Go-Between (19 page)

“We'll have two more email blasts going out. But I think we need to work on the buy-in for donors who can't be there in person.”

“San Francisco's not the most fertile territory for us.”

“We'll do all right.” Porter sat to Caitlin's right, his bulk settled into the conference room chair, watchful and still. “The prison guards union will send some folks our way, for one. And there's plenty of concerns about public safety there, for another, even if all those terribly enlightened folks like to pretend otherwise.” He snorted a little. Amused at his own joke.

“CCPOA has its own PACs,” the Director of Development said.

“Sure. But I think they also appreciate what we can bring to the table. And they've got a lot of money to spend. You find me a bigger heavyweight in California politics than the prison guards union. And it so happens that our interests align.”

At that, Porter shifted in his chair. “I'm going to have to run. I have an appointment across town.”

Caitlin leaned over to Michelle. “I'm with him,” she whispered. “Let's get out of here.”

Michelle pulled Caitlin's Lexus
SUV
into the garage. It wasn't just the possibility of Caitlin's drinking that had Michelle playing chauffeur. Caitlin really didn't like to drive very much. “I don't know, the traffic's so bad here these days, it's just not fun,” she'd said with an off-hand wave.

“I'm happy to drive,” Michelle had said, suspecting that Caitlin's nerves had more to do with her attack than Houston traffic.

“I was wondering,” Michelle said now, as the garage door closed behind them. “Would it make sense for me to
. . .
familiarize myself a little with the donor database?”

Caitlin frowned. “Well, I don't know. Is there some reason you want to? I don't know that it enters in much to the work you're doing for me.”

Shit, Michelle thought.

She ran over the arguments she'd worked out in advance. Opened the driver's door and stepped out, slammed the door shut. Drew a deep breath, taking in the scent of stale gasoline and hot concrete. She waited for Caitlin to exit the SUV, punching in the access code to unlock the door that led into the house, through the kitchen.

The blast of air conditioning prickled the sweat on her skin.

“There's a couple of things. I noticed there's an Events section, and I thought it might make sense for me to be able to enter miscellaneous travel expenses directly into that. I mean, I'm assuming it tracks expenses for the events?”

“I think so.” Caitlin paused in front of the refrigerator and opened the door.

Was she buying this? Michelle couldn't tell. She couldn't see Caitlin's face. She could only see Caitlin's back as she grabbed an open bottle of chardonnay from the refrigerator.

“You want a glass, hon?” Caitlin asked.

“No thanks.”

For all she knew, Caitlin was complicit in this whole thing, whatever it was. Some of that money, from the unnamed donors, from the “other compensation and benefits,” could easily be ending up in her pockets, and there was just no way to tell.

Caitlin hesitated by the refrigerator door. “Maybe I'll skip it too.” She replaced the bottle and closed the refrigerator, almost gently, as though she might have regretted her choice.

Michelle took a moment to hang the Lexus keys on the hooks by the garage door, then followed Caitlin through the kitchen.

“Also I thought it might be a good idea, when we go to an event, for me to have a little background on the donors. Like for this San Francisco trip. Who's going to be there, what they've contributed. And other donors in the area who you might want to reach out to.” Michelle smiled, gave a little chuckle. Don't overplay this, she told herself. “Just so I can back you up a little better.”

They'd entered the Great Room. Michelle could hear the distant whine of a vacuum cleaner, somewhere in the house.

“Well, I guess that makes sense,” Caitlin finally said, tossing her beige Prada tote onto the sofa. “Tell you what, let's dig into it first thing Monday morning. Cause you know what I'd really like to do right now? A yoga class.”

“Okay,” Michelle said. “Sounds good.”

Deep, cleansing breaths.

It was a risk
going to see him, now that she was Michelle again. She had to go as Emily, but what if someone recognized her as Michelle?

Not likely, she told herself. Who among Caitlin's friends and the Safer America crew would be visiting an inmate at Harris County Jail?

Saturday, 5:30 pm. There
were so many visitors here tonight. Michelle supposed that made sense. No visiting hours at all on Thursday and Friday, no visiting hours until 3:30 on Saturday. The weekend, so people had time off. Maybe. Looking at the crowd around here, as usual, mostly women, she wondered how many of them had the kind of jobs where they worked Saturdays and Sundays. Fast food. Retail. Jobs that didn't pay well. Some of them likely didn't have jobs at all. Deondra, the woman she'd met on her first visit here, she'd looked like she worked in an office, put-together outfits, styled hair, but so many of these women, dressed in T-shirts and leggings and cheap, bright cotton chinos, she could picture them running registers in a McDonalds somewhere, stocking shelves at Walmart.

She wasn't sure, of course. She couldn't know. Her brain was just spinning scenarios as she waited in line after line in the refrigerated, chemical, stale-piss chill of Harris County Jail.

She noticed it more, this time, how many of the people waiting were black, and brown. Oh there were white people too, about a third, she estimated, but surely the population visiting this jail didn't reflect the overall demographics of Houston. More than a third of the population of Houston couldn't be African American, but more than a third of the people waiting here—the women waiting here—were black.

Well, they just must commit more crimes.

Was that a friend's voice she heard, some embarrassing relative's, Matthew Fucking Moss's or her own?

If they do, there are reasons.

Whose voice was that?

You know that blacks are ten times more likely to go to prison for a drug offense than whites? Even though they use drugs at about the same rates?

That was Troy Stone.

She looked around, at the lines of people, of women, shuffling along on scuffed-up linoleum, at the guards in their uniforms, at the metal detectors, thought about the pods and floors of prisoners in this massive building, and felt for a moment that the weight of it all might crush her.

Who was making money off this?

“Hey. I like the
hair.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “You look like a rock star.”

She had to smile. “I don't think so.”

His own grin wavered. He looked so pale, from what she could see through the glass. Maybe the light in here did that to everyone, but she didn't think it was just the light. Had he been outside at all since he'd been arrested?

He leaned closer to the glass. His cheek was bruised, she noticed now. Not badly. But she could see it.

“What happened?” she asked.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. “It's not
. . .
there's no point. There's nothing
. . .
”

“Tell me.”

There's nothing you can do
.

“I fell, that's all,” he said.

“Love you, baby,” the woman to her left said loudly.

He gestured to the speaker grate. Michelle put her ear close, grateful that she'd remembered the wet wipe.

“Have you heard back from Sam?”

“Not yet.”

“
Fuck
,” he muttered. “What did he
. . .
when you talked, did he have any recommendations for you?”

“He thought I should just keep
. . .
doing what I'm doing. Working.”

“For
Gary
? That
. . .
that's it? He didn't offer to
. . .
to help you, or
. . .
?”

“He's checking into things,” she said, hoping it would calm him. “It's just going to take a little time.”

She could hear his ragged breaths through the speaker grate, and then she couldn't any more. She looked through the glass. He'd pulled away from the grate, braced his hands against the edge of the counter, eyes closed, breathing hard. Trying to get a grip.

“Dan—” she started. “Jeff. What's going on?”

“
Nothing
. The same. I just
. . .
” He shook his head like he was trying to shake something off of it and let out a long sigh. “Sorry. Just a lousy couple of days.”

Christ, she thought. She'd seen him in a lot of moods, in some very bad situations. But she'd never seen him like this.

Panic rose in her throat. She tasted bile.

He was watching her. Something in his face changed. He seemed calmer now. She guessed that was for her benefit.

“Are
you
okay?” he asked.

“I'm fine.”

She
needed
to be fine right now. Needed to be calm. Panic wasn't going to help.

“How's
. . .
how's work?” he asked.

“I told you we don't have the money. Now what am I supposed to do?” the woman to her right said.

“Oh, you know. Complicated.” She wished she could tell him about it. He'd be the one who could help her make sense of it all. If they could actually talk to each other, maybe between the two of them they could figure out a way out of this. A way to win Gary's game.

“Don't you give me that shit,” the woman next to her half-shouted into her speaker. “This is the last thing I need to hear from you right now.”

“I don't want your life to get any more fucked up because of me,” Danny said.

“It's not,” she said, suddenly exhausted, even though it was. But she'd chosen this life with him. She'd had her chances to leave, several times. She'd stuck with him. And now she was well and truly stuck.

She got as close to the speaker as she could, and though she didn't want to touch it, her lip brushed against the cold metal. “My life was pretty fucked up before,” she said. “And
. . .
I like the life we have. I miss you, and
. . .
”

Her throat closed up, and she could feel the tears gathering. Stop, she told herself. This wasn't a time for tears. He was already on edge, and she wasn't going to make it worse. “We're going to fix this,” she said.

He leaned close to the grate. “I wish I could protect you. Make sure you have what you need. It's just
. . .
I don't have a lot of options.” He laughed shortly, like he was making a joke, but something in his voice had shifted, to an urgency that sounded like business. He pulled back from the speaker grate and stared at her.

“I'm doing all right,” she said. “Really. You don't need to worry about me right now.”

He gestured at the grate. His turn to say something he didn't want to half-shout.

“There's a book at the house. It's called
Taking Flight
. You remember it?”

“I
. . .
think so.” She didn't, specifically, but he had a collection of books about aviation, along with big coffee table books of exotic landscapes and wildlife. “It's not the same on a screen,” he liked to say.

“It kind of explains how I'm feeling right now, about being locked up like this. You know me, I don't like being inside all the time.”

He drew back from the speaker but stayed close to the Plexiglas. Met her eyes. Held the gaze.

That was the message he'd wanted to give her.

She nodded. Message received.

“I wish I could send it to you,” she said.

“I do too. Because the reading materials here pretty much suck.” He smiled a little. “I guess I can request to buy books from an approved vendor. If I'm stuck here much longer, I probably will.”

“You won't be,” she said. “We'll figure out something.”

We
have
to, she thought. And soon. Whatever Gary's game was, she had a feeling that the clock was winding down.

Chapter Eighteen

Travel time from Houston
to Eureka was around eight hours if she wanted to leave tomorrow morning. If she flew at 7:20
a.m.
, she could be in Arcata by around 1:30
p.m.
or so.

She could, conceivably, get back to Houston before work on Monday morning. There was a flight leaving Eureka at 8
p.m.
But did that make sense?

Maybe it would be as simple as picking up the book. Maybe not. She had no way of knowing.

On the one hand, she hated having to ask for a day off. To make up some story why she needed it. She'd only worked for Caitlin for two weeks, after all.

On the other
. . .
what were the odds that she'd be tracked? That Gary would find out where she'd gone? She'd have to assume he would. If he did
. . .
how could she possibly explain a one-day jaunt to Arcata that would cost well over a thousand dollars?

She had to try to set this up.

She got out her Emily phone and called Evergreen.

She'd called Helen, her interim manager, several times since she'd been in Houston, in the mid-afternoon, when the restaurant wouldn't be too crowded. She'd sounded harried, but insisted things were going well. Michelle had preferred to believe her—what could she do if they weren't?

This time, she'd push. Anything that would give her a plausible excuse for going to Arcata, in case Gary was listening.

“Oh, hi, Emily. Yeah, it's busy. You know, Saturday night.”

Helen sounded like she was in the middle of something, which she undoubtedly was.

“How are things with Joseph?” The chef.

“Oh. Fine. He's
. . .
experimenting a little.”

She could just see Joseph trying to steamroll Helen.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I mean
. . .
you know. Some of it's interesting.”

“Would it help if I came in?” Michelle asked. “Just to get everyone on the same page?”

“You don't have to,” Helen said quickly. “Things are fine.”

“It's okay if they're not, Helen. Really. I dumped a lot on your plate.”

A hesitation. “Well, if we could have a meeting
. . .
I mean, we'll be okay, you don't have to rush, but
. . .
when you can
. . .
I think it would help.”

“I'll see how soon I can get freed up, and I'll let you know right away. Hang in there. You guys are doing great.”

One thing you could almost always count on: things going wrong in a restaurant.

A pretty thin excuse to go to Arcata, but it was some cover, at least.

9
p.m.
on a Saturday. Later than she felt comfortable calling Caitlin, especially on a weekend.

She opened up a new message on her email and thought about what to say.

Don't overexplain. Come up with a believable story if Caitlin asks.

Dear Caitlin, I'm so sorry, but I have a family emergency and need to handle it ASAP. Would it be a huge problem if I missed Monday? I can be back early evening, so I could deal with any emergencies then. Best, Michelle.

“Home” would be
. . .
Los Angeles.

Her father. Her sister. Her nephew. Something.

She thought about hitting “send.” Hesitated.

She had to assume anything going to and from Safer America was monitored.

On Wednesday, she and Caitlin were supposed to fly to San Francisco for another fundraiser on Thursday.

Maybe I should just wait and go to Arcata after that, she thought. Surely Caitlin could handle a flight on her own back to Houston. If she had too many glasses of wine on the flight, well, so what? As long as Caitlin kept it together for the fundraiser, what difference did it make?

But if Danny wanted her to see this book
. . .
maybe it couldn't wait that long.

Michelle padded out into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of sauvignon blanc. Flopped on the couch, Safer America laptop and her own iPad by her side, and sipped her wine. Fuck it, she thought, taking a gulp. She got up and grabbed the bottle from the fridge.

This was all too fucking much.

Forget about the big problems: Danny in jail, Gary up to god knows what, having to deal with bags of dirty money, a shady charity helmed by a likeable, unstable woman and a board of sketchy directors. She couldn't even decide on a travel itinerary.

She settled back down on the couch and topped off her glass.

Here's how you play it, she told herself. You had a sudden family emergency. You just found out about it. You emailed as soon as you knew, and you're so sorry for the inconvenience.

She'd wait a few hours. Book her flight. Send the email.

In the meantime, she'd do a little more digging into Safer America.

“Edgemore Media Consulting” and “Red Seas Research Ltd.” Those two companies had stood out on the list of independent contractors. It wasn't obvious what they did, and they'd gotten a lot of money for doing whatever it was.

Edgemore first.

The website was easy enough to find. Edgemore Media “is a full-service political consulting firm specializing in media management and production coordinated across multiple platforms: television, radio, direct mail, email and web, including social media and SEO. We are constantly pushing the boundaries of technology to develop new communication tools that will engage and mobilize your target audiences.”

So they produced Safer America's commercials. Michelle found a few examples under “Our Work,” a mix of upbeat pieces promoting particular candidates and initiatives and attack ads condemning others, including the one Gary had sent her
. . .
it seemed like ages ago. Had it been only three weeks?

She clicked on the ad. Something about it nagged at her.

“Drugs have taken over our cities.”

The voice was Matthew Moss. She was sure of it.

She listened to some of the other ads. He'd done the voice-over on several.

It was not a huge surprise to find Matthew Moss listed as an Edgemore “messaging strategist and media consultant.”

So Moss served on Safer America's board for free. But a company he was a part of got paid over half a million dollars to handle media for Safer America. Of course some portion of that money was going into Matthew Moss's pockets. For a gig that required him to show up at a few board meetings and make speeches at fancy fundraisers.

Nice work if you can get it.

Red Seas Research also had a website. But it was more notable for what it didn't say than for what it said.

“Strategic research and intelligence for forward-thinking clients. We provide the information you need to recognize opportunities, optimize outcomes and manage risk.”

Good graphics, Michelle thought. There were customer testimonials, tabs for their advisory services and research products, all couched in the same vague corporate-speak. A page with headshots and brief bios of the company's chief executives. None of whom were named Steve, unfortunately.

But that didn't mean he wasn't working for them.

What did they do for Safer America?

“Strategic intelligence.” Were they advising Safer America what to focus on?

If ever there were a candidate for a cutout company run by the Boys, this would be it.

She set an alarm
for 2
a.m.
Woke up enough to book the flight on her iPad and send the email to Caitlin on her Safer America laptop.

She booked the flight out of Houston to San Francisco as Michelle, the flight to and from Arcata as Emily, using American for the Houston leg and then switching to United, the only carrier that flew in and out of Arcata. That way she'd be going through two different security lines at SFO—less chance that someone would notice the identity switch that way. And she used two different IP addresses on her VPN to book the two different flights.

It wasn't foolproof, not even close. But it was the best she could do.

She couldn't show up in Arcata as Michelle. The Arcata-Eureka Airport was small, and the odds of her running into someone who knew her as Emily, too great. She'd been to the one bar/restaurant at the airport enough times where the bartender acted like he recognized her, anyway.

And if federal investigators were in Arcata looking into “Jeff's” life—she couldn't risk traveling as Michelle.

She had to keep that identity safe.

Before she fell back asleep, she heard the chime signaling an incoming email on her Safer America laptop.

Caitlin. Did she always stay up this late, Michelle wondered?

Absolutely no problem. Take all the time you need. Anything I can do to help?

Thank you so much,
Michelle wrote back.
I'll let you know. But I should be back Monday evening. If you need me for anything, don't hesitate to call/email.

The first thing she
did when she got to the Arcata house was throw open the windows and sliding glass doors to let the fresh air in. It was in the mid-sixties, a nice day, and after the soupy heat of Houston, just feeling the cool air on her skin seemed to dissolve the knots that had accumulated in her shoulders from the lack of sleep, the flight, her life in general.

The house was fine, at least. No break-ins. The property crime here wasn't as bad as in Eureka, but it was worse than you'd think, for a relatively small city in the redwoods. People blamed it on the tweakers, and on transients who drifted through Humboldt in search of cheap weed. Another good reason to have a home security system.

After that, she made a pot of coffee. Sat on a stool at the wooden chopping block island and contemplated the knotty pine cupboards. They really didn't look that bad, she thought.

She took in a couple deep breaths. Drink your coffee, she told herself. She had a couple hours before the meeting at Evergreen, which she'd set up when she'd landed in Arcata-Eureka.

Drink your coffee, and then go look for the book. Like it's not a big deal.

She didn't know if anyone was watching.

After she'd drunk about
half her cup, she wandered out into the living room.

Some of Danny's larger books were out on the coffee table, appropriately. One on the Antarctic. Another on tigers.

So, the bookcase.

You're just looking for something to read, she told herself. Even if no one was watching, pretend like someone was. Live the part. Something to read before she went to sleep tonight, and for the long trip home tomorrow.

More coffee table books, many of them gifts they'd given each other. Nature and animals, countries he'd been to or wanted to visit. One on Paris that he'd given her, because she'd never been: “Don't all women love Paris?” he'd said, half-joking. “We'll go there someday. Promise.” Books on fighter jets with names like
Viper
and
Eagle
, and several on his beloved Cessna Caravan. Her photography books were out here as well, and the big cookbooks and wine books that were as much about pretty photos as they were recipes and varietals. “Food porn,” Danny liked to call them.

Amazing how many things they'd managed to accumulate together in two years.

There was another bookcase in the bedroom. That one had novels, mostly hers, plus the history and biographies he sometimes liked to read.

She found it on the second shelf, between a history of Timbuktu and a book about how societies collapse under environmental pressure. Funny, she hadn't known he was interested in that kind of thing.

But she didn't have time to think about that. Here was
Taking Flight
.

A thick trade paperback. The cover had what looked like a red electronic bull's-eye over a surreal cloudscape. Michelle looked at the back cover copy. A novel. That alone was unusual—Danny didn't read a lot of novels.

 

Air Force Captain Lex Telluride flies his missions and doesn't think much about their purpose, until he sees something in the skies above Iraq that he can't explain. He wants to forget what he saw, but the image comes to him in dreams: A golden disc, a fluttering of wings. Slowly but surely, his life falls apart
. . .
or is it coming together?

A modern-day Catch-22 that combines surrealist travelogue and Pynchonesque conspiracies into a howl of rage against the absurdities and outrages of war, while somehow remaining a celebration of flight as a metaphor for the elevation of the human spirit.

 

“Lex Telluride”?

Though given that Danny's Air Force nickname was Jink, and he had buddies called Bagger and Punch, maybe the name wasn't completely far-fetched.