been to Goshen many times over the years—the Orange County Jail was there—but he didn't know it like he knew Pine Plains or the towns around it.

“County building is a crazy jumble,” he told the agent. “I get lost every time I go to get my license renewed or for jury duty.”

“They let you serve?”

“Well, funny thing—they won't automatically dismiss you in New York, but most of the lawyers won't let you on a jury. So you go through a big rigamarole. Earn forty bucks for the day, though. Pays for lunch over at the Orange Inn.”

“Yeah,” said the agent. “Listen, stay away from Lucinda, all right? She and O'Rourke have had some words. And stay away from the bar.”