James Grippando - Born to Run

It was time to bail.

She zigged and zagged through the crowd and ducked out the exit. The transition from the stuffy, hot nightclub to the cold night air felt good on her face. Her ears continued to buzz as she started down the sidewalk, and her thoughts churned. She knew she was on to something, but she was being jerked around. She needed another angle to reach her target. Paulette wasn’t too proud to ask for help. She pulled her cell from her purse and dialed Jack Swyteck.

Jack was in bed when his cell phone vibrated on the dresser. Quietly, so as not to wake Andie-she had given him a second “opportunity”-he slipped from beneath the covers, pulled on his boxer shorts, and grabbed the phone. The LCD read “Paulette Sparks.” He debated whether to answer, then ducked into the walk-in closet and closed the door so that he could take the call without waking Andie.

“Jack, hi, it’s Paulette. Got a question for you.”

“Paulette, I can’t-”

“Has anyone mentioned anything to you about another e-mail like the one you and my sister got?”

The question left Jack silent. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you about that.”

“You’re breaking our deal. Remember: I agreed to tell you what I found out, but you had to tell me what you found out. We shook on it.”

“That was then. I’m out of the loop now and back in Miami.”

“I know, you got fired.”

“Well, I wasn’t really fired, but-”

“Jack, news travels fast in Washington. But it doesn’t matter. This is a simple question: Have you heard anything about a third e-mail?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“After Chloe’s funeral, I found some of her notes. She mentions that someone got an e-mail just like hers about a month before she did.”

“Who?”

“She doesn’t say. It’s almost as if she was afraid to mention a certain person by name. But I have a strong hunch.”

Jack took a seat atop the wicker clothes hamper. “I’d be curious to hear it.”

“Does that mean our deal is back on?”

“I’m going to say yes. But you’re on a roll here. Keep going.”

“All right. Let me see if you think the way I do. You got your e-mail after Chloe got hers.”

“Right.”

“Somebody else got the same e-mail before Chloe got hers.”

Jack hesitated. He knew that was true from information he’d gotten from the FBI, but he was reluctant to be as forthcoming with Paulette as he once had been. “Let’s assume that’s true for argument’s sake.”

“Fine. I’m thinking that Chloe was sandwiched between two bookends. And we all know what bookends do, right?”

“Hold up books?”

“They match , genius.”

The closet was dark, but the figurative light suddenly went on. “So if the son of the future vice president got the e-mail after Chloe-”

“Then the daughter of the sitting vice president got it before Chloe did.”

“And they both get the same offer,” said Jack.

“‘I can make your father president.’”

The line was silent. It was as if, for each of them, hearing it aloud made it sound so logical.

Jack said, “What do we do about this?”

“I called Elizabeth Grayson today and asked her to meet me. I didn’t tell her what it was about, but I don’t think it would have mattered. The bitch sent me to a Goth bar and didn’t show up. Obviously she has no intention of talking to me about anything. Probably still holds a grudge over my sister sleeping with her father. But didn’t you mention that you had a lunch date with her?”

“Yeah. She offered to give me a few pointers about having a father who’s vice president, but-”

“That’s the perfect pretense.”

“I don’t know. The last time we talked, it was pretty awkward.” He was thinking about her late-night visit to the hotel.

“Jack, you are our only shot. If you don’t do this, all we can do is wait for the FBI to sort this out on their own terms and on their own schedule. By that time, your father could be part of an administration that is neck-deep in a congressional investigation. And time will only tell who is left holding the bag. Is that what you want?”

Jack considered it. She’d punched exactly the right button. He couldn’t help but fear that his father was descending into the land of no return-especially after his conversation with Andie.

“Jack, is that what you want?”

“No,” he said, gripping the phone tighter.

“So, you’ll meet with Elizabeth?”

Suddenly, Jack was all too aware that the FBI was asleep in his bed. But it didn’t change his mind.

“Yeah. I’ll do it.”

Paulette was in her car when an idea came to her.

Tomorrow’s schedule was busier than usual, starting at 6:00 A.M., when she and the congressional correspondent, the chief political consultant, and the senior legal analyst were slated to begin taping a four-part segment on the political and legal ins and outs of the Harry Swyteck nomination. Paulette should have driven straight home and gone to bed. Instead, she drove home, grabbed the key to Chloe’s apartment, and hopped right back in her car.

There was no available parking on the street, so Paulette pulled around to the back alley and squeezed her car in between a Dumpster and a utility poll. She climbed out, and the car door closed with an empty thud. The quiet alley was dimly lit, a single yellow-tinted light glowing at the street entrance. While the cold night air had felt good upon stepping out of Club SI, it now made her cinch up her coat and walk quickly. The click of her heel echoed in the alley, and it made her stop and look around. The backs of the surrounding buildings were covered with burglar bars. Not another human being was in sight. The sounds of the city had seemed to evaporate. Urban quiet. It reminded Paulette of her first job as a crime-beat reporter-that eerie, ghost-town effect that marked high time for crime. Her gaze drifted toward Chloe’s apartment building, and she could see the lone window in the corner with its second-story view of the alley. She thought for a moment of Chloe all alone, looking out her window toward trash cans and the backs of buildings. Then her thoughts turned to a stranger standing in this very spot, looking up toward Chloe.

Paulette shook off the image and started toward the rear entrance to the building.

The back door was locked, but Chloe’s passkey still worked. Paulette pushed the door open and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The police tape was gone, and there was absolutely nothing about the door to Chloe’s apartment to tell the world that a young woman had been murdered. Weird, but even though she’d attended the funeral and written the obituary, Paulette had a fleeting thought that if she knocked, Chloe might answer. Murder was against the natural order of things, and it could play terrible tricks on the mind.

Paulette inserted the key. The tumblers clicked, the lock disengaged, and Paulette opened the door. She was about to switch on the light, but she stopped. From where she was standing, she could look all the way across the little efficiency and out the lone window in the corner. In the darkness, with the alley lit behind the building, she could actually see the very spot where she’d been standing and looking up toward Chloe’s apartment just a few minutes earlier. She walked across the room in the dark and tried to pull the Venetian blinds shut. They were broken, however, and the slats wouldn’t close all the way. It gave Paulette an eerie feeling. She wondered if it had ever occurred to Chloe that she was on permanent display.

Paulette went back and switched on the light. She would make this quick.