Michael Prescott - Mortal Faults

“I’m sure she wants nothing to do with law enforcement,” Reynolds said, though he didn’t sound sure at all.

“You’re right. But my guess is, they’re looking into her past. They’ll find out that her credit history goes back only eight years. Then they’ll question her. And she’ll talk. She’ll have to talk.”

She paused to let the comment sink in. Reynolds drained his glass and poured another.

“She’ll talk,” Abby went on, “unless you silence her first. But here’s the rub-you can’t get near her. Police protection, you know. That’s the thing about a failed hit, Jack. It’s twice as hard to get to the victim a second time. So it looks like you’re royally fucked. Unless you let me help you.”

“You can’t help me,” Reynolds said.

“Yes, I can. Andrea trusts me. I can take advantage of that fact for our mutual benefit, as I told you last night.”

“By handing her over to me?”

“Exactly.”

“Yesterday you quit on me because I didn’t meet your high ethical standards. Now all of a sudden you’re willing to deliver the woman?”

“Ethics is a luxury I can no longer afford.”

“And why is that?”

“I need to get out of town. For a long time. Maybe for good. And I need to do it fast.”

“Sounds like you’re in trouble.”

She looked down at her plate. Her voice was low. “I am.”

“What a shame. Care to tell me about it?”

“Maybe you’ve heard what happened to Dylan Garrick.”

“I may have read something about it in the newspaper.” Reynolds narrowed his eyes. “Are you telling me you’re the one who offed him?”

“Me? I’m just a simple Arizona girl making her way in the big city. But I was seen with him.”

“You mean you tracked him down?”

“It’s what I do.”

“So you did kill him.”

“Haven’t said that.” Abby set down her plate and got up, facing him. “Whatever I may or may not have done, people are going to suspect the worst, and I’m not going to have any way of proving them wrong.”

A moment passed while Reynolds stood motionless. Then he lifted his glass and took a slow, thoughtful sip. “All right, maybe I can believe you need to go on the run.”

“And to do that, I need a sudden infusion of cash, courtesy of you. I need money, you need Andrea. We can work together and solve both our problems.”

“If the police are watching Andrea, how can you possibly deliver her to me?”

“She trusts me, like I said.”

“So what?”

“I can get her to leave the house and ditch her police escort. Once she does, she’ll be all yours.”

“You’re bullshitting.”

“No, I’m not, Jack. I can get her away from the police. And I can do it tonight.”

He considered the idea. “Once I’ve got her, you get paid? Is that it?”

“I get paid up front.”

“How much?”

“Fifty thousand dollars. In cash, obviously. I’m afraid I can’t take a personal check.”

“I don’t have fifty grand in cash here in the house.”

“But you can get it.”

“It’s Saturday afternoon. My bank is already closed.”

“Make the manager open up.”

“You think I keep fifty thousand dollars in my checking account?”

“It’s your rich wife’s account, more likely, but I’m sure you have privileges. Or maybe you can borrow it from your campaign fund. Cut yourself a check and run one less billboard ad. Or take out a loan and say it’s for the campaign. I don’t care, as long as you have it by six o’clock tonight.”

“What if I pay you the fifty and then you renege on the deal?”

“I’ll have Andrea close by. The way I’ll work it, you’ll know you’ve got her before I take off. You’ll have her, and you won’t be able to touch me. It’s not as complicated as it sounds.”

“Let’s say we were to have this meeting at six. Where would it be?”

“Brayton Hotel, just like before. Only in the lobby this time. Oh, and Jack-I want you to make the drop-off. Not Kip or some other low-level player. I want you to get your hands dirty, just like me.”

“How do I know you’re not setting me up? This could be some kind of sting.”

“Do I strike you as the type who works hand in glove with the police?”

“No. But I wouldn’t have seen you as the type to sell out Bethany, either. It’s pretty cold, Sinclair. You really expect me to believe you’re capable of it?”

“Brass ovaries, remember? You don’t survive in my line of work unless you’re willing to pull the trigger.”

“Like you did on Garrick?”

“No comment, Mr. Congressman.”

Reynolds studied her. “Okay. We have a deal.” He showed her an archly cynical smile. “You know, you’re a lot smarter than I thought you were.”

“Am I? Funny. You’re exactly as smart as I thought you were.” Abby picked up her plate and dumped it in a wastebasket. She headed for the door. “Thanks for the chow. Tell Stenzel I’ll let myself out.”

Kip Stenzel wondered why politicians never learned anything from Nixon. Despite the example of Watergate, they continued to wire their offices with electronic recording and eavesdropping equipment. His boss was no exception. In his desk he had installed a microphone and transmitter, which sent a signal to a receiver in a room down the hall. He recorded his phone calls and teleconferences with his staff in D.C., and he liked to have Stenzel available to listen in on ostensibly private conversations, as he was doing now.

The audio clarity was excellent. Stenzel heard every word of Reynolds’ discussion with Abby Sinclair. Truthfully, he’d heard more than he’d wanted to know. It was advantageous to retain some degree of deniability.

He waited until he was sure Sinclair had gone before he emerged from hiding. When he entered the office, he found Reynolds standing by his desk, talking into the phone.

“Save your breath, Ron. I’m still not interested in any excuses. But if you want another chance to redeem yourself, there may be an opportunity.”

Reynolds listened to the reply and sipped his drink. Scotch, of course. It was always Scotch, but under normal circumstances Stenzel’s boss wouldn’t have been drinking before the dinner hour, especially with fat-cat contributors in the backyard waiting to jawbone him.

“Okay,” Reynolds said. “Then meet me tonight at five thirty, one block west of the Brayton Hotel in downtown L.A. I want you driving your van. Come heavy, and come alone. You’ll need duct tape and handcuffs… Remember that lesson in loyalty I mentioned? Well, school is in session.”

He set down the phone hard enough to shake the table, then looked at Stenzel. “You heard?”

“I heard.”

“Things are getting complicated,” Reynolds said.

Stenzel swallowed. “Maybe too complicated. Now might be a propitious time to back off, Jack.”

“Back off? How am I supposed to do that?”

“Cut our losses, walk away. Sinclair can’t prove we had anything to do with the attack on Andrea Lowry. Right now all they can get you on is some shit that happened twenty years ago.”

“That’s enough.”

“If it comes out, it’s not necessarily fatal. We can spin it. The woman’s a head case, shot her own kids, went to a mental hospital.”

“She knows enough to make her story credible. A million details. Like the boat we used to meet on. No way Sinclair could have known about that unless Bethany-I mean Andrea-told her.”

“I’m not saying we deny the affair. But it’s the past, it’s ancient history. We get Nora on board, have her stand by you, say all is forgiven. The voters figure if your wife says it’s no big deal, who are they to care?”