Washington, DC
“You hear anyone talking about me recently?” Carl Baldwin loomed in front of Vic’s office door.
Vic looked up from his desk. His unexpected presence unnerved Vic, as Carl must have known it would. It had something to do with the angle of the doors. Vic’s office was across the hall from Carl’s, but not directly. He couldn’t see Carl exit his office, and Carl couldn’t see Vic leave his. But Carl could sneak across the hall and surprise him. Vic suspected Carl had designed it that way.
“No more than usual, sir.” Vic hoped his boss would appreciate his attempt at humor.
But Carl scowled and folded his arms. “Come into my office. We need to talk.”
Vic glanced around his own office, wondering why it wouldn’t do. As if he knew what Vic was thinking, Carl said, “I just ran a sweep. I know it’s secure.”
Vic slipped his cell in his pocket, took a legal pad and pen, and followed Carl across the hall. Despite the Euro-modern furniture, Carl’s office wore a spartan air. Plain vanilla blinds, empty bookshelves, one framed photo on his desk, and a signed baseball from former Cubs right fielder Sammy Sosa. The photo was of Dena in a bikini, hoisting the mainsail of a sloop on Lake Michigan. Carl stood behind, grinning at his daughter. Vic deposited himself in an Eames chair.
Carl watched Vic gaze at the photo. “You still monitoring the group?”
Vic nodded.
“Anything new?”
He shook his head. “It hasn’t been dormant, but traffic is nothing compared to the way it used to be.”
“What about that PI in Chicago?”
“I’m putting some background together. You’ll have it tomorrow.”
Carl rubbed his hand across the stubble on his cheeks. He hadn’t shaved today and his button-down shirt was rumpled. “Something’s going on. And I don’t like it.”
Vic angled his head.
“Three fails in a row are two fails too many.”
Puzzled, Vic flipped up his palms.
“The Russians, the Uzbek arms deal, and fracking,” Carl said.
“Fracking hasn’t come up for a vote yet.”
“Hell, they haven’t brought it out of the goddammed committee. They’re sitting on it.”
“It happens.”
“Not like this. Someone’s jamming the bill. Chipping off members one by one.”
Vic sighed inwardly. Everything was a battle with Carl. Lobbying used to be access and persuasion. Today it was pay-to-play. Which meant that when Carl was flush and could outbid the opposition, no one was a more stalwart, fearless gladiator for his clients. But when he was outplayed or outspent, he cried victim.
“Do you have proof?” Vic asked. “Left-wingers? Environmentalists? Anti–fossil fuel group?”
Carl shook his head. “That’s the thing. I can’t figure it out. And meanwhile, you were right. The word is out that I’ve lost my touch.”
There was something different about Carl today. His customary narcissism was on display, but an undercurrent of worry ran through it.
“Let me do some investigating. Could be fracking just isn’t a priority anymore. The Middle East is blowing up, and whenever that happens, oil is more valuable than gas. Plus, the earthquakes—”
Carl cut him off. “You remember when I had you track Dena’s fracking activism?”
“Sure.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if she pissed off the wrong people.”
“What do you mean?”
Now Carl looked at Dena’s photo. “What if her murder was a warning shot? To me?”
“Whoa, Carl. Slow down. DC doesn’t work like that.”
“And you would know because . . .”
Vic shifted in his chair. “Five minutes ago you’re railing against a left-wing conspiracy. Now it’s the oil industry. You don’t think you—that’s a little paranoid?”
“Sometimes they are out to get you. Look at the past couple of months.”
“You think someone is deliberately sabotaging your career?”
“Like I keep saying, it’s your career too, buddy boy.”
“But how would they do it? And why?” Vic templed his fingers. “It would require at least half a dozen congressmen to intentionally change their vote just to hurt you. I think it’s unlikely. It’s just a streak of bad luck.”
Carl picked up the Sammy Sosa baseball from his desk and lobbed it from one hand to the other. “I don’t know.”
You’re not that important. The world doesn’t revolve around you, Vic thought. Carl had always been aggressive. Full of bluster, sure. Yet focused like a laser when he needed to be. But he hadn’t been the same since Dena died. He gazed at his boss. His face was puffy and fleshier these days. The lines on his forehead dug deeper. Judging from his rumpled shirt and day-old stubble, his grooming, usually the pinnacle of precision, was slipping. Was he hitting the bottle? For the first time since he’d been working for Baldwin, he realized his boss was afraid. And he was sharing that fear with Vic.
“Look, Vic. We have access, right? That’s what we offer our clients. Access and persuasion. But our clients aren’t satisfied with that. They expect us to perform miracles. Lift sanctions. Broker arms deals. Invest in their real estate. The United States may be up for sale, but there are strings attached to that sale. They want results, not just ‘access.’ And if they don’t get it, we’re vulnerable.”
“Vulnerable? To what? You make it sound like we’re living in a third world country. A place where the rule of law doesn’t count.”
Carl leveled a look at Vic but kept his mouth shut.
That was the moment Vic decided to pack up and leave the shithole that was Washington. If this town could chew up a man like Baldwin, what would it do to him?