Guilty Minds (30 page)

W
hen I was finally released from the hospital, I couldn’t wait to get back to Boston. But it wasn’t to be. The US attorney’s office needed me to attend Thomas Vogel’s pretrial detention hearing. They weren’t charging him with murder but with conspiracy to commit. Richard Rasmussen, the guy who actually killed Kayla and staged the suicide, had been charged with murder one.

They wanted to make sure Vogel remained in the DC jail through his trial. Which could be a year off or more.

So the government had to show that he might flee, or pose a danger to anyone in the community, or attempt to obstruct justice, or threaten a witness. The US attorney wanted me there, in case the defense put witnesses on. They’d parked me in a conference room next to the courtroom, where I paced like some caged tiger.

Vogel had hired the best criminal defense attorney in DC, a former federal prosecutor who was said to be a maestro of the courtroom. I was curious to hear some of the proceedings, but the courtroom was a media circus, packed with reporters and spectators, and I wanted to keep my
head down and out of the way of the cameras. So I sat in the conference room next door and paced.

Suddenly it was over. I heard the explosion of babble and the clatter and the cacophony. I stood in the conference room doorway, trying to avoid the crush. Finally I caught a glimpse of the AUSA who was running the case. She didn’t look happy.

Vogel was a free man. He was out on bail of half a million dollars, which was chump change for a man of Vogel’s means and contacts.

On the way out of the DC Superior Court building, I saw Vogel, fifty feet away or so, as he was descending the front steps.

His eyes met mine. He gave me a firm, knowing nod—friendly, almost—and then, deliberately, purposefully, he leveled a pistol salute, making a finger gun with his thumb up, his forefinger pointing directly at me.

And he smiled.

—

I met Mandy for an early supper at Lobby, the dive bar with the license plates on the wall, the beer-sticky floor, the aroma of french fries. I had my go-bag with me, an aluminum Rimowa carry-on, which I stashed on the floor in our booth, at my feet. The speakers were blasting a David Bowie song. “Young Americans,” I realized.

She looked pretty terrific when she showed up. She had her hair up and was wearing pearl earrings, and her skin glowed. She had dark red lipstick on, which somehow complemented her coppery hair.

She ordered a Diet Coke and I had a Natty Boh, and for a while we watched the TV mounted to the wall, tuned to CNN. Jeremiah Claflin was being interviewed. I watched the fluid hand gestures, his sad eyes, the sententiously arched eyebrows, the drape of his hand-tailored suit.
His perfectly knotted blue silk tie. The downward curve of his mouth as he spoke. His very white teeth. “He was the best of us,” Claflin was saying.

He was canny, Claflin was. I admired his fluency, his almost-cloaked ambition, all those smooth traits that had pushed him to the high court. Because he knew the truth about Gideon Parnell, yet he was participating in the lie. Claflin, Senator Brennan had said, was known for clarifying the concept of
mens rea
. Which struck me as ironic, since in Washington, pretty much everyone had a guilty mind.

We’d met for a drink in his office the evening before. He wanted to thank me in person. I wanted to ask him about Gideon, about what kind of long-festering resentment might have led him to drag his protégé’s name through the mud. But he feigned innocence. He didn’t know what I was talking about. I wondered: How did he really feel about Gideon, after all that had happened? Curdled ambivalence, surely. But that didn’t play well on TV. The lie was more convenient.

Now, on CNN, he was talking about Gideon and what a great man he was.

“He was, you know,” Mandy said, turning to me with an even gaze.

“Was what?”

“A great man.”

I nodded. The stories in
The
Washington Post
and
The
New York Times
and the Associated Press all mentioned the fact that he was known to be suffering from depression. Someone in his office had put that out, as if it lent his suicide a kind of logic. It wasn’t true, as far as I knew.

The obituaries were all front-page, of course, and they all talked about how he’d marched with Martin Luther King and how he’d golfed with presidents. To me, the man was a heroic figure with a profound flaw, a streak of vanity that had propelled him to greatness and yet also propelled him to his destruction.

The waitress took our orders. We both asked for burgers. I got the fries, and she got the Greek side salad.

“Are you in pain, still?” she asked. She indicated the bandage on my neck where I’d gotten slashed struggling with the Centurion guy in the basement of Vogel’s house.

“That’s nothing,” I said. “It’s the bruised ribs.”

“I always thought bulletproof vests protected you.”

“It stopped the bullet. It can’t stop the impact.”

She put her hand on mine, warm and tender.

“Are you enjoying being on TV all the time?” I said, teasing a little.

“I guess so. I don’t know. Part of me does. Part of me thinks I’m just a publicity whore.”

“You can always say no.”

She shrugged. “You say no too many times and they stop asking.”

“That’s the point.” I smiled. “You’re really good at it, Mandy. You’re a natural.”

“Thanks. You wouldn’t believe the offers I’ve been getting. I’ve been talking to a couple of literary agents—one at William Morris Endeavor, and one at ICM. They both think they can get me a really nice book deal. I mean, a
lot
of money. Tomorrow I’m on
The View
. And I’m taping
60 Minutes
. Can I give them your name?
60 Minutes,
I mean.”

“For what?”

“Don’t be coy, Nick. You know damn well why. The mystery man behind a whole chain of events.” She paused. “It would be great. For business, I mean. What do you think?”

I shook my head. “No, thanks.”

“But this case was such a huge win for you.”

I shrugged uneasily. With Gideon and Kayla Pitts dead and Vogel out on bail, it didn’t feel like much of a win. “The only good part of this was you,” I said.

She cocked her head, curious what I meant.

“You’re safe, you’re thriving, you’re on fire.
60 Minutes, The View
 . . .”

“Oh, and I’m in talks with TruTV—they want me to host a new true-crime investigative series they’re calling
Spotlight.
How cool is that?”

“
Spotlight,
huh?” I laughed.

“Yeah,
Spotlight.
I know: just what you avoid. I mean, I realize it’s not serious journalism or anything. It’s journalism lite. But it could be a way for me to get back into the business.”

“Sure.”

She studied me for a long moment. “We really don’t swim in the same waters, do we?”

I drained my beer. “How do you mean?”

“You’re, like, one of those deepwater fish. Like a dragonfish or whatever they’re called, that live a mile down, where it’s almost totally dark and the pressure’s intense and the water is freezing cold.”

“Come on, Mandy, I’m just—”

“No, really,” she said, interrupting me. “You prefer the dark. You’re all about keeping secrets.”

“Secrets are my business. I keep ’em or I find a new line of work.”

“I thought lies were your business. Isn’t that what you told me once?”

“Both, I guess.”

In the last few days I’d been thinking about her a lot. If we lived in the same town, maybe we could keep on spending time with each other. But I was going back to Boston and she was staying in Washington. Our paths were diverging in other ways, too. Mandy Seeger, the kidnapped journalist, was becoming a TV personality, an instant Internet celebrity.

She was right, though. I preferred the shadows. That was where I belonged.

“How much longer are you in town?” she asked, playing with her straw.

“I’m flying home tonight.”

“Tonight?”

I pointed to my carry-on, on the floor next to the booth. “I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on.”

“And I’ve got to fly to New York early tomorrow morning. So . . . yeah. Wow.”

I glanced down at the tabletop, at the gashes and wounds in the wood. I was feeling a little numb and more than a little sad. Maybe we both were.

“Next time I see you will probably be on TV.”

“Don’t let me read about you in Slander Sheet
.
”

I chuckled. “Yeah, right. Come see me if you’re in Boston.”

“I will.”

An empty promise, surely, but I let it lie.

Outside the bar we said good-bye beside my cab. We kissed, in a slow lingering way that I didn’t expect. It didn’t feel like a good-bye.

When we separated, she put a hand on my cheek. “Bye, Nick,” she said, and she turned around and gave me a little wave.

Then I got in the cab. A motorcycle roared by at deafening volume. As we pulled away from the curb, I turned to watch her, through the rearview window, walking away. I was hoping to exchange one last glance, but she never turned around.

Some very generous people helped me research and write this novel, and I want to thank them. They include, for much help on cell phones and computer forensics, Jeff Fischbach; on mobile phone forensics, Tom Slovenski; on computer hacking, Adam Hernandez, and especially Kevin Ripa. On perimeter security, locks, and lock picking: Marc Weber Tobias and, once again, Jeff Dingle and Kevin Murray. On hotel security: Jeffrey Saunders of the Saunders Hotel Group, Jon Estabrook of the Lenox Hotel, Jim McGlynn of Engineering PLUS, and Fred Juran of Kaba.

Jay Groob of American Investigative Services was again extremely helpful, as were Dick Rogers, Jack Hoban, Matthew Fleming; and Sean Murphy of
The
Boston Globe
. In DC, my thanks to Kenneth Cummins of the Capitol Group, Robert “Buzz” Glover of the MPD, and especially James Trainum.

On gossip websites: Ben McGrath of
The New Yorker
and Gaby Darbyshire. For help with ecclesiastical Latin, thanks to Dr. William L. Daniel and Matt C. Abbott. I had legal assistance from Martin Garbus and, once again, Jay Shapiro of White and Williams; big thanks to the brilliant jurist Leo Katz of the University of Pennsylvania Law School for advice on
mens rea
. Clair Lamb was, as always, invaluable in all sorts of
ways, including DC research; thanks as well to Karen Louie-Joyce; and to my good friend Rick Weissbourd, Stanford ’79.

My thanks for the loving support of my wife, Michele Souda, and our daughter, Emma J. S. Finder. At Dutton, I’m grateful to Amanda Walker, Carrie Swetonic, Jess Renheim, and especially Ben Sevier. Finally, thanks so much to my terrific agent, Dan Conaway of Writers House, and my brother Henry Finder.

Joseph Finder
is
The New York Times
bestselling author of twelve previous novels, including
The Fixer
,
Suspicion
,
Vanished
, and
Buried Secrets.
Finder’s international bestseller
Killer Instinct
won ITW’s Thriller Award for Best Novel of 2006. Other bestselling titles include
Paranoia
and
High Crimes
, which both became major motion pictures. He lives in Boston.

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