The Short Drop (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

Gibson slid into the booth opposite Abe. George Abe. George fucking Abe. He exhaled at the wonder of it. Sitting face-to-face with him after all this time. Abe was a link to his past. A link to his father. What had it been? Ten . . . no, eleven years? Not since the last day of his trial, when the judge dropped his bombshell.

Abe hadn’t sat at the prosecution table, although he might as well have. Throughout the trial, he and his legal pad were fixtures in the gallery directly behind the district attorney. Abe fed the prosecution documents, huddled for private conferences, and passed notes forward at key moments. You would be forgiven if you came away with the impression that the DA took its marching orders from George Abe. Gibson certainly had.

It was months after his arrest when Gibson realized that Benjamin Lombard wasn’t leaving his trial to chance. In hacking into the senator’s computers, Gibson had broken both state and federal laws, but the assumption was that the federal charges would supersede local. At least until the case had been unexpectedly rerouted to the Virginia courts. The reason, though never stated, was simple: federal judgeships were lifetime appointments, while Virginia circuit judges served eight-year terms and were elected by the Virginia Assembly. Lombard had called in a marker, moving Gibson’s trial to a venue where he could bring to bear his significant influence. The DA’s decision to try him as an adult for a nonviolent first-time offense only confirmed that suspicion. So when his trial began, Gibson assumed the judge must also be batting for Team Lombard.

The trial was over in nine days, the verdict a foregone conclusion. Gibson’s hard drives were all the evidence the prosecution needed. Pronounced guilty, he was returned to his cell to await sentencing. But a few days later, his lawyer collected him and brought him before the judge. Not to the courtroom proper but to the judge’s chambers. At the door, the judge and Gibson’s lawyer exchanged an odd, complicit glance.

“I’ll take it from here, Mr. Jennings,” the judge said.

His lawyer nodded, glanced sideways at his confused young client, and left them standing in the doorway without a word. Gibson didn’t know a lot about the law, but even he knew it was irregular. When they were alone, the judge gestured for Gibson to come inside.

“Think we should have a chat, you and me.”

The judge took two glass bottles of RC Cola from a small refrigerator and popped the caps with a bottle opener attached to the wall. He offered Gibson one and settled behind his broad mahogany desk.

The Honorable Hammond D. Birk was a mixture of cantankerous southern gentleman and hardscrabble Virginia blue collar. He’d been a relentless hard-ass throughout the trial—scathing when his courtroom didn’t perform up to his standards, but charming and polite in the manner he conveyed his considerable displeasure. The lawyers on both sides treaded carefully to avoid incurring his wrath. Sitting in the judge’s leather armchair, Gibson was afraid to so much as take a sip of his soda.

“Son,” the judge began. “I’m going to make you a one-time-only offer. There’ll be no questions, no discussion, and no negotiation. When I’m done talking, I only want to hear one of two words out of you. Yes or no. Just one of those words, and then we’re going to go out there today and wrap up this damn circus, which frankly offends me. You understand me?”

Gibson nodded silently in case answering the question aloud was a trap that would disqualify him.

“Good,” the judge said. “My offer is pretty straightforward. Ten years in prison or an enlistment in the United States Marine Corps. Not that you asked, but an enlistment is five years. That’s half, in case you’re wondering. And you’d be doing something useful in the service with that brain of yours other than counting the weeks, months, and years until your release. So . . . ten years or an enlistment. At the end of which, I will personally expunge your record, and you may go about making your way in this petty world of ours.”

The judge emptied his bottle and squinted across the desk at Gibson.

“I’m done speaking now, son. It’s your turn. Take your time and think it over. Yes for Marines, no for jail. Just let me know your answer when it comes to you. And don’t go letting your RC get warm. It was your father’s favorite in college.”

Gibson looked up at the judge, who smiled at him.

They sat a spell in silence, though in truth the decision hadn’t taken any time at all. Twenty years in the service would have been a small price to pay to avoid another night in a cell. And that was just jail—real prison was an entirely different animal, and it scared Gibson to death. But he’d enjoyed sitting there with the judge, drinking RC Cola and hoping Birk might talk a little more about his father.

But the judge never had, either then or in any of the dozens of letters they’d exchanged while Gibson was in the service. The first had arrived unexpectedly on the day before his graduation from Parris Island. Only his third piece of mail since entering the Corps, the letter was a thoughtful meditation on adulthood. It had run to twenty handwritten pages; Gibson had sat on the edge of his bunk, reading it over and over. It was Family Day, which meant that most of his fellow graduates were touring the base with relatives. The letter made him feel less alone in the world. He’d written back a heartfelt thank-you. After that, they’d traded letters every few months—Gibson’s terse and newsy, the judge’s expansive and philosophical. Gibson wondered what the judge would advise in this situation.

“I remember the last time I saw you,” Gibson told Abe. “Right after the judge said I was going to the Marines. Everyone lost their mind, but not you. I wanted to see your reaction, but you just stood up and left. Even took the time to button your suit jacket and then walked out like nothing had happened. Very smooth. Were you on your way to deliver the bad news to Lombard?”

“I was.”

“I always wondered how Lombard took it, after all that work to send me up the river. Guess it didn’t go over well.”

“No. It did not go over well at all. But I’m glad it worked out the way it did. I’ve come to realize it was a mistake. I am sorry for the part I played in what happened to you.”

The apology caught Gibson off guard. He felt a strange sense of gratitude simply to hear someone apologize at last. He also resented it almost immediately. Yes, it was unexpected and might feel good, but what difference did a ten-year-old apology make?

“So you were just some innocent pawn—is that what you’re selling?”

“No.” Abe shook his head. “I don’t believe ignorance is enough. I was ignorant, but only because I allowed myself that luxury. Because I didn’t ask the questions that I should have. My loyalty misled me. I knew it was wrong, but I ignored my instincts. I am far from innocent.”

“So what, then?” Gibson asked. “You and Girl Friday back there track me down so you can get that off your chest? A little Sunday morning confessional? Do you feel better?”

“It does feel good. I’m surprised at just how good. But that’s not why I’m here.”

Toby appeared with menus and a pot of coffee. He flipped over the cup in front of Gibson and filled it. He seemed uneasy and gave Gibson a look that asked if he should do something. Gibson shook his head imperceptibly. Whatever was happening here, Gibson didn’t want to involve Toby.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, gentlemen,” Toby said.

When he was gone, Gibson scratched under his lip with his thumbnail and pointed a finger at Abe. “So why
are
you here?”

“I’m here for Suzanne.”

He felt cold, sharp teeth brush the nape of his neck, and the hair on his arms stood up uneasily. It was the first time someone had said her name to him in years. Even his ex-wife knew better than to bring her up.

“Suzanne Lombard.”

Abe nodded. “I want you to help me find out what happened to her.”

“Suzanne is dead, George. That’s what happened.”

“Probably. Probably that’s true.”

“It’s been ten years!” Gibson felt his voice rising out of his control. Probably? The word scalpeled its way into Gibson, anger giving way to unthinkable despair. Suzanne was dead. She had to be. It had been ten years. The alternative was so much worse; remaining alive would not be a mercy under such circumstances. No . . . if she was alive, that meant she was hidden. And if she remained hidden after all that time, then someone had gone to desperate lengths to do so. There were no happy answers as to why; only nightmare images conjured in his mind.

“Why? What’s in it for you? Hoping to get back in Lombard’s good graces?”

“No. He and I are through.”

“Then what? Old times’ sake?”

“My reasons are none of your business.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that. If you don’t want anything from Lombard, then why go to all this effort to find his daughter? If you’ve got something, why not just hand it over to the feds and be done with it?”

It was George’s turn to stare at him. Gibson didn’t trust him, but the man gave good stare—hard, like the fender of an old pickup.

“For Suzanne. I’m surprised at you, Gibson.”

“What do you mean?”

“Suzanne loved you better than anyone.”

Gibson was suddenly on the verge of tears. Abe saw it and gave him a kind smile.

“That girl adored you. Followed you everywhere. And I saw the way you took care of her. Like she was your own sister. We all saw it.” Abe wiped at something under his eye. “This bad blood between you and Benjamin—does it really extend to Suzanne?”

Gibson shook his head and covered his mouth with a firm hand to keep from saying more, losing the fight to maintain his composure.

“Then help me. I don’t know about you, but I need to know. I watched that girl grow up. I need to know what happened to her. I want to sit across from the man who lured that beautiful wisp of a girl from her home. I want to have a serious conversation with that man. The FBI can have whatever’s left.” Abe paused, tasting the violence implicit in his words. “And if I can begin to settle the books between you and me at the same time, then so much the better.”

“You blame yourself.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Is that why Lombard fired you? Because of Suzanne?”

“It is.”

“Was it your fault?”

Abe sighed and glanced out the window. Gibson thought the man shrank ever so slightly. When Abe spoke it was quietly, his voice sorrowful.

“A very good question. One that I’ve never answered to my satisfaction. Security is a results-oriented profession. My job was to protect Benjamin Lombard, but his family was part of that responsibility. In the simplest analysis, Suzanne vanished on my watch.”

If he didn’t know better, Gibson might start to like the guy.

“So why now? Why this sudden desire to dig it all up? Because of the anniversary?”

“Take a ride back to the office with me and see for yourself.”

“See what? What do you have?” Gibson tried to read it off of him, but the only clue was Abe’s confidence. Was it possible? Could Abe have something new on a case that had stymied law enforcement for a decade? What desperate long shot was Abe playing? Did it matter? If there were only a 1 percent chance of finding Suzanne, Gibson knew he was in. It wasn’t even a question.

Abe slid a thick envelope across the table. Gibson opened it and ran his thumb across the stack of money inside. He didn’t count it, but the bills were all hundreds.

“What’s this?”

“Either it’s an apology for interrupting your breakfast, or it’s a signing bonus. The choice is yours.”

“A signing bonus?”

“If you stay on and help, I’m offering twice your former salary plus another ten-thousand-dollar bonus if your work produces a substantial lead. Sound fair?”

“More than.”

“Good.” Abe slid out of the booth, gave the woman a nod, and left the Nighthawk Diner.

Gibson didn’t see that he had any choice but to follow.

CHAPTER FIVE

The motorcade knifed its way through downtown Phoenix like a warship crossing a concrete-and-metal ocean. More than a half block long, its bow was formed by a wedge of motorcycle police, sirens wailing as they plowed a path through the congested Friday-afternoon traffic. In its wake waited cars pulled hurriedly to the curb and pedestrians who stopped to gawk at the spectacle.

Benjamin Lombard heard and saw none of it. He sat in the back of one of the limousines, always a different limousine, reviewing his schedule for the coming week. He was aware of his staff’s anticipation but took his time. He was accustomed to people waiting on his decision. Their time was, in point of fact, his time. Eventually, he made several minor corrections and thrust the itinerary back to one of his aides.

He was tired and more than a little frustrated. Over the last twenty-five days, he’d watched Governor Anne Fleming eat further into his lead in the polls. What had begun as an amusing sideshow was becoming a real threat. A recent political cartoon depicted him as a hare sleeping under a tree while Fleming, the tortoise, passed him. He’d gone from the chosen one to the butt of jokes on late-night television. A year ago, the first-term governor from California hadn’t even been a name in the presidential conversation. Lombard had been such a heavy favorite that even major names in the party had chosen to sit out the election. And now he was running neck and neck with a novice. His advisers dismissed Fleming and believed she would fade, but he wasn’t so sure. So far she’d countered everything they’d thrown at her like an old pro and made him look foolish in the process. The big donors were starting to wake up to it. If she wasn’t neutralized now, the convention in Atlanta would be a dogfight.

“Tell Douglass to scrub the Santa Fe leg,” Lombard said. “I want to go straight to the airport after the fund-raiser tonight.”

Leland Reed shifted in his seat. “Ah, sir, Douglass feels it’s important to put in an appearance tomorrow if we want Governor Macklin’s support. We won’t be out here again before the convention.”

Leland Reed was the vice president’s chief of staff. Now in his midfifties, Reed had a reputation as an unflappable operative—a problem solver. He’d earned his bona fides, time and again, over a thirty-three-year career on the Hill and innumerable campaigns.

Lombard thought highly of his chief of staff. After Duke Vaughn had committed suicide, Lombard had chewed through two replacements before settling on Reed. Reed spoke his language and shared his unblinking determination, but he was no Duke Vaughn. Not that that was something to be ashamed of—Duke Vaughn had been one of a kind. Duke would have known instinctually, as Leland Reed did not, why Santa Fe was a bad idea. Duke saw the same pieces on the board as everyone else did, but he’d played the game many moves ahead. He’d taught Lombard much of what he knew about politics.

Leland Reed was relentless but needed to be pointed in the right direction. In some ways that was preferable. Lombard had grown accustomed to being the smartest person in any room, but there were times when he missed knowing that, if a problem arose, Duke was already on it.

He fixed Reed with an icy glare.

“We’re not getting Macklin’s endorsement. He’s going to throw in with Fleming.”

“But, sir, Douglass feels that Macklin is making overtures.”

“Macklin was making overtures when I was ahead by ten points. But now I’m ahead by the width of your dick, and he’s going to throw in with Fleming, who he’s known for twenty years and will promise him things that I won’t. Sure, he’ll make me dance for it, but in the end he’s not going to give it to me.”

“Isn’t it worth it since we’re already out here?”

“Megan, where is Governor Fleming scheduled to be next Friday?” Lombard asked.

His aide tabbed over to a schedule on her laptop. “Arizona, sir.”

“This is a waste of time, Leland. We’re being strung along, so fuck Governor Macklin and fuck Douglass while you’re at it.”

“Sir?” Reed’s voice remained even and upbeat despite the sudden spike in the vice president’s temper and language.

“I’m concerned with Douglass and the way he’s reading the terrain,” Lombard explained patiently. “He’s making decisions based on last week’s polls. I need him to get out in front of Fleming. She’s not going anywhere, and I’m tired of hearing him say otherwise.”

“Yes, sir,” Reed said. “What should I give as a reason for canceling?”

“Something vague. ‘Needed in Washington’ always has a nice ring. I am still the vice president. He’ll figure it out.”

“Yes, sir,” Reed said.

“I want to sit down with Douglass, Bennett, and Guzman first thing in the morning. We’re going to get some things straight. They’re not the only campaign strategists in Washington.”

Lombard looked out the tinted window at the blur that was Phoenix. Living in this bubble was one of the surreal aspects of the job. For the past eight years, there hadn’t been a single moment where he’d been truly alone, when thirty people didn’t know his exact location. To do this job, and to do it well, was to be in constant motion, surrounded by people, ideas, action. And, by God, he loved it. He’d love being president even more.

When reporters asked him why he wanted to be president, Lombard mouthed the same elegant clichés that his forebears had uttered—platitudes about service and country and having a vision for the future of the nation. It was nonsense, of course, and he doubted that they had meant it any more than he did. The truth? When else in human history could someone ascend bloodlessly to become the most powerful man in the world? It was the chance to be a civilized god, and he didn’t trust anyone who aspired to less. But the difference between him and most people was that he’d been born for it. Made for it.

The motorcade roared to a halt outside the hotel, and Lombard watched the Secret Service spring into action. Two dozen car doors opened simultaneously. Agents spilled forth and spread out like marines establishing a beachhead. When they were ready, his limousine door opened and he stepped out into the sunshine, smiling broadly. Taller than all but one of the agents, he paused to survey the hotel, button his suit jacket, and wave to his supporters on the far curb, who greeted him with a burst of applause. Then he allowed himself to be ushered into the hotel.

He made a mental note to have the tall agent moved off his detail.

His flock of aides surrounded him inside the hotel and brought him up to speed on the way to his suite. While the rundown was going on, he scanned two memos and peppered them with questions. He was adept at following multiple conversations simultaneously.

“What time is the fund-raiser?” he asked.

“Eight, sir.”

“Where’s my speech?”

Someone handed him a fresh copy. He also took two briefing books that included the latest intelligence on a developing situation in Egypt and an update on Senate wrangling over an immigration bill.

“Leland, I want to see you in two hours. We’ll talk over lunch. Otherwise, don’t bother me unless there’s a constitutional crisis and I’m president.”

That brought a polite chuckle from the flock. The Secret Service pulled the door shut behind him.

Alone, Benjamin Lombard took off his suit and laid it out on the bed so it wouldn’t pick up a crease. The air-conditioning felt good after the unrelenting Arizona heat. He wasn’t sure why, but a five-star hotel had better air-conditioning than just about anywhere else on earth. He considered it the pinnacle of civilization, enabling a man to live in such godforsaken places as Phoenix, Arizona.

Standing in his dress shirt, boxers, and black socks, he let himself cool in the dark of his suite. After a few moments, he turned on the news and was greeted by a story about Anne Fleming’s campaign stop in California. Benjamin saw it now; the light attendance at his stump speech this morning had brought the big picture into focus. The more he thought about it, the more he felt that tomorrow’s meeting with Douglass needed to be a bloodletting. It would send a message and would reenergize and focus the troops. He wondered what it would take to coax Abigail Saldana out of semiretirement as a pundit; she wouldn’t put up with this Fleming nonsense.

A staccato knock at the door broke him from his thoughts, and his good mood evaporated. The Senate itself had better be a smoking crater, or so help him God, whatever overeager staffer stood on the far side of that door would need to move to Turkey to find a job in politics.

“What?” Lombard bellowed, nearly yanking the door off its hinges.

It was Leland Reed, and he looked troubled.

“What is it?” Lombard asked again, but the fire had gone out of his voice.

“Can I come in, sir?”

Benjamin stood aside and let him into the suite. Reed didn’t sit but instead did an uneasy circuit around the room like an automated vacuum cleaner patrolling for dirt. Eventually, he came to a rest by the window.

“Well, what is it? Christ, you’re making me nervous.”

“Sir, you know the list you asked me to keep an eye on.”

Lombard knew exactly what list Reed meant. You didn’t make it this far in politics without making a few enemies. More than a few. The list comprised people who might try to hurt his campaign. Everyone from political foes to former employees to a high-school girlfriend who didn’t like the way they’d broken up. It wasn’t that he was expecting trouble, but every campaign dug something long forgotten out of a candidate’s past. There was no reason to expect this one would be any different.

“Who?” Lombard asked.

“George Abe.”

“George? Really.” That surprised him. He’d always considered them on reasonable terms despite how they’d parted ways. “What’s George done?”

“He met Duke Vaughn’s son at a diner in Virginia. They’re driving into Washington as we speak.”

The hairs on Lombard’s neck prickled. Gibson Vaughn and George Abe. Those were two names he never expected to hear in the same sentence, and the only thing they had in common was him. That they were together could not be a coincidence.

“What were they talking about?”

“That I don’t know, sir.”

“Well, find out. Do we have anyone in George’s outfit?”

“No, sir,” Reed said.

“Well, get someone. And get Eskridge on the phone. Looks like he may need to get hands-on after all.”