Divine Fury (14 page)

The former chairman of the joint chiefs of staff – the highest U.S. military position – had allowed the Terminator to interrupt the coffee and cognac part of his lunch, banish his companions and have this private audience.
 
All it took was the mention of the mistress Wainwright had enjoyed during the last four years of his time in the military.

“You are engaging in extortion,” growled Wainwright.
 
“I should call the FBI and have you thrown in jail.”

“General,” said the Terminator.
 
“As I’ve explained, Miss Mendoza is set to take this story to the tabloids.
 
My offer is to convince her
not
to do this.
 
I would think this is something you desire, a favor, if you will.”

“A favor?
 
Hah!” said Wainwright.
 
“In return for withdrawing my endorsement.
 
Call it what you want.
 
I view it as blackmail, pure and simple.”

The Terminator shrugged.
 
He realized that however you described it, he was flying close to the edge of the law.
 
His real protection was not his “generous” offer to help the general avoid scandal.
 
It was the more than two dozen salacious emails and a 10-minute sex video he had obtained from Rachael Mendoza for $50,000 that were his real protection
 
– that plus Wainwright’s long marriage to a woman known mainly for her public humiliation of waiters and department store clerks.
 
He had shown Wainwright a few of the emails on his phone along with two still photos from the video that made it exceptionally clear exactly what he and the lovely
 
Mendoza had been doing on a particular night 20 months ago.
 
The general had almost spit up his coffee but recovered quickly.

Wainwright was a war hero, having led the combined military during the successful invasion of Afghanistan.
 
As an African American and moderate Republican, he was being touted as a promising potential candidate for high-level office – perhaps even as a candidate for president one day.
 
A messy scandal would change that assessment overnight.

“Whatever you call this, it’s too late,” said Wainwright, puffing himself up to his best James Earl Jones pose.
 
It was a look that had struck terror into scores of junior officers.
 
“I’ve already given Harper my endorsement.”

“Retract it,” said the Terminator.
 
“Do it today, before the announcement, and it’s a minor blip.
 
Wait, and my offer goes away.
 
Your call.
 
I don’t really care.
 
Either way, your value to Harper is the same: zero.”

The Terminator stood, gave the general a polite nod and headed for the exit.
 
He was 98 percent sure Wainwright would make the call within the next half hour.
 
A pity in a way.
 
Wainwright was exactly the sort of arrogant prick he enjoyed chopping off at the knees.
 
Oh well.
 
He knew the repercussions for the general went far beyond today.
 
He had just given Wainwright’s future a sharp elbow, throwing it into a new trajectory.
 

He stopped in the doorway, spun around, and snapped a quick salute at the general who was watching him stonily.
 
Then, he turned again and walked out into the warm Florida sun.
   

 
*
 
*
 
*

Harry Blount hung up the telephone in his cubicle at the Medical Center, pondered his 12-minute conversation with Gen. Arthur Wainwright and considered his immediate options.
 
A press conference was 90 minutes away.
 
He had planned to have Wainwright on a live video feed from Florida as Andrew Harper announced the general’s endorsement.
 

It would have been a huge moment for the campaign – a moderate Republican with national stature backing Harper.
 
And, a certified war hero at that, backing the gay candidate.
 
It would have provided protective cover for a crowd of potential supporters – from national figures to average Joes – who backed Harper in their hearts but shied away from taking
 
a public stand.
 
He picked up the phone again and hit the top speed-dial button.

“Drew,” he said.
 
“It’s me.
 
Listen, we just lost Wainwright.”

“Oh, god,” said Harper.
 
“What else can go wrong with this goddamn campaign?
 
So, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” said Blount.
 
“Obviously, someone got to him.
 
Who knows how.
 
Dirty laundry.
 
Offer of an appointment.
 
Support for a run down the line.
 
It doesn’t much matter.
 
What I’m wondering is how they knew.
 
Until a couple of hours ago, we had this locked down tight.
 
I just started hinting endorsement to a couple of reporters. You know, build some anticipation.
 
Maximize the coverage.
 
Now it’s damage control.
 
Trying to look a little stupid as opposed to total idiots.”

“Are we cursed or what?” said Harper.
 
“Every time we turn around, it seems like there’s a bucket of paint falling on our heads.
 
What gives?”

“Yeah,” said Blount.
 
“Tomorrow we start reviewing what’s happened the last two weeks.
 
See if we can figure out why things have gone wrong.
 
Bad luck?
 
Or, something else?
 
For today, let’s figure out something you can say that won’t sound ridiculous.
 

“I’ve got an idea,” said Harper.
 
“Chapman just voted for the Medicare cuts.
 
It just guts the program.
 
Thirty percent reduction over five years.
 
It will impoverish millions of elderly people.
 
It’s terrible.
 
Let’s go after him on that.”

“Are you sure?” said Blount.
 
“It’s not a state program.
 
Is it even a state issue?”

“Is the fact that I’m gay a state issue?” said Harper.
 
“Or, the fact that we’re partners?
 
You know he’s getting the guns out for that one.
 
If this is going to be about who we are as individuals – personal morality, so be it.
 
That’s a fight I’ll take.”

Blount was silent for a moment.

“Sir,” he finally said.
 
“I think I love you.”

Harper laughed.

“You’d better,”
 
he said.
 
“Hey.
 
Let’s take tonight off.
 
Thai food.
 
Chablis.
 
Masterpiece Theater.”

“Ahh,” said Blount, as he started typing on his Thinkpad the opening lines of the speech Harper would give in 80 minutes.
 
He was already thinking about it as an opening salvo.
 
“Now I
know
I love you.
 
Sounds perfect.”
        

Chapter 16

THE ADDRESS THAT Bobbie Connors had given Enzo Lee led him to one of the nicer suburbs of San Jose built in the 60s boom years on land that had once been fruit orchards.
 
A mature cherry tree soaked up the late-afternoon sun in front of the ranch-style house which had a light green exterior and a heavy, dark wooden front door with black hardware.
   

 
Nancy Wilkins opened the door barefoot and wearing a loose white shift.
 
Her black hair was in a bun.
 
She was short and somewhere in the middle stages of pregnancy.

“Hello,” said Enzo Lee.

“Hello,” said Wilkins.
 
She had a puzzled look on her face and Lee paused for a moment, trying to figure out why she was looking at him oddly.

“Nagsasalita ba kayo ng Tagalog?”
she said.

“Sorry?” said Lee.

“Are you Filipino?” asked Wilkins.

“Oh.
 
No.
 
I’m not,” said Lee.
 
“Chinese.
 
Half Chinese anyway.”

“Oh.
 
I’m sorry,” said Wilkins.
 
“You look Filipino.”

Lee just shrugged apologetically.
 
He was accustomed to the mistake.

It took the national DNA database researchers a while to get to the hair recovered at the USF hospital garage, but they finally found a match.
 
It was Nancy Wilkins’ husband, Oscar, a middle-aged computer programmer.
 
Oscar Wilkins’ police file stemmed from his arrest three years earlier for helping a Las Vegas gambling operation set up an online sports betting website.
 
The organizers had hidden safely behind the offshore location of the business.
 
But Oscar Wilkins’ work in California ran afoul of the state’s gambling prohibitions and had earned him two years of probation as well as a spot in the national DNA database.

Connors had visited the Wilkins home the previous day but learned nothing from Nancy Wilkins except that her husband was out of the country on an extended trip.
 
Lee had decided to try himself.
 
The early-morning killing of Scott Truman still baffled him and the spreading of Truman’s ashes near Angel Island was still fresh in his memory.
 
He kept thinking of Captain Nick’s quote, about the living needing to find justice for the dead.
 
Maybe he could somehow push the investigation forward another step.

“I’m with the San Francisco News,” said Lee.
 
“I wanted to talk to you about your husband.”

Wilkins cast her eyes downward toward Lee’s feet.

“I can’t tell you anything,” she said.
 
“The police were here yesterday.”

“I know,” said Lee.
 
“Look.
 
You don’t have to tell me anything.
 
But I’ll be happy to tell you what this is all about...why the police were here.”

Wilkins’ eyes moved up to Lee’s face.
 
She was trying to decide.
 
Lee knew she wanted to know more details of what was going on.
 
Then, he noticed the appetizing smell of garlic, vinegar and soy sauce drifting out the door.
 
He recognized it as a staple of Filipino cooking.

“Is that adobo?”
 
he asked, nodding his head past her toward the inside of the house.

She smiled, sniffed the cooking smells herself and nodded.

“Pork,” she said.