Whitewash (41 page)

Chattahoochee, Florida

Leon parked the white Interstate Heating and Cooling van in the hospital’s loading zone right in front so it could be seen from the reception desk. He figured he had an eight-hour shift before the company discovered it missing from their fleet in the parking lot back in Tallahassee. Even then, the last place they’d start looking would be Chattahoochee.

His gray jumpsuit fit a bit tighter through the chest, the result of too many burgers and bottles of Sam Adams since he popped Casino Rudy. He kept the same name badge, deciding it was not tempting fate, but instead going against human nature. After all, human nature would dictate doing the opposite, staying as far away as possible from duplicating a botched plan. Besides, he was pretty sure he looked more like a Mick than a Leon.

He grabbed the duffel bag, pleased that the clanking made it sound full of tools. When he walked through the automatic front doors, he remembered to lean just a little as if the weight of the bag strained him.

The receptionist had already noticed the van. He could tell from her tight-lipped pout that she was trying to decide whether or not to tell him he couldn’t leave it there. Before she could make up her mind, Leon shot her a look of impatience as he passed her desk on the way to the locked security doors she controlled.

“Someone said there was a problem,” he called over his shoulder.

“I don’t have any record of that.” Her voice was high-pitched as she flipped through several piles of memos, phone messages and written authorizations.

“I don’t have all day,” he told her, glancing at his watch. “If I don’t check it now I won’t be able to get back this way until tomorrow. I have four calls in line after this one.”

He could see she was getting flustered. It would take too long to find out who’d made the request. Maybe she’d have to admit she overlooked it. And if she turned him away and there was a problem she could lose her job for making some poor patient—or worse, a doctor—wait until tomorrow when the temperature would be in the high nineties all week.

“You have to sign in,” she finally said, pointing to a clipboard and pen in front of her.

Leon shook his head and stomped back to the desk. He made sure the duffel bag clanked out his impatience. He scribbled an indecipherable line of ink in the place she pointed to. But it seemed to satisfy her and she waved him on. This time he heard the click of the lock before he even reached the door.

Now inside, things were a little easier. Everybody who made it past the locked door surely belonged and knew where they were going. Leon ducked into a linen closet he’d found Sunday evening. He plucked off the name badge and slipped it into the duffel bag. Then he pulled out a lightweight cardigan and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and put both on, shoving the sleeves of the cardigan up to his elbows. He dropped a pair of pliers into his pocket. Then he stuffed the duffel bag behind a pile of towels and headed back out.

Leon didn’t spend much time on disguises. Why bother when it was this easy to go from repairman to visitor or resident of the loony bin?

Washington, D.C.

Jason didn’t believe him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Senator Allen said for a second time. “It’s not that big a deal. There’ll be other interviews.” He paced behind his desk, arms crossed over his chest. Once in a while he rubbed at his jaw and Jason couldn’t help thinking it looked like he was trying to rub away the sting of being sucker punched.

Jason sat in the leather guest chair on the opposite side of the desk. He had hoped to garner a separate interview for the senator before he found out. Who knew Senator Allen watched
GMA?
In fact, Jason had spent most of the morning trying to get in touch with Lester Rosenthal, the ABC producer. Though he wasn’t sure what he’d say. He knew what he wanted to say:
Why the hell didn’t you include Senator Allen?

“Most of the interview was spent on questions about that murder. I almost felt bad for Sidel, trying to spin it like some terrorist plot to knock him out of competition.” The senator shook his head to emphasize how pathetic he thought Sidel’s effort was.

Jason kept it to himself that he believed it was far from pathetic. It was brilliant. Only Sidel could turn a catfight between two women scientists into a Middle Eastern terrorist plot to derail his chances at the upcoming military contract and his deserved spot at the energy summit. Yeah, it sounded farfetched, but Sidel made it convincing. There was a reason they called this guy “a wizard.”

Jason watched Senator Allen continue to pace. He hated seeing him like this. He
had
lost weight. Jason could see that now. The senator’s normally lean, athletic frame looked too angular. His cheeks and eyes seemed a bit sunken. Jason couldn’t help noticing the contrast between the senator and the framed photos on the wall behind him. The photos displayed a vibrant, energetic statesman with his arm around leaders like President Putin or Hollywood celebrities like Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon. Jason had never met a politician—and as a simple messenger he had gotten a behind-the-scenes look at too many of them—who couldn’t make anyone, within minutes of an introduction, feel like he understood and could empathize with their agenda. And not just a Democratic agenda but Republican, as well.

Jason had grown up with few male role models in his life except his simpleminded but well-meaning uncle Louie or maybe Michael Jordan. Senator Allen had entrusted him with his entire office, his image, his reputation. That was huge. Jason, in turn, gave him his loyalty and respect. Now he wished there was something more he could do for the man.

The senator’s desk phone rang, two short rings then silence. Jason recognized the signal from the senator’s secretary that indicated he had a call he wouldn’t want to miss.

Jason thought Senator Allen looked almost relieved—here was something to divert his attention.

“Yes,” he answered. He glanced at Jason and raised his eyebrows. “Put him through,” he told his secretary. A pause then a sarcastic greeting, “Well, speak of the devil.”

Jason thought for sure he’d finally witness Senator Allen reading Sidel the riot act. But his greeting was the most the senator said for the next several minutes other than an “uh-huh” here and there. At one point he turned, giving Jason his back.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said and hung up.

Jason stayed quiet. He didn’t dare risk a joke.

Senator Allen dropped into his leather swivel chair and leaned forward. His fingers started rearranging everything on his desk—piece by piece, a quarter inch—no more—to the right. Jason recognized the familiar gesture and waited for his boss to put his thoughts together, to calm himself. The whole time Jason kept thinking,
Why does he let that guy do this to him?

As if the senator could hear Jason’s question he looked up, leaving his elbows on his desk, his fingertips arched together, his hands creating a neat little tent that told Jason he was back in control. “It appears this woman, this scientist, does pose a threat. Sidel’s worried she or her father might try to disrupt the energy summit.”

“Has he alerted Homeland Security?”

Senator Allen put up his hands to slow Jason down.

“He doesn’t want to cause undue alarm and I agree. I told him I’d take care of it.” He hesitated, but only a second or two. “I need you to find out everything you can about her father, Arthur Galloway. Sidel seems to think the man could be very dangerous.”

Washington, D.C.

Jason didn’t believe him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Senator Allen said for a second time. “It’s not that big a deal. There’ll be other interviews.” He paced behind his desk, arms crossed over his chest. Once in a while he rubbed at his jaw and Jason couldn’t help thinking it looked like he was trying to rub away the sting of being sucker punched.

Jason sat in the leather guest chair on the opposite side of the desk. He had hoped to garner a separate interview for the senator before he found out. Who knew Senator Allen watched
GMA?
In fact, Jason had spent most of the morning trying to get in touch with Lester Rosenthal, the ABC producer. Though he wasn’t sure what he’d say. He knew what he wanted to say:
Why the hell didn’t you include Senator Allen?

“Most of the interview was spent on questions about that murder. I almost felt bad for Sidel, trying to spin it like some terrorist plot to knock him out of competition.” The senator shook his head to emphasize how pathetic he thought Sidel’s effort was.

Jason kept it to himself that he believed it was far from pathetic. It was brilliant. Only Sidel could turn a catfight between two women scientists into a Middle Eastern terrorist plot to derail his chances at the upcoming military contract and his deserved spot at the energy summit. Yeah, it sounded farfetched, but Sidel made it convincing. There was a reason they called this guy “a wizard.”

Jason watched Senator Allen continue to pace. He hated seeing him like this. He
had
lost weight. Jason could see that now. The senator’s normally lean, athletic frame looked too angular. His cheeks and eyes seemed a bit sunken. Jason couldn’t help noticing the contrast between the senator and the framed photos on the wall behind him. The photos displayed a vibrant, energetic statesman with his arm around leaders like President Putin or Hollywood celebrities like Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon. Jason had never met a politician—and as a simple messenger he had gotten a behind-the-scenes look at too many of them—who couldn’t make anyone, within minutes of an introduction, feel like he understood and could empathize with their agenda. And not just a Democratic agenda but Republican, as well.

Jason had grown up with few male role models in his life except his simpleminded but well-meaning uncle Louie or maybe Michael Jordan. Senator Allen had entrusted him with his entire office, his image, his reputation. That was huge. Jason, in turn, gave him his loyalty and respect. Now he wished there was something more he could do for the man.

The senator’s desk phone rang, two short rings then silence. Jason recognized the signal from the senator’s secretary that indicated he had a call he wouldn’t want to miss.

Jason thought Senator Allen looked almost relieved—here was something to divert his attention.

“Yes,” he answered. He glanced at Jason and raised his eyebrows. “Put him through,” he told his secretary. A pause then a sarcastic greeting, “Well, speak of the devil.”

Jason thought for sure he’d finally witness Senator Allen reading Sidel the riot act. But his greeting was the most the senator said for the next several minutes other than an “uh-huh” here and there. At one point he turned, giving Jason his back.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said and hung up.

Jason stayed quiet. He didn’t dare risk a joke.

Senator Allen dropped into his leather swivel chair and leaned forward. His fingers started rearranging everything on his desk—piece by piece, a quarter inch—no more—to the right. Jason recognized the familiar gesture and waited for his boss to put his thoughts together, to calm himself. The whole time Jason kept thinking,
Why does he let that guy do this to him?

As if the senator could hear Jason’s question he looked up, leaving his elbows on his desk, his fingertips arched together, his hands creating a neat little tent that told Jason he was back in control. “It appears this woman, this scientist, does pose a threat. Sidel’s worried she or her father might try to disrupt the energy summit.”

“Has he alerted Homeland Security?”

Senator Allen put up his hands to slow Jason down.

“He doesn’t want to cause undue alarm and I agree. I told him I’d take care of it.” He hesitated, but only a second or two. “I need you to find out everything you can about her father, Arthur Galloway. Sidel seems to think the man could be very dangerous.”

Pensacola Beach, Florida

“I don’t see you for two years and all you can think about is changing me.” Sabrina tried to joke more out of exhaustion and nerves than anything else.

Just minutes before she had watched Miss Sadie come out of the fishing shop with Eric behind her. It suddenly didn’t matter how long ago she had seen him or even why. There was only relief.

He stared at her from the boardwalk as she stared back, not budging from the back of the Studebaker parked across the lot. Eric looked the same, maybe a bit leaner and his hair a lot shorter. She couldn’t say she’d ever seen him in a pink polo shirt, but he looked good, tan and clean-shaven, healthy, strong.

He didn’t waste any time, a trait that Sabrina knew had gotten him into as much trouble as it had saved him from it. On the boardwalk he leaned down to tell Miss Sadie something that made her nod and come rushing back to the car. Then they waited while Eric flipped the Open sign to Closed and locked the shop. They had followed him here, a small hair salon next to Paradise Wine and Liquor. Once inside, he had given her a long, silent hug, then taking her by the shoulders he led her to a chair and eased her down in it.

“Miss Sadie says you haven’t gotten out of the car since you left Tallahassee?” Eric asked, his brows furrowed. He was more serious than she had ever seen him.

“Except to go to the ladies’ room,” Miss Sadie said before Sabrina could respond. “At a gas shop in Panama City.”

“The best place to hide is in plain sight. How can we do that, Max?” he asked the woman whom Sabrina had not been formally introduced to but guessed owned the salon. “Short and blond?”

“It’s not the police as much as the others,” Miss Sadie said, and Sabrina was struck by how much she must have been able to tell Eric in a very short time.

She watched the three of them in the wall mirror in front of her. Max was in the middle with short and spiked red hair. She wore a black dog-collar choker, a formfitting black tank top and a black leather miniskirt with bright red flip-flops. There was a tattoo on her ankle and a gold toe ring on her middle toe, tiny studs all the way up one ear and only a small gold hoop in the other.

On Max’s right stood Eric and on her left Miss Sadie, an odd threesome with nothing in common except the woman sitting in front of them and their challenge of what to do with her.

“Are they professionals?” Max asked Miss Sadie, who nodded. And Max nodded, too, as if that was all she needed to know.

Sabrina wanted to interject that she might know a little something about all of this, but she was more fascinated by their exchange. She was also exhausted. Who knew panic could drain a body and mind so completely?

“They’ll be looking for her to go extreme,” Max said with a glance at Eric.

“So, less is best?”

“Keep the same color,” she said, running her fingers through Sabrina’s hair. “Maybe a few highlights. We can cut it, but not real short. Bangs would be good. Different but not extreme.”

“Okay,” Eric agreed, making the decision without looking at Sabrina.

Would they even ask her before they started cutting and highlighting? It reminded her of being nine and going to the movies with Eric, who was twelve and thought he knew everything. Their mother always gave Eric the money and as keeper of the money he made all the decisions—deciding which movie, what size drinks, Milkduds or Junior Mints. When Sabrina protested he’d simply say, “Do you want to go to the movies or not?” She couldn’t help wondering if she protested now would he say, “Do you want me to hide you or not?”

“She’s awfully pale.” Max had evidently moved on. “She’ll stand out like a sore thumb on the beach. We’ll use the spray-tan booth.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Miss Sadie said. “She’s so fair skinned and she usually wears black and white. Very classy, but maybe some bright colors would be good. I always thought royal blue would bring out the color of your eyes, dear.” And this time Miss Sadie’s eyes met Sabrina’s in the mirror as the old woman laid her hand on Sabrina’s shoulder.

That small gesture seemed to make Eric realize he had been ignoring her. He came around in front of the chair, squatting down to eye level to get a good look at her.

“It’s really good to see you, Bree,” he finally said with a smile.