Whitewash (5 page)

Tallahassee, Florida

Jason Brill left the concierge’s desk shaking his head. It was ridiculous what this hotel considered a king-sized suite. The so-called manager didn’t even know enough to be embarrassed by it, his bush-garden eyebrows raised in surprise at every one of Jason’s questions like he couldn’t quite imagine why a noisy and empty minifridge wasn’t quite the same as a well-stocked minibar. Jason straightened his tie and gave his shirt cuffs a tug as if the altercation had included more than a tongue-lashing. He wanted to hit the guy. In the past he would have. He knew his boss would be okay with the room, but Jason wasn’t okay with it.

He balled up his fist around the key card to the pathetic suite and jammed it into his back trouser pocket. His job was to ensure that the senator got only the best and that he would be well taken care of. A particularly difficult task this morning since none of the goddamn hotel staff—not a single one with English as a first language—even knew who Senator John Quincy Allen was. Okay, so it was one more good reason to support his boss’s stand on immigration, which pretty much supported sending the whole goddamn lot back and building a wall.

Earlier Jason had considered pulling up stakes and going to a different hotel, but it probably wouldn’t make much difference. There wasn’t a decent four-star hotel in the entire city. Now he wished the senator hadn’t been hell-bent on staying overnight. Maybe he could convince him to take a flight back after the tour. If nothing else, he could at least save the senator from the head chef’s runny omelet. Jason could still taste the damn thing. The grits had been runny, too, not that Jason understood why every breakfast in the South had to include that stuff, anyway. Again, the omelet wouldn’t matter to the senator. The grits would, though the man wouldn’t complain. There’d be only that drop of the eyes and a slight nod as if to say, “So this is the best you could do.”

God, he hated that look of disappointment, a look that said, “So this is how you repay me.” Sometimes he’d rather the man chew him out instead. Jason’s uncle Louie used to say, “It ain’t healthy for a man not to say what’s on his mind. You keep it all bottled up, eventually you blow up.” Uncle Louie wasn’t much of a scholar, but he knew a thing or two about common sense, which was certainly one thing Jason discovered to be lacking in D.C. big-time.

But Jason also knew the difference between people who inherited good manners and discipline and those who had to learn it from scratch, the difference between Senator John Quincy Allen and Uncle Louie. It was the difference between Jason walking away from that stupid-ass manager instead of slamming the bastard’s smug face into the wall.

He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, but knew the tight ball of tension was there for the day. He flipped open his cell phone as he reached the bank of elevators and punched the Up arrow. While he waited he scrolled down his phone’s call list. The elevator doors opened to two chattering maids and Jason held the door open, standing back. When they noticed him their conversation stopped immediately in midsentence—pretty obvious even if he didn’t understand the language. The older one bowed her head as she passed by while the younger woman smiled at him, a wonderfully coy smile as though she had no clue she had a nice ass. But then she glanced back over her shoulder as if to make sure he noticed the tight ass. It only reminded him that this discipline thing pretty much sucked and it certainly couldn’t be healthy for a twenty-six-year-old male.

It wasn’t like there was some chief of staff how-to-behave manual or that anyone had ever come right out and told him what was and wasn’t acceptable behavior for a senator’s chief of staff. No, that much he’d figured out for himself. It didn’t take long for Jason to realize that politics were constantly one major innuendo after another whether you were making deals or breaking balls. They even gave the insinuations fancy names and phrases like “the politics of personal destruction.” But where Jason came from it didn’t matter what you called it or how polite you did it, breaking balls was still breaking balls.

His cell phone started ringing as soon as he stepped into the elevator.

“Jason Brill,” he said.

“Brill, it’s Natalie Richards.”

He couldn’t help smiling, speaking of ball breakers. “Hello, Natalie Richards.”

“What’s this about changing the venue for the presummit reception?”

“Well, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. And how are you?”

“Cut the crap, Brill. I don’t have time for that cute-ass sense of humor of yours. And I don’t appreciate it when people start playing musical chairs and not bothering to let our office know.”

“Come on, Ms. Richards. Your team’s in charge of the entire energy summit. This is just a reception, a personal reception that Senator Allen is throwing for a few of his friends and acquaintances who happen to be coming to the summit.” Though he was pretty sure Richards knew it wasn’t just a reception but a celebration. If all went well, Senator Allen’s hard work would be rewarded with EchoEnergy being the first American oil-producing company supplying all the vehicles of U.S. troops. It was worthy of a celebration even if it was a bit premature.

“Friends and acquaintances,” Richards said, “who just happen to be all the heavy hitters.”

“Not to worry. Your boss is going to be invited.”
Despite trying to trip up this deal every step of the way.
He wisely kept the last part to himself.

“That’s not the goddamn point, Brill, and you know it.”

“All I know is you’re making much ado about nothing.”

“You can’t continue to—”

Jason began tapping the cell phone against the elevator wall, then brought it back to his ear only to interrupt her again. “I think I’m losing you, Ms. Richards. I’m in Tallahassee. In an elevator and I—”

He clicked the phone off and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He’d probably be sorry later on, but he had more important things to do right now than to suck up to the White House. More important things like stock a fucking minifridge.

Tallahassee, Florida

Jason Brill left the concierge’s desk shaking his head. It was ridiculous what this hotel considered a king-sized suite. The so-called manager didn’t even know enough to be embarrassed by it, his bush-garden eyebrows raised in surprise at every one of Jason’s questions like he couldn’t quite imagine why a noisy and empty minifridge wasn’t quite the same as a well-stocked minibar. Jason straightened his tie and gave his shirt cuffs a tug as if the altercation had included more than a tongue-lashing. He wanted to hit the guy. In the past he would have. He knew his boss would be okay with the room, but Jason wasn’t okay with it.

He balled up his fist around the key card to the pathetic suite and jammed it into his back trouser pocket. His job was to ensure that the senator got only the best and that he would be well taken care of. A particularly difficult task this morning since none of the goddamn hotel staff—not a single one with English as a first language—even knew who Senator John Quincy Allen was. Okay, so it was one more good reason to support his boss’s stand on immigration, which pretty much supported sending the whole goddamn lot back and building a wall.

Earlier Jason had considered pulling up stakes and going to a different hotel, but it probably wouldn’t make much difference. There wasn’t a decent four-star hotel in the entire city. Now he wished the senator hadn’t been hell-bent on staying overnight. Maybe he could convince him to take a flight back after the tour. If nothing else, he could at least save the senator from the head chef’s runny omelet. Jason could still taste the damn thing. The grits had been runny, too, not that Jason understood why every breakfast in the South had to include that stuff, anyway. Again, the omelet wouldn’t matter to the senator. The grits would, though the man wouldn’t complain. There’d be only that drop of the eyes and a slight nod as if to say, “So this is the best you could do.”

God, he hated that look of disappointment, a look that said, “So this is how you repay me.” Sometimes he’d rather the man chew him out instead. Jason’s uncle Louie used to say, “It ain’t healthy for a man not to say what’s on his mind. You keep it all bottled up, eventually you blow up.” Uncle Louie wasn’t much of a scholar, but he knew a thing or two about common sense, which was certainly one thing Jason discovered to be lacking in D.C. big-time.

But Jason also knew the difference between people who inherited good manners and discipline and those who had to learn it from scratch, the difference between Senator John Quincy Allen and Uncle Louie. It was the difference between Jason walking away from that stupid-ass manager instead of slamming the bastard’s smug face into the wall.

He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, but knew the tight ball of tension was there for the day. He flipped open his cell phone as he reached the bank of elevators and punched the Up arrow. While he waited he scrolled down his phone’s call list. The elevator doors opened to two chattering maids and Jason held the door open, standing back. When they noticed him their conversation stopped immediately in midsentence—pretty obvious even if he didn’t understand the language. The older one bowed her head as she passed by while the younger woman smiled at him, a wonderfully coy smile as though she had no clue she had a nice ass. But then she glanced back over her shoulder as if to make sure he noticed the tight ass. It only reminded him that this discipline thing pretty much sucked and it certainly couldn’t be healthy for a twenty-six-year-old male.

It wasn’t like there was some chief of staff how-to-behave manual or that anyone had ever come right out and told him what was and wasn’t acceptable behavior for a senator’s chief of staff. No, that much he’d figured out for himself. It didn’t take long for Jason to realize that politics were constantly one major innuendo after another whether you were making deals or breaking balls. They even gave the insinuations fancy names and phrases like “the politics of personal destruction.” But where Jason came from it didn’t matter what you called it or how polite you did it, breaking balls was still breaking balls.

His cell phone started ringing as soon as he stepped into the elevator.

“Jason Brill,” he said.

“Brill, it’s Natalie Richards.”

He couldn’t help smiling, speaking of ball breakers. “Hello, Natalie Richards.”

“What’s this about changing the venue for the presummit reception?”

“Well, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. And how are you?”

“Cut the crap, Brill. I don’t have time for that cute-ass sense of humor of yours. And I don’t appreciate it when people start playing musical chairs and not bothering to let our office know.”

“Come on, Ms. Richards. Your team’s in charge of the entire energy summit. This is just a reception, a personal reception that Senator Allen is throwing for a few of his friends and acquaintances who happen to be coming to the summit.” Though he was pretty sure Richards knew it wasn’t just a reception but a celebration. If all went well, Senator Allen’s hard work would be rewarded with EchoEnergy being the first American oil-producing company supplying all the vehicles of U.S. troops. It was worthy of a celebration even if it was a bit premature.

“Friends and acquaintances,” Richards said, “who just happen to be all the heavy hitters.”

“Not to worry. Your boss is going to be invited.”
Despite trying to trip up this deal every step of the way.
He wisely kept the last part to himself.

“That’s not the goddamn point, Brill, and you know it.”

“All I know is you’re making much ado about nothing.”

“You can’t continue to—”

Jason began tapping the cell phone against the elevator wall, then brought it back to his ear only to interrupt her again. “I think I’m losing you, Ms. Richards. I’m in Tallahassee. In an elevator and I—”

He clicked the phone off and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He’d probably be sorry later on, but he had more important things to do right now than to suck up to the White House. More important things like stock a fucking minifridge.

EchoEnergy

Almost noon and Sabrina still hadn’t been able to track down her boss. She was certain she could leave an hour or two early without his permission, but she’d at least like to clear it with him, especially if he had anything he wanted her to finish up over the weekend. Dr. Lansik was on the schedule but no one had seen him all morning. The man kept to himself and hardly ever left the lab or his small office at the far end of the lab. No one probably would have even noticed he was missing if Sabrina hadn’t started asking for him.

“Maybe something happened at his home…a sick child perhaps,” Pasha Kosloff suggested in his Russian-accented English. He said this without looking up from the vials he was filling with a murky-brown liquid.

Sabrina didn’t say anything despite knowing their boss didn’t have any children. Instead, she watched Pasha’s long, delicate fingers place each vial carefully into the centrifuge. His tall, lanky frame slouched at the shoulders and bent at the waist, hunched over the metal contraption. He moved in slow motion as if he were creating a masterpiece, every gesture deliberate, almost painstakingly so.

Sabrina’s own work sat in the distiller that took up the far corner of the lab, an old monstrosity that would need to hum and vibrate for another half hour before she could check on it. She glanced at her watch and stuffed her hands into the worn and sagging pockets of her lab coat.

“Maybe he’s having an affair,” Anna Copello suggested. “You know, sneaking out from work during the day so his wife won’t get suspicious.”

Sabrina knew this explanation wasn’t possible, either, at least not the wife part. Though she wasn’t surprised at Anna’s suggestion. The young woman seemed to have a talent for seeing the very worst in everyone. Sabrina glanced at Michael O’Hearn, the oldest of the group, a fit, compact little man with wild black hair and a goatee that was almost completely silver. He would know their boss the best. Despite his thick protective goggles she could see him rolling his eyes at Anna.

“I don’t think so,” O’Hearn said. “I believe his wife died last year.”

Sabrina knew this wasn’t true, either, and she stared at O’Hearn. How could O’Hearn not know the truth?

“Oh, that’s awful,” Anna gasped and even Pasha looked up from his vials. “Why didn’t he tell us?”

“He’s a private man,” O’Hearn insisted. “If you paid any attention you’d have heard him mention that his wife’s gone.”

Sabrina escaped to the corner, pretending to check the gauges on the distiller. She couldn’t believe how little every one of them knew about their boss. Especially O’Hearn. She understood that the two men had been colleagues long before they came to spearhead EchoEnergy’s Product Laboratory. Sabrina had worked with Dwight Lansik for a shorter period than any of them, and yet she seemed to be the only one who knew he had no children and his wife was not dead, though she was, indeed, gone.

In fact, it was quite by accident that Sabrina had learned the truth. Shortly after she started, she came in early on a Sunday, not unusual for either her or Lansik, but this particular Sunday she caught him sleeping on the old blue sofa in his office. Not just sleeping but with his robe, toothbrush and slippers in place as if it had been his routine for some time. He grudgingly confided that his house had not been the same since his wife was gone.

At first Sabrina thought he meant that his wife had passed away. He had made it sound like a painful process, more that of a brokenhearted widower than an abandoned husband. But among the scattered paraphernalia was also a crumpled set of staple-bound papers, official-looking documents with the first page stamped Divorce Decree.

It wasn’t any of Sabrina’s business. Lansik was her boss, not a friend or a member of her family. What happened in his personal life was…well, personal.

The phone started ringing in the adjoining office and all of them stopped and stared. Finally Sabrina pushed open the door, hesitating as she looked around, checking the blue sofa before she reached for the phone on her boss’s desk.

“EchoLab,” she answered.

“Ms. Galloway?” a woman’s voice asked, startling Sabrina so much she stepped back. Why would anyone presume she would answer her boss’s phone?

“Yes?” she said so quietly she wondered if the woman had heard her.

“This is Anita Fraiser from Mr. Sidel’s office. He asked me to contact you. He needs you to meet him outside Reactor Area #1 at one o’clock. You’ll be giving the VIP tour.”

“Wait a minute. I had no idea there was a tour today. I’m sure there must be some mistake.” William Sidel was the CEO of EchoEnergy and Sabrina was quite certain she’d remember an appointment with him, let alone a tour.

“No, no mistake. You were on the list.”

“The list?”

“Let’s see here,” the woman said and Sabrina could hear pages being flipped and shuffled. She glanced outside the office, into the lab, and everyone was now staring, not bothering to disguise the fact that they were straining to listen in. “Yes, it’s right here. Your boss has you listed as the lead if for some reason he’s gone.”

“Has he called in sick?” Sabrina couldn’t believe he would purposely do this to her.

“All I know is that Dr. Lansik will not be in at all today. So again, that’s one o’clock, Reactor Area #1.”