CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Valden was standing at the bar with Phillip Lennox the elder when J.R., Randall and I emerged from the house. I don’t know how long my brother had been there, but he looked like he’d had a couple of stiff pops even before he arrived. I felt the younger Lennox tense as we approached them.

Valden was the first to speak.

“Phil, this is my brother, Mike,” he said. “Mike, meet Phillip Lennox, the gracious host of this soiree.”

“A pleasure,” I said as we shook hands. As expected, his grip was firm and commanding. In my peripheral vision, I saw J.R. eyeball me.

Lennox senior looked at Valden. “You never mentioned a brother,” he said.

“He rarely does,” I said with a smile.

“You’re not with VGC then, I take it,” he said.

“No, Mr. Lennox. Not actively, anyway. Only a shareholder.”

“Mike’s a retired police detective,” Valden offered.

Lennox’s bushy brows shot skyward and formed furrows across a suntanned brow. A sudden gust ruffled his thinning white hair. He combed it back into place with his fingers.

I shot a quick glance at Valden, wondered if he’d had even more to drink than I thought.

“I operate a charter business in Hawaii,” I said.

“Is that so? Whereabouts?”

“The Big Island. In Kona.”

Lennox glanced over at his son for the first time and placed a hand on his shoulder. There was something patronizing in the gesture, and J.R. stiffened. They seemed more like a field general and his aide than father and son. Young Randall held on to J.R.’s hand and absently shuffled his feet.

“Well, how about that,” Phillip Lennox said and jerked a thumb at Randall. “The three of us are going to be in Honolulu in a few days. Even the lad.”

“Is that so?”

“Big pharmaceutical convention there, you know. Maybe we can look you up.”

I pulled business cards from my billfold and handed one to each of the Lennox men.

“Call any time,” I said.

The elder Lennox nodded and commented on the champagne flute in my hand.

“You’re empty, Mike,” he said. “Let’s get that taken care of.”

The bartender refilled my glass as Lennox cast a broad wave to a couple moving toward us across the lawn.

He turned to Valden, then to me. “You’ll excuse me, gentlemen?”

“Of course,” Valden said.

I nodded.

“Valden, I assume you know J.R.?” I asked.

“We’ve met,” he said, as the two shook hands. His expression betrayed his obvious disinterest as he looked from J.R. to me, then off into the crowd. “You’ll have to excuse me as well,” he said. “Need to make the rounds, you know.”

We watched my brother saunter off into the growing crowd, in search of a more fruitful conversation to drift into. I was embarrassed by my brother’s insolence toward J.R., though the younger Lennox seemed to take it in stride; another of the by-products of being the offspring of a powerful man. I had to give him credit for character.

“Valden Van de Groot’s brother?” he said to me. “You neglected to mention that.”

“For better or worse,” I smiled. “I apologize for his manners.”

“No need,” he said. “I’m used to it.” He gave me an appraising look, and I saw the thought forming even before he voiced it. “You’re a Van de Groot. You know what it’s like.”

J.R. had had to make his choices as a very young man, I knew. The choice to accept being stuffed headfirst into a toilet bowl, to become the kind of person who would kick his tormentors in the genitals while their backs were turned, or to stand tall and act like a man, even when your father treated you like a sock puppet.

I debated leaving his comment alone, but I kind of liked the guy.

“Don’t buy into their bullshit, J.R.,” I said. “They’ll scratch away at your self-respect until there’s nothing left of you. I go by Travis. Mike Travis. And I like it that way.”

“You mean you’re not in a rush to mingle with the haughty and presumptuous?”

“I’d rather use a urinal as a drinking fountain.”

I couldn’t see his eyes behind the tint of his sunglasses, but saw the smile cross his face. He put his hand out one more time and I shook it.

“I’m glad I got to meet you, Mike Travis.”

“You, too, Phillip,” I said.

The sun was crawling across the dome of sky, but a light wind was blowing in from the coast, allowing for intervals of relief from the confines of my pinstriped suit. Stands of old-growth coral trees laid patches of shadow across the manicured lawn. Pristine white tents protected lavish buffet tables. Waiters and waitresses serpentined among the guests, bearing trays of mimosas, hors d’oeuvres and French bubbly, and I watched it all from my vantage near the bar beneath a massive elm. After two glasses of Cristal, I switched to Perrier with lime and did my best to keep Valden in my sights.

My brother is an adroit schmoozer, and I found myself newly grateful that I’d chosen a life as a cop as I watched him meander among the clutches of guests, shaking hands, smiling, backslapping, and generally working the crowd. I could corner the compost market if I could package all the bullshit being cast about among this bunch.

But I kept my eyes moving, looking for what, I wasn’t completely sure: a guest who appeared out of place, an overtly unskilled cocktail or food server, anyone who approached Valden rather than the other way around. I knew Hans was out on the street doing the same thing, enduring the painfully boring reality of surveillance.

The band wrapped up with “One O’Clock Jump” and Phillip Lennox took the stage. The murmur of conversation and polite laughter drifted in the breeze as he tapped his crystal tumbler with a spoon and paused for his guests’ attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “If I may interrupt.”

The tinkling of silver striking glassware rippled through the speakers again, and he waited a moment longer. The murmurs died down and everyone faced the dais. Despite my instruction to stay close to me, Valden had worked his way to the far side of the platform, at the edge of the parquet dance floor, glass in hand. When he finally glanced back in my direction, I nodded to let him know I was watching. He turned away and focused his attention on Lennox.

“First of all, let me thank you for coming out on this beautiful day,” he smiled. “It’s clear that God must surely be from Southern California.”

Dutiful laughter rolled through the crowd together with a smattering of applause. Lennox’s smile was practiced and familiar as he acknowledged individuals in the front ranks, until the noise faded away.

“The man you’ve come here to meet needs no introduction. Though, since it’s my house, I’m going to take this opportunity to give him one anyway.”

Polite sounds of appreciation and the familiar Phillip Lennox strong jaw and boardroom smile.

“As most of you probably know, I am a firm believer in American business, a firm believer in free enterprise, and an even firmer believer in the right of every American to work and to make a living without concern of losing their jobs to unnecessary foreign competition or intervention.

The guests were mostly still now, even the catering staff was moving more slowly as he spoke. At the edge of the stage, two off-duty cops working security stood beside the guest of honor, all cheap blue suits and mirrored shades.

The need for any additional protective presence was limited to a couple of men who had the appearance and demeanor of Lennox’s private security personnel. These latter men would be the ones with military training, those who had moved into the private sector after tours of duty in sandpit hellholes like Afghanistan, Kuwait or Iraq.

“Catastrophic attacks on American soil have only served to underscore the dignity and strength of the American people, and the importance of maintaining the integrity of the American way of life. No one, and I mean no one, should ever be given the opportunity to usurp that way of life.

Applause roiled through the crowd again as Lennox continued to speak.

“So it is with great pleasure that I introduce to you today the one clear voice in American government who stands for those same values. A man who has been the subject of ridicule by certain elements of Congress who believe that America should turn the other cheek; that she should throw open our business and cultural borders for the greater ‘World Economy.’ Well, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll say out loud what the distinguished congressman cannot in today’s politically correct environment: that our first priority as a nation must be loyalty to business interests within our own borders. Any notion to the contrary is a colossal load of bovine excrement.”

The congressman laughed along with the guests as he pulled away from his entourage and headed for the stage.

Sparkling rings and bracelets, Rolexes and jeweled cufflinks glittered in the LA sun as he stepped up to the microphone. A siren wailed in answer to a code-three call in the distance, unnoticed, somewhere outside the wall, on the other side of the world.

Lennox acknowledged the congressman with a slight bow and a sweep of his arm.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Congressman Bill Kelleher.”

Kelleher was a tall man, probably six two or so. He was dressed in the obligatory politician’s dark suit, white cotton shirt, and club tie. His hair was red going to gray and he had the ruddy complexion of an outdoorsman. He waved casually and offered a broad smile to a few familiar faces before launching into his message. He was a man who spoke in italics.

“The borders of this great nation have been breached—and not without great loss of life. That we should not only condone, but actively encourage the further violation of our economic boundaries as well is simply unconscionable and should be deemed intolerable by the American people.

“In particular, to allow the flood of low-cost goods, assembled by a non-US workforce, by the very country that is home to the largest population on the planet—one that has demonstrated an attitude of tolerance toward the terrorism that rocked our shores, one that has repeatedly violated human rights and advanced untold political and religious oppression within its own borders—should be deemed wholly unacceptable to the people of the United States.”

This was the shtick that Kelleher had become famous for and he wasn’t letting anyone down. The congressman was a charismatic speaker and he held the group in the palm of his hand. The two-grand-a-seat crowd was lapping it up, and I got the distinct sense he was using his newfound fame to test the waters for a presidential bid.

“We’ve seen what happens when unscrupulous Chinese manufacturers were nearly successful in poisoning our children with lead-based products contained in the toys we buy from them. Yet we continue to deceive ourselves with the promise of working together as trading partners in a free-market economy.”

I used the cover of Kelleher’s speech to wander closer to the stage, eyeing each guest as best I could along the way. Not surprisingly, there were a number of faces I recognized—TV personalities, actors and the like, but I ignored them, cautiously weaving my way to the area nearest where Valden stood, alone and as captivated as the rest of them.

“Remember this well,” Kelleher said. “A healthy and safe America begins with a healthy American economy. We’ve seen what happens when the threat of terrorism drives us from the skies and results in the devastating impact on our businesses. We’ve seen what happens when Americans are afraid to travel, afraid for their very lives and livelihoods.”

I was reaching the limits of my tolerance for political chatter. Our halls of government had devolved into a fraternity house full of tenured windbags who held views that were, in reality, far more elitist, oligarchic and condescending than the populist and egalitarian line of crap they kept trying to sell us. I would feel far differently if I knew that these people had real jobs to return to once their duty in Washington had been fulfilled.

“But my question is this: What about the American worker? What about American business? What about our own brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers? What about our children? I say enough is enough. It is time to tighten up our economic borders and turn up the heat on China.”

There was a burst of spontaneous applause.

I had heard much of it before. But he had clearly ramped-up the rhetoric to new and potentially volatile levels. I was sure this was the last speech he would make without the presence of hordes of protesters. Nevertheless, there was no doubt that he was gaining momentum and he was stumping like hell to get his new trade bill passed.

I looked to the sky and saw a lone hawk gliding in easy circles as he rose on unseen thermals. Kelleher’s voice was reduced to background noise as I watched the bird’s silhouette grow smaller, and wondered how long he’d been watching us.

By the time Kelleher finished his speech, I had positioned myself behind Valden and off to one side. My brother hadn’t seen me, so his body language gave nothing away. It was a fine line we were treading. Valden’s entire world would be turned upside down if anyone got a whiff of the trouble he was in. It was a damned small circle of those of us who knew. Only Valden, Hans and me. And we were on the very short end of the clock.

After talking it through with Hans, we agreed this would be the best moment for the blackmailers to make contact. If it were up to me, I’d use the post-speech commotion to cover my move. Now that I was here, I knew we had likely guessed correctly.

I scanned the crowd, every face in Valden’s vicinity, raked my eyes across the group that swamped the congressman for handshakes. When I looked back at Valden, I saw it: a waiter with a yellow coat passing something to my brother that did not come in a crystal glass. The waiter’s manner was casual, a sharp contrast to that of my brother’s. His face lost its color as he swiveled his head quickly from side to side. I willed him to keep his cool, but knew how brittle and edgy he had become.

I had no choice but to leave Valden on his own while I tailed the waiter, and swung a wide arc through the crowd to flank him. He wasn’t moving overly swiftly, and neither was I, just enough to catch up without drawing attention.

I cut him off as he rounded the corner of the house, toward the rear where the largest of the catering trucks were parked. A number of other employees in matching jackets milled about in various stages of disorganization, none paying much attention to either of us.

He was too surprised to make any noise when I grabbed him by the elbow, forced him back into an alcove that led to the main house’s kitchen, and out of anyone’s direct line of sight. I yanked one arm up between his shoulder blades and slammed him hard against the wall, heard his head thud heavily against the stucco.

“What the—”

I bounced him off the wall again and watched him blink back his bearings.

In an interrogation, you have to act quickly. The quality of the information you get is only as good as you demand.

“I don’t have time for bullshit,” I said. “You just handed something to a man standing next to the stage. What was it?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “An envelope.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tim.”

His free hand came up to rub his face. I looked out to the staging area to see if we’d attracted any attention, but nobody appeared to see us in the shadows.

“Put both hands against the wall, Tim, spread your feet.” I patted him down swiftly. Nothing.

“I’m asking you again: what did you give that man?”

Tim was trembling with adrenaline rush and alarm.

“I told you, I don’t know. Just an envelope.”

“Where did you get it?”

He started to turn around and face me, but I shoved him back where he was. When he answered, his voice came out muffled.

“Some guy gave it to me,” he said. “Gave me a hundred bucks if I’d just hand it to the fat guy.”

“When?”

“When what?”

“When did ‘some guy’ give you the envelope, goddamn it.”

“I—I don’t know. Just a little while ago. When the dude in the suit started his speech.”

That had been ten, maybe fifteen minutes earlier. Shit.

“Who was he?”

“Who?”

I smacked Tim on the back of the head.

“Don’t be an asshole. The guy who gave you the envelope. What did he look like?”

“Ow,” he said. “Damn it, that hurt.” The initial rush of fear was wearing off.

“Talk to me,” I said again. “I am not fucking around. One last time. Who was he? What did he look like?”

“I don’t know, man. I’ve never seen the guy before.” His voice was rasping, a little shaky. “He was medium. Like medium height, short hair, not too heavy, not too old.”

Fuck. Great. Medium. I grabbed an arm, swung him around to face me.

“How old was he? My age?”

He looked me over real quick.

“No, not that old. Maybe twenty-five or thirty. Brown hair. A little taller than me. He was wearing a blue jacket. Like a sport coat.”

“Where did he go after he gave you the envelope and the money?”

Tim picked pellets of stucco from his cheek. “He just walked off toward the street, like he was leaving. He was walking fast.”

My cell phone hummed inside my suit jacket and I fished it out with one hand as I planted my other hand on Tim’s chest to make him stay put. I didn’t recognize the number on the incoming call screen.

“Go,” I said into the receiver.

“I have an address for you.”

“Wait one,” I said to Rex while I plucked a ballpoint pen out of Tim’s pocket. “Ready.”

Rex recited a name and address to me twice, then hung up. I scrawled it across the palm of my hand and handed the pen back to Tim.

He stared at me with a glazed expression as he dusted the stucco off his uniform and straightened his bow tie.

It would take too long to retrieve my car, so I turned and jogged my way down the long driveway and out toward the street. Hans fired up the car and popped the passenger door as soon as he saw me coming.