National Burden (16 page)

“That’s why he’s been around so long, Trav. Let’s make sure he feels welcome. I don’t want him thinking we hate him. I’m still pissed about what he did, but he can be a powerful ally.”

Travis nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ve spread the word. I also told him not to hesitate to ask me if he needs anything.”

The olive branch lain with care, Zimmer and his chief advisor moved on to more important topics, namely bolstering the U.S. economy.

+++

Santos Lockwood looked like a recovering alcoholic. Tie askew, wrinkled shirt still showing signs of a coffee sip gone wrong, McKnight’s lackey peered through the Waffle House window. He waved when he saw McKnight, who ignored the motion, instead perusing the menu.

The door slammed behind him from the gust of wind that had literally pushed him in the door, customers looking up at the disheveled man in annoyance. He mouthed a silent,
Sorry
.

The diner was almost full, the smell of grease and batter hanging heavy in the air. Luckily the place no longer allowed smoking. Lockwood hated the restaurant chain, but for some reason Tony had always loved the place, despite his attraction to upper-crust establishments. They’d spent countless midday meals, nursing gut-wrenching and head-pounding hangovers, trying to douse the pain with platefuls of meat and carbs, grease and syrup.

McKnight didn’t look up as his friend sat down, his ball cap-covered head bowed, staring at his ever-present phone. “What took you so long?”

Lockwood hesitated, knowing that McKnight hated excuses. “A lot of work to catch up on. They’ve got me doing some--”

“I don’t care. I’m having waffles and bacon. Order for me while I go take a piss.”

Lockwood nodded subserviently, averting his gaze to pick up the menu, sticky to the touch. He wasn’t hungry, at least not around his tormenter.

By the time McKnight returned, Lockwood had placed their orders, he opting for an egg white omelet, hoping to be spared the ribbing about his weight, although his old pal would probably find a way.

McKnight, looking rather pleased with himself for some reason, took a slow sip of his coffee. “So what’s new?”

Lockwood shrugged, trying to be nonchalant even though his insides were tangled in knots and he felt like he had to take a dump. “You heard about Southgate?”

McKnight nodded, not wanting to give anything away. Privately, he’d been furious, much like Dryburgh, until he realized that the senator was now probably in a place less likely to do him harm. The congressman had wondered if the senator had mentioned his name to the President, but in the end he didn’t care. At the moment, Florida Congressman Antonio McKnight was a nobody. But that was about to change.

“Do you know how it happened?”

Lockwood shook his head, wondering if maybe he should have and that’s what the last minute meeting was all about. His knees knocked together twice before he placed a firm hand on each to stop the shaking. “No. It sounded like even Southgate was in the dark. He’s busy now, though, doing what he does best, mobilizing his crew like an obedient little army.”

“What about Zimmer? How’s he doing?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t get as much access as…”

McKnight caught himself before he slammed his palm onto the table, gingerly picking up his knife instead, twirling it slowly between his fingers like a drumstick. “I didn’t pull those strings and get you back in the White House for you to pull this lame ass shit,” he hissed, so only Lockwood could here. “You stay on top of your job or--”

“Isn’t what I’m doing enough? I mean, if I get caught they’ll throw me in jail, or worse.”

McKnight laughed at the look on Lockwood’s face. “The only way you get caught is if you run to the president yourself and someone catches you in the act. You’re the one who told me you couldn’t get caught, right?”

Santos Lockwood silently cursed the day he’d met Tony McKnight. He cursed himself for completing McKnight’s assignments so the distracted college student wouldn’t fail out of school. He should have let it happen. Hindsight. But at the time, he’d felt sorry for McKnight, whose own father was a drunk, and had spent most of his son’s life making him and his mother miserable. College had been McKnight’s escape, through a minority scholarship he’d rightfully earned, but the freedom and the memories plagued him. On some level Lockwood had seen himself as his friend’s guardian angel. On another, he knew what McKnight might become if given the chance. Lockwood had always been smart, if a bit pudgy and more than a little awkward. The thought of riding McKnight’s coattails had been too much for the straight A student to pass up.

“I promise I won’t get caught. What I’m doing is untraceable, I told you.”

McKnight shook his head. “Sure would be something to see you thrown in prison. I’ll bet they’d put you with a big bull…”

Just then the waitress appeared with their food, balanced expertly on a brown serving tray.

“Waffles?” she asked.

McKnight raised his hand and gave her a dazzling smile. Her battle-hardened scowl turned into a broken grin, one that rarely saw the light of day. Lockwood was always amazed at the power his old roommate had over people. It was what made him such a good politician.

“Egg white omelet?” asked the waitress, her scowl returning, as if the mere mention of the healthier fare disgusted her.

Lockwood raised his hand, and their meals were served.

Once the waitress had made her way back to the L-shaped bar, McKnight looked across the table with an evil smirk. “Trying to get healthy on me, Panchito?”

Clouds hung low over the city, obscuring the normally expansive view from The Peninsula Suite. It looked like the weather was going to take another nose dive, the news calling for scattered flurries and more flight delays. What could be seen of the flittering cars below showed the on-again off-again anxiety of New York City winter drivers, always with somewhere to go, but never seeming to get there on time.

Cal, MSgt Trent, Daniel and Leo Martindale had just finished their room service breakfast, the remnants of which now lay in piles on the coffee table.

Due to the obvious security risk should he leave, Leo Martindale had taken Cal’s suggestion and stayed the night in their spacious suite. Hotel management had been more than happy to wheel up an extra bed, not that it looked to Cal like Leo had slept. The extra bed was still made to the hotel’s exacting standards. He hadn’t mentioned it yet, assuming the billionaire was a) scared, and b) always busy.

The mogul didn’t talk any more about the murder, pleading to have the night to get some much-needed work done and that they could start investigating in the morning. It wasn’t SSI’s style, but Cal went along with Martindale’s wishes, knowing they’d be able to get more done in the daylight.

“Leo, I’m just curious, how much did this suite cost?”

Martindale didn’t look up from his phone. Between that and his laptop, he hadn’t stopped working even through breakfast. “Nothing. The owners are friends of mine. I’ve also done some work for them in the past.”

Trent whistled appreciatively. “Sure must be nice to have friends like that. Hell, my boss won’t even pick up the tab at the bar sometimes.” He flashed Cal a huge grin, receiving a roll of the eyes in response.

Cal turned to Leo, who finally looked up from what he was doing. “Let’s go over this again. You got back to your home in the Hamptons two days ago and found your head of security strung up in your garage. Was there any sign of forced entry?”

“No. Even the alarm was still on. Hell, my wife and kids were in the house!”

“How big is the house?”

“Twenty one thousand square feet, give or take a few.”

Cal resisted the urge to whistle. Twenty-some thousand square feet was large by anyone’s measure. No wonder his family hadn’t heard anything. “Did it look like he was killed there or just strung up after they carted in the dead body?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say they did it there.”

The air in the room seemed to go cold. None of the men were novices to death, but the fact that someone had been brazen enough to kill the poor guy while the Martindales were but a few feet away sent prickles down Cal’s arms. What he wouldn’t give to get his hands on the culprits.

“And where’s the body now?”

“It’s being prepared for the funeral. I was the one who called his wife.”

Cal didn’t envy the man. He’d had to make similar visits in the past, events that would forever be etched in his memory. “Where’s your family now?”

“They’re at our place here in the city with round-the-clock security. I’m looking for a place for them for the next few weeks.”

That was good. Cal didn’t want to have to worry about watching the family too. If he had, it probably would’ve meant calling in a new team to do that part. “And what about the police? What are they doing to investigate?”

Martindale hesitated for a moment, looking slightly embarrassed, as if wondering how much he should say. “I…pulled a couple strings. I know some guys high up in the department. They understood my need to keep things under the radar. Lucky for me it happened in the Hamptons and not in the city. NYPD probably would’ve been all over me. Anyway, I told them that I’d like to keep it discrete until I could have my people look into it, citing federal financial law and possible security breaches within our system.”

Cal was having a hard time believing the authorities would give Martindale, despite his billions, the latitude to skirt the law. It was turning a blind eye to a heinous crime. “What’s the deal you made with them? Obviously they can’t just let it go.”

“No. They gave me four days.”

“And then what?”

“Then they’ll take over the investigation, which will be all over the news before you can say bootcamp.”

Cal could see why Martindale wouldn’t want that to happen. For a man whose business was based on trust and the money of thousands of investors, word of a security breach, let alone the murder of Dale & Moon’s security chief, could send clients into a panicked frenzy. Cal looked to Daniel and Trent, who both nodded. “Okay, so where should we start?”

+++

Paris, France

The hotel dining area was packed, each table expertly arranged to maximize the bulging space of the low lit room. Mostly aristocrats, with a smattering of Asian tourists, the diners kept their voices at a comfortable murmur, the sound of soft classical music floating along its edges, piped in from some unseen source.

It felt stifling to Jonas Layton. Preferring the laid back air of open sidewalks and gabby coffee shops, he did his best to keep his cool, focusing instead on his phone and the never-ending influx of messages from around the globe. He had already turned down two European firms who’d done their best to recruit Layton for extended jobs. Citing an ongoing transition back home, he’d expertly maneuvered his way around a flat out no, instead offering a few free tidbits that could help their respective companies immensely, the insight alone probably worth upwards of hundreds of thousands of dollars. The executives had left looking somewhat sad, but Layton knew they were acting. He’d let them off the hook without paying a dime, and had even been kind enough to give them something valuable in return.

Truthfully, Jonas Layton didn’t want any more work. He already had enough on his plate, and if the thing with Dryburgh worked, he and his company could be set for quite some time. The thought made him smile, wondering where he’d take his next extended vacation, something he’d instituted for himself five years earlier after a near nervous breakdown.

Now he worked two months and took the third off. He’d found that it kept his mind agile, creative and engaged. Most importantly, it kept his genius brain from tanking like so many other ambitious CEOs who’d crashed and burned after taking a start-up to market. If the world knew the climbing suicide rate of successful CEOs, many of whom were considered rock stars in their respective industries, Layton believed fewer and fewer up-and-comers would seek the stardom of the highest level of the corporate kingdom.

His phone pinged, alerting him through the tiny Bluetooth earpiece he always wore in his ear. It was a stock alert he’d set up the night before. Layton’s eyes widened as he pulled up the numbers.
From $50 a share down to $27 in half a day!
He quickly scanned the rest of Dow, looking for similar plunges. Nothing out of the ordinary.
How did they do it?

Early that morning, Dryburgh had stopped by his room to give Layton the ticker symbol of the stock with a cocky, “Keep an eye on this one.” Layton had been confused by the tip, especially after doing a little research into the company. Strong cash reserves. Healthy patent life. No executive turnover. Nothing to indicate any abnormalities.

He didn’t get a chance to think on it further as two men approached the table, each looking the clone of the other in their cookie cutter Armani wardrobe, topped off with matching baby blue bow ties. Layton rose to meet his courters, already knowing that he’d deny their invitation, instead ready to focus on whatever Geoffrey Dryburgh was concocting.