Capitol Reflections (30 page)
“Wow,” said Reisman, whistling. “Big Brother is alive and well.”
“Exactly.”
“No problem, though. None of our data comes from the government. We actually have better data, in fact, if you don’t mind my blowing our own horn. The government mostly knows about problems through adverse events and the like.”
“That’s what my friend was looking into, although you never heard me say that.”
“Anyway, we have health-related information for twenty-five million Americans that represent a fair sampling of the entire country. If there’s something going on out there, chances are we can detect it. Give me a list of the top ten cities and the applicable dates, and I’ll see if we can find a pattern.”
“Terrific, but be careful. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“Got it. Nobody but my lead analyst and I will know about this. I’ll let you know when we have something. Unfortunately, I can’t give you a time estimate. Could be anywhere from a few days to a few weeks.”
“Anything you can do to help would be great, Lonny. I appreciate it. If this story pans out, I’ll pay for that trip to Cancun myself.”
“You’re on, Mark. I’ll call my travel agent to get some quotes.”
Mark hung up, energized and ready.
Soon now, the story would show itself.
PART IV
38
Jack Stopped at a 7-Eleven outside of Wilmington to buy a carton of Marlboro lights. “Damn,” he muttered. “Talk about expensive.” He bought a carton of generic cigarettes instead—RTB was printed on the red and white carton, standing for rich tobacco blend. “Sure, why not,” he said. “I’ll be quitting next month, anyway.”
He also purchased a few packs of cigarettes representing various brands. He was on his way to Todd Gimmler’s house to drop them off. Todd was a field investigator for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms who owed Jack a few favors. Since ATF and the Secret Service were both part of the Department of Treasury, Jack had worked with Todd on a few investigations where the link between counterfeit money and stolen firearms had combusted to cause big fires that needed putting out. Jack’s assistance had led to more than one promotion for Gimmler, so Jack had no qualms about asking him to analyze the cigarettes, no questions asked. A definitive analysis, reasoned Jack, would satisfy Gwen. Here, honey. You may already have the same figures from FDA lab work on Marci’s blood, but I know your secret now, and it’s time to start painting that upstairs bedroom and seriously converting the basement into your new office. If the cigarette had a new or suspicious additive, he would personally inform the Office of Drug Safety. On the other hand, if there were nothing in the cigarette, Gwen could either fold or make him privy to any lead she was pursuing. He’d be tough if he had to, but there would be a resolution one way or another.
Jack usually couldn’t stand convenience store coffee, but he noticed, to his delight, that this place brewed Pequod’s.
He left the store, got in his Ford Taurus, and lit an RTB. It wasn’t the greatest smoke in the world, he concluded after the first drag, but it would do.
Gwen had been keeping a mental diary of Gene McMurphy’s schedule. He usually left for lunch at one o’clock and arrived back at his office no later than two-thirty. On most evenings, he worked until seven, but not a second later.
She needed to get into his office to gain additional information since PASSBREAK dissolved before she could read more of his mail. It was a long shot. McMurphy probably had most of the information she was looking for—the cause of the seizures, his coconspirators, the reason for the entire cover-up—password-protected on his PC. Still, she had to try. She needed to give Mark something to get him fired up—to get him to approach the cover-up with the same passion that had made him a household name. She would try to get into McMurphy’s office and leave with some jewel—any clue that Mark could use.
Entering McMurphy’s inner sanctum at lunch was far too risky. Evenings were different, however, with the cleaning staff moving about freely, leaving doors unlocked for long periods.
Between seven and eight o’clock at night—that’s when she’d make her move.
On the Washington Beltway Westbound coming back from Todd Gimmler’s house, Jack noted a white ’04 Grand Am weaving in and out of traffic about five car lengths back. At first, he thought it was just one of the millions of impatient motorists making the highways of America hell to navigate. Then the vehicle hung back, maintaining a constant speed. When Jack passed two cars, however, the Grand Am once again began weaving, as if jockeying for a position close to Jack’s Taurus.
“May just be a coincidence,” Jack said to himself. But there was only one way to be certain. Jack ducked off at New Hampshire Avenue and took University to rejoin the Beltway at the next entrance.
His white shadow remained.
Back on the Beltway, Jack pressed the accelerator, moving his car up to eighty-five miles an hour. The Grand Am remained close, as if pulled along by an invisible towing cable.
“What the hell?” mused Jack, glancing constantly at his two rearview mirrors.
Jack took the next exit and pulled up to a red light. The Grand Am, windows tinted, sat directly behind him.
Jack turned right, accelerated, and then hit the brakes, turning the steering wheel sharply to bring his car into a sideways skid on a residential street. He was going to confront his pursuer.
The Grand Am braked to a sudden stop just three feet from the Taurus’s driver’s-side door. Jack withdrew the Glock he kept under his seat, scrambled out the passenger side, and rolled onto the street. He knew better than to simply raise his head above the car’s body, in case somebody intended to shoot at him. Instead, he crawled on the ground toward the front of the Taurus, craning his head around the front tire on the passenger’s side.
“Hey, buddy!” growled a paunchy man in a wrinkled blue suit. “What’s the big idea crawling around down there? You playing
Rockford Files
or something?”
Rockford Files
or something?”
Jack stood up, carefully wedging the Glock under his belt behind his back. “You’ve been following me for miles, asshole. Now who the hell are you?”
The large man looked like an accountant—wingtips, pocket protector, and all. Jack was relieved to see that he was apparently unarmed.
“I’m going to visit my mother, if that’s all right with you. What kind of bullshit are you pulling with a skid like that? You’re lucky I didn’t smack into your door and cream your ass.”
“Like I said, you were following me.”
“My mother is stuck in her home with cancer, and I was in a hurry. Her nurse didn’t show up and she’s all alone. If I had more time, I’d knock your fucking head off.” The fat man scowled, got back into his car, and maneuvered around the Taurus, parking just a block away. He got out, walked up to a front door, and inserted a key. He was inside within a matter of seconds.
What the hell just happened? Jack didn’t know what to make of the last few minutes. How did he get into that house unless he had a …
Jack got into his Taurus and moved off slowly. All of his old alarm bells were sounding and yet, he had nothing solid to go on. He wanted to get the license number of the Grand Am, but it was smeared with mud and illegible. He couldn’t take the risk of being seen cleaning the plate. Certainly, the man had entered a house to which he had a key.
Jack took out a cigarette, his hand shaking, and drove the rest of the way home.
“Don’t make a sound,” the fat man in the blue suit told his captive.
The forty-year-old woman in maroon sweats stood motionless, her eyes wide and painted white with panic.
“Is anyone else in the house?”
The frightened woman shook her head.
“I’m not especially interested in hurting you,” said Op Four, “but I will if I have to. My gun has a silencer, and none of the other soccer moms in the neighborhood will hear a thing. Now here’s the deal. As soon as I see what I’m looking for, I’m going to leave. If you call the police, I’ll come back and kill you. And trust me when I tell you that I’ll know if you make the call.”
The woman nodded.
Op Four parted the living room curtains and surveyed the street for Jack Maulder’s Taurus.
“Have a wonderful day, ma’am,” he told the woman, his face suddenly lit with a bright smile. “And by the way, your drapes are a little dusty. You need to use your vacuum attachment.”
He let himself out the front door, pretending to lock the cylinder he had so deftly forced on the way in.
At seven-thirty, Gwen sat in the stall of the ladies’ room on the same floor as Gene McMurphy’s office. The cleaning staff had already mopped and wiped down the restroom and wouldn’t be back in until the following night. The custodial staff was now cleaning offices up and down the hallway.
Gwen had put on her dress uniform as a final touch, hoping that its official aura would minimize the likelihood of a challenge. The whine of a vacuum motor gave Gwen some idea of where the cleaning person at McMurphy’s end of the corridor was working. Leaving the stall, she opened the door of the bathroom an inch. Perfect. The cleaner was around the corner, exchanging gossip with a coworker.
McMurphy’s door was wide open.
Gwen dashed across the hall and into his office, quickly examining the lock system. Entering the office required an ordinary key as well as a swipe card. Leaving was as simple as turning the doorknob and walking out. The cleaning person had finished cleaning McMurphy’s office, but Gwen thought it best to hide, nonetheless. She scooted under the desk and remained still, hardly daring to breathe.
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