Life of Secrets (10 page)

"I don't
think of it as having gone wrong. But let's not argue about it. Anyway, I was
hired to find out some information about the West campaign. Now..." She
looked away and sighed. "This is hard for me. I've never given away a
client's name before. Not once. It's an even stronger rule for me than giving
away sources is for you." That last part, she added very deliberately.

"You know
I'm not going to publish this. I already told you that."

"You don't
understand. It's not about keeping the names out of the papers or the police
report. It's just that I
never
tell. That's pretty integral to being a
reliable person in this profession. Not to other clients, not to other
insiders, not to my father... never."

Alyssa paused.
"There's no one else I could tell, Matt. No one else I would ever trust
this much."

He seemed to
glow. Normally, she would have cringed at it. In the past, she had always been
embarrassed by how much he liked her. But after the past day, human
companionship felt really good. Knowing that someone liked her and wanted her
around felt like sinking into a hot bath.

She went on.
"So Tom Wheeler hired me to hack the West campaign. Not ordinary computer
hacking, that you do over the wires. I had to get physical access to West's
hard drive and get Tom all the data on it. I don't know exactly what they
wanted. I never asked. If I don't need to know, then everyone's happier if I
don't ask."

Matt nodded.
"That makes sense – as much as any of this makes any sense, anyway."

"Well, I
broke into the West headquarters, cracked the hard drive, and got out with the
data. No muss, no fuss. Two million bucks."

Her friend gave
a low whistle.

"That's a
ton of money. Well, for me. Not for you, though. You’re a Chambers. Two million
bucks comes out every time H. Franklin sneezes. Makes me wonder why you
bother."

"I told
you, it's for the challenge. But of course, the story doesn't end there. The next
morning I woke up to a phone call from a subcontractor, screaming at me about
how he wasn't going to be my patsy. At first I had no idea what he was talking
about. By the time I figured it out, my world had narrowed down to running and
hiding."

"So you
didn't do it?"

"There
were two other people in there. One I never got a look at, the other I barely
saw the top of his head. An easy first guess is that the one I never saw was
West and the one I barely saw was the assassin."

Matt didn't say
anything for a while. The two of them sipped espresso until Alyssa asked,
"Well?"

Matt shrugged.
"I'm not sure what to say. It's good to know you're innocent."

"Matt, I
need your help."

"Why?
You've dodged the Secret Service, the FBI, and everyone else for a full day now,
and from what I saw earlier you won't have any trouble keeping it up. You don't
need a simple reporter who used to think that dirty politics meant TV ads. I
can't fight, I can't sneak, I can't shoot, and you already used up my car. So
why not get on a plane, get out of the country, and disappear?" He sighed
and looked away.

"Probably
better for me."

"I can't
Matt. I'm not out to run. I'm out to clear my name."

"You need
me to publish a story describing how you're innocent? Except for all that
breaking and entering and industrial espionage, that is. I don't think that's
going to get off the ground, Alyssa. It’s going to take a lot more than your
word to undo everything they’ve put in the media about you."

She shook her
head.

"No. You
called Wheeler just before I went into the West HQ. You were asking about him
hiring a private investigator. Who gave you that lead, Matt? I need to
know."

Once George
Pierce had been her only connection to her work in politics. Those days were long
over. The woman in front of her now had been referred by Lance Reeder's
one-time campaign manager. She had her back turned and didn't know Alyssa was
behind her.

The street was
pitch dark, and the woman was on her way home from a hard night of partying.
Politics was often like that, Alyssa had learned – at least, the campaign part.
Her
politics were never like that. But campaign staff worked hard and
then played hard, as the saying went. This particular woman had just spent a
couple hours drinking with fellow staffers but was now on her way home to get
what little sleep she could before a new spin cycle started with a new day.

Two cat-like
steps brought Alyssa within striking distance of the woman. Deftly, her hand
shot forward and covered the subject's mouth and the barrel of her .22 went to
the back of the woman's neck.

"Don't
scream and don't move. You might be carrying mace, but I'm carrying a gun, so I
win." Her voice was a harsh whisper, too low to be identified.

There was a
brief moment of panicked struggling – typical at moments like this, Alyssa had
long since learned – and then the other woman went stock still, rigidly frozen
like a recruit on a parade ground. When she lifted her hand slightly, the
subject whispered, "Please! Take anything you want in my purse. Just take
the whole purse, and let me go. Please."

"I'm not
here to rob you. I'm here to rob someone else, as I understand it. D.W. Tilman
said you wanted a plumber."

"What?"

The woman tried
to turn, and Alyssa tightened her grip again to keep her in place.

"Don't
turn around. I steal campaign secrets for a living. I've been told you wanted
to hire someone of that particular profession. It's not a legal business – I
don't like strangers being able to identify me. So keep still, eyes front, and
tell me what you want."

"Y...
you're the woman Tilman told me about? The one who... who gets things?"

"For a
fee."

Alyssa dragged
the woman into an alley to the right. Once they were safely away from casual
observers, she went on. "Now, if Tilman was properly informed – usually
that's one of his few virtues – you're having issues with the press having
their hands on some troublesome information, is that right?"

"Financial
records. They've gotten enough bank records together to trace a lot more labor
union money into our account than the campaign finance laws allow."

"How'd
they get those? Your FEC reports are public, but your actual bank records
should be almost impossible for another campaign to get." Alyssa knew
campaign laws better than most lawyers.

"Our
finance director sold us out. He had the statements, and the other guys
blackmailed him into giving them to a young reporter hungry for a story that
can make his career. He didn't give the press everything, but he gave them
enough to write a story. Please, I won't turn around. Could you at least let go
of me? This is uncomfortable."

Alyssa took her
hand off the woman's jaw and stepped back. "So what good will it do us to
get those records back if your finance director can just rat you out
again?"

"He's
fired now, obviously. He can't get any more bank statements. Without those,
it's just the word of a disgruntled former employee."

"That's
still a bad story."

"But more
survivable than one with proof." The young campaign manager twitched as
though she wanted to turn around but caught herself.

"Just so
you understand that I take no responsibility for how that story plays out. You
hire me to remove those records from your opponent’s possession, not to spin.
If I deliver my part and you still lose, don't blame me."

The campaign
manager whispered, "I'm not an idiot, of course I know that. Sure, you can
beat me in a fistfight, but in my own area I'm very good. Let me deal with the
spin. Can you do your part?"

"Of
course," Alyssa replied.

"How
much?"

"Half a
mil
."

It had become
her usual fee. She'd found that it was about all the market would bear.

The client
coughed and asked, "
How
much?"

Apparently this
young woman wasn't as experienced with the market rate for law-breaking.

"Don't
even think of haggling. Just say yes or no."

"I need
time to work out that kind of money, especially without our finance guy. We'll
pay you when we have the goods."

"Half up
front. That's my rule."

"We
can't
.
The money isn't there, not right now. Surely you know it takes time for a campaign
to come up with money that can be hidden. You probably deal with that every
day. But we can't afford to wait – the kid from the
Post
is probably
writing it right now."

About an hour
later, Alyssa shattered the back window of a ten-year-old Honda to steal a
uniform cap and insulating sleeve from a pizza delivery driver. She even left a
couple hundred dollar bills behind to pay for the damage. Then she went to a
different pizza place and bought a pie for carry out. By the time she arrived
at the newspaper, she looked every inch like she was bringing in dinner.

The
receptionist at the
Post
sent her back to the newsroom with the pizzas
without ever realizing that the reporters hadn't sent out for food yet.

Once inside,
Alyssa dodged into the women's room. In her padded thermal carrying case was
one pizza for a realistic smell. The rest of it was occupied by black jeans and
a turtleneck – good for sneaking, but normal enough to pass for an ordinary
visitor if she were spotted. Rapidly she changed clothes and stuffed the
delivery uniform into the case.

As always, more
than half of her disguise came simply from attitude. As long as she acted like
she had every reason to be there, no one paid her much attention. She walked
among the scattered desks and cubicles of the
Post's
newsroom, stealing
glances at computer screens when no one was looking. She listened carefully
too, eavesdropping on the reporters' conversations as they worked. From what
she heard and saw, she rejected the first few desks she passed. They were
occupied by people working on other stories – stories they would actually get
to file.

But then she
passed a desk where a reporter worked alone, away from his chattering
colleagues. He wasn't talking. He simply hunched over his keyboard, typing
furiously. Approaching the man from behind, Alyssa could read a bit of his
computer screen.

"...records
reveal that the United Brotherhood of Commercial Transport Workers illegally
spent two million..."

This was the
man. And she knew him.

It was Matt
Barr.

Her jaw hit the
floor and goose bumps broke out all over Alyssa's skin. She stared at him – her
oldest friend, the man who'd been breaking his heart over her time and again.
For too long, she was simply frozen in place, staring at the friend she had
come to rob. Belatedly, she realized she would stand out if she just stood
there, so she ducked behind a desk where none of the other reporters could see
her. Hiding there, she peeked under the bottom of the workstation and stared
some more, completely at a loss as to how to proceed. And as she watched, she
heard her father's voice, so clearly she thought he must be in the room with
her.

Before long
in politics, you'll have to decide whether there are things that are beneath
you.

The noise of
Matt's typing finally stopped, and he pushed back from the desk and stretched.
Yawning, he stood up and walked away, heading for the restroom.

There couldn't
possibly be a better time. He'd be gone for a minute, maybe two. In that time
she could grab the documents, sabotage the computer, and be heading for the
door before he zipped up.

She remembered
the other half of her father's advice: if there are things that are beneath
you, you'll get out of politics. If there aren't, you'll make history.

Swallowing
thickly, she pulled on a pair of gloves and rose from behind the desk.

"Alyssa
Chambers. We just keep running into each other."

The words
dumped a gallon of adrenaline straight into her bloodstream, but somehow Alyssa
fought off her instincts and froze. She stopped mid-stride, looking almost like
a photograph.

She recognized
the voice immediately. After a long pause she said, "I wish I could say I
was happy about that."

From behind
her, a man stepped out of the shadows and walked into her field of vision. He
was wearing a double-breasted navy suit and a red tie, as if he'd just come
from a cocktail party. Except for the silenced pistol in his hand, he could
have fit right in at any charity fundraiser. His slicked back hair and scar
confirmed what she knew from his voice. Fred Harris.

"I'd offer
to shake hands, but..." he hefted his pistol slightly, never taking its
barrel away from Alyssa. He held it low at his side to keep it out of sight to
most of the reporters in the room. The newsroom around her seemed frozen, its
bustle gone as if that had been the illusion. How could they not be noticing
this? How could they not see? Rationally, Alyssa knew that while the two of
them stood casually talking, no one would pay them the slightest mind. After
all, she'd relied on the same technique herself many times over. But with her
fight or flight instincts raging, she could not bring her body to accept what
her brain was telling her.

"Does Matt
know you're here?"

After wasting
so much time hesitating to betray him, it would hurt to discover he'd already
betrayed her.

"Of course
not. Prissy little reporter deal directly with a blackmailer? Never! He thinks
his source handed those bank statements over of his own free will. It's just
that I knew the opposition would have to respond, and if they did, there was
only one person who might be able to get this far. So I figured I better wait
here and protect my investment in case you showed up."

A scream ripped
through the scene.

Alyssa's head
whirled to the right without conscious thought, where she saw one of the
reporters staring at her and Harris, mouth open, and shrieking. Someone had
finally noticed the gun. A distant part of Alyssa's mind realized that her
opportunity was gone forever. The scream would surely bring Matt out of the bathroom.

Harris had the
same reaction. He turned to stare at the interloper. The difference was, Alyssa
recovered faster.

Without even
turning back to face Harris, she pivoted on one foot and sent a high kick
flying into his temple. He went down like a chopped tree, but he also had his
finger on the trigger of his weapon. It went off as he fell.

The bullet went
far wide of Alyssa. Instead, the unconscious man's last act had been to shoot a
nearby computer monitor, which exploded in a shower of sparks.

When the pistol
went off, and then the monitor exploded, the rest of the newsroom staff joined
in the panic. They all dove for the floor just as, across the room, Alyssa saw
Matt come running out of the bathroom.

More afraid of
him seeing her than she'd been of the gun, she threw herself on the floor just
like the reporters.

Someone pulled
a fire alarm, or a burglar alarm, or something, because a screeching siren
began to pierce the chaos, so loud Alyssa's hands went to her ears without
thinking.

Then flames
began to lick out of the bin of a nearby paper shredder, where a spark from the
blasted monitor had fallen. They caught a computer cord hanging above the
shredder, bringing more sparks that landed on a stack of paper.

Chambers
crawled to Matt's desk on her belly, praying that he would do the rational
thing and duck for cover. She peeked up over his desk until she saw the bank
statements sitting on top of the pile of papers. With one furtive motion of her
hand, she grabbed them.

Behind her, a
room full of newsprint was starting to burn, and acrid smoke made her nose
scrunch up. Alyssa squirmed around and put the bank statements into the growing
flames, watching as her last scrap of morality twisted into ash in the heat.

The flames were
too close for comfort now, and they were spreading in other directions, too.
The other reporters fled from the growing blaze – she could see them running
out the front door she'd entered a lifetime and ten minutes ago.

Alyssa grabbed
the laptop off Matt's desk, the story about illegal union financing still on
the screen. She threw it into the blaze as well, and then she hefted Harris
over her shoulder.

She didn't want
to let the man die. Maybe she still had some scruples left.

Deception was
part of her job, after all. Deceiving herself came easy.

She ran for the
nearest window and threw another computer monitor through it to break the
glass. Then she vaulted out with her unconscious nemesis on her shoulder.
Alyssa left him behind – safely away from the blaze, with his gun in his hand and
his fingerprints all over it, waiting for the police who would surely show up.