Deceived (10 page)

A secretary
escorted Nick and Meg into Carolyn's corner office. Impressive, both its size
and furnishings. A couch, a work table, nice artwork. Neither feminine nor
masculine.

Carolyn sat
behind a leather-topped desk, arms folded in front of her, Dennis seated beside
her. She rose from her chair immediately on their entry and Dennis followed
suit.

Meg and Carolyn
had not met, and Nick made the introduction. "Carolyn, this is Meg Taylor
…
she's
new as of last month."

Carolyn tipped
her head. "Meg."

"A
pleasure to meet you, Ms. Reed." Meg's tone, Carolyn's tone, were both
befittingly somber.

The four took
chairs, in Nick's and Meg's case two black leather library chairs facing
Carolyn's desk. Nick noticed Carolyn's eyes
—
bloodshot
—
and
imagined his must appear many times worse.

Nick had
requested the meeting; he asked the first question. "Do you have an update
on Scott's death?"

Carolyn shook
her head sadly. "All I know is what I told you yesterday. A boy came
across Scott's body in a D.C. alley. A high-crime area
—
mostly black,
Hispanic. Death occurred early evening. Scott had been beaten and
…
well
you know about his hands. He'd been shot three times in the chest."

Carolyn had
recounted the police findings dispassionately, and Nick struggled to analyze
them with the same sense of detachment. Just details
—
items on an account
ledger. "Do the police have any leads?"

"Not of
any substance. They've interviewed the residents of the apartments fronting the
alley. No one heard or saw a thing. Not too surprising, since the police think
the body was moved to the alley after death
—
there wasn't much blood at
the scene and they didn't recover any bullets."

The
body?
This
was Scott they were talking about. He took a deep breath and asked, "What
do the police think?"

"The
obvious: Scott strayed into a bad neighborhood and got mugged. He'd been
drinking
…
a lot
—
his blood alcohol level was extremely high. That
probably made him an attractive target."

"They
think they'll turn up anything?"

"Without
any leads?" Carolyn's shrug did not indicate confidence. "Odds aren't
good, I wouldn't think."

"And if
there
was
a lead?"

Carolyn's eyes
went to slits. "You know something, Nick?"

Nick turned to
his right, to Meg. "Why don't you tell Carolyn and Dennis what you just
told me."

Meg nodded, and
then did.

Carolyn's face,
almost always unreadable, sunk as Meg proceeded, while Dennis's went from white
to dark red. When Meg finished, Dennis slapped his hand on his thigh for
emphasis and exclaimed, "This is inexcusable.
Inexcusable.
"

"Scott's
dead, Dennis," Nick reminded him.

"I'm not
talking about Scott; I'm talking about Miss Taylor." Dennis turned on her.
"Scott was disobeying my explicit instructions. You
knew
it, and
you
didn't
feel it necessary to notify me?"

"I
…
"
Meg began. "Scott was of the opinion that there was more to the case
…
"

"
Scott
was
of the opinion?" Dennis objected sharply. "I don't give a holy crap
about
Scott's
opinion. Who's in charge of the Office of Special
Investigations?"

Meg fumbled
with her fingers while Dennis's face turned a brighter red. "Who is in
charge of the Office of Special Investigations, Miss Taylor?" he repeated.

"
…
You
are," Meg said, her voice faltering.

"Damn
right. So why in hell would I care about Scott's opinion? Huh?"

Meg looked
down, saying nothing
.

"
Answer
me.
"

Annoyed at
Dennis and annoyed at himself for allowing the cross-examination to go on as
long as it had, Nick cut in heatedly. "Hey, settle down, Dennis."

"You have
nothing to do with this, Ford," Dennis spit in Nick's direction before
turning back on Meg. "I'm waiting for an answer, Miss Taylor."

Nick's fingers
dug into the arms of the chair; if he had thought, even for a moment, that
Dennis's reaction would be so hostile, he wouldn't have brought Meg to the
meeting. Now all he could do was try and defend her. "It's not her
fault."

"Then
whose the hell is it?" Dennis asked.

Nick bit his
tongue.
Take a moment; compose yourself.
He counted to three before
speaking. "Scott's dead. Whoever killed him
—
that's who's at fault. I
don't think it really matters any more what Meg did or did not do."

Dennis sneered
at him. "And what about you, Ford? Did you know about this?"

"As of a
half-hour ago. Not before."

Dennis spun in
his chair, pleaded his case directly to Carolyn. "The hell he
didn't."

"Are you
saying I'm
lying
, Dennis?" Nick asked, surrendering to anger. "Why
would I do that?"

"Because
you're a
—
"

"
All
right
, both of you," Carolyn interceded, patting the air with open
palms. "Calm down.
…
Nick, you started the conversation by saying
you had a lead in Scott's death. Let's ignore the rest of this for now and get
to that."

Nick's heart
still beat wildly, but he managed to calm his voice. "I thought I'd
already made myself clear." He counted off the time line of events on his
fingers. "Scott was investigating the Yünnan project. He found something. We
don't know what, but evidently Scott thought it significant. He told Meg he was
heading for the coast to continue his investigations. Two days later he's found
in a D.C. alley. Dead."

"And you
think there is a connection?" Carolyn asked, clearly incredulous. "You
actually think his death is tied in some way to the Yünnan Project audit?"

"That's
crazy, Ford," Dennis broke in before Nick could answer.

Nick continued
to direct his speech toward Carolyn. "I admit it's unlikely, but no, not
crazy."

Dennis shook
his head and laughed mockingly. "We're talking minor billing
irregularities in an almost two billion dollar contract. I'm sorry, but no one
gets killed on account of that. Let's be honest. Scott had a drinking problem,
we all know that. He was loaded
…
hell he was
crocked
. An easy
target. He walked into a bad neighborhood
—
a stupid mistake he paid for. End
of story."

"And what
makes you so sure that's what happened?" Nick demanded.

"Common
fucking sense."

Carolyn's
mouthed turned down. "Sit
down
, Dennis," she ordered and
pointed at his chair. Dennis hesitated, then sat with arms folded across his
chest, unchastised. Carolyn turned to Meg. "Meg, did Scott tell you
anything else? Anything that could help us figure out exactly what he was
looking into, what he might have found?"

Meg shook her
head. "No. Not that I can think of."

Carolyn leaned
back in her chair. Her index fingers tested the limits of a rubber band as she
stared at the ceiling. "Okay, Dennis," she said, after a long
silence, "I want you to pass this information on to the police and the
FBI."

Dennis rolled
his eyes. "Can I tell them what
I
think of the story?"

"
No
,"
Carolyn reproached him sternly. "You tell them the facts, just as Meg told
us."

Dennis nodded,
smoldering, and Nick pressed his advantage. "Carolyn
…
the Yünnan
Project audit. I want it back. If there's a connection between Scott's death
and the audit, I want a chance to uncover it."

Dennis shook
his head, as if the request had been put to him. "You're in another
division now, Ford, if you haven't forgotten. I'm in charge; I'll stay in
charge."

Carolyn pressed
her finger tips together, then said, "Nick, as far as I see it, Dennis is
right on this one. You're not in Special Investigations anymore. He is. That
makes it his call."

Dennis adopted
a self-satisfied smirk, one Nick looked forward to wiping from his face. "Carolyn,"
Nick said, after only a moment's hesitation, "when we talked, when you
offered me the promotion, you said if it wasn't working out I could take back
my old position any time
—
take over right where I left off. That was the
deal."

Carolyn stared
at him in astonishment. "I remember, but
—
"

"Well it's
not working out."

"Nick
—
"

He left his
chair. "I'll be resuming my old responsibilities immediately. Of course
I'll be available to aid whoever you choose to replace me as assistant
comptroller."

"No
way," Dennis barked, jumping to his feet as well. "I'm director of
Special Investigations, and
I'm
going to see the Yünnan Project audit
through. That's the way it's going to be."

"You
making decisions for Carolyn now, Dennis?"

"Fuck
you," Dennis growled. "It's
my
audit. And I'm not giving it up
to some
—
"

"Dennis,"
Carolyn interrupted angrily, "that's enough. You may leave. Meg, thank you
for coming up, telling us what you know. I would like to speak to Nick, now. Alone."

"Carolyn
—
"
Dennis began, before Carolyn repeated herself. "
Alone
."

Meg left
quickly, Dennis reluctantly and with a parting scowl.

"Please
take a seat, Nick," Carolyn said once Meg and Dennis had left the office. "I'm
sorry that got so heated. It wasn't necessary."

Nick sat. "I'm
sorry too."

Carolyn nodded.
"Everyone's a bit on edge today
…
with what happened to Scott. But I
think we have to guard against saying things we might regret."

"I meant
what I said." He had, and stood prepared to sacrifice his job, the
promotion, everything he had worked for.

"Nick
…
"
Carolyn paused. When she went on, her voice caressed softy. "I know what
good friends you and Scott were
—
he was my friend too
—
but what
you're doing
…
I think you're too emotionally caught up in the audit to
oversee it."

Of course he
was, but the fact remained he
had
to resume control of the case
—
he
owed Scott at least that much. "I don't," Nick lied. "I'll do my
job professionally, as always."

"And if I
asked you to leave the investigation to Dennis?"

"I'd
refuse."

Carolyn put her
fingertips together. "And if I made it an order?"

"I'd fight
your order, if I had to." The words came without deliberation and shocked
Nick almost as much as Carolyn. Fight
Carolyn's
order? If a day ago
someone had told him he would make such a statement, he would have laughed. Absurd,
and yet he knew he would not retract the words.

Carolyn's face
turned hard. "And how would you do that?"

"Senator
Raine has let me know in no uncertain terms that she isn't happy with the way
Dennis has conducted the audit since I left. I was just as plain
—
I told
her my new duties precluded me from reassuming control of the audit. But if I
went to Senator Raine now, voiced my concerns, and asked her to appoint a
Senate panel to conduct an independent investigation
—
Well, you know the
senator. What do you think she would do?"

Carolyn's
eyebrows sunk. "You'd actually attempt to force my hand?"

"We made a
deal and I'm asking you to stick to it. That's all."

"I'm sorry
to hear that," Carolyn said bitterly.

He had hurt
her, Nick knew. And if a special bond existed between them, he had damaged that
too, perhaps irreparably. He tried to make her understand. "I owe Scott,
Carolyn. For
…
for all sorts of things. And I have no faith in Dennis. None.
I have to do this myself. I have to."

If the
emotional plea had any effect on Carolyn, she didn't show it. She appraised him
for a long minute. When she spoke again she was all business. "All right. If
tomorrow morning you still want your old post back, it's yours. That's the deal
I offered, and I won't go back on my word. But I won't change the deal either. You
take the position, you resume control of the Yünnan Project audit, you give up
the position of assistant comptroller."

"I assumed
as much."

"You
understand Nick, your future with the GAO
—
what looked to be a very
bright future
—
could be severely damaged by your actions here
today?"

Nick nodded. "I
do."

Carolyn
clenched her teeth together. "
…
Okay. Then I don't see that there's
anything left to discuss. I'll expect your answer in the morning."

Their
conversation over, Nick started for the office door, but Carolyn stopped him at
the threshold. "Nick?"

He turned. "Yes."

"You can't
bring Scott back. No matter what you do, you can't bring him back."

Nick looked
through Carolyn.
She's right you know, he's not coming back.
Finally he
bobbed his head once and walked silently from the office.

Head down,
knees slightly bent, weight on the heels, left arm straight, John Li ran down
the check list. Then he swung, a fluid, powerful stroke
—
surprising given
his stout figure, bulging in the waist and the seat. The club head connected
solidly, sending the golf ball two hundred and thirty yards down the driving
range, where it landed to roll another twenty-five
.

Li used the
club head to pull another ball toward him from those fanned out from the
overturned bucket. A voice stopped him before he could swing.

"Li."

Li looked up to
see who he expected: J.T. Frasier. A tall, slender man. Usually the picture of
corporate decorum befitting his position, but not today. Dark hollows
underscored his eyes; his mouth was caught in a frown and his graying hair,
usually neatly styled, lay tousled.

That was one of
the things Li liked about dealing with Americans: they were so easy to read. Not
like Asians, or the Arabs, or even the French, who made an art of subterfuge. In
America, where society chastised men for having even one mistress, the
straight-shooter had become the ideal. John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, Gary Cooper,
men who didn't lie and therefore were transparent. So much easier to manipulate
a man when you knew his thoughts in advance.

Things had gone
wrong, Frasier had clearly learned that. But his reaction
—
So unlike
Li's own. In written Chinese, one symbol stood for both change and opportunity.
The first you accepted, the later you seized. And there
were
opportunities to grasp, even now.

Li nodded in
recognition, then turned back to the golf ball lying at his feet and readjusted
his grip. Head down, knees slightly bent, weight on the heels, left arm
straight. Again he swung, smoothly and powerfully, with the same result
.

Another thing
Li liked about America: golf, a game he could not have imagined growing up in
China, working a five acre rice paddy. How could he? Acres and acres of prime
land devoted to nothing but a game? Unthinkable. But he'd grown to love it, the
necessity of controlling ones emotions and ignoring pressures, so much like his
profession.

Li watched the
ball until it stopped rolling, then smiled broadly at Frasier. "Mr.
Frasier, so good to see you again."

"Yeah,"
J.T. Frasier answered, distracted as he checked the faces of the others lined
up at the driving range.

They shook
hands, a cold indifferent grasp. Frasier didn't bother hiding a frown as he
gestured toward the first tee. "Let's tee off."

"You don't
want to hit some balls first?"

"What I
want to do is get this meeting over with. The tee's empty; let's go."

Li shrugged and
returned his three wood to the bag. "As you wish."

Frasier had
parked an electric golf cart near the range; he took the driver's side, Li the
passenger's. They started toward the first tee.

"I really
don't like being here," Frasier said, plainly irritated.

Nor did Frasier
like him, Li knew, and for obvious reasons. Frasier cooperated for only one
reason: hooks were buried deep in his side. Li himself felt neither like nor
dislike. J.T. Frasier had been and would continue to be useful to him
—
those
were the standards by which he judged the relationship.

Li said,
"Excuse me if I'm wrong, but if I remember correctly, you were the one who
called me."

"I called
because something's come up. But you chose this spot
—
a public spot
—
where
we can be seen together. I don't like it, not a fucking bit."

Li smiled
thinly. "I suppose I should be insulted. Come now, Mr. Frasier, I'm just a
Hong Kong businessman enjoying a round of golf with a corporate executive. Nothing
unusual about that."

Frasier's eyes
continued to sweep the course. "It's too public."

"Mr.
Frasier, let me ask you this: if someone saw you sneak off to meet me in a back
alley, they'd wonder what we were up to, right? But meeting here, on a golf
course? They're not going to give it a second thought."

Frasier stopped
the cart by the first tee. "
…
Let's just play the damn game."

After two
practice swings Frasier lined up for his tee shot on the first hole, a 395 yard
par four with a dog leg to the left. Li noted Frasier's technical proficiencies
—
good
grip, good body turn, good transfer of weight, good form
—
but Frasier
nonetheless hurried his down swing. Another sign the man hadn't complete
control of his emotions.

The ball sliced
off the club's head and one hundred and seventy yards later disappeared into
the heavy rough on the right of the fairway.

"Shit,"
Frasier's only comment.

"Feel free
to take another shot, Mr. Frasier, penalty free," Li offered.

"The hell
with it," Frasier said as he cleared the tee.

Li wasted no
time lining up his own shot. No practice swings. No show of nerves. He swung
and the mechanics, as always, were there. The ball traveled sixty yards beyond
Frasier's and rolled to a stop in the middle of the fairway.

Li smiled to
himself. The tone had been set.

Golf: the
modern day equivalent of a royal hunt
—
at least that's the way Li always
thought of it. In the fifteen hundreds it was boars and stags. Next, with the
rise of the British empire, came partridge and fox. Then the American's turn
and golf. It required different weapons: clubs, and different prey: pars and
birdies, but the goal was the same: an outing for the elite, often with caddies
in tow like gun bearers of old. A pretext for negotiating business, plain and
simple.

Frasier came
out of the rough badly, his ball traveling less than one hundred yards. He
exploded on returning to the cart. "Dammit, Li, I don't have all day to
ride around a fucking golf course.
…
We've got problems."

Li nodded. "I
assumed as much from your call. And you need my help?"

Frasier rubbed
his forehead. "Your help? You got me into this mess in the first
place."

"Then
perhaps this meeting serves no purpose." Li pointed toward his ball;
Frasier stopped the cart ten yards to its side. Li selected an eight iron. A
deep bunker protected the front of the green; he decided to aim long and draw
the ball back to the hole. He could tell by the clean click of club head
meeting ball that the shot would unfold as planned.

His golf ball
landed on the green; backspin brought it within twelve feet of the cup.

The two carried
out the rest of the hole in silence, Li finishing with a tap in par, Frasier
swearing, having missed a short double bogie putt. They reentered the cart, but
Frasier did not start it toward the second tee.

"I've had
enough of this, Li. You screwed up."

"Explain?"

"I hold
you to blame for it. goddamn you for what you did, and goddamn you for getting
me involved."

"Calmly,"
Li urged. "Tell me what's happened."

"What
happened? You know exactly what happened."

"I
appreciate your faith in my sources of information, however, in the present
case, specifics would help."

Frasier ran his
free hand through his hair. "The GAO investigator, Scott Johnson.
Now
tell me you don't know why I called."

"I'm
sorry, Mr. Frasier
…
Johnson?"

"No more
games, Li. Scott Johnson was killed last week
—
shot and left in a D.C.
alley."

"That is
unfortunate."

"That's
unfortunate?
That's unfortunate?
Hell, Li, it's a fucking nightmare,
that's what it is. I haven't had a decent night sleep since the audit of the
Yünnan Project began
…
then the hearings, now this
…
"

"People
die. America is a very violent place, especially her capital city."

"I learned
yesterday that Johnson was investigating the Yünnan Project. I want to know if
there is a connection."

"Between
his investigation and his death?"

Frasier stared
at him without answering.

Li left the
cart, went to his golf bag secured to its rear, and returned with two cigars. He
offered one to Frasier.

"No
thanks."

"It's
Cuban."

"
No.
"

Li shrugged,
then lit one for himself. He puffed a half-dozen times, appreciating the
cigar's rich flavor and aroma, before Frasier, eyes narrowed, his face a deep
red, spoke again. "I want an answer."

Li pulled the
cigar from his mouth. "My people came across Mr. Johnson in a very
sensitive area, with a camera. They did not know who he was, or what his
purpose was. Unfortunately, by the time they found out, Mr. Johnson was in no
condition to be released."

"
You
son-of-a-bitch.
"

"Calm
down."

"
The
hell I will.
" Frasier added barely above a whisper, "Johnson was
a GAO employee. You've tied me to a murder of a federal agent."

"You are
tied
to
me
, Mr. Frasier
—
I wouldn't forget that," Li said, icily. "My
people reacted to circumstances, appropriately, in my estimation."

"They
over
reacted,
and I don't want any part of it."

"You are a
part of it, whether you like it or not. If you had done your job, if the
investigation of the Yünnan Project had dried up as you assured me it would, we
wouldn't have had this incident. And if you had informed me of Johnson's
actions, we would have been forewarned, could have avoided the
unpleasantness."

"I didn't
know."

"Well,
then, perhaps you better improve your sources of information."

"I
…
,"
Frasier started, then stopped. He stuttered out a response, finally. "I
…
I
didn't sign on to be a party to murder."

"May I
remind you, Mr. Frasier, you corrupted yourself. We all want to avoid
…
unpleasantness
…
however
there are realities which must be faced and dealt with. Mr. Johnson had learned
quite a bit about us, including
your
involvement
—
does that change
your opinion?"

Frasier's face
went momentarily blank, and Li continued. "I can see that it does. Remember,
there's no way out for either of us now except one: make sure the truth stays
buried. Whatever it takes, Mr. Frasier.
Whatever it takes
. No one will
trace his death to us."

Frasier wiped a
fist across his forehead. "Listen to me, you son-of-a-bitch," he
said, in a acerbic whisper, "I don't want it ever to happen again. Do you
understand me? It can never happen again, or I stop playing ball. Do you
understand? Everything stops."

Li tapped an
ash from the tip of his cigar, then ground it underfoot. "Do not threaten
me, Mr. Frasier," he said unrattled. "You'll continue to cooperate,
because you have no choice. Consider your position; consider what you have to
lose
if you turn your back on me. Do
you
understand? If you don't
like my methods, stop the investigation as you promised. Stop it cold. Otherwise
I cannot guarantee there will be no further unfortunate incidents."

Li climbed back
into the golf cart and pointed to the second tee. "Now, shall we
continue?"

In response,
Frasier ripped the golf glove from his left hand, then started the golf cart
back to the club house.