The Committee (9 page)

Looks like I hit a nerve, he silently surmised. Gideon was satisfied, for the moment, by her obvious discomfort and set the stick aside.
“So tell us about your plans for the new baseball stadium,” Gideon said, fully conscious of the short time remaining. “Have you identified a location yet?”

Finally, she thought
. “I'm glad you asked. As some of your viewers may know, Angelinos love baseball. Our team, the Los Angeles Dobermans, are currently housed in an arena built in 1927 and is in desperate need of major repairs, retrofitting and renovation. In the last midterm election, the voters authorized me to move forward with building a new home for our team. Well, I'm very pleased to announce, as of this week, we have identified a location perfect for the needs of the new Dober Stadium, and the fans.”

The smile that dotted the interview instantly vanished. Camille couldn't hide her displeasure, and Gideon found it difficult to contain his satisfaction from piercing her seemingly impenetrable armor. He had no idea, however, how closely his instincts brought him to the truth—and neither did she. Three silent seconds in television time seemed like hours in real time.

The two locked eyes and neither blinked. No words were exchanged, but the silence was deafening. Camille immediately recognized Gideon as a problem that may have to be dealt with if she was to become governor.
Be careful, my handsome friend, or you may become Madame Gillette Lemaitre's next victim.

“You all heard it,” Gideon said playfully looking directly at the camera. “Thank you again to Mayor Camille Ernestine Hardaway. Stay tuned. Coming up next we'll be speaking with the lovely and talented Halle Berry about her upcoming summer blockbuster movie,
Blood Alley.”

The microphones went dead, but the cameras remained on Camille and Gideon for an additional ten seconds showing a pantomimed conversation.

“Thank you, Mayor,” Gideon said as a technician removed Camille's microphone. “Excellent interview.”

Camille ignored the feeble attempt at a compliment and calmly said, “You're barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Truman.”

“I'm sure all your husband's business dealings are aboveboard, but I hope you understand I did have to ask.”

“I do understand. And you should understand, I don't appreciate being blindsided on national television. I did this interview because you assured me there would be no surprises.”

“It wasn't my intent to blindside you.”

“Intent or not, that is exactly what you did.” Camille dropped the charming politician mask on the studio set floor with a splat. The smile that lit up the seventy-inch monitor vanished as quickly as it appeared. She looked Gideon directly in eye and said coldly, “Trust me, Mr. Truman, I am
not
the person you want to fuck with.”

“Sheridan Hardaway. I have a 1:00 appointment with Miss Vandercliff.”

The man at the gatehouse looked like a six-foot-six brick wall tightly wrapped in a grey security guard uniform. The shirt barely contained his bulging biceps, and buttons struggled to cover his enormous chest.

The guard looked at Sheridan suspiciously. It was as if no one had ever come to the gate before. “May I see your identification please, sir?”

“License?” Sheridan exclaimed. “I didn't realize I would need it,” he said retrieving his wallet from his breast pocket. Sheridan waited patiently as the half man-half wall compared the image on the license to his face. The guard walked back to the little booth and dialed a landline.

“Good afternoon, ma'am,” the guard said into the tethered receiver. “Mr. Sheridan Hardaway is here to see you.”

Sheridan saw the outline of the home in the distance through the eight-foot wrought iron gate. His real estate calculator kicked in automatically.
Forty to fifty million easily,
he thought as the guard returned to the car.

“Thank you, Mr. Hardaway,” he said. “Is this your first visit to the Vandercliff Estate?”

Sheridan noted the man's hands looked like baseball gloves. “Yes, it is,” he replied.

“Then welcome. There are a few things Miss Vandercliff would like you to know before you enter the property. You will be greeted by another member of the security staff when you reach the home. The Vandercliffs have been the target of numerous kidnapping and assassination attempts over the years so you will be searched with a handheld metal detector.”

Sheridan looked surprised as the guard continued.

“If you are wearing any type of cologne, Miss Vandercliff asks you remain at least five feet away from her as she is allergic to certain chemicals found in most mass market fragrances. She does not wish to be touched in any way, so please do not attempt to shake hands. Miss Vandercliff is unusually susceptible to germs and, as a precaution, asks that all guests to the estate take advantage of the powder room you will see to the left of the foyer when you enter the residence. She asks that you wash your hands using the special antiseptic soap provided.”

“Is she a germaphobe?” Sheridan asked tactlessly.

The well-trained guard ignored the question and continued his recital. “After you enter the gate, stay on this path. It will take you directly to the main entrance of the home.”

The giant turned abruptly to the guardhouse on the last word. The electric gate slid open, and Sheridan drove up the path as he had been so efficiently instructed. The lush grounds of the estate were immaculate. The flagstone path sliced through the center of ten sprawling acres of the most expensive soil in California.

Towering white bark eucalyptus trees stood like sphinxes along the entire length of the winding driveway. Sheridan saw a sparkling swimming pool glimmering like a sapphire lying on a bed of green through the trees. To the left was a gazebo surrounded by a well-appointed redwood deck, tennis courts, and other houses he assumed were once used to entertain the family's rich and famous guests.

After the last sharp turn on the path, the house appeared.
Make that seventy million,
Sheridan thought when he saw the French-inspired chateau, aptly named Le Belvédère. Even from the road, the stunning 280-degree city views could be seen. Sheridan had thoroughly researched the reclusive Miss Vandercliff, including the particulars of her magnificent estate:
48,000 square feet, 5,000-bottle wine cellar, three master suites, seven additional bedrooms, nineteen fireplaces, elevator . . .
he recalled as the car slowed to a stop in front of the main entrance.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hardaway. Welcome to Le Belvédère,” a clone of the enormous gatehouse guard said as Sheridan exited the car. “If you would please follow me, Miss Vandercliff will be with you shortly.”

“They grow them big in Bel Air,” Sheridan joked as he followed the guard to the main entrance of the house.

“Yes, sir, if you insist,” was the humorless reply.

Upon entering the house, the giant removed a handheld metal detector from his jacket and said, “Would you please place any metal objects you have in your pockets on the table. This will only take a moment.”

The foyer was three stories high. A grand oak circular stairway wrapped around an eight-foot Tiffany chandelier that cried a thousand crystal tears. The
Blue Nude
by Henri Matisse hung casually on the wall directly opposite the front entrance.

“Is that . . .” Sheridan asked pointing to the masterpiece in awe.

“Yes, sir, it is. A gift to the family from Matisse himself.”

The guard traced Sheridan's body with the wand that beeped at his belt buckle.

“I hope you don't expect me to take off my belt.”

“No, sir, that won't be necessary. After you have utilized the facilities,” the guard said, pointing to the infamous powder room, “Miss Vandercliff will join you in the living room.”

Sheridan replaced the contents of his pockets and obediently entered the powder room. He ran the water in a gold basin, but a drop never touched his hands.
Fuck the crazy bitch,
he thought.
I'm more likely to catch something from her than she is from me. Just hope crazy ain't contagious.

His senses were immediately overwhelmed by the ocean of oak accents in the living room. Gaudy French provincial décor and old-world masterpieces lined the walls like hand-sewn panels on an antique quilt. He walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows at the rear wall and gazed out over Los Angeles, the kingdom that belonged to his wife.

“Mr. Hardaway,” came a soft voice from across the room, “I'm Gloria Vandercliff. Welcome to my home.”

The lady of the house mirrored the grand home. The rarified heights of Bel Air had been kind to her. At seventy-one years of age, she carried her petite frame across the room like a woman of much-younger years. She was casually dressed in a flowing kaleidoscope blue, white, and yellow Emilio Pucci caftan and black Christian Louboutin cage sandals. The fashion world had clearly not left her behind. A shock of perfectly tousled blond hair took ten years off her face.

“May I offer you a drink?” she asked, pointing to a fully stocked wet bar near the window where Sheridan stood.

Miss Vandercliff stopped exactly five feet away from Sheridan to inspect the air around him. After finding no hint of cologne, she closed the distance between them.

“Thank you. Gin and tonic,” he replied with his usual sense of entitlement.

“A good-looking and decisive man with good taste,” she said walking past Sheridan to the bar. “I can see we're going to get along just fine. I'm sure you've been told I don't invite many people into my home.”

“Yes, so I've heard.”

“But when we spoke on the phone yesterday your offer intrigued me.”

Miss Vandercliff returned to Sheridan with their drinks in hand. “Cheers, Mr. Hardaway,” she said lifting the glass to her lips. “So tell me more about your offer,” she said directing him to a nine-foot sofa in front of the fireplace.

Sheridan noted she left only three feet between them when she sat down.
I guess I passed the sniff test,
he thought.

“As I said to you on the telephone, my company, KeyCorp Development, would like to purchase your land in Playa del Rey. We are prepared to offer you a substantial amount more than what you're asking.”

“You do realize I've already promised the land to . . .” she paused dramatically before continuing, “your wife?”

“Yes, I am aware of the city's interest.”

“Does she know you're making this offer?”

“No.”

“Then why are you doing this?” she asked already knowing the answer.

“Because I love my wife, and I want to stop her from making a mistake that could cost her the governor's race.”

“So she
is
running for governor,” she replied as if just being slipped a juicy bit of city hall gossip. “How could building Dober Stadium on my land prevent her from becoming governor?”

“If she isn't able to raise the additional funds for the development, or if she, for some other reason, isn't able to complete the stadium, she'll look like a fool. Her poll numbers are so strong now she doesn't need this project to become governor. She could win on name recognition and her record alone. I've tried to tell her this, but her advisors are telling her otherwise.”

Miss Vandercliff listened intently before speaking. “So you're willing to invest millions to prevent your wife from making a mistake?” she asked skeptically.

“I told you, I love my wife and would do anything to protect her,” Sheridan responded with such sincerity it even convinced him.

“She doesn't need much protection from what I can tell. She seems quite capable to me.”

“Don't get me wrong. She is one of the strongest and smartest people I know, but I think she's in over her head when it comes to this stadium.”

“And what do you intend to do with the land?”

“Maybe build low-income housing or a school for underprivileged kids. At this stage I'm not sure, but I know I have to move quickly before she makes a terrible mistake.”

“What's to stop her from buying another property and building the stadium there?”

“She won't. Her real estate division has looked at every possible option in the city and this is the only location that could work.”

Sheridan allowed Miss Vandercliff's brain to marinate in his last impassioned words.
Old bleeding heart probably loved the school for underprivileged kids line,
he thought, studying her face.

She stood from the sofa with drink in hand and walked to the window. “Do you know how much I'm worth, Mr. Hardaway?” she asked looking out the window.

“I imagine a great deal,” he responded cautiously.

“A great deal indeed. At last count, it was just under 3 billion. So I'm surprised you think I am a fool,” she added casually.

Sheridan froze when he heard the words. “Not at all. You're obviously a very intelligent woman.”

“Then why else would you come into my home and lie to me?”

“Lie? I don't know what you mean. I want to buy the property to protect—”

“If you want this conversation to continue, Mr. Hardaway,” she said turning abruptly to face him, “I suggest you tell me the real reason you've come here behind your wife's back.”

Sheridan stood and quickly recalibrated his approach. “All right, Miss Vandercliff,” he said, knowing there was nothing left to lose. “I'll tell you. My wife doesn't know I own KeyCorp Development. My intent is to purchase the property from you, and then sell it to the city for a small profit.”

“Good boy,” she said with a wicked smile. “Now was that so difficult? My dear late father taught me a very important lesson a long time ago that you might benefit from.”

“And what was that?” Sheridan asked, sensing he was back in the game.

“Never underestimate your prey. They're usually smarter and stronger than you think.”

“I must admit, I may have underestimated you,” said Sheridan. “But I think I understand you now.”

“To better understandings,” she said raising her glass in a mock toast. “Can I freshen your drink, Mr. Hardaway?”

“That would be very nice, Miss Vandercliff. Thank you.”

“Still so formal,” she said with a hint of seduction. “Even after I've learned your little secret. Call me Gloria.”

“Gloria,” he said with a nod, acknowledging the unspoken code among thieves.

“The only reason I agreed to meet with you is because some little shit from your wife's office called and told me if I don't sell it to the city for $80 million they would take it by eminent domain. I don't like bullies, and I like being threatened even less,” she practically snarled.

Gloria returned to the couch and continued. “Now, give me one good reason why I should sell my property to you and not your wife, besides that lovely smile of yours.”

Sheridan calculated the change in the playing field and was more than prepared to take one for the team. He sat close to her on the couch and said slyly, “I can give you ten reasons.”

“Mr. Hardaway,” she smiled, “if you're saying what I think you're saying, I just might be interested.”

“It's Sheridan,” he said, placing his hand gently on her thigh, “and I am saying
exactly
what you think I'm saying.”

Sheridan moved his hand steadily up her thigh causing the caftan to rise and expose her wrinkled knee.

“Ten reasons you say?” she asked skeptically.

“There's actually eleven,” he whispered. “I was being modest.”

Sheridan cupped the back of her head and pulled her to his lips. He could taste the remnants of an imported cigarette and what he guessed must be Polident. The thought of the profit he would make on the deal caused him to drive his tongue deep into her open, waiting mouth. Denture cream and stale cigarettes never tasted so sweet.

“Convince me, Sheridan,” she panted. “Give me your eleven reasons.”

Miss Vandercliff nimbly unzipped his fly with her bony fingers and released eleven solid reasons. Sheridan had no difficulty becoming fully aroused. The millions now within his grasp made him stand at full attention when she lowered her bleached head to his lap. Her jaws unhinged like an anaconda allowing the tip of his member to be massaged by her tonsils.