Whitewash (51 page)

Tallahassee, Florida

“So what the hell’s going on?” Leon tried to remain calm, his head pivoting around, looking for others, maybe the cops. But she was alone.

“You’re not going to feed me some line about going door to door checking air conditioners, are you?”

“There’s been a lot of outages,” he attempted, though he’d already noticed the baseball bat leaning against her chair. How could she possibly have known?

She pointed to a chair across from her and then to an extra glass on the table already filled with ice. A bottle of whiskey sat beside the glass, open and waiting. She had to be kidding. Who the hell did she think he was? Even with a baseball bat she was no match for him. He sat down anyway and pulled the bottle over. He poured a full glass and took a sip. Not the expensive stuff, but not bad. Hell, in this heat he would have drunk gasoline had she served it to him on ice. He chugged the first glass and poured another.

“How did you know?” he finally asked. It was silly to pretend different.

“I noticed your van sitting out there when I drove up. But no one in the neighborhood seemed to be up. No lights. No commotion.”

“Coulda been waiting on a part.”

“So I called the company,” she said as if she hadn’t heard his explanation. “Their dispatcher told me they didn’t have a van out in this neighborhood.”

“Son of a bitch!” He was fucked now.

It was too bad he’d have to wring her neck after all. He thought maybe he could just stumble over something in the condo that would have been enough to find her neighbor. It was a stretch, but he figured he was due some luck. Guess he figured wrong, way wrong.

That was when the cat rubbed up against his legs. A huge white thing that almost glowed in the dark. The purr sounded like a distant engine rumbling. An old woman and her cat, Leon thought. Jesus! He couldn’t get a break. He’d have to do the cat, too. Just out of courtesy.

Then he noticed a plastic container on her side of the table. The lid had been removed and left in the middle. In the moonlight he could see the white label with large black lettering that read, PORK CHOPS. His stomach actually growled as if on cue.

“I know who you are,” the old woman said.

Leon caught himself licking his lips. Should he eat the pork chops before or after he offed her and the cat? Stupid impulses, he remembered. He probably should eat before.

“I want to hire you,” she said and Leon was sure he heard her wrong.

“Hire me? Whadya mean hire me?”

“What’s your price to turn the tables?” Her tone was surprisingly professional, not a tinge of fear or apprehension. And she did seem to know exactly who he was.

“Lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Whoever hired you to murder Sabrina Galloway,” she continued, all matter-of-fact-like. “I want to hire you to make sure that person never, ever hurts her.”

“Murder? Old woman, you’re talking nonsense.”

But Leon started sweating again. Did she know who had hired him? Nah, that was impossible. It didn’t matter, anyway. The guy had pretty much told Leon he’d leave it to the State Patrol to take care of Galloway. Leon was on his own to take her out, so technically he was no longer hired. He no longer had a client. There would be no payout. He’d screwed that up royally. Other than the measly ten thousand dollars he got up front for expenses, this was a total fucking waste of a trip.

“I can pay you cash up front,” the old woman calmly said like she could read his mind. She lifted a foil-wrapped package from the pork chop container.

He started to tell her to save her breath since it’d probably be her last one. But then she pulled open the foil. Forget about keeping a poker face, Leon felt his jaw drop and his eyes widen.

The old woman was serious and she had a serious wad of cash. She peeled off a chunk about an inch tall, a relatively small chunk considering what was left. Hell, the thing was as tall as a loaf of bread. She slid the small chunk to the middle of the table. On top was a crisp Ben Franklin. If those underneath were also hundred-dollar bills there had to be at least twenty-five to thirty-five thousand in just that one stack.

“It’s not only about money, old lady. She saw me. And no matter how plain this mug of mine is, I’m not changing it,” Leon told her.

The whole time he tried to keep his eyes off that container. It had made his mouth water when he thought it was pork chops. Now that he knew it was stuffed tight with hundred-dollar bills it made his mouth water even more. “Besides, what makes you think I won’t tell you what you wanna hear, slit your throat and take that container full of cash anyway?”

She sat back and nodded like she was considering it. She reached for her glass, rattled the ice to stir it up a bit and took a long sip of the whiskey.

“Now see, I was thinking you were a businessman, not a petty crook.” She continued to sip her whiskey. She was pretending it didn’t matter to her one way or another whether he took her deal. “Doesn’t make sense for a businessman to do something that’s not necessary.”

“She saw me,” he said. It was as simple as that.

“What if I guarantee she won’t remember a thing about you? Me, either, for that matter.”

Leon laughed. “How the hell can you guarantee a thing like that?”

The old woman sat forward, hesitated, but only for a second. Then wrapping the foil around the huge loaf of cash she slid it over to him.

“Is that enough of a guarantee?” she asked.

Son of a bitch, Leon thought. There had to be over a quarter of a million dollars in that foil.

He looked up at her and this time she caught his eyes and held them. Over the years Leon had seen a lot of things in his clients’ eyes: revenge, greed, power, even hate. But he’d never seen anything like this.

Leon opened up the foil. He brought out the solid stack of bills and held it in his hands. It was still cold from its storage in the freezer. It was, indeed, a tight stack of hundred-dollar bills, more than twice the money he’d ever been paid for a hit. He rewrapped it in the foil, including the small chunk from the middle of the table. He stuffed it under his arm and stood up.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” he said.

Then he left.

Wednesday, June 14
The Franklin D. Roosevelt Memorial
Washington, D.C.

Natalie Richards despised the media. She hated the way they portrayed her boss and she knew for certain that they didn’t always get the facts right. Even before Jayson Blair made up stories for the
New York Times,
quoting people he’d never talked to, let alone met, Natalie had developed a healthy distrust of reporters from her own assorted experiences. Natalie’s boss, however, considered the media a necessary evil, so Natalie wasn’t surprised to get immediate and full support of her plan.

She had met Gregory McDonald only once, last year when he was an investigative reporter and part-time anchor for ABC News. McDonald was credited with many breaking exposés, including the corruptive handling, or rather mishandling, of FEMA funds after Hurricane Katrina. His work was respected and awarded by his colleagues, but more importantly to Natalie, he had gained the trust of Washington insiders as being tough, accurate and confidential.

Ironically, Natalie hadn’t met him while he was working on a story. Instead, they were introduced at a Christmas party thrown by Warren Buffett, of all people. Natalie’s invitation had been an accident, at best, especially when her boss had to cancel at the last minute. In the middle of celebrities, politicians and media people, Gregory McDonald had been kind enough to spend time talking to her about teenage boys—he had three of his own—and their expectations for Christmas. At the time he had no clue who Natalie was or who she worked for and that alone had won Natalie over.

Today she was pretty sure no one would recognize her here at the Roosevelt Memorial, either. Nor would they expect to see her dressed in blue jeans and a Smithsonian Museum T-shirt. She wore sunglasses and carried a canvas tote bag over her shoulder imprinted with a colorful panorama of the Washington monuments. With any luck she looked like just another tourist. Maybe she had a bit of Emma Peel in her, after all.

As she waited for McDonald, she couldn’t help wondering if this story would be the one to propel him to the evening anchor position he was rumored to be in line for. She shifted the tote bag from one shoulder to the other. It’d be nice to think some good could come out of such a mess.

A man walked up to read one of the monument plaques behind her. He wore running shorts and a T-shirt and lugged an old backpack. She stepped aside and checked her watch. The mall was crowded with June tourists, a few loners and families but mostly field trips of docile senior citizens or screeching high-school students.

The man with the backpack stepped around to stand beside her and she was about to give him her best “shove-off” look when she recognized his smile.

“You sure are skinnier and much shorter than I remember,” she told Gregory McDonald.

“Cameras add ten pounds.”

“Uh-huh. That’s exactly why I stay away from them.”

Natalie glanced around. A new group was making its way from room to room in the Memorial. No one seemed interested in the two of them. Satisfied, she nodded toward a bench along the wall.

“Timing’s everything in your business,” she said to McDonald as she pulled an envelope from her tote bag and handed it to him. He didn’t hesitate or ask any questions. He simply took the envelope and slipped it into a side pocket of his backpack.

“I understand the same is true in your business,” he said with no threat or urgency, his tone as casual as if they were two friends chatting about the daily grind of their careers. Then as he stood and adjusted his backpack, ready to leave, he added, “You know I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask. So is your boss planning to run next time around?”

She knew without further explanation that he meant “run for president,” of course. The speculations were already swirling around, but Natalie’s boss had managed to avoid answering while keeping all options open.

Natalie simply smiled. “Let’s just say if your timing’s right you’ll be the first to know.”

Wednesday, June 14
The Franklin D. Roosevelt Memorial
Washington, D.C.

Natalie Richards despised the media. She hated the way they portrayed her boss and she knew for certain that they didn’t always get the facts right. Even before Jayson Blair made up stories for the
New York Times,
quoting people he’d never talked to, let alone met, Natalie had developed a healthy distrust of reporters from her own assorted experiences. Natalie’s boss, however, considered the media a necessary evil, so Natalie wasn’t surprised to get immediate and full support of her plan.

She had met Gregory McDonald only once, last year when he was an investigative reporter and part-time anchor for ABC News. McDonald was credited with many breaking exposés, including the corruptive handling, or rather mishandling, of FEMA funds after Hurricane Katrina. His work was respected and awarded by his colleagues, but more importantly to Natalie, he had gained the trust of Washington insiders as being tough, accurate and confidential.

Ironically, Natalie hadn’t met him while he was working on a story. Instead, they were introduced at a Christmas party thrown by Warren Buffett, of all people. Natalie’s invitation had been an accident, at best, especially when her boss had to cancel at the last minute. In the middle of celebrities, politicians and media people, Gregory McDonald had been kind enough to spend time talking to her about teenage boys—he had three of his own—and their expectations for Christmas. At the time he had no clue who Natalie was or who she worked for and that alone had won Natalie over.

Today she was pretty sure no one would recognize her here at the Roosevelt Memorial, either. Nor would they expect to see her dressed in blue jeans and a Smithsonian Museum T-shirt. She wore sunglasses and carried a canvas tote bag over her shoulder imprinted with a colorful panorama of the Washington monuments. With any luck she looked like just another tourist. Maybe she had a bit of Emma Peel in her, after all.

As she waited for McDonald, she couldn’t help wondering if this story would be the one to propel him to the evening anchor position he was rumored to be in line for. She shifted the tote bag from one shoulder to the other. It’d be nice to think some good could come out of such a mess.

A man walked up to read one of the monument plaques behind her. He wore running shorts and a T-shirt and lugged an old backpack. She stepped aside and checked her watch. The mall was crowded with June tourists, a few loners and families but mostly field trips of docile senior citizens or screeching high-school students.

The man with the backpack stepped around to stand beside her and she was about to give him her best “shove-off” look when she recognized his smile.

“You sure are skinnier and much shorter than I remember,” she told Gregory McDonald.

“Cameras add ten pounds.”

“Uh-huh. That’s exactly why I stay away from them.”

Natalie glanced around. A new group was making its way from room to room in the Memorial. No one seemed interested in the two of them. Satisfied, she nodded toward a bench along the wall.

“Timing’s everything in your business,” she said to McDonald as she pulled an envelope from her tote bag and handed it to him. He didn’t hesitate or ask any questions. He simply took the envelope and slipped it into a side pocket of his backpack.

“I understand the same is true in your business,” he said with no threat or urgency, his tone as casual as if they were two friends chatting about the daily grind of their careers. Then as he stood and adjusted his backpack, ready to leave, he added, “You know I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask. So is your boss planning to run next time around?”

She knew without further explanation that he meant “run for president,” of course. The speculations were already swirling around, but Natalie’s boss had managed to avoid answering while keeping all options open.

Natalie simply smiled. “Let’s just say if your timing’s right you’ll be the first to know.”