House of Secrets - v4 (52 page)

“Right away, sir.”

C
hris Wyeth met privately with Whitney Hoyt.

Former mentor, former protégé. Former friends.

The meeting lasted less than forty minutes. Having spoken extensively with Andy Foster the day after Michelle Foster’s rescue, Wyeth entered the meeting with the full knowledge that the former governor had been setting the stage for John Hyland being removed from the office of the presidency before the end of the year and Vice President Andy Foster subsequently performing his constitutional duty by stepping into the post. When Wyeth broached the topic, Hoyt refused to give it any credence. He scoffed at the idea. Wyeth had never expected Hoyt to come clean with him. That would have been expecting a minor miracle.

On the other hand, Wyeth did come clean with Whitney Hoyt. Ten minutes after his arrival, Wyeth pulled some file folders from his briefcase and set them on his rival’s desk. One of the folders included black-and-white photographs of the accident scene near Port Jervis when Jenny Hoyt’s first husband had driven his car off the narrow road that zigzags high above the Delaware River. Another folder contained a copy of the official police report on the accident, including interviews with witnesses, as well as the analysis of the blood alcohol level found in Roger Mead at the site of the crash. The level had been extremely high, no particular surprise to anyone who had known Roger Mead. The report’s conclusion had been that Mead was too inebriated to maneuver his vehicle along the multiple serpentine curves of Route 97 and that he had crashed through a low stone wall and remained trapped in his vehicle as it tumbled down five hundred feet of shale and brush, coming to rest roughly fifty feet from the river below.

Hoyt looked up irritably from the report. “And why am I looking at this?”

Wyeth continued to lay papers out on the desk, making a deliberate point of moving the framed photograph taken of Whitney and Jenny Hoyt on their wedding day out of the way. One of the folders contained the medical examiner’s report on Roger Mead’s cause of death. The ME’s report essentially ascribed Mead’s death to any of a number of fatal causes. Broken neck, collapsed lungs, severe head trauma, loss of blood — take your pick.

Wyeth picked loss of blood.

He directed Hoyt’s attention to a series of written reports compiled by two independent investigators that Wyeth himself had hired within twenty-four hours of hearing the news of Roger Mead’s car crash.

“What can I tell you, Whitney? I guess I’ve just always been a very un-trusting person when it comes to you.”

In an interview conducted by one of the investigators with an attending physician in the emergency room where Roger Mead had been taken, the doctor had admitted noting an especially clean slice running along the victim’s neck. It was the very lack of raggedness that had drawn his attention. The victim had been badly battered during the tumble down the steep hill. The physician’s statement was that a slashing piece of metal or shard of broken glass would have likely left a very different wound on the victim. Even so, the driver had been drunk, his car went off the road, and the man was most certainly dead. Broken neck, collapsed lungs, and all the rest. End of story.

H
oyt studied the physician’s report with an expression of casual interest then let it drop back onto his desk.

“This is all very ghoulish and boring, Chris. And I don’t mind telling you that if this is the level of conversation from you I’ve been missing all these years, I’m finding it hard to feel much regret.”

Wyeth gave the man his smile. “Oh, I’ve had a few sparkling conversations over the years.”

“My loss, then.” Hoyt indicated the papers strewn about on his desk. “Is there any point to all this?”

Wyeth answered, “I think you know there is. Of course, I don’t ever expect you to admit to it. If through some extreme fluke Roger Mead had managed to survive all of those traumas on the way down the hill, his severed jugular would have surely sealed the deal.”

He began collecting the folder and files and photographs together.

“It’s all here, Whitney. I’m not going to sit here and lay it all out for you, because I know full well you already know it. And I’m not saying your man wasn’t extremely clever. He was. Paul Jordan knows how to run an operation, no question about it. Even after he went down to the crash site to make sure that Mead had been killed, he kept his cool, didn’t he? One quick slice and then he vanishes into thin air. All so that his boss could then go ahead and begin publicly courting his new lady love. Fine stuff, Whitney. A superbly organized campaign. We’re all so proud of you and your trained monkey. He’s been quite the asset, hasn’t he? No wonder you felt comfortable sending him off to gather dirt on Andy.”

Wyeth slipped the materials back into his briefcase and clicked it closed.

“Do you know what Paul Jordan is, Whitney? I’m sure you’ve heard this term. For all his stiff-upper-lip bullshit, he’s a garbage collector. That’s all he is. He collects garbage. And then he comes here and dumps it on your desk, and the two of you pick through it to see what kind of crap you can find. Very commendable, Whitney. It’s a fine legacy. Governor. Ambassador. Garbage trawler.”

Chris Wyeth gave an almost wistful look to his long-ago comrade. He dropped his anger down a notch.

“Christ’s sake, Whit. It’s all just check and checkmate bullshit, isn’t it? Same old, same old. We’re two old wannabes fighting a stupid useless cold war right here.”

“I haven’t admitted to anything,” Hoyt said stiffly.

Wyeth picked up his briefcase. “I don’t need you to. I have a story I could tell and some documents to wave around, and that’s all I’d need. People would listen. They eat this stuff up, as you well know. Whatever legacy you think you’ve been crafting all this time, it would be gone in a single news cycle. I wouldn’t even have to prove anything. I’d only have to accuse. Beautiful thing, isn’t it?”

“You think you’re being very clever.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. You made me immune.
My
legacy is sealed, thanks to you. You’ve already dumped me out of office, and you can’t hurt me anymore. But I can hurt you,
friend
. Hurt you like the truly deluded son of a bitch you are.”

He paused. A good shooter always pauses before squeezing the trigger. A trace of a smile moved across the deposed vice president’s face.

“And listen closely. If I ever catch wind of any smut against Andy coming to the surface, or if any sort of whisperings about John Hyland start making the rounds…” Wyeth raised the briefcase and rattled it. “Your Mr. Jordan will go down for murder. And so will you. Do you know what you need to learn, Whitney? Although it’s probably too late to do you any good. You need to learn to keep your hands in your own pockets. Stop messing with other people’s lives, Governor. Mess with your own; that’s yours to screw up any old way you wish. But let other people screw up their own lives. That’s the real American way.”

Not another word was spoken. Wyeth could feel his old friend’s eyes on his back as he left the room and made his way down the hallway. Like two red lasers. Skittering about. Seeking out the soft spot.

T
he waitress brought Megan’s breakfast to her. Her usual. French toast with sausage. Refill on the coffee.

“Thanks, Dolly.”

Dolly came as close to touching without touching the bandage on Megan’s head as possible. “What happened to you? Your brain explode from thinking too much or something?”

The waitress knew Megan well enough to take her sneer for a smile.

“That’s as good a reason as any,” Megan said.

Dolly frowned. “Seriously. You okay?”

On the small television set next to the kitchen, a segment on a morning show was comparing ultraexpensive designer wedding dresses with identical knockoffs that come dirt cheap by comparison. A pair of sexy blond twins were modeling the two wedding dresses. The show’s hyperkinetic hostess buzzed around the models like a bee that can’t decide where to land.

Megan grunted. “Can we turn that thing off, Dolly? I’d hate to put a bullet in your TV.”

“Sure thing.” The waitress crossed to the television set and switched it off. Megan winced a smile. She took a grateful sip of her coffee and closed her eyes.

The little girl was safe. Michelle Foster was back with her mother and father, shaken by all that she had been put through, naturally, but by all early indications capable of moving past it. Of course, time would tell. If in about twenty years from now somebody started picking off museum security guards… not so good.

But for now she seemed fine. The little girl had given the detective a huge hug around the neck just the day before when Megan had dropped by the Fosters’ apartment at Senator Foster’s insistence so that the family could thank her personally for her part in the rescue. After the hug, the sweet little girl had burst into tears.

The girl was safe, and the kidnapper was in custody. Such a collection of charges were being filed against Robert Smallwood, Megan figured the man would be dead of old age before all the sentences had even been passed. The media were all over the story, of course, and Malcolm Bell was pleased. He had caught up with Megan at the precinct house soon after her return from the Fosters’ apartment.

“I’m just curious how this ‘hero’ business sits with you, Detective?”

Megan’s response was terse and immediate. “It doesn’t. I guess it sells papers, but that’s not the business I’m in.”

Bell said, “There’s nothing wrong with a little shine on your badge now and then. It’s good for the morale.”

Megan looked slowly around the tiny restaurant. She’d always liked the fit of the place. Some years back, in fact, when she had been on forced leave from the department, Megan had even carried a few of Dolly’s shifts, to give the waitress a little more time with her son. Megan picked up her fork. The French toast and sausage looked good. The coffee was freshly brewed. The inane yabbering of the morning show was now turned off, and the restaurant was blissfully quiet. The forecast was calling for highs in the low seventies, cooling air being pumped in from the Great Lakes. Big smiling sun. Clouds like popcorn. An open day stretched in front of her, and her brother was having her over for dinner that night. Track it up, down, and sideways, and all was pretty damn right with the world.

So why did Megan Lamb just want to cry?

T
he stream of well-wishers into Senator Foster’s office resembled Free Pie Day at the State Fair. The senator’s key assistants, Greg and Linda, shuttled visitors between the front office and Foster’s private office continuously.

“Representative Heidt is here to see you, Senator.”

“Senator Dulev would like a word.”

“Sir? Chairman Riechers is hoping you could give him a minute.”

Several of the visitors took Senator Foster in a full embrace. In some cases, there were tears. Some even brought a copy of his book with them, hoping that he would be willing to autograph it for them. To a person, the visitors expressed heartfelt relief and joy over the safe return of his daughter. Only a few displayed the crassness of bringing up their intention to introduce new crime legislation as a result of the Foster family’s recent ordeal. The senator from New York handled these potentially awkward moments with his customary aplomb. Today, of all days, he was not going to be knocked off his game.