Lady Liberty (40 page)

“You go on to the cafeteria and get a bite to eat, Mitzy I’ll stay with him.”

Jean, talking with his wife. Cap opened his eye to a slit and saw Mitzy leaving the room. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Damn, she’d been crying.

Jean pulled a brown envelope out of her purse and then moved to Cap’s beside, her heels clicking on the tile floor. “Senator, I know you’re awake. Open your eyes and look at me.”

Cap opened his eyes.

“Good.” Jean scanned his face. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” His tongue felt thick, too big for his mouth. “How did I get here?”

She briefed him succinctly, then dropped her voice to a whisper. Worry clouded her eyes. “I think that same messenger was at the office today—the one who brought the key”

Cap’s heart rate spiked. “What did he want?”

“He brought this.” She held up the envelope.

“Open it,” he whispered, feeling as if he were talking and seeing through a veil of fog. “Tell me what it is.”

Jean ripped open the end of the envelope, slid out two documents and a small Ziploc bag. She scanned them, then cast Cap a puzzled look. “One is a DNA report. No name on it.”

“What’s that?”

She held the plastic bag where he could see it. “It looks like a used Band-Aid. There’s blood on it.”

Still, Cap had no grasp on this. “Anything else?”

“A handwritten note.” Her puzzled tone turned bewildered. “This is odd.”

Chilled, he tugged the twisted sheet up over his chest. “What does it say?”

“Flip Five.” She looked over at him. “Do you understand any of this?”

Unfortunately, he did. “Not really” Whose DNA was it? Why had Faust sent it to him? “It could be a constituent’s profile,” he said. That had happened a couple of times before, when someone was embroiled in a parental custody suit or a paternity dispute. Jean would buy it.

“Maybe, but this man fit the description of the key messenger, Cap.”

What was Cap supposed to do with these things? He had no idea, and he damn sure couldn’t ask. “Are you certain it’s the same man?”

“No, I’m not. Peggy signed for the key, remember? I didn’t see him then. But he matches the description she gave us and he was wearing the Ground Serve uniform. It looked new.” Peggy, Jean’s assistant, had noted the newness of the uniform during the original delivery.

Matches the description. Did Cap throw away everything he had worked for in the past thirty years based on a “matches the description” ID and a nameless DNA report?

Guilt stabbed at him. Sybil Stone had risked detonating the briefcase bomb to save his life. There was no way around that. Situations reversed, he wouldn’t have saved hers, and there was no way around that, either. He appreciated her taking the high road, but he didn’t want to needlessly throw away the presidential nomination.

If this diabetic episode had happened anywhere except at A-267, squelching word of it would have been impossible. But luck had been with him on that. Now he had to move forward in a business-as-usual manner. That did not include being saddled with Sybil Stone on his ticket in the next election, and it damn sure didn’t include running against her. Not with her being a media hot commodity as a woman on a mission for her country who had just survived a plane crash.

She was destined to rebound in the polls now, and he fully expected she would end up with higher ratings than she’d had before her divorce. Americans love scrappers and survivors.

And they hate traitors.

Cap looked over at Jean. “Get in touch with Sam Sayelle. Tell him I need to see him as soon as possible.”

Marcus Gilbert had been retired for over five years, but he was still the best strategist on the Hill. Even more important to Sam at the moment, Marcus still had more connections in town than Ma Bell had phone lines.

Sam left the
Herald’s
parking garage and stopped by Sniffer’s basement office. The young man sat at his desk, his tie hanging loose, his hair ruffled from finger-forking it, buried to his armpits in reports. “Any word on the Wall man?”

“Nothing.” Sniffer expelled a sigh that could power a windmill. “I’m trying, Sam, but I’m a new kid on the block. I don’t have your connections. It’s just like I thought, though.
While the veep was gone, he dropped off the face of the earth. Now that she’s back, well, maybe he’ll surface again.”

Not likely, Sam thought. Once he broke the story of what was in the envelope, there was no way Sybil Stone would dare show her face anywhere in the city. “Keep checking.”

Sniffer nodded and Sam walked on, heading upstairs for the meeting.

“Hey Sam?”

He paused and looked back. “Yeah?”

A hopeful gleam lit in Sniffer’s eyes. “Any word on the Deans?”

“Not yet.” Sam had the feeling there wouldn’t be any word on Linda or the kids. Not publicly. If what was in the envelope panned out as an accurate gauge, not for a long time.

He went upstairs, then down the hall to the conference room. Carl Edison sat talking with… Marcus Gilbert? It was. Sam hardly recognized the man. Marcus and Carl were about the same age, same basic weight and height, but where Carl was meticulous about his appearance, Marcus had become a slob. His shirt and slacks had more wrinkles than fabric, and he didn’t just need a haircut and a shave, he could use a good shearing. And when had he grown a beard?

“Thanks for coming in.” Sam sat down at the conference table and dumped the contents of the envelope onto the table. “Ground Serve hand-delivered the envelope. A note inside said the carrier had twenty more to deliver to different major media resources, but not until I authorize delivery.”

“Why you?”

“I don’t know, Carl. The source probably believes I have no respect for the veep.”

Marcus arched an eyebrow and thrust out his lips. “Is that still the case?”

How could Sam explain? His feelings about her were
chaotic. Growing admiration, no trust, grudging respect. Reveal that, and he’d sound like an idiot. “Not exactly,” he hedged.

“Who is the source?” Carl asked.

“Austin Stone.”

“Inflammatory material against his ex-wife. Raises serious credibility questions.” Carl lifted a photo of Sybil Stone talking with an unidentified man. “Who’s the guy?”

“According to Austin Stone, Gregor Faust. But no one’s verified a positive ID on him.”

Marcus examined the photo carefully and then tossed it down on the table. Whatever his opinions were, he kept them to himself.

“I agree on the credibility,” Sam said. “Austin would love to see her spit-roasted.” His nose itched. He swiped it with a fingertip. “Cap Marlowe introduced us, but I don’t really know Austin, and, truthfully, I didn’t like him.”

Marcus tapped at his lips. “Why not?”

Sam wished he could be specific and exact. He couldn’t. “Gut reaction.” He hadn’t put it under a microscope, he’d just gone with his gut and stayed away from the man.

“Your midwestern values maybe?” Marcus asked. “He was still married to the veep and talking her down.”

Surprised, Sam nodded. That had annoyed the hell out of him.

“He has a rep for it,” Marcus explained the insight.

Carl reviewed the last of the evidence. “His lack of loyalty might be an issue, but he’s done an excellent job of making it look as if she violated their blind trust. What’s that about?”

“Austin’s company,” Sam said. “Secure Environet works mostly with the federal government. Sybil owns fifty-one percent of the stock. When she got elected, she insisted all their holdings—hers and Austin’s—be placed in a
blind trust to avoid even the appearance of a conflict of interest. He took exception but finally agreed.”

“Fifty-
two
percent, Sam,” Marcus corrected him. “And he agreed under her threat of divorce. The blind trust was a deal-breaker.”

“Okay,” Carl said. “So she insists on this blind trust and then breaks it. She tells the public she can’t have kids, but here’s proof Austin was sterile before she married him. So she doesn’t discriminate, she lies across the board.”

“Compelling case,” Marcus said to Sam.

Excitement bubbled in Sam’s stomach. “How should I use it?”

“Don’t.” Marcus grimaced. “It’s bogus.”

“It can’t be bogus. It all fits. The kids, the stock—the woman’s being blackmailed for something, damn it, and it sure isn’t her love life.”

Marcus shoved the papers away. “Who’s blackmailing her?”

“We don’t have an ID on him yet.” Sam shifted on his seat. “But he’s been observed by our guys and the Secret Service. We think he’s a go-between for another source. Looking at this, I think that source might be Gregor Faust.”

“I imagine that’s exactly what Austin Stone wants you to think,” Carl said. “What’s this?” He held up a page with only two words written on it. “Flip Five.”

“No idea,” Sam said.

“It’s bogus, Sam.” Marcus stood up, grabbed his raincoat, and shrugged into it. “You do what you want, but you asked for my opinion. Now you’ve got it.” He lumbered over to the door. “If you do use it, you might want to ID your go-between first and find out what that ‘flip five’ means. It’s significant or it wouldn’t have been included.” He slid his gaze to Carl. “If you print anything using this as source support, you might want to check with legal first and make sure the liability premiums are paid.”

“Damn, Marcus,” Carl sputtered, clearly flustered.

Marcus ignored him, glanced back to Sam. “Did you tell Marlowe about Conlee?”

Stunned, Sam stared at him. Marcus knew about Commander Conlee. He had to have given Conlee the referral. The broadcast room downstairs, the senior staff ignoring Sam’s broadcasts—at one time, Marcus must have done broadcasts like Sam’s for Conlee… or for his predecessor. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Hell, I don’t know, Marcus. Maybe she’s not who I thought she was, and maybe everyone involved in this isn’t who or what they seem. I don’t know why not. I just couldn’t make myself do it.”

“I wouldn’t.” Marcus moved toward the door. “The real thing is easy to spot, Sam, but you’ve got to have your eyes open to see it.”

“Will someone tell me what in hell you two are talking about?” Carl cut in, clearly clueless and ticked off about it.

“You don’t want to know.” At the moment, Sam wished he didn’t know. He held up the envelope and shouted at Marcus’s retreating back. “Why do you think it’s bogus?”

“You’re the reporter,” he said without looking back. His hands stuffed in his pockets, he lifted them, and the tail of his coat fanned out. “Figure it out.”

Had Marcus been saying she was or she wasn’t the real thing? “I’d forgotten how much I hate his riddles.” Sam slumped in his chair, still holding the envelope. “I am going to use this, Carl.” And he would. If only to call down Conlee and get some straight answers.

“Your call.” Carl took off his glasses and shoved them into his shirt pocket. “I’ll back you, but know what you’re doing. Caution was never one of Marcus Gilbert’s trademarks. If he says what you’ve got is bogus, you better make damn sure it isn’t. Check it all out, verify it, then check it all again. Double source everything. Marcus got to be an icon because he’s sharp and seldom wrong. That’s worth remembering. Now who’s this Conlee he mentioned?”

Sam debated. Carl Edison was his boss, but Conlee had meant what he had said about killing Sam and anyone he told. His threat proved stronger, and Sam couldn’t shake the feeling Carl asking the question was a test he had better not fail. “Just a mutual acquaintance. No one of consequence.”

Carl’s eyes gleamed with approval. Sam had been right about the test, and he had made the right choice. If he had told Carl, the man probably would have burned up the phone lines calling Conlee to tell him.

The broadcast room had been used before. Apparently by Carl
and
Marcus.

“Don’t make me sorry I’m backing you, Sam,” Carl said, then left the conference room.

Sam gathered up the contents of the envelope. His phone vibrated against his hip. “Sayelle,” he answered, frustrated because he hadn’t gotten the overwhelming support he had hoped to get from either of them, and because he couldn’t yet answer all the questions pouring through his mind.

“Sam, it’s Jean. Senator Marlowe wants to see you right away. He’s at St. Elizabeth’s. Can you get over here?”

Sam scooped up the last of the papers and checked his watch. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll tell him you’re coming.” Jean hung up.

Sam put his phone back in its case. Actually, this worked well for him. Cap Marlowe knew more about Sybil Stone than anyone else in the world, except maybe for Westford. But Westford was out of reach.

That spark of hope, dimmer than ever, demanded the truth. Was she Sam’s long-awaited patriot, or the most corrupt politician to turn traitor in the history of the nation?

“Marcus Gilbert says it’s bogus.”

Propped up with fluffy pillows in his hospital bed, Cap
Marlowe reviewed Sam’s evidence against Sybil Stone. For Marcus to come out of retirement long enough to look at this collection meant that he knew the truth and he was saving the
Herald’s
proverbial ass. If Sam knew Marcus as well as did Cap and the old-timers on the Hill, he would realize that. But of course he didn’t.