Mistress (8 page)

After the presidential briefing, the pain returns to my stomach. Out of the sanctuary of the White House, I’m once again exposed and vulnerable to whoever is out to get me. I’m confused and scared and out of ideas.

Good ideas, at least.

The building on Connecticut Avenue is five minutes north of the White House. It is ten stories of gray stone with a green awning over the entrance. I park my Triumph and go in. The lobby security asks me if I have an appointment and I lie and say yes. I sign my name in a register and pass through a metal detector. I get off at the tenth floor and turn right and go through a thick glass door. The reception area is ornate, intended to impress. The visitors’ sitting area has sleek black-and-purple furniture and a nice floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Connecticut Avenue. The reception desk is a half-moon; the woman sitting behind it could grace a magazine cover. The name of the company is stenciled in a fancy font—the same one Porsche uses, I think—on the wall behind her.

“May I help you, sir?” she asks. She’s wearing a headset with a receiver that curls around to her mouth.

“Ben Casper of
Capital Beat
for Jonathan Liu,” I say, showing my press credentials.

Admittedly, this is a less-than-subtle tactic. Ideally, I would investigate this guy under the radar, gather what information I could, and confront him when it was strategically optimal. But I can’t think of another move I can make right now.

“Is he expecting you?” the bombshell asks me.

“He should be.” That’s pretty close to the truth.

She pauses. “Can I tell him what this is in regard to?”

Behind the woman is a glass wall and a door. An earnest, well-dressed man pushes through it and passes me on his way out of the office. The door clicks shut behind him.

I say, “I’m doing a story about how lobbyists are underpaid and why we need more money in politics, not less.”

The receptionist thinks about that for a second.

“It’s a story about how lobbyists are making the world safe for bloodsucking Fortune Five Hundred companies that rip off the little guy and then get bailed out by the government. It’s high time corporate America had a voice in politics.”

She’s still thinking.

“Just kidding,” I say. “I’m holding a garage sale this weekend to help raise money for Mr. Liu. A million dollars a month hardly pays the groceries these days. I’m worried about him.”

The woman mumbles something into her mouthpiece.

“Okay; I’ll be straight with you.” I lean forward so I’m sure she can hear me. “The story I’m writing is about how Jonathan Liu murdered a senior Capitol Hill staffer. A staffer he was having an affair with. The story’s going to press in an hour. I’m wondering if he’d like to hear me out first.”

I walk over to the window by the sitting area and wait. It’s near the end of the business day and people are hustling about. People always seem to move more quickly when they’re exiting work than when they’re arriving.

After a few moments, a well-dressed man opens the glass door and holds it open.

“Mr. Casper?” he says. “Right this way, sir.”

I’m escorted by two serious Chinese men, each approximately the size of a small house, down a spacious corridor filled with expensive artwork and canned lighting and purple carpeting. The Liu Group is doing okay these days, at least from appearances. I’m not a big fan of purple, but I will admit that Prince’s
Purple Rain
is one of the best albums of my generation. You could argue that
1999
was superior, but
Purple
showed more emotion.

The two guys escorting me, on the other hand, show none. If they weren’t moving, I’d swear they were statues. They walk me past a series of offices, each one bigger and fancier than the previous one. We turn a corner and then we’re going down another hallway. We stop at an elevator.

“Where are we going?” I ask Frick and Frack. “I’m supposed to be meeting with Jonathan Liu.”

“You’re mistaken,” says the bigger of the two.

The elevator opens and they push me inside.

“I should warn you,” I say. “I know karate, jujitsu, and a lot of other Asian words.”

Nothing. Not even a smile. When the elevator opens again, we’re in an underground garage. A black limousine pulls up and a side door opens.

“Get in,” says one of the men.

Well, I asked for this. This could be the biggest mistake of my life.

I step inside the limo and the door closes behind me. It automatically locks. I’m alone inside the passenger area, staring at a black screen that obscures the driver.

We pull out onto Connecticut Avenue and then cross over Dupont Circle to Massachusetts Avenue. It occurs to me that they could be driving me to some deserted location so they can put me out of my misery.

But then we take a roundabout and turn right onto Q Street. That’s when I figure out where we’re going. They’re not taking me to an undisclosed location.

They’re taking me to the Chinese embassy.

A couple of years ago I attended a ceremony in the Grand Hall of the Chinese embassy, an immaculate limestone building in the northwest section of the capital. The room I’m escorted to now, though, is anything but grand. The walls are gray and red. The room is cramped and poorly lit and cold. The two men who take me from the limo underground are about the same size as the other goons, but not sparkling conversationalists like Frick and Frack. They don’t put their hands on me until we’re in the room, at which time they each take one of my shoulders and force me into the lone chair in the center of the room.

A door that I didn’t even know was a door opens, and two Chinese men enter. They are in suits and ties. One has a tight haircut and the other is bald. The bald guy looks like he’s spent some time in a gym. The one with the tight haircut looks softer, like a diplomat.

“Mr. Casper,” says Bald Guy.

“That’s me.”

“What is this you are saying about Jonathan Liu? You told the receptionist that he is responsible for the death of a government worker?”

I look from one of them to the other. “It was a conversation I intended to have with Jonathan Liu.”

“Mr. Liu is not here.” There is a trace of his native accent but his English is perfect.

“And you are…?” I ask.

“I am…the one asking you questions.”

“I meant, what’s your name?”

“I know what you meant. Tell me of these accusations you make against Jonathan Liu.”

I don’t know if this guy is on my side or against me. I could take a wild guess. “I’ve written an article that explains how Jonathan Liu murdered the White House liaison for CIA deputy director Craig Carney.”

Bald Guy is impassive. “And your proof is?”

“Read the article.” There is no article. Not yet. I’m nowhere in the vicinity of proving what I believe. The truth is, I’m fishing.

“There is no article,” says Bald Guy.

What is this guy, a mind reader? “Have it your way,” I say. It reminds me of those Burger King commercials from the ’70s. Great, now that stupid
Hold-the-pickles-hold-the-lettuce
song is in my head. But it beats the hell out of their later commercials, the ones with that freaky king character. That guy could haunt my dreams.

“Relations between our country and the United States are rather…tenuous, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Casper?”

“If you’re a fan of human rights, then yes, I’d agree.”

“Human rights.” He allows himself a small chuckle. “Mr. Liu does not represent the People’s Republic. Yet we are aware that he is a man of considerable influence. What is accused of Mr. Liu will be accused of the People’s Republic. Bombastic, ridiculous accusations will not do.”

I lean forward and one of the goons behind me takes my shoulder. “I’m an American journalist in the United States. I will print what I want. In America, we have something called a free press. You should look it up.”

Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, freedom of the press upsets us…

Bald Guy moves closer toward me. “You may be an American journalist,” he says, “but you’re not in America. Not at the moment.”

“Because you kidnapped me.”

“We did nothing of the kind. We have you signed in at the front entrance. You asked to speak with me and I’m granting you that audience.”

I let out a nervous sigh. I’m trying to play cool but I’m feeling anything but. “Listen, Reverend Moon—”

“Ah, a slur. That’s to be expected of an American. All us slant-eyed Asians are the same, yes? That’s fine, Mr. Casper. Keep thinking of yourself as morally superior while our country runs circles around yours economically. The People’s Republic is flourishing while the United States of America is sinking deeper and deeper into a hole.”

Bald Guy walks within a foot of me and leans forward, staring at me eye-to-eye. “Now, sir, before I become impatient. Tell me what you know of Jonathan Liu.”

“Diana Hotchkiss,” I say.

He nods slowly. “A tragedy.”

“He had her killed.”

“And why did he do that?”

“Read the article.”

A smile crosses his face. “There is no article. What is it going to say? That you, Mr. Casper, had a relationship with Ms. Hotchkiss? That you, Benjamin Casper, were at her condominium the night of her death?”

I do a slow burn.

“A person of interest in the death of Ms. Hotchkiss—a spurned lover who had, as you Americans say, motive and opportunity—is writing a story about her death? Would this not be considered something of a conflict of interest?”

These guys are all over this. What stone have I turned over?

Bald Guy puts his nose within a hairbreadth of mine. “There is no article,” he says.

He stands straight again and paces the room. “And if there is, it will get, shall we say, ugly for you, Benjamin Casper. Perhaps everyone will learn the interesting background of your own life. Including your childhood.”

Ben, you remember me, right? Detective Amy LaTaglia.

My dad says I’m not supposed to talk to you.

I know, Ben. So don’t. I’ll talk to you. I just wanted to let you know that we got back the fingerprint analysis. Did you know that we found fingerprints on the gun that was in your mother’s hand?

“Those records are sealed,” I hiss.

Bald Guy waves a hand. “Then perhaps it gives you a window into the resources at our disposal that we were able to access that sealed information.”

Do you want to guess whose fingerprints we found on that weapon, Ben?

My dad says I’m not supposed—

They were yours, Ben. Your fingerprints were on that gun.

“On the other hand, Benjamin, I suppose we can forget about that information if you forget about your wild and unsupported accusations against Mr. Liu.”

I lower my head and try to contain my emotions while memories cascade toward me in waves.

You’re in a lot of trouble, Ben.

You need to tell us what happened in that bathroom with your mother.

“If my accusations are so unsupported,” I say slowly, “then why am I here?”

Bald Guy lets out a hideous laugh. “Oh, Benjamin,” he says, “you were never here. And you better hope you never are.”

They dump me back on Connecticut Avenue, near the building where Jonathan Liu’s company takes up space. I relish the thick air and freedom after my unplanned visit to the Chinese embassy. So now I know that the Chinese—and probably Jonathan Liu in particular—were involved in this somehow. But how? How did my Diana gain the attention of the Chinese government and the president of the United States?

I ride over to Idaho Avenue, where the MPD’s Second District station is located. I ask for Ellis Burk, a detective I profiled a few years back when he solved a murder involving a congressman’s daughter. We’ve kept in touch since then, because he’s a pretty good guy and because it’s my job to have friends everywhere.

I’m good at that—having friends, the superficial banter over dinner or drinks, the wisecracks, the false flattery to get them to open up, always leaving them with a favorable impression so they’ll be receptive next time you need them. I even have a database of my acquaintances, noting how I met them, any significant events that tie us together (in Ellis’s case, it was the Dana Manchester murder), a carrot to use if I need a favor (for Ellis, it’s Cuban cigars), and any return favors I may need to remind them of (a flattering profile of the detective who solved the Manchester murder).

That’s my specialty, superficial friends. But I don’t get too close, and I don’t let them too close. Keep your fingers away from the cage, and everyone will be okay.

When I arrive, they tell me Detective Burk will be a few minutes, then they put me in a room. It’s a windowless, gray room with a mirror running horizontally along one wall and a single table surrounded by four chairs. I assume this is an “interview” room, where they watch you through the mirrored wall as you’re interrogated.

Sure, now I think of it.

“Ben-jamin Casper,” Ellis sings as he comes through the door. “The man who survived a plane crash.”

Oh, right. The AP must have picked up the story. “Hey, Ellis.”

He shakes my hand. His expression changes after he gives me a once-over. “Took a toll on you, looks like. Well, listen, most people don’t survive a plane crash, so just consider everything that happens in your life from here on out a bonus.”

Actually, that’s pretty much what I’ve been doing.

“You okay, man?” Ellis asks me. “You look a little…stressed-out.”

I try to manage a smile but can’t. No sense putting lipstick on this pig.

“It’s been a rough week,” I say. “A friend of mine died. I think she was murdered. And since then, somebody’s been trying to kill me, too, starting with—”

Ellis raises a hand to calm me. He’s tall and wide, an African American guy who grew up in Boston when it wasn’t so easy for a black man to become a police officer. He looks thinner than the last time I saw him in person, more than a year ago. Maybe a diet, maybe illness.

“One step at a time,” he says. “Start from the beginning. Tell me about this friend of yours.”

I blow out a sigh. “Okay. My friend works as a staffer for the CIA. She lives in Georgetown and someone pushed her, I think, off her balcony—”

Ellis cocks his head. Recognition dawns all over his face.

“—and I was there, in her apartment, just be—”

“Stop.” Ellis scoots his chair back. “You’re talking about Hotchchild, or Hotch-something—”

“Hotchkiss. Diana Hotchkiss.”

He nods his head. “Diana Hotchkiss.”

“You know the case, I gather.”

He studies me for a moment. “That’s not a case you want to be connected with. There could be some trouble for you, Ben.”

You don’t say.

“This is a case you’re working on?” I ask.

He gets up from the table and paces. “I wasn’t the lead, but we had it here in the Second.”

I pick up on the use of the past tense. “Not anymore?”

He laughs without humor. “Couple days ago, the CIA comes waltzing in here. They announce that the Diana Hotchkiss case is a matter of national security and they’re taking over. They demanded all our files, right there on the spot. I mean, they literally carted everything off. Over twenty years on the job, I’ve never seen it handled that way.”

This is getting stranger by the minute. The feds are all over this case now. The president of the United States mentions Diana in his weekly press conference. The Chinese haul me in for a friendly off-the-record inquisition.

What the hell is going on?

“If I were you,” says Ellis, “I’d take some of that money you inherited and fly to some remote island for a month or two.”

Probably good advice. “I’m not going anywhere, Ellis. I need some kind of a lead. Something. Anything. The CIA took everything from you?”

Ellis stares at me for a long, sober moment before his expression breaks.

“Maybe not quite everything,” he says.