Infamy (11 page)

“Yeah, and I'm the adjutant general,” the military police officer said. “On the ground, lady, until we get this sorted out, and lock your fingers behind your neck.”

“Yes, Officer,” Marlene said, complying with the order. “Just please get an ambulance for the young woman. She's the daughter of the officer who used to live here. We were just coming back from his memorial service to retrieve some of his personal effects when we ran into these men who'd broken into the house.”

“An ambulance is on the way,” the MP said. “In the meantime, you always go to memorial services with a gun?”

Marlene sighed. “What can I say? Some girls like purses and lipstick. I'm partial to semiautomatics.”

11

C
LARE
D
UNE FROZE.
S
HE THOUGHT
she'd heard something, or someone, though no one else was supposed to be home. She stood for a moment outside her husband's library, her heart pounding, her hands sweaty, and listened.

There were no more sounds and she decided that she was being paranoid. Wellington was at Camp David with the president on a “boys only” holiday. She'd just checked on Tommy, who was asleep upstairs, the servants had all gone home, and she hadn't seen the brutish Shaun Fitzsimmons for days.

Clare thought about Richie Bryers and wished he was spending the night in the guesthouse. She didn't want to return to the bedroom she shared with Wellington. She wanted to lie in
his arms all night. But it simply wasn't safe. What if the maid or Fitzsimmons showed up in the morning? But recently, he'd been convinced that Constantine was spying on them. “Or maybe you've got me paranoid,” Richie had teased her the last time they got together as he kissed her goodbye. “Let's just take a break and stay separated for a little while.”

“You're not getting tired of me, are you?” she'd pouted.

“I'll never be tired of you,” he'd replied. “I want to spend forever with you. Divorce him and marry me now. We'll never have to spend another night apart.”

However, Clare repeated that it was better to wait for Constantine to make the decision. “It won't be long. He doesn't even try to have sex with me anymore,” she said. “He's probably already got someone on the side. Good for him, hope she talks him into it soon.”

Still, his absence was making her rethink her position on asking for a divorce. That and Richie was convinced her husband was somehow tied up in the shooting of that colonel in Central Park after he read the newspaper articles.
“
Remember what I read in his journal about some colonel and a ‘Russian bitch' being in the way,” he'd reminded her. “Then I heard him talking about a guy named Mueller—and that's the name of the guy who shot that colonel in Central Park that same day. That doesn't
add up to a coincidence. And what about ‘MIRAGE'? It's in his journal and he brought it up, and Iraq, too, with whoever he was talking to at the White House.”

At first Clare had refused to buy into it. “I think you're jumping to conclusions,” she'd said. “I know he's unscrupulous and not at all the man he presents to the public. But murder and espionage? He's always fighting with someone over his business deals, and I think his oil company has refineries in Iraq. Who knows what he meant by a colonel and a Russian being in the way? They could be competitors.”

But Bryers had reminded her that she was the one who thought he might have had something to do with the congressional candidate who fell from his apartment building. “And you're worried he might do something to me if he finds out about us,” he'd pointed out. “What's so far-fetched about this?”

Gradually, Clare had come around. “Maybe you should talk to your friend, that district attorney in New York,” she suggested.

“Butch? Yeah, I've thought about it,” Richie said. “But I don't have any proof. Who's going to believe a public school basketball coach over a well-loved philanthropic billionaire who gives millions of dollars to charities and golfs with the president? I need proof.” He'd thought about it for a minute. “I wish I could get another look at his journal.”

Clare had suggested that she could try to look at it. “I'll take photographs of the pages on my phone and send them to you,” she said.

Richie, however, forbade her. “If this is real, it's not a game,” he said. “It's not worth you putting your life in danger.”

So they'd avoided the topic for a couple of days, and then she'd had another idea. “Imagine if he was convicted of murder,” she said. “We'd be rich, but more important, think of all the good things we could do with the money. We could still live a good life and make a real difference in the world.”

Richie still didn't like the idea, but tonight, after a couple of glasses of wine, she decided to act. She reached on top of the doorjamb where she'd once seen him hide the key to the library, unlocked the door, and went in. Even though she and Tommy were the only ones home, she didn't turn on the lights and instead used the small flashlight she'd brought with her.

Clare walked quickly over to the part of the massive bookshelf where Wellington had carefully lined up his journals in chronological order. Those on the far end she knew were fifty-year-old composition notebooks containing the memories of a child. She moved to the end where the latest journals were stacked and pulled the last from the shelf. Taking out her cell phone and pressing the button to open the camera app, she opened the
journal and began to scan until she saw a page with MIRAGE printed in big bold letters. She took a photograph and sent it to Richie.

Almost immediately he texted back. “What are you doing? Get out of there!”

She was about to turn to another page when she heard a noise again. Her heart jumped into her throat. “Someone's here,” she texted. She hurriedly replaced the journal and left the library, locking the door and putting the key back.

Pausing, she listened but couldn't hear any other sounds. She decided she was paranoid, but she wanted another glass of wine before she continued, so she walked to the kitchen.

Suddenly, the lights went on and she nearly dropped her glass. She whirled around to see who had flicked the switch. “Shaun,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

Fitzsimmons, who was standing on the other side of the kitchen island, smirked. “Thought I might catch you and your boyfriend,” he said.

Clare laughed nervously. “You know Wellington's at Camp David.”

The brute began to move around the island, but she moved, too, to keep it between them. “Quit playing stupid, you fucking whore,” he said. “I'm talking about your boyfriend, Bryers.”

Clare's eyes widened. “You can't talk to me like that. Get out or I'll call Wellington.” She glanced at her cell phone. A text message popped up from Richie. “Are you okay?”

Fitzsimmons laughed. An unpleasant sound. “Messages to your fuck buddy? Doesn't matter, the boss knows all about you two. I even showed him photographs of you locking lips outside of Bryers's apartment. You weren't very careful.”

Clare decided to play tough. “Well, I'm glad it's out,” she said. “I want a divorce.”

The big man sneered. “Think a guy like Wellington Constantine is going to let his whore wife fuck around on him and then get a big settlement?”

“I don't want anything from him,” Clare said. “I just want out.”

“Oh, you're going out, all right. Boss gave me the go-ahead.” Fitzsimmons took a pill bottle out of his pocket and slid it across the island toward her. “Start swallowing.”

Clare stared down at the bottle in disbelief. “You're crazy. I won't do it!”

Fitzsimmons took a cell phone out of his pocket. “You know FaceTime?” he asked. “Of course you do; how stupid of me. You and your little boy toy were probably doing the nasty in front of each other when you couldn't get together.” He tapped on the
screen and spoke to someone who answered. “You there? Good. Point your phone toward the building.”

Sliding his phone across the island to Clare, he said, “A friend of mine is on the other end of this call. You recognize where he's at?”

Clare looked down and her hand went to her mouth. “It's Richie's apartment building,” she gasped.

“Yeah, a nice little love nest while it lasted,” he said. “Too bad that when little Richie goes on his nightly jog, he's going to be involved in an armed robbery. Only this one's going to go south, and Richie's going to get shot.”

Tears welled in Clare's eyes. “You're a monster.”

Fitzsimmons shrugged. “Yeah, probably. But I'm also pissed off. I lost a good man the other night and almost got shot in the process. So don't mess with me. If you want to save your boyfriend's life, you'll start swallowing pills.”

Dazed, Clare reached for the pill bottle. “What are they?”

“OxyContin. Wash them down with your wine and you won't feel a thing,” Fitzsimmons said. “No pain. No muss. No fuss. You'll just float off to sleep and never wake up.”

Clare started to cry. “Please, I just want a divorce. Call Wellington. Tell him I'll sign anything he wants. He can have his money. I don't want anything.”

“You're missing the point,” Fitzsimmons said, impatient now. “You've been giving away something the boss owns. He can't just let that go. Besides, he's having dinner with the president about now and won't want to be disturbed.” He looked at his watch. “I believe we're about five minutes from Richie's run. So what's it going to be?”

Clare nodded and wiped at her tears. “Okay.”

“Now, that's true love,” Fitzsimmons said. “Let's go out by the pool and have a nice relaxing moment on the chaise lounges.”

Clare did as she was told. Sitting down, she took the cap off the bottle, and after a moment's hesitation, she tipped its contents back into her mouth. She picked up the glass of wine and downed it.

“That's a good girl,” Fitzsimmons encouraged her. “It will be over soon.”

Within minutes, Clare began to feel the effects and collapsed back against the lounge. Five more minutes passed and she was vaguely aware that Fitzsimmons was undressing her.

“My, my,” she heard him say. “A shame to waste such a good piece of ass. But I suppose it wouldn't be a good idea for my DNA to be found in you. The medical examiner has been paid off to determine it was a suicide, but he might say something to the boss, and I'd be next.”

“Richie be okay?” she mumbled.

“Probably. For now,” Fitzsimmons said. “It would be suspicious if you both died. He may have told one of his buddies about you. But who knows, the boss has a long memory. Maybe in a couple of years, Richie will have an accident, or maybe that robbery will go down like I said. But for now, he's okay.”

Clare felt Fitzsimmons pick her up and was hazily aware when he walked her down the steps into the shallow end of the pool. She was on her back, looking up at the stars and thinking how beautiful they looked until the grinning face of her murderer got in the way. She felt him press down on her chest and the water close over her face.

Water filled her nostrils and throat and, when she tried to breathe, her lungs. Then her body convulsed and the world began to fade.
I love you, Richie
, she thought.
Goodbye.

12

B
UTCH
K
ARP ALLOWED THE ANGER
to wash over him as he looked out the window of his office at the park across the street. He was now fully aware of the treachery and deceit that had taken place. As his thoughts swirled, he watched children chase after one another in the late-afternoon heat while vendors hawked hot dogs, soda, and knishes to passersby, and panhandlers worked the crowd. His attention was drawn to a young couple lying on the grass locked in an embrace and then turned back to the man who sat defeated in the chair across from his desk with his head down.

“I get you anything, Richie?” Karp asked.

“No, I'm good, thanks, Butch,” Bryers replied, his voice subdued.

Karp nodded and wondered for what must have been the hundredth time that day that of all the people in the world who would crack open the MIRAGE case, it would be an old friend from high school. He and Richie Bryers had played basketball against each other for rival schools in Brooklyn; although fierce competitors on the court, they'd both admired each other's game and were designated co-captains of the elite All-City Basketball Team. Then, when they attended summer basketball camps together, the admiration had developed into a friendship. That friendship had lasted after Karp went off to play for the University of California–Berkeley and Richie went to Harvard. Busy lives since had limited most of their interaction to holiday cards and the occasional phone call, but they hadn't lost touch.

The last thing he'd expected that morning, however, was Bryers calling to say he needed to talk to him about a murder. Surprise had turned to incredulity when his old friend started telling a fantastic story about having an affair with the wife of one of the wealthiest men in the world and that he believed her death was being swept under the rug.

Karp glanced at the
New York Times
lying on his desk. The news of the woman's death was on the top of the front page beneath a double-decker headline: Billionaire Philanthropist's Wife Drowns; Clare Dune Dies in Long Island Home Pool.

A sub-headline suggested that a combination of alcohol and prescription drugs might have been partly responsible for what the story, quoting an anonymous source in the Suffolk County medical examiner's office, termed an “accidental” drowning while hinting at the possibility of suicide. The story noted that Dune's “shocked and grieving” husband, Wellington Constantine, had immediately flown home from Camp David, where he'd been vacationing with the president.

“Mr. Wellington asks that his and his son's privacy be respected as they grieve,” according to a statement released by the billionaire's publicity team.

Initially during his telephone conversation with Richie, Karp had listened politely for old times' sake as Bryers accused Constantine of killing Dune. A moment later, he'd bolted upright in his chair when his friend mentioned that he believed Constantine was involved in “some crazy plot called MIRAGE” and was connected to the murder “of that Army officer in Central Park.” He'd interrupted the conversation and asked Bryers to come in as soon as he could.

Now, with Bryers sitting across the desk from him as Fulton sat nearby listening, Karp had his old friend tell his story. “It has to be his goon, Shaun Fitzsimmons,” Bryers said. “Constantine was at Camp David.”

“Dinner with the president is a pretty good alibi,” Fulton acknowledged.

“He'd never get his own hands dirty,” Bryers said. “But Clare thought he'd had Fitzsimmons push that New York City Council member, Jim Hughes, off his balcony.”

Karp looked at Fulton, who narrowed his eyes. “I know the detectives who worked that case,” Fulton said. “They weren't convinced he was a jumper. Maybe there were some fingerprints left at the scene they haven't been able to connect. I'll pass this along.”

When he got to the part of his story where Clare was in Constantine's library, Bryers showed him the photograph taken from the journal and her next text saying she thought someone else was in the house.

“If you don't mind, Richie, we're going to need to turn over your phone to my forensics guys,” Karp said. “I don't know how they work all of their magic, but I think they might be able to prove that these came from her phone, and what time, and even where she was when they were sent. I'd like to have her phone, but that would tip off our suspects.”

“Whatever it takes,” Bryers responded.

Finally, it all makes sense,
Karp thought, as he looked over at his grieving friend. Like the tumblers in a bank vault, the pieces
of the MIRAGE case clicked into place, with Bryers providing the final digits.

Now Malovo's information also made sense, connecting the dots from a photograph she'd downloaded on Constantine's computer taken in Istanbul to a bloody raid in Syria to a showdown on the tarmac at the air base in Saudi Arabia to the murder of a decorated Army colonel in Central Park. She didn't know the name of the master puppeteer, but Bryers had just drawn a line between those dots to him. No wonder Mueller had been so afraid of “they”—or, more accurately, “he”—when Karp talked him into surrendering at the zoo. Wellington Constantine was not just one of the wealthiest men in the world; he was one of the best connected.

Karp had never liked the man. He created so-called not-for-profits allegedly to fund inner-city welfare organizations that were ignobly antipolice groups led by radical homegrown militants. But that wasn't affecting whether or not he would make a case against him for the murder of Colonel Swindells. That would be determined by the legally admissible evidence. Moreover, Karp would seek an indictment only if he could prove the case not just beyond a reasonable doubt but “beyond any and all doubt,” so that even Constantine's supporters, his media assets and amoral public officials, would have to concede his guilt.

Even if Swindells didn't know who was behind MIRAGE
, Karp thought,
he knew the conspiracy had to go about as far up the ladder as it could. No wonder he warned Ariadne to stay away from the “shark-infested waters.”

Those waters had
nearly engulfed Stupenagel and Marlene when they went to the memorial service and talked to Sasha Swindells. It had never ceased to amaze him how his wife always seemed to end up in the middle of the action, or how good she was at handling it.

Fulton had run a background check on the burglar she shot, which had resulted in interesting but not particularly revealing findings. The deceased was one Toby Milhowski, ex–Special Forces who'd served in Iraq until he and other members of his company were court-martialed and dishonorably discharged for the torturing of civilians.

“There wasn't much else on him, except a New York driver's license that listed a Yonkers address that turned out to be false. He hasn't even filed tax returns since getting out of the Army,” Fulton reported, “which tells me he's a guy flying under the radar. The only thing we could find was a car loan application he filled out a few years back listing his employer as Frontline
Security Services, which had a Newark address but apparently went out of business not long after that. We're trying to run that down, see who else might have been involved.”

No telling who the other burglar had been, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that they'd been after whatever Swin­dells had regarding MIRAGE. Karp found it ironic that the colonel had hidden clues about how to locate that information in a West Point publication about ethics and living an honorable life.
So antithetical to these people's warped ideology
,
he thought,
so probably a good place to hide it.

When Marlene and Ariadne had brought the Gold Book to Karp's office yesterday, they'd all pored over it looking for clues as to what it meant. Obviously, Swindells wanted to get it in the hands of an investigative journalist he trusted. But there was nothing in the thin book that yielded any answers. Not until they turned it over to the DAO's crime lab technicians.

“Turns out that the colonel marked certain letters and words using a highlighter detectable only with a black light,” Fulton said when he brought the book back, along with a copy that showed the highlighted areas. “The crime lab boys were pretty excited about discovering that, though it is still in a code of some type.”

The first part of the coded information was easy enough to decipher. On different pages, Swindells had marked M-I-R-A-
G-E. But he'd also highlighted other letters and numbers that at first didn't make sense until Marlene sat up and said, “Those are GPS coordinates.” She'd quickly punched the coordinates into an app on her cell phone, and then smiled. “It's the library at West Point,” she said.

Further study revealed the title of a book,
Boots and Saddles
, as well as a surname, Farrington, and the words, “The Battle of the Little Bighorn.”
The hints necessitated a return trip for Marlene and Stupenagel, who insisted on going to the academy with Fulton and Jaxon. “After all,” Adriadne had said, “Mick intended that this go to me, and I'm sharing.”

At the academy, they met Sasha Swindells, who escorted them to the library. As they entered the building, Marlene pointed to a directory on the wall. “That solves one riddle,” she said. The directory listed A. E. Farrington as the curator of rare books.

“I say we go straight to the horse's mouth,” Jaxon suggested.

As they told Karp, a few minutes later they found the rather mousey-looking curator sitting in a back office. He'd raised an eyebrow when the unusual group approached him but otherwise said nothing and just frowned.

“I'm looking for
Boots and Saddles
,” Sasha said.

“It's a memoir written by Elizabeth Bacon Custer about her time on the plains with her husband, General George Armstrong
Custer.” Farrington sniffed. “I'm sure you can find it on the shelves. We have several copies that are available to West Point students and alumni.”

“I think this might be a very special copy,” Sasha continued, but Farrington didn't respond.

“My father, Colonel Michael Swindells, might have left it here.”

Still no response. The group looked at one another.

“I'd like to know more about the Battle of the Little Bighorn.”

Farrington smiled sadly. “I've been waiting for you,” he said. “But the colonel, a dear friend—believe it or not we were in the same year here at the Point—made me promise to wait until I heard those words. He gave it to me several days before he was shot.” He got up and walked over to an ancient-looking safe and removed a manila envelope, which he handed to Sasha.

“I was so sorry to hear about your father,” Farrington said. “I hope justice will be done in his name.”

Sasha smiled and had to wipe at a tear that rolled down her cheek. “I hope so, too, and this may help,” she said, and hugged the suddenly embarrassed librarian.

The team had
returned from their excursion to West Point with their prize and reported to Karp, but it wasn't something
he could share with his friend. “I can't tell you everything that is going on,” Karp told Richie. “You're a witness, and it's going to be a long, hard journey getting justice. But I will tell you that this is all part of a bigger picture than you know, even with what you've told me.”

At that moment, there was a knock on the door, and Jaxon and Marlene entered the room. Karp quickly filled them in on Bryers's story.

When he finished, Jaxon could barely contain his anger. “These sons of bitches,” he spat. “This goes beyond murder. This is treason.”

“So what's next?” Marlene asked.

Karp thought about it for a minute. “A lot of dominoes have to fall,” he said. “I need Mueller to turn, which means convicting him at trial. I also want Fitzsimmons. How's our story holding up about what happened the other night?”

“I talked to the superintendent at West Point,” Jaxon said. “A good man, outstanding service record, and served with Colonel Swindells in Vietnam. I told him it was a matter of national security and also important to bringing the colonel's murderers to justice. He raised an eyebrow when I said ‘murderers,' not ‘murderer,' but didn't ask any questions. So far the only thing that's been in the press is that two burglars were caught breaking into
the colonel's house, and that one of them was shot and killed. The name of the shooter is being withheld pending investigation.”

Karp looked at Bryers. “Richie, what I'm going to ask you to do might be dangerous, but it also might help us get the guys who killed Clare.”

“Like I said, whatever it takes,” Bryers said grimly.

“Good. I want to talk it over with Clay. I'll get back to you tonight.”

“Okay.” Bryers nodded and got up to leave. “You know, this is my fault. I don't know if it's because of what we were doing, or because she got caught in the library, but either way it's on my head.”

“You didn't murder her,” Karp told him. “Whatever else you need to deal with, that's your call, but nothing you did was worth killing her for.”

After Bryers left the room, Karp looked at Jaxon. “We got the right files?”

Jaxon nodded. Karp was referring to the contents of the manila envelope they'd brought back from the West Point library. Inside was a book, or most of a book, because a small rectangle had been cut into the pages just deep enough to contain a computer flash drive.

“Yeah, we had it tested,” Jaxon said. “We just got word. It's the MIRAGE file that was taken from us in Saudi Arabia. But it's encrypted, and I'm worried about turning it over to the usual folks who deal with that sort of thing. This goes about as far up as it can go, and no telling where Constantine has his tentacles.”

“I have an idea about that,” Karp said, and looked over at his wife. “You remember Iaian Weber?”