The Black List (8 page)

“Did I mention you’d be in the surveillance van with Griffin?”

“You sort of glossed over that part.”

“Guess we could always ask Carillo, and you could have the night off.”

“So I can sit home drinking cider with his wife
and
her lover? Hmmm . . . Let me think about it . . .”

“So how is Carillo?”

“A little stir crazy, being cooped up.”

“Beats going to their funeral,” he said, leading her into the conference room, where their equipment for the night was laid out on the long table.

He was sorting through the earpieces when Griffin walked in.

“I need the keys—” Griffin stopped short at the sight of Sydney. “You’re definitely not Marco.”

“Dang.” Sydney reached up and felt her face. “I
knew
something was off when I looked in the mirror this morning.”

“Marco couldn’t make it,” Tex said. “Last-minute replacement.” He inserted the earpiece, then turned to Sydney. “Does this receiver make me look fat?”

“Do I have to answer that?”

“Where’re the keys?” Griffin asked, looking slightly perturbed.

“My desk.”

Griffin left, and Sydney eyed Tex. “Glossed over me being here, too?”

“Might’ve slipped my mind.”

“Should be an interesting evening.”

“Hey. I’m the one facing danger.”

“From Griffin, maybe.”

An hour later Griffin and Sydney were seated in the surveillance van, watching the front of the hotel as Tex parked, then walked across the lot into the lobby. There was an awkward silence between the two, and Sydney looked over at Griffin as he stared straight ahead.

She laughed. “I don’t bite, you know.”

Griffin didn’t quite smile, but it was close to one as he handed her a set of binoculars. “Sorry. I’ve had my mind on other things.”

“Tex isn’t trying to set us up, is he?”

“Not exactly. There
is
something I need to talk—”

Tex’s voice sounded in her earpiece. “I’m walking in.”

Griffin keyed his radio. “Copy.” He lifted his binoculars for a view.

“There’s a sign directing all press members to check in at the silent auction table,” Tex told them.

And Griffin said, “How much you want to bet that wasn’t there until
after
they sent us those tickets.”

“Don’t want to lose track of your special invitees.”

Music played in the background, and then she heard Tex introducing himself to someone. “James Dalton. I’m with the
Washington Recorder.”

“Welcome, Mr. Dalton,” came the man’s voice. “Let me just get you checked off. Are you here with anyone?”

“Unfortunately my wife wasn’t feeling well,” Tex said.

“Sorry to hear that. Looks like we don’t have your home address on file . . . One of the raffle prizes is an all expenses paid trip to Hawaii if you want to provide it. Might cheer your wife up if you win.”

“Business address won’t do?”

“I think they’re hoping to add to their mailing list,” the man said. “Every little bit helps, you know. Your ticket stub.”

“Thank you,” Tex replied.

Sydney lowered her binoculars as two men from the hotel exited the lobby, one leaning heavily on the other, staggering as they crossed into the parking lot in their direction. They stopped one row up, the man on the left bending down, probably puking his guts.

“Little early to be drunk,” Griffin said, then adjusted the volume on their receiver. “Music’s louder. Tex is probably moving deeper into the ballroom.” He keyed the mike. “Anything interesting yet?”

“Besides a half-full room of overdressed patrons and enough champagne to get a third-world country inebriated? I’d rather be in the van.”

“That’s what happens when you lose the coin toss,” Griffin radioed back.

About a minute of nothing but music followed, then Tex making the rounds, slipping into and out of social groups, and being introduced to one politician after the other. “They could hold a Senate meeting here,” he said to one bystander, who laughed. A moment later the man was introducing him to yet another person, saying, “Senator Burgess, this is James Dalton,
Washington Recorder
.”

“Mr. Dalton . . .” came a woman’s voice; Sydney assumed the senator’s. “I’m sorry to say I don’t subscribe to your paper.”

“Imagine it’s a bit conservative for your tastes, ma’am,” Tex said.

Griffin reached over, turned up the radio, saying, “What the hell is she doing there?”

“You know her?” Sydney asked.

“More importantly,
she
knows Tex, and they’re not exactly buddies.”

Someone laughed in the background, and then the senator asked, “Is it a coincidence you’re here, Mr. Dalton, or am I somehow supposed to believe you’re supporting the cause?”

“The world is full of coincidences, Senator.”

“Isn’t it. I—”

“Ah, Senator Burgess,” came another man’s voice, this one filled with enthusiasm and admiration. “So good of you to come to my documentary.” Apparently Micah Goodwin, the man behind the fund-raiser.

Sure enough, the senator replied with, “Micah. How
very
lovely to see you again.”

“And who have you brought with you?” Micah asked.

There was a hesitation, and then Tex saying, “I’m one of the reporters covering your event. James Dalton from the
Washington Recorder.
”

“Always glad to meet the press,” came his reply. “Especially for a cause as worthy as this one. Have you seen the documentary?”

“Unfortunately not all of it,” Tex said.

“Well, at least the senator has.”

“A
wonderful
cause,” she said, the perfect politician. “Ah. But I see my husband waving to me across the room. You’ll excuse me?”

“So tell me, Mr. Dalton,” Micah said. “Anything about the documentary you’d like to know?”

“What can you give me in a line or two?”

“This . . . For every person present tonight, we’re able to relocate one refugee from the overburdened camps to this country to start a new life. Moving them from a hovel of sticks and tarps to a real brick building.”

“Every person present?”

“Twenty-five hundred dollars. You have no idea what it feels like to walk into a village, war-torn, poverty-stricken, feeling helpless and insignificant, because all the money won’t make a difference to these people. But when we bring them here, they have a chance. I can’t tell you what a sense of fulfillment this has all brought me. Having a place in this world, knowing that my little documentary has helped pave the way for so many underprivileged refugees who had nothing.”

And so it went for several minutes, small talk, people discussing the film and what a good cause it was. Apparently Tex had moved off by himself, because a moment later he said, “You two might want to get in here. I found her.”

“Found who?” Griffin radioed back.

“The woman Sydney sketched. Only they were wrong about her looking like Veronica Lake. I’d say she’s more like Jessica Rabbit.”

“How the hell do you know it’s even the same woman?”

“She’s wearing the earrings Sydney drew.”

Veronica Lake . . .
Jessica Rabbit. Whoever she was, Tex was all for getting a closer look, because what he saw was intoxicating. She wore a silver lamé dress that hugged every curve, the discreet slit up the side hinting at silken legs that went on forever, and he pictured her bloodred stiletto heels being kicked off in the middle of his bed. “I think I’m in love, Griff.”

“Down, boy. We’re on our way in.”

Tex glanced toward the main entrance, where all the doors stood wide-open to the lobby beyond, but didn’t see Griffin yet. Unfortunately the auburn-headed bombshell turned and started walking in the opposite direction, her silky hair cascading down her back, her dress shimmering with every step.

Love, lust, who was counting? He quickened his pace, gaining ground, then almost ran into her when she suddenly stopped next to a table piled with books.

“Oh my God!” She jumped, her hand going to her chest.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “I wasn’t watching.”

She looked around her, then turned back to him. “No, no. It’s probably my fault. There were these guys— Never mind. It’s like I’m running in fifteen different directions and I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Have you read it? The book?” he asked, picking up a copy and opening the front cover.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name,” she said.

“James Dalton, with the
Washington Recorder.”

“Eve Sanders.” Her mouth parted slightly, showing a line of even white teeth. Then, lowering her voice, she said, “The
Recorder
? As in the same reporter who talked to Dorian Rose?”

“I am.”

“I realize this is awkward, but when he told me you had contacted him, I—I just had a feeling something bad was going on. I guess I just never expected that he’d kill himself. It was all very surreal. I mean, I’d just left his apartment.”

“You were there?”

“I was, but he didn’t answer his door, so I left. I just—I knew he was in there. And now I have to wonder if there’s something I could have done differently. Maybe knocked louder, stopped him from taking his own life—”

“Is something wrong?” he asked when her attention was suddenly diverted toward the front doors.

She pulled her gaze back to him. “Sorry. I thought I saw— I’m just tired.” She reached out, grasped his arm. “You
aren’t
going to write about this, are you? Dorian’s suicide?”

“No, ma’am,” he said.

A moment later he heard Griffin announcing, “We’re here.”

Tex looked in that direction, saw Griffin and Sydney to the left of the doors, each with a camera hanging around their necks, their attention on Tex, undoubtedly waiting to find out what to do next.

“Friends of yours?” Eve asked, apparently noticing his interest.

“My photographers,” he told Eve.

A moment later Tex watched as two men moved to either side of Sydney and Griffin, stepping in close. Too close. Unfortunately, Micah Goodwin walked up to the podium to begin his speech, and the applause drowned out whatever the two men were saying to Griffin.

A third man walked up behind Tex and Eve, and in a voice just loud enough for the two of them to hear, said, “Don’t move, Mr. Dalton. I have a gun pointed right at you.”

And to prove his point, he pressed the weapon into Tex’s side.

14

Nothing like the sobering
feel of hard steel against your rib cage, Tex thought, as the sound of applause finally died, and Micah Goodwin stood at the podium on the dais.

“Thank you,” Micah said into the microphone. “But I won’t bore you with a long speech, other than to say I appreciate your support tonight, your generosity in growing my dream of bringing refugees from war-torn Africa to a better life here in the U.S. As one man I was powerless. Together we’re building dreams.”

More applause, and then he continued with, “And while it goes to show what we can achieve when joined by others of a like mind, there
is
one person here who deserves special thanks. Eve Sanders, the lovely young volunteer worker who managed to put my otherwise unknown documentary in the hands of the great people at A
.
D
.
E.
Without
her, I wouldn’t be an international phenomenon. More importantly, we wouldn’t have all of you wonderful people coming together to ensure the success of From Sticks to Bricks. Eve? Where are you?”

Scattered clapping, then Micah saying, “Ah, there she is near the book table with a group of ardent admirers.” Micah glanced to his side, where a man was working what appeared to be a sound and lighting system. “Terry, shine that spotlight over there. See her? Silver dress. Come come, gentlemen. Don’t let her walk out without the acknowledgment she deserves.”

Eve stilled as the light hit them. “What should I do?”

The gunman shoved his weapon deeper into Tex’s side, using his body to shield it from view, as he quietly said, “Extricate yourself, Ms. Sanders.”

She glanced at Tex, then down at the weapon, before turning a bright smile toward the podium. “They’d rather see you, Micah.”

“Not the men,” Micah replied, to some scattered laughter.

Now or never, Tex thought, then called out, “Would you like me to bring her up?”

“How about it, folks?” Micah said into the microphone. A thunderous round of applause, then he waved them to the podium.

The gunman leaned over and said into Tex’s ear, “Be
very
careful, Mr. Dalton. We
still
have your friends.”

Not for long, Tex thought, placing his hand at the small of Eve’s back, ushering her away from their would-be captor. As they neared the stage, he glanced back, saw the two men walking Sydney and Griffin toward the side door.

He grabbed Eve’s hand, doubled their pace.

“What are you doing?” Eve whispered.

“Improvising.”

He hurried her up the few steps to the podium, then leaned over to speak into the microphone. “Mr. Goodwin, you’re going to have to forgive me here. If we could swing that spotlight over by the front door . . . where my photographer and his assistant are
trying
to make a getaway . . .” He waited and the man working the lights did as asked. The two thugs on either side of Sydney and Griffin froze like deer in headlights as Tex continued, “Before they rush off, I was hoping you’d allow my photographers to snap a few photos of you mingling with the crowd. We’re talking some good front page material, courtesy of the
Washington Recorder.
”

“That ought to make the politicians happy,” Micah said to laughter from the audience. “Let’s get those cameras up here and sign some books!”

And like magic the crowd herded Griffin and Sydney toward the stage, and the two gunmen fell back.

“You did it,” Eve said.

“For the moment. We still have to get out of here.”

Sydney stood in
the midst of the flashing red and blue lights that lit up the front of the hotel, reflecting off the plateglass windows and those of every car parked in the lot. She’d called MPDC to make sure they had a clear route out to prevent anything from happening to the other guests, should the kidnappers attempt to take them by force. Once the cops showed up, their alleged kidnappers fled and the threat was averted. “Sometimes,” Sydney said, “you have to do things the old-fashioned way.”