The Capitol Game (36 page)

“Eva. She’s back, rotten drunk, and pissed enough to throw a punch. Old Jack’s about to get an earful.” He rolled down his window and listened. What fun. He was parked nearby, across the street, in the driveway of a young couple who were off on a European safari for a month. He could hear everything.

Eva pounded loudly on Jack’s door and stood there, swaying back and forth. “Jack, you bastard, come to the door. Come on, open up, I know you’re there.” She was bellowing loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear, nearly the whole county. Lights began popping on in bedrooms. A few faces crowded up to windows.

After about a minute of her hollering and banging, the door opened. Jack stood there in his bathrobe. He invited her inside but she refused. “I’d rather have it out, here, buster. I want the whole neighborhood to hear this,” she announced at the top of her lungs. She was definitely getting her wish.

“If that’s what you want, fine,” Jack said, remarkably smooth and patient. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “What’s this about, Eva? What’s the matter?”

“You just shut up, ’cause this is my show. I’ll do the asking.” Her speech was slurred; the s’s came out with h’s, and the t’s virtually disappeared. She was totally, utterly smashed.

Jack shrugged.

“How long have I known you?” Eva demanded.

“Seven months, more or less.”

“Am I ugly?”

“No. You’re very, very beautiful.”

“You got a problem? Some fetish I don’t satisfy? Whatsa matter with me, Jack? Boobs too small? Butt not big enough? Too easy, not easy enough, what?”

He smiled and tried to get her to relax. When she didn’t smile back he said, “It’s cold, come inside.”

She leaned forward and gave Jack a strong blast of whiskey breath.

“You’re drunk, Eva. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

“What if I said I’m in love with you, Jack?”

“That’s nice. I like you, too. I just don’t like to be rushed.”

She swayed drunkenly from side to side. She was beautiful. Even drunk, with messy hair and slack, boozy features, she was still beautiful, and sexy. When she nearly toppled over, Jack reached out and grabbed her arm. She brushed it off. “Why haven’t you ever kissed me?”

“Maybe I’m too busy to get involved right now. Maybe the timing’s not right. Listen, you drove all the way up here, you’ve been drinking, and you’re unsafe on the roads at any speed. Come inside. Let me put some food in your stomach.”

The watcher nearly slammed a fist on the dashboard. Food in her stomach? Wrong combination, you jerk. A stunning woman is standing outside your door, she’s inebriated and loose, and desperately wanting something more than polite conversation and a light kiss. Come on, Jack, he felt like jumping up and screaming—be a man. All these months of frustration, give her a night to remember. Just do it out of pity.

Suddenly the air seemed to go out of Eva. Her shoulders slumped and she sagged against the doorjamb. “Can I spend the night?” she asked, sounding suddenly both tired and meek.

“I think you’d better.”

“With you?”

“Don’t push it.”

The watcher could hear her sobbing as she stepped inside.

Definitely, Lew Wallerman was not Charles.

He was short and very, very black, for one thing. Morgan wondered how a black man ended up with a name like Wallerman, but was afraid to ask.

He wore decrepit clothes that were loud evidence of indescribably awful taste—brown checkered suit that would be hard to push at a Goodwill sale, blue-and-white polka-dot tie, and thickly striped shirt that was a mass of wrinkles and stains. His scuffed black shoes were at least ten years old and hadn’t smelled polish in years.

Lew Wallerman had loser written all over him.

They were seated in a small, shabby pub in Manhattan. It was midday but Wallerman had insisted they meet at this bar. He lost no time showing Morgan why. The place was rowdy, and seemed to attract the model crowd, meaning a small tribe of cadaverous young skeletons in petite skirts and enough leering men to make it worth their while. Wallerman had barely fallen into his seat before he ordered two beers with a scotch chaser. He was on his lunch break, he’d told Morgan. He ate out of a glass.

“So what’s this about?” he asked Morgan.

“Jack Wiley.”

The name struck an immediate chord. He bent forward and placed his elbows on the table. “Jack, huh? What trouble is he in this time?”

Morgan’s heart skipped three beats. He swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice normal, his expression only vaguely interested. “What makes you think that?”

“It’s Jack. Always just a matter of time with old Jack.”

“Tell me about that.”

“You know Jack? Ever met him?”

“Not really,” Morgan confessed.

The elbows came off the table. Wallerman offered a smug,
knowing smile. “Just say that Jack’s always working some sleazy angle or another. A smooth operator with a million shady ideas.”

This sounded so good, but Morgan decided to inch into it. “You knew him in college?”

“Yeah, I knew him.” He launched into a tiresome spiel about their relationship, from beginning to end. They were separated by a year, and pursued different majors, but were both in the same eating club, Princeton’s peculiar variation on a fraternity. Both were always busy and caught up in separate pursuits, Jack with classes and lacrosse, Wallerman struggling just to get through the academic load. They occasionally ate together. They double-dated once or twice. Attended all the eating club rituals together. Friends but not particularly close ones, Wallerman admitted. They drifted apart after graduation, Jack heading into the Army, Wallerman, dreaming of big bucks, shooting straight to Wall Street and the fast action. They met again at Primo Investments.

“The very years I’m looking into,” Morgan replied, smiling broadly now, finding it impossible to conceal his excitement. He could smell the jackpot, at last. The drinks were being delivered. Wallerman snatched a large frosty stein out of the waiter’s hand and it shot straight to his lips. Not sips, big gulps.

With the back of his hand, he wiped the beer froth off his upper lip. “Yeah, I figured that,” he said, smiling back. “You heard about Edith, I guess.”

“A few things, sure. Rumors, mostly.”

“Let me tell you, whatever you heard is probably true. Jack walked away with a boatload of cash. Millions, many millions. He struck the mother lode with that old broad.”

“You think he had her killed?”

“You know what they say?”

“No, remind me.”

“The definition of a perfect murder is on the high seas. No corpse, no evidence, impossible to prove.” He was staring now at a hot young thing with a jewelry store attached to her lower lip. She was standing by herself, not drinking, not eating, just begging to be admired. “Jack knew that, of course.”

“But you think he did it?”

“Oh, sure he did it.”

Morgan seemed to smile and frown at the same time. “Say I could find evidence that implicates him, would you be willing to testify to that effect?”

Wallerman had been in the middle of guzzling his second beer. The drinking stopped and the mug slammed down on the table. “Are you crazy?” he yelled.

A few people at nearby tables turned and gawked. Attention was the last thing Morgan wanted.

“Quiet down,” he whispered gravely. He waited a moment until the stares went away and Wallerman put the beer back where it belonged, at his lips. Another long guzzle slid down his throat. The tension melted from his face—Morgan was amazed at how fast a shot of booze calmed him. He leaned forward and asked Lew, in a low voice, “My guess is we’re talking because you have a grudge against Jack, right?”

“We didn’t part on the best of terms.”

“Be more specific.”

“He walked off with all that money, and I stayed in a lousy, crumbling firm. Less than a year later, the CEO and CFO died, and all the air went out of the place. I was stuck in a dead end with no way out.”

Morgan stroked his chin and thought about that. He took a stab and asked, “You think Jack had anything to do with their deaths, too?”

It didn’t seem like a question Wallerman had considered before. It did seem to intrigue him, though. “You think he arranged the plane crash?”

“Just an idea I’m throwing out.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“From what I hear, Kyle and Sullivan suspected him. They put a PI firm in Europe on his ass. Their deaths were awfully convenient for Jack.”

“It does sound like Jack’s style. He’s meticulous that way. But like I said, I don’t know anything about it.”

“Did you ask Jack to cut you in?”

The slits of Wallerman’s eyes grew narrow. After a hesitation he admitted, “We might’ve had a conversation along those lines.”

“And he refused, right?”

“Basically, and not politely either.” Another long gulp of beer, then he smacked his lips. “He told me to screw myself. It was very big money and I would’ve been content with only one or two million. He could afford it. It was no way to treat a friend.”

“Don’t you want to pay him back?”

“We’re still talking aren’t we?”

“Okay, look, it’s simple. I need proof Jack did it. If you could—”

“And I need cash,” Wallerman interrupted before Morgan could complete that thought. Screw the details, let’s talk money his face was saying. The second stein of beer now sat on the table, empty. Lew was leaning back in his seat, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

“How much?” Morgan asked, his eyebrows pinching together.

“It won’t be cheap. There’s a lot to consider.”

“For instance?”

“For one, Jack’s a dangerous man. There’s his history to consider. Delta, war hero, and he obviously killed Edith. He’s not squeamish about erasing problems.”

“How much?” Morgan repeated.

“I’d have to quit my job and run. It would mean the end of a lucrative, quite promising career. I’d need enough to live on.”

Morgan strangled the urge to burst out laughing. Whatever had become of Wallerman’s career, profitable or promising didn’t enter the picture. He was a sorry lush and a loser. He didn’t even have enough money to purchase a decent suit. The best thing that could happen to him was to scrap it all and start over. Morgan should charge him for the opportunity.

“Just tell me how much,” he repeated, more insistently.

“Only two million,” Wallerman answered, making it sound like an extraordinary bargain.

“Bad joke. How much?”

“I’m not budging. Know why? There is no evidence, zilch, nada,
none. Jack is smart. After he left, I went through everything. The records of his transactions with Edith, bank transfers, everything. I even went through the hard drive of his old computer one night after everyone went home. You won’t find a thing, Morgan, not without me.”

“So what are you offering?”

Wallerman’s eyes were glued on a skinny little thing with a cocktail in her hand, leaning against the bar. Morgan forced himself to look twice before he believed she was real. Long, bony legs on full display, a ridiculously purple pageboy haircut, a thick tattoo of barbed wire around her neck, wearing an outfit that looked like it was designed by a sociopath.

She looked barely old enough to be potty-trained, much less purchase alcohol.

Wallerman finally tore his eyes away from her and stared hard at Morgan. “Let’s cut the crap, okay? My guess is you’re not a federal agent, you’re a hired thug. You’re being paid to burn Jack, and you need help.”

This was stated quite factually and Morgan weighed for a moment whether it was worth trying to bluff or lie his way through.

As though reading his mind, Wallerman added, “But if I’m wrong, and you are, as you claim, a Fed, two million is way over your head. Then it’s
sayonara
, pal.”

“No, you’re right, I’m a thug. I work for some people who want the goods on Wiley.”

“What people?”

“None of your damned business. Here’s all you need to know. They’re big and extremely powerful. Put the right material in their hands, they’ll destroy Wiley.”

“Then I’m your man. We have a deal?”

“Not until it’s clear what you’re offering. The money’s not mine and I’ll need to explain what it buys.”

“Use your imagination, Morgan.”

“I’m, what, how do they say it these days?… imagination-deprived.”

“And I’m the ugly skeleton from Jack’s past. I can approach him and ask for extortion money, or I know enough to make him jump a plane and flee for Brazil. He’ll disappear into a deep, dark jungle, and you’ll never worry about him again.”

“Are you willing to wear a wire?” Morgan asked, apparently with a different plan in mind.

“I love an audience. Sure, why not?”

“Do you think you can get Jack, on tape, to admit he killed Edith?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t give me that confidence act. How?”

“Might be that I have a few things I haven’t told you about. Things I won’t tell you about because I’m not an idiot and I don’t want to be cut out of the money.”