The man parked down the street began snapping pictures as the trio emerged from the dark mansion and quickly ducked inside the waiting limo. As the limo vanished into the mist, he recorded the time, location and subjects. This wasn’t an official investigation, although he’d tried to make it one. Getting one lame excuse after another on his climb up the FBI’s chain of command, he’d finally reached the Office of Bureau Director Chapman, a Texan recently appointed by another Texan, President Longbridge. Upon hearing his request, Chapman, unlike the others, had offered no lame excuses, just an icy threat that if he didn’t back off, he could kiss his Bureau career and generous retirement benefits good-bye.
He’d discussed the matter with his wife, Jean, that same evening. “Gus, suppose you’re wrong?” she asked.
“I’m not wrong. I’m certain the evidence exists.”
“So certain you’re willing to stake your family’s security on it? Billy starts college in the fall and Sarah next year. If this fantastic conspiracy really exists, why are you the only one who believes it? Everyone at the Bureau has told you to drop it. Please, Gus, for your family’s sake, listen to them!”
And to the world, he had. Never again had he voiced his suspicions to anyone but his best friend, Agent Ben Harvey. He’d sunk back into his daily activities as if Chapman’s threat and Jean’s pleas had been just the wakeup calls he needed. But they hadn’t been, he brooded now, closing his notebook and returning the camera to its case. He’d been wrapped too tightly to abandon his search for the conspiracy he knew existed. And yet, after two years of investigation, how much more did he really know?
Leaving, he passed the Lakeland home, its front windows blackened where the CMA’s bulky, silver-haired Chairman typically waited for his guests. Tonight’s guests had included the new guy, almost certainly the nominee Longbridge would unveil Friday. Last night’s guests had been the pair of Texans: U.S. Attorney General, Thomas Streeter, and his own boss, FBI Director Chapman, whose frequent presence at the Lakeland home explained why he hadn’t wanted an investigation.
Gus was spinning one mysterious meeting after another into a deepening web of conspiracy he couldn’t yet fathom. He knew only that it existed and that its scope was frightening. What other conclusion could he reach when enormously powerful men, whose connections to each other weren’t publicly known, met under clandestine circumstances in the dead of night? Men who were somehow connected to another visitor to the Lakeland home - the dark giant with the grotesque face and lame leg, the visitor who frightened Gus the most.
Arch Leopold had been a sadistic killer long before Gus had sent him to Leavenworth. Just six months into his long prison term, Leopold had been savagely beaten by another inmate, an Irish giant named Red Murphy, who’d matched him in both brawn and nasty temper. Murphy had left Leopold a bloody, shattered mess the prison guards had been forced to scoop off the concrete and carry to the hospital.
His injuries had been grisly, Gus recalled as he exited the I-95 ramp. A fractured jaw, ruptured eye, shattered septum, broken teeth and a leg so badly crushed by Murphy’s club it had hardly been worth saving. After months in the hospital, Leopold had been released with a glass eye, new dentures, leg pin and a nose that even with reconstruction looked like salami. He would never forget his shock the morning Leopold limped grotesquely into the courtroom to hear the judge rule him unfit even with his new parts to be safely returned to prison. Having paid a terrible price, he left the courtroom almost a free man in his paroled status.
Unofficially, he’d also remained under Gus’s surveillance, who refused to believe Leopold’s rehabilitation extended beyond his physical injuries. When his parole ended, Leopold moved into his sister’s Houston home, getting janitorial work in the new Tower of Faith, the national headquarters of the Christians for a Moral America. Gus had received the news in a cryptic note from his Houston contact: “Here’s one for the record books. Leopold ‘The Butcher’ has become the CMA’s ‘Born Again Janitor.’”
Another note from his contact months later was less cynical: “Leopold now works directly for Seth Harrington, the CMA Chairman. Who would’ve believed it?” Gus would, and had; until Vermont two years ago, when he’d learned with the rest of the nation that the body of Chief Justice Wilson Rogers had been discovered in Lake Witteoka, his abandoned fishing boat nearby. Rogers had been vacationing at the quiet Vermont resort, his cottage just a quarter-mile from the cove where he’d been found. An autopsy performed by the Vermont medical examiner concluded death was caused by accidental drowning. Rogers, the report stated, had either slipped or experienced a seizure while fishing. Hitting his head, he’d tumbled, dazed or unconscious, into the water and drowned.
This report raised more questions than it answered. Why would the seventy-two-year-old Rogers, with no history of seizures, suddenly have one while fishing at night in an isolated cove? And if he did, why hadn’t the autopsy revealed a vascular accident? Without witnesses or hard evidence, these questions had cast an ominous shadow over Rogers’s death. But there’d been a much larger one, Gus now recalled as he covered Alexandria’s familiar streets.
Chief Justice Rogers had been the Court’s last pure liberal, an avowed atheist and ideological leader, who’d sanctioned the godless liberalism the new, arch-conservative President and his friend, Harrington, were intent on destroying. Committed to massive legal reforms mirroring their vision of a Christian America, Rogers had represented a major obstacle. And who’d believed their prospects would improve? Hadn’t Rogers, exceptionally fit for his age, just completed his last marathon? Wouldn’t he outlast even a two-term Longbridge Presidency? But now, so suddenly, Rogers was gone, the victim of a mysterious drowning. What greater miracle could Longbridge and Harrington have prayed for? Had fate capriciously blessed them, or had they taken it into their own hands? Unfortunately, the Vermont investigation hadn’t answered this question to the satisfaction of a growing number of Americans. Pressure mounted for a federal investigation into Rogers’s death. And faced with his first political crisis, Longbridge relented.
Chapman, the new FBI Director, swiftly dispatched a Bureau team to Vermont, one that included Agent Gus Swanson. Rogers’s autopsy was reviewed by the nation’s foremost forensic experts and the factual evidence thoroughly developed by experienced Bureau agents. Progress reports were faxed daily to Chapman, who didn’t respond. Why, Gus had wondered, as the silence lengthened and a concerned nation waited? Wasn’t Chapman curious about their progress? Or was he simply overwhelmed by the investigation’s critical nature and the intense national interest it had garnered? Whatever the case, Gus’s distress deepened until the investigation finally ended. By then he and several others were convinced Rogers had been murdered. A more thorough analysis of the forensic evidence had conclusively eliminated a vascular accident as the cause of Rogers’s death. The splintering of his skull was far more consistent with a blow from a hard object than a fall against the boat’s hull.
Caleb Wyndham, a lake resident, had provided a statement in which he recalled hearing a boat leave the cove on the night of the murder, clearly suggesting that Rogers hadn’t been alone. Records of the Lake Vista Inn further confirmed the presence of three men in the resort community during this same period. Marina records documented their rental of a small cruiser. Bills at both places had been paid in cash and the men’s names, after failed traces, were found to be fictitious. Nevertheless, their presence had been quite real, as proven by detailed witness descriptions — two men in their mid-thirties, medium height and build; one dark in hair and complexion, the other light; both ‘ordinary-looking.’ Gus had shuddered at the third man’s description - a dark giant, with salami nose, glass eye and grotesque limp. Goliath, they’d called the man who went by the name of David. Yet he’d been neither. He’d been, was and could be just one man.
Arch Leopold had been at Lake Witteoka the night of Rogers’s death. He was the errand boy of Seth Harrington, who’d blistered Rogers from the pulpit, calling repeatedly for his impeachment. And Longbridge - hadn’t he moved swiftly to replace Rogers with Falkingham, the obscure Charleston aristocrat? Had Longbridge masterminded the murder or been the beneficiary of others’ bloodied hands? However the questions were answered, the nation was entitled to the truth. And as he left Vermont that final afternoon, Gus had been convinced they’d receive it. Having established Rogers’s death as a homicide now meant finding the killers. And the investigation, far from being over, was just beginning.
Or so he’d thought. Two days after returning, he received his copy of the final report and discovered that all he’d understood had been lost somewhere between Vermont and D.C., the team’s findings either altered or deleted entirely by Special Agent Nicholas. Medical opinions that had ruled out a stroke were now inconclusive, as was the skull fracture. A hard object or boat hull — who could say? And Caleb Wyndham’s claim to have heard a boat on the night of Rogers’s death? Boats were in that cove every night, according to other lake residents. Who could say the elderly Wyndham had the right time if he was suffering from Alzheimer’s, as these other unidentified residents suspected? Having changed the team’s findings, Nicholas now changed its conclusion: no basis existed for reversing Vermont’s finding of accidental drowning.
A stunned Gus had reread the report, trying to grasp how a month-long investigation could vanish with nothing more than a word processor and a corrupt Special Agent. Didn’t Nicholas know the Bureau didn’t tolerate scams like this? They were exposed and the plotters were punished, unless the plotters were larger than the Bureau. So who were they? He took this alarming question to his teammates, who believed, like him, that Rogers had been murdered. Together they’d go to Chapman and explain the report’s gross inaccuracies. Only he now learned they agreed with Nicholas. “We were wrong,” they shrugged. “That’s clear after further reflection.”
And what else, his furious glare accused them. Bribes? Threats? “Forty-eight hours ago we agreed Leopold was the Goliath at Lake Witteoka.”
“Agreed, Gus? What does that mean? We can’t prove it. Give it up. It’s over.”
His eyes gleamed with a dawning obsession as he started up the chain of command.
“Do you realize what you’re suggesting?” his superiors asked. “If by some remote chance you could connect Leopold to Rogers’s death, you’re not actually prepared to claim he was acting on orders of the most respected religious leader in the country, are you?”
“How can I know until an investigation is done?”
“It was done, Swanson, and it’s over.”
Mired in reflection, he turned into his prosperous Alexandria subdivision. If only he had access to the Bureau’s sophisticated surveillance systems to record the secret Georgetown meetings, especially with things heating up again. There’d been little activity when Agent Orville’s call had come that Sunday afternoon. Orville hadn’t known of Gus’s secret operation, but he did recall his interest in Leopold. At Dulles on his own assignment, he’d just spotted Leopold rushing to catch a flight to La Guardia. “Limping like a mad giant, Gus. Had two flunkies with him, both medium height and build, ordinary-looking.”
‘Ordinary-looking.’ He’d immediately called Ben Harvey in Long Island.
“So you want me to drag my ass out to La Guardia and meet the plane?” Harvey grumbled.
“The fresh air will do you good, Ben. I assume you just saw the Rams clobber the Giants?” Watching pro football on Sundays had been akin to a religious ritual during their years together in Atlanta. “Ben, this could be the big break we’ve been waiting for.”
“You say that, Gus, every time Leopold flies up here. But all he does is check into that same Fifty-Second Street hotel then take a cab to some Manhattan office I can’t get into. Not that it matters. I know what he’s doing— squeezing blood out of poor saps for Harrington, like he used to for other scumbags. Hell, who knows?” Ben sighed. “Maybe we’ll get lucky this time.”
Harvey didn’t call back until almost midnight. “Gus, I’m at La Guardia. Leopold and his pals just returned to Dulles. I’d say it was another waste of time except...”
“What Ben?”
“Hell, it may be nothing. They checked into that same hotel then left again for this fancy apartment building on the Upper East Side. The Essex. It was a new stop but they obviously knew their way around, and had access to the building. Leopold and one guy went inside while the driver waited in the garage.”
“Do you know who they went to see?” Gus asked.
“Not at the time. I still don’t really, but... Gus, I just caught the the news. Some Wall Street lawyer was found shot to death in his apartment about an hour ago. Name’s Mendelsohn. He lived in the Essex.”
Gus’s heart pounded. “How long were Leopold and his flunkey in there?”
“A good forty-five minutes. Then they squealed off for the airport. I figured something was up, but had no idea what until now.”
This was no coincidence, but why a Wall Street lawyer? “Ben, find out what you can about Mendelsohn — his firm, the type of law he practiced, everything.”
“No problem, Gus. Forty-five minutes — that’s a long time for a hit. I’d say they were looking for something. So besides collecting Mendelsohn’s bio, how do we handle it?”
He thought quickly. If Harvey reported his surveillance of Leopold, they’d risk exposing the operation. Chapman would interpret it as a deliberate violation of his orders. They’d lose their jobs and also further opportunity to gather evidence. “We’ll let the NYPD do its job alone for now. Otherwise we’ll be on the street tomorrow.”
“Or under it,” Harvey sighed. “Gus, these guys scare the shit out of me. They’re cocky enough to blow off a Supreme Court Justice and now a Wall Street lawyer, all with the Bureau’s blessing.”
Gus smiled. His friend, it seemed, was in with both feet now. “Then you believe me about Rogers?”
“You think I’d be risking my ass otherwise? All right, I agree we can’t risk exposing the operation just for Mendelsohn.”
Monday crept by without a word from New York. Then Tuesday brought a startling development. The NYPD charged Mendelsohn’s associate at Lieber Allen with the murder, only to have her vanish before arrest. Harvey called that afternoon. “This young lawyer is the kid sister of Santino ‘The Lips’ Corelli, once the Bertoluccis’ big muscle on the West Side. A cocky bastard: big bankroll, big gun and big mouth. He’s doing life in Attica. Imagine that, a Corelli being hunted for a murder she didn’t commit.”
The line dripped suddenly with conscience. How could they keep quiet now? Certainly Corelli was frightened and desperate as she ran from a crime they knew, or at least suspected, she hadn’t committed. Which duty was greater: the one to Mayson Corelli or to their country, whose national security was threatened by a conspiracy possibly extending into the White House? Coming forward now assured them of never getting closer to it. “We’re doing everyone more good in the shadows than we would in the spotlight,” Gus said finally. “And even if you reported Leopold’s visit to the Essex Sunday night, that alone wouldn’t save Corelli. But exposing the conspiracy will.”
Harvey called Wednesday with further developments. “Here’s one for you, Gus. I’ve been assigned to the Corelli manhunt. And guess who’s coming up from D.C. to head the operation?”
“Pete Nicholas?”
“Bingo. The arrogant bastard’s obviously deep in Chapman’s pocket.”
“What’s the latest on Corelli?” Gus asked.
“Word is she’s trapped in Manhattan. The City’s sealed off tight.”
Yet since that call, the hours had become days and still she remained at large.
Arriving home, he parked behind Jean’s Explorer and entered the kitchen, where he was met by Max, their German Shepherd. Quietly, he slipped back to the dark bedroom to undress. What would he tell Jean this time? Another stakeout? Or that nasty paperwork he couldn’t get to during the day?
As he joined her in bed, she stirred. Then he told her about the new stakeout.