Face of Betrayal (19 page)

She replayed the conversation in her head, focusing not on the words, but on the voice. A hoarse voice, made even rougher by the poor connection. It could have been Greg—but it could just as easily
not
have been Greg. Had the voice sounded anything like the man who had left the message on her voice mail?

Her arms prickled as the hair rose. What if the person waiting for her in the deserted lobby wasn’t Greg?

What if it was the man who had made it clear he wanted to kill her?

The building was wrapped in darkness; it was at least an hour until daylight. Normally she wouldn’t even be here. Had someone been watching her, following her, ready to seize any opportunity to get her alone? Allison remembered the words on the note, on her voice mail.
“I’m going to kill you. And I’m going to like it.”

The doors slid open. The elevator lobby was empty. Its very emptiness seemed expectant, menacing, as if someone was on the verge of jumping out at her. Allison hesitated, her hand on the black rubber edge of the open elevator door. All she had to do was walk around the corner, go out through the security gate, and she would be in the main lobby.

But once she walked through the security gate, who would be waiting for her?

Finally, Allison stepped out of the elevator and pressed her back against the wall, too frightened to pray. Her ears were alert to the slightest sound. She heard nothing but her own speeded-up breathing. She unclipped her cell phone from her belt and dialed.

“Security.”

She recognized the voice. It was Tommy, who worked the midnight-to-eight shift. During the afternoon and evening, he ran a barbecue joint in Northeast Portland. Despite the fact that he must never get any sleep, Tommy always wore a smile.

“This is Allison Pierce,” she said in a low voice. “I’m in the elevator lobby on the main floor. I just received a call in my office from a man claiming to be Greg Keplar. He said he lost his badge and needed me to come down and let him in.” As she spoke, she could feel her pulse beating in her throat.

There was a pause. “And you don’t think it’s Greg,” Tommy said matter-of-factly.

“No, I don’t. Can you check it out for me?”

As she waited, Allison’s breath came faster and faster.
This can’t be good for the baby,
she thought, consciously trying to slow her breathing down, but her fear was nearly overwhelming.

It was so quiet that she could even hear soft footsteps on the carpet in the main lobby. Someone was walking toward her. Any second the person would come around the corner. And she had no place to hide. Panicked, she stabbed the elevator button repeatedly. Why hadn’t she gone back upstairs to wait?

Then Tommy turned the corner. His gun was in his hand. His face was grim.

“There was somebody, but it sure wasn’t Greg. He started running as soon as he saw me, but I lost him.” He shook his head, defeated. “Some guy in a blue parka.”

PORTLAND FBI HEADQUARTERS

December 31

O
n the big-screen TV in the FBI gym, Fox’s Shepard Smith leaned toward Valerie Converse. The volume was turned up loud enough that Nicole could hear even over the sound of her jump rope slapping the mat.

“Do you want Senator Fairview to take a lie-detector test?”

Valerie nodded vigorously. “Of course, Shepard. We want the comfort of knowing that the people who are closest to Katie are giving complete and truthful information to investigators. Has he disclosed everything? We honestly don’t know.”

Smith nodded thoughtfully. “Excuse me if this question is painful, Valerie, but were you surprised or shocked by the news that Senator Fairview may have had an inappropriate relationship with your daughter? A man who has children near your daughter’s age?”

“Nothing surprises me anymore, Shepard, and everything shocks me.” Valerie’s cheekbones were sharp on her newly hollowed face. “All of this seems surreal. What matters most to me is to see Katie again.”

Dropping her jump rope, Nic bent over, put her hands on her knees, and tried to catch her breath. Far from hiding from the media, the Converses had embraced it. Wayne, Valerie, or both had appeared on every morning TV show, every radio talk show, and now were even showing up with increasing frequency on Fox and CNN. They were determined to keep the media’s eye focused on their daughter. As a result, interest in Katie grew every day. The number of tips flooding into the hotline was exponential.

But they still had no real leads. This morning Nic had heard from an FBI agent in DC who had interviewed Luisa Helprin. The young woman was now making her own rounds of the talk shows, milking her past relationship with Senator Fairview for what it was worth. Which wasn’t much. They had gotten together six or seven times over the course of a month. Luisa had been eighteen when it started, so she wasn’t underage. All that the interview with Luisa had substantiated was that Senator Fairview was a horndog—and they already knew that.

The lack of progress filled Nic with frustration and gave her no place to put it. Which was why she was here. She moved to the corner, put on her hand wraps and gloves, and began to work the heavy bag, drowning out Valerie’s sorrow, Smith’s sympathy.

Nic had learned the joy of boxing at Quantico. The first physical test—which involved sit-ups, push-ups, and running—took place on the second day, and the results sent some would-be agents packing. Taking the tests was as much a mental as a physical battle, as Quantico class instructors, counselors, and general staff liked to turn out to see who was up to snuff. The new recruits were also instructed in defensive techniques, including grappling, handcuffing, disarming, and boxing.

At Quantico, Nic had discovered that she loved boxing. Loved it because she lost herself in it. It was one of the few times that her brain just completely shut off. After leaving the academy, she no longer fought against an opponent, but she worked out with a heavy bag two or three times a week.

Sometimes when new agents saw Nic putting on her pink hand wraps, the pink boxing gloves lying on the ground waiting for her, they would smile. Like she was some silly little thing who would give the bag a few light taps.

Then they saw her in action and stopped smiling.

Today her punches were as fast as lightning strikes, each one fueled by frustration. She knew the backs of her fingers would ache the next morning, that all the muscles of her upper arms and shoulders would be sore. But it was worth it. She put her stress behind every jab, uppercut, and hook, grunting with each punch. Then it was on to combinations, left hook, right uppercut, double left jab. The thing about boxing was that you put your whole body into it. It wasn’t just your arm. You punched with your leg, hips, and back. You punched with your mind and your heart.

When she stepped close to the bag for a series of uppercuts, Nic imagined she was driving her fist into Fairview’s soft gut.

SENATOR FAIRVIEW’S OFFICE

December 31

I
t was a media circus—and exactly the kind of thing that Cassidy reveled in. The city of Portland had gotten smart and started renting sidewalk space in front of Senator Fairview’s office to the various networks that wanted to cover the Fairview story. And that’s what it was gradually becoming—the Fairview story. Not so much the Katie Converse story. Because every day brought a half dozen new developments related to Fairview, as reporters started digging up his past.

Station management, sensing that the senator himself was the new news, had switched many of its resources to Fairview. Conventional newsroom wisdom held that no station ever got to be number one unless it owned whatever the big breaking news story of the day was. The rule was to throw everything at a potential story, then pull back if need be.

As for Katie Converse? Katie was still missing, but there were no new sightings, no new clues. And how many times could you plow the same ground?

But each story about Fairview spawned a half dozen new ones. Anyone with an old grudge or a new desire to swing the evenly divided Senate was coming forward with tawdry tales. And some of them were even true.

Now each small square of space on the sidewalk in front of Fairview’s office was covered by a tentlike structure stuffed with hundreds of thousands of dollars in equipment. Inside each tent was also what they called the “soapbox”—a box that lifted the reporter above the crowd when each filmed his or her live hits.

Word had come down that there was going to be some kind of statement handed out this morning. They’d had to scramble so fast that Cassidy’s hair was still wet in the back—but the camera would only get a front shot.

Everyone thought TV makeup and helmet hair were about chasing after beautiful perfection. Instead, it was all about eliminating distractions. Sweaty foreheads, five o’clock shadows, and hair hanging in your eyes made viewers stop paying attention to your storytelling. It wasn’t about looking pretty—it was about looking professional.

Cassidy’s adrenaline was pumping as she stepped up on the box. There was nothing like being on air live. Nothing. Factually, you could never be wrong. You also had to go quickly with what you knew. You needed to be able to speak coherently and to organize and write the story even as you were still telling it.

The cameraman gave her the signal, and Cassidy said, “Reporting to you live outside Senator Fairview’s Oregon office. Yesterday, transcripts of what are purported to be Fairview’s instant messages—or IMs—to a Senate page who served the year before Katie Converse were leaked to the media. The content is too graphic to discuss on air, but you can go to our Web site and read them. You should be warned, though, that they are, as I said, graphic and disturbing. It is not clear whether Fairview had a sexual relationship with this second girl. What is clear is that it is no longer simply a question of Fairview’s political career. This investigation has now shifted into the legal arena.”

All around Cassidy, she could hear the babble of other reporters doing their stand-ups. It was so noisy that she had to resist the urge to shout. She knew the microphone picked up her voice above the crowd behind her. “The FBI has announced that it is looking into whether Fairview broke federal law by sending these inappropriate e-mails and instant messages to underage girls.”

Being above the crowd meant Cassidy could see past them. The main door to the building opened, and out came Michael Stone. She almost felt sorry for him. No matter what Fairview was paying him, surely today it didn’t seem enough. Then again, this story was pumping his career up too.

“Okay, it looks like Fairview’s lawyer is going to make a statement,” she said as the camera cut away from her. She got off the soapbox and elbowed her way toward the front. Other reporters gave Cassidy dirty looks as she stepped on toes and squeezed through nonexistent spaces, but she had covered this story from the beginning. She was the one who had
made
it a story.

Michael Stone didn’t look the least bit nervous as he slowly walked to the knot of microphones that looked like Medusa’s head of snakes. Like Cassidy, he seemed to be one of those people who loved the media blitz. In his hand was a single sheet of paper.

“I am Mike Stone, and I represent Senator Fairview. I would like to read a brief statement from the senator.”

Stone waited until the sound guys had their boom mikes properly hung over the crowd and the camera guys stopped shuffling for their best angle. Speaking slowly and clearly, he said, “Senator Fairview’s statement is as follows: ‘I am an alcoholic, and through the benefit of counseling and therapy, I have come to recognize and accept the fact that alcoholism is a disease and needs to be treated like any other disease. Recent events have crystallized my recognition of my long-standing problem with alcohol and the emotional difficulties attendant to such an addiction. I deeply regret and accept full responsibility for my inappropriate conduct while under the influence of alcohol.

“‘On Saturday, with the loving support of my family and friends, I entered an in-patient facility to address my disease and related issues. I am grateful beyond words for the prayers and encouragement I have received. However, my greatest fear is that the media has turned its attention toward me and away from the search for Katie Converse. I have asked my attorney to fully and completely cooperate regarding any inquiries that may arise during my treatment. It is vital that there be no distractions while Katie is still missing. My only wish is that Katie will be found or come forward.’”

Even before Stone had finished folding the paper in half, reporters were shouting questions at him.

“What is the name of this facility?” yelled a reporter with some kind of Eastern European accent. The tangled story of the underage page and the senator had begun to attract worldwide interest.

“To maintain the privacy of Senator Fairview and the other patients, we are not at liberty to disclose that,” Stone said.

“Was Fairview ever drunk in the Senate?” a reporter from Channel Two shouted.

“Senator Fairview has conducted himself totally appropriately and has been 100 percent sober at all times when he was discharging his duties and responsibilities as a United States senator,” Stone said. “That has never been in question.”

“What about those new instant messages?” Cassidy shouted. “The ones that show him having a sexual conversation with a page while participating in a Senate roll-call vote?”

Stone visibly flinched. Being drunk was Fairview’s only excuse for his behavior. But if Stone said Fairview was drunk when he created those IMs, then the lawyer had just repudiated the other part of the assertion he had made only seconds earlier. He settled for a statement that answered nothing and everything.

“I’m not aware of those reports and cannot comment on them. Look,” Stone continued, his voice finally showing the strain, “while Senator Fairview may have exchanged some inappropriate joking instant messages with a page, he has never, ever had inappropriate sexual contact with a minor in his life. He certainly regrets the silly but harmless communications that he made while under the influence of alcohol, but they are meaningless. He is contrite, remorseful, and devastated by the harm that his actions have caused others.” Stone took a deep breath as his gaze swept over the dozens of reporters. “We ask you—we beg you—to keep focused on the real problem here. A bright young woman is missing and needs to be found. Let’s not forget that Katie Converse is the
only
thing of importance.”