CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (17 page)

The humidity attacked his huge frame, and Ruby's body sweated
profusely. He wiped his forehead with a paper towel he tore from a
roll he kept on the seat next to him, already missing the cold of
upstate New York. He knew once again why he had never migrated to
South Florida-his body mass couldn't survive the humidity, even in
January. The summer would be intolerable.

Ruby had used Velcro to mount a tiny digital video camcorder on
the dash, and he glanced from time to time at the small monitor sitting on the passenger-side floorboard. He'd already recorded about
ten minutes of Robert Wingate-baseball cap pulled low, dark
glasses, and windbreaker with upturned collar-sitting alone at a picnic table twenty yards away from the two teens. Beside him on the
table was a black briefcase. Wingate stared at the turquoise water of
the Atlantic.

Ruby had followed Wingate from the time the candidate left his
Star Island estate and drove his 911 Turbo across the MacArthur
Causeway, south on Biscayne Boulevard, and finally across the Rickenbacker to Key Biscayne. With twenty-three years of Interpol behind
him and another ten running his own private security firm, Gus Ruby
was a master when it came to such covert endeavors. Although he
needed a large car to fit his bulky frame, his rentals were always white.
He actually didn't like the color white, it annoyed him, but it was the
invisible color in investigative work. And he'd chosen a Grand Marquis with dark tinted windows because South Florida swarmed with
them-a favorite among retirees.

As he was about to light up a Camel, Ruby noticed one of the
teens turn off the music, hop off the table, and walk toward Wingate.
The other boy followed.

Punks, he thought. Their waistbands sagged below their underwear, and at least three pounds of gold-plated, gold-filled, gold-colored jewelry hung from their necks down the front of their wifebeater muscle shirts. Ruby hated the cocky dress and mannerisms.
The boy in the lead wore a black bandanna around his forehead contrasting his pasty skin and scraggly whiskers. Not even old enough to
grow a decent beard, he thought. The other kid sported dreadlocks, cola-colored skin, and extra thick brows and lips. Both walked with a
swagger.

Ruby's Glock sat on the seat beside him. Wingate hadn't qualified
for Secret Service protection yet since he had not officially announced
his candidacy. A guy like Wingate, alone and driving a $120,000
sports car, was an open invitation for trouble.

The boys stopped in front of Wingate, and Ruby moved the gun
into his lap, just in case. He'd allow a theft, even a mugging-neither
was worth giving away his cover. But he couldn't let anything more
serious happen to Wingate.

Ruby held the binoculars firmly to his eyes and turned on the
power switch to the directional mic. A small ear bud connected to a
sound amplifier cord he'd threaded out the door and up the
antenna-the tiny microphone attached at the top.

"What do you want?" Wingate asked.

"You got somethin' for us?" Bandanna said.

"Like what?"

"Like a donation to the Boys Club," Dreadlocks said, jabbing the
air with his fingers, gangsta-rap fashion. His tightly woven ropes of
hair swung back and forth.

Wingate held the briefcase out to him. "Do I get a receipt? For tax
purposes, of course."

"Open it," Dreadlocks said, handing the case to Bandanna.

Ruby heard the locks click.

"What the fuck is this?" Bandanna said, throwing the briefcase at
Wingate as pieces of plain, white paper, dollar-bill-size, flew out and
floated through the air.

"Fuck you, man," Dreadlocks said, bouncing in a squat, shaking
the briefcase, the remainder of the cut-up paper spilling on the
ground.

A caustic smile creased Wingate's face. "Tell your boss I'm not
making any donation to his club. Especially to someone who doesn't
have the balls to come here himself. He sends children to do his dirty
work."

Dreadlocks stood and poked his finger close to Wingate's nose.
"You gonna fucking regret this, asshole. He ain't playin' games wit
you.

"You're right," Wingate said. "No games. And tell him I said get
fucked." He slipped off the table, turned his back on the boys, and
walked toward the parking lot.

Ruby reached for the Glock, waiting to see if either of the teens
pulled a weapon.

"Fuck you!" Dreadlocks called.

"Yeah, fuck you!" Bandanna kicked the case.

Gus Ruby arched a brow. More than one person would be interested in this tape.

Gus Ruby paused the video playback, freezing the image of Robert
Wingate walking to his Porsche.

Cotten stood and went to the window overlooking the beach from
Vanessa's apartment. "He's being blackmailed," she said, her back to
her uncle. "But for what?" She watched a formation of pelicans glide
on patrol over the beach.

"Here's a guy who wants to run for president, and he's being
shaken down by amateur thugs. This has scandal written all over it.,
Gus Ruby leaned into the couch. A flame jumped from his Zippo as
he lit a Camel.

Cotten took a sip of her Absolut-ice clinked. "Maybe he figured
acting tough would scare them off." Then she turned back to Ruby.
"What did the boys do after Wingate left?"

"One made a cell phone call." He fast-forwarded the tape. "Here."

Cotten returned to the couch to watch.

Bandanna said into the phone, "He tried to fuck us over." There
was a pause. "The case was full of blank paper."

Dreadlocks said to Bandanna, "Ask him if we still get paid."

"We still get paid?" Bandanna listened, then nodded to Dreadlocks. "What next?"

A jumbo jet approaching Miami International drowned out the
answer. Bandanna ended the call, hopped off the table, and grabbed
the boom box. The two shuffled out of frame, and the screen went to
snow.

"Mr. Wingate has a secret," Cotten said, finishing the vodka.

Cotten figured she would test the water with a phone call before confronting Wingate in person.

"Hi, this is Cotten Stone with SNN. May I speak to Mr. Wingate?"

"Mr. Wingate doesn't take calls from the press at his private residence." The female voice had not identified herself.

"I apologize for calling Mr. Wingate at home, but I had a few
important questions for him. I met him at Vizcaya the other night,
and he told me I should call."

There was a long pause before the woman said, "One moment,
please."

Cotten waited-hearing muffled voices on the other end. Then
she heard the telltale clicks of someone picking up a receiver and
another hanging up.

"Ms. Stone. So nice of you to call." Wingate sounded sociable and
pleased. "I hope you enjoyed our little shindig last Saturday. I think
Vizcaya is absolutely astounding, don't you agree?"

"It's beautiful. I want to thank you for having us. Everything was
delicious. And thank you for taking my call."

"What can I do for the woman who found the most valuable religious relic in the world?"

"I'd like to sit down with you and conduct an in-depth interview.
I'm sure our SNN viewers would love to know where you stand on all
the key issues we face during the coming election year. Since you
haven't given any other network or publication that honor yet, I'd like
to be the first."

"And I'd like to give it to you. My press secretary handles all those
arrangements-it's something I don't get involved with. If you want,
I'll let him know you'll be calling and to be sure to schedule you in."

"One of the topics I'd like to cover is your recent trip to Crandon
Park."

Silence.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're referring to," Wingate said,
finally.

"Yesterday, two thirty? Two punks, a briefcase full of blank
paper?"

"You must be mistaken, Ms. Stone. I was in a policy meeting all
afternoon."

"It sure looks like you on the video. Sounds like you, too."

"What are you doing, following me? Videotaping me? Who the
hell do you think you are?"

His voice had changed from the pleasant, confident one she'd
heard at the beginning of the conversation, suddenly taking on a
razor edge.

"Who's blackmailing you, Mr. Wingate?"

"What?"

"Then you deny it?"

"Yes. What is this all about?"

"Just looking for the truth. The American people have had enough
scandals. They want to know up front what the candidates are all
about. They yearn for an honest politician, even if he isn't squeaky
clean; they just want somebody to be straightforward from the get-go,
no cover ups, no more of the false watch-my-lips denials. You know
what I hear Americans saying? They say, `I don't care if you smoked
dope in college, I don't care if you had an extramarital affair, as long as
you lay it on the table for me and don't lie to me.' This could work to
your advantage. Maybe you'd like to do the exclusive and come clean."

"I don't think so, Ms. Stone. Talk about blackmail, who's blackmailing who now? Ratings, that's all you're interested in. You don't
care if you screw up somebody's life to get a story. You're nothing but
a greedy piranha."

"You have a reputation for being press friendly. Look, if I've found
out about this, someone else will, also. You might as well nip it right
now. I can give you the media platform to do it. A preemptive strike
of sorts."

"There's no reason for me to go on the defensive. I haven't done
anything to defend."

She heard seething in his voice, though he made the attempt to
sound unaffected. "I believe others will see it differently. They'll see
tarnish on their rising star. I won't blow the whistle if you agree to the
exclusive. Otherwise, I'll have to go with what I've got."

"I've tried to be nice, but I think you've crossed the line. Tell your
SNN buddies that you have managed to blackball the network. Got
it? Any questions?"

"Just one."

"What?"

"Who's Ben Gearhart?"

Click.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK?" Cotten asked Thornton Graham as the
video of Wingate at Crandon Park went to black. They sat in the conference room at SNN headquarters in New York.

"I think you exposed a raw nerve-especially when you hit him
with that Gearhart reference. Wingate's reaction is definitely a red
flag. Keep on his ass."

"Me? This is your story."

"I'm buried with the Iraqi situation-Ted said I may be broadcasting from the region by the end of the week. I'll give you everything I've got on Wingate and suggest to Ted that you take over."

"You think I'm ready?" Cotten said.

"You just came off a whopper. Now keep the momentum going
with that beautiful face in front of the camera. That's the key."

He brushed her bottom lip with his thumb, but she found herself
not reacting to his touch like she would have a month or even a few
weeks ago. "Are you trying to make yourself feel better?" she asked.
"Tossing poor little Cotten a crumb to keep her happy?"