We Know (aka Trust no One) (2008) Read online

  "Grace," I said. "Grade Everett."

  "Right. Grade." Her eyes were instantly moist again. A dreadful calm came over her, and she stopped trembling, and when she spoke again, her voice was even. "I slept there in the room with them. And early the next morning, the men came in and took the baby. The woman screamed and screamed. Hormones on fire. You can't imagine how that is. I thought she'd never stop. She screamed for four hours. I was sobbing, pleading with her. Anything for her to stop. Just to stop."

  Her breathing was shallow, and it made her words breathy. "They brought the baby back-- Grade. They brought Gracie back. And Jane held her and rocked her and said she'd never let them take her away again. Her voice was screamed out. But the men got more and more agitated. I heard them talking on the phone when I came back from getting groceries. They'd taken the baby for another DNA test. I guess there was an earlier one, but they wanted to be sure. They were hyperparanoid. I guess one of the copies of the first test went missing before. It was a big deal. Something with the Secret Service."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I heard one of them say they'd dealt with a leak inside the Service. At first I thought military. But then I remembered the Secret Service guy--sorry, your stepfather--got killed the night I took you out. So you didn't have to be Einstein to do the math."

  I struggled to keep up with it. Frank was the leak. To whom? Or did they mean he was a threat to go public? I wanted to keep her talking. "And then what happened?"

  Tris hugged her stomach and rocked herself a little on the couch. She let out a low wail, which

  sounded weird since she was no longer crying or shaking.

  I wanted to loathe her, but I couldn't. She'd signed on for her own fate, sure, but she'd been crushed by the machinery of this thing as much as I had been, one compromised choice at a time.

  I said softly, "What happened next?"

  Her voice was quiet, preternaturally calm. "Those guys were on edge waiting for the DNA results. They took the baby away from her. Kept her in the other room. Jane was too weak to get up, but I tried to plead with them. One of the guys even hit me. They thought she'd be more . . . docile without her baby." She whispered roughly, her face glazed. "They kept the baby away from her. Two days. I had to go in and feed her, Gracie, hold her when they got tired of her crying. But I couldn't get her to stop. The pressure to get her to stop, it was awful. Then they kept her alone in a crib. I spent most of my time with Jane, listening to her weep. Just weeping. We could hear the baby crying through the walls. That baby was crying and crying, and Jane's breasts were leaking milk through her shirt. It went on and on. There was nothing I could do. She pleaded with me, but there was nothing I could do. Her breasts got engorged, and they were leaking, and they were crying in different rooms, both of them, all the time. It was the most horrible thing I've ever experienced."

  Her eyes grew glassy, and she stopped rocking herself.

  I was surprised at how weak my voice sounded. "Go on. Please."

  Tris held herself perfectly still. When she blinked, more tears fell down her cheeks. "One night the men came in. The DNA test. Whatever it was, it came back bad news. They took Jane. And they helped her up--she was so weak--and they helped her to the door, then outside. I looked through the curtains. I saw them put her in a dark car. They talked to someone, but I couldn't see who because the windows were tinted. The baby was crying in the other room. Then they came back in, and I sat across the room, like I hadn't been watching. They went into the other room. And then the baby stopped crying. They went back outside, and I saw them put something in the trunk of the dark car, and the dark car drove off. I ran into the other room, and the crib was empty. It was empty. I sat down on the floor. I heard them come in behind me. I thought they were going to kill me. But they told me to go home and not to tell anyone. That someone would be in contact with me. And sure enough, my cousin called me the next day. And it was the same meeting, up Runyon Canyon. I was so scared, but I went because they knew who I was and I had a little girl to raise. And that man got in the back of my car, and I thought he was going to shoot me, but instead he said I had to tell

  the story to the press, about the bodies being dumped. And if I did, and if I stuck to that story with the cops and the press, that nothing would happen to me or my little girl. And I did. I never told anyone otherwise. Until right now."

  'They're coming after you," I said. "As we speak."

  Her look held the same comprehensive defeat I saw in Homer's face once he was a few drinks in. But also a glimmer of something else. Relief, maybe. "Let 'em catch me. I don't care anymore."

  "How about your daughter?"

  "My daughter hasn't talked to me in seven years. Last I heard, she was in Costa Rica."

  "Did they pay you?"

  She looked at the blank TV screen for a long time, then nodded, a jerk of her head that looked like a shudder. Her nails went again to her eczema, that same horrible rasping. "I don't believe in heaven or hell. But I'm scared of what's waiting for me."

  "Then do something."

  "I've forgotten how. You get touched by something like this, it goes into you. You can never get back to normal. I wouldn't even know where to start."

  She'd spoken my darkest fear. I could barely bring myself to face her. "Get in touch with the man who hired you." I needed her to do it not just for me but for herself, for what it meant about

  keeping something safe, deep buried where it couldn't be rooted out and ground into dust. "He and his men are looking for you. It can't be hard to get the word out to them."

  "No," she said. "No way."

  I couldn't find my voice. I just looked at her.

  She hugged herself and rocked a bit more. "I could call my cousin. Maybe he still has a contact who knows someone who has a phone number on the guy. He's good like that, my cousin. But even if I reach this guy. What am I supposed to say?"

  "Tell him someone contacted you. Someone who already knew the whole story. You need to meet him. To talk, figure out a plan. He's the one who told you to meet me at the pitcher's mound, right?"

  "Yeah. He said you were a baseball player and that I should take you there."

  "So tell him to meet you where he told you to take me that night. But don't say it's the pitcher's mound--if it's the right guy, he'll remember. Tonight at midnight."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Watch from a distance. See who he is."

  "Then what?"

  "Then I'll know."

  "Will knowing help?"

  "Probably not. But I can put the information in the hands of someone who knows how to use it."

  "These are dangerous men."

  "I'll disappear."

  "You won't know how hard that wears on you until it's too late."

  Her eyes filled again, but she blinked her way back from the edge. She grabbed a lock of hair and started breaking off split ends again, then threw it aside. "Okay. I'll call my cousin, send out the pigeon. Tonight at midnight, meet at the place he told me to bring you. Who knows if the guy'11 get the message, but I'll try. That it?"

  "You'll need to move again. Out of town this time. I'll pay for--"

  "No. No. I won't have you pay for anything. But with my aunt... How long do I have to stay gone?"

  "Follow the news. You'll know if it's safe to come back."

  I got up and walked to the door. She followed close behind. "I didn't know. I didn't know what any of it would lead to. You think I'm awful. You think I'm horrible."

  "No," I said.

  She grasped my elbow at the door, gently, as if afraid of setting me off. She was a woman accustomed to men with tempers. She said, "I just needed to make a little extra money. I had no idea where it would go. And then I didn't have a choice. I was terrified. They threatened me. I had a little

  girl to raise."

  I thought, So did Jane Everett.

  I gave her a little nod, and she stayed in the doorway, watching me leave.

 
Chapter 45

  Still raw from Tris's tale, I crossed the parking lot, heading toward the Brentwood Inn. Behind me midday traffic blasted by on Sunset, a head-numbing rotation of squealing brakes and bleating horns and rap music throbbing from open windows. Alan Lambrose had called with the not-so-covert location for my meet with Caruthers, the glorified motel a few blocks west of the 405. I'd left the Jag around the corner in front of a condo building to keep Induma's plates out of sight.

  I found the room toward the back of the humble, single-story sprawl and knocked. The door opened to reveal Alan, in full bow-tie glory, and another aide I didn't recognize but who shared the same debate-team sheen. An athletic man, but he belonged to the political realm, not to the Service. James, the agent I'd first met in Caruthers's conference room, stood at the back of the room. His meaty features fixed on me for a moment, unpleased. Then he removed his hand from the stock of his pistol and returned his gaze dutifully to the windows. Caruthers sat in a chair before a narrow stone fireplace, wrapping up a call. He stood, throwing the still-open cell phone to Alan, and greeted me warmly as Alan murmured closing sentiments into the receiver.

  Caruthers looked wiped out--I imagined that six flights a day could do that to you--and his jaw worked the nicotine gum in a sawing motion, almost side to side.

  I glanced nervously at James--I didn't like his being here--and Caruthers took the hint. He nodded at the others. "Give us some privacy?"

  The athletic aide went out front, and James stepped onto the tiny back patio. A man at each visible exit. The closing sliding glass door seemed to suction the noise of traffic from the room.

  Alan was in a scramble in the kitchenette, bringing a cup of coffee to the little table by Caruthers's chair. "Sorry, Senator. Fred forgot to bring the Sweet'n Low."

  "Oh, for fuck's sake, Alan, any fake sugar'll do."

  Alan set down the coffee and withdrew to the bedroom, already jabbing at his BlackBerry. I remembered Frank telling me that they brought their own food for the principal wherever they went, to reduce the risk of poisoning.

  Caruthers ran a hand through his renegade hair, and it settled back however it wanted. He muttered, "Sweet'n Low," with disgust, then added, "They like to believe you're more high-maintenance than you are. It makes them feel more important. What kind of sweetener. How many packets. What news channel the TV is tuned to when you check in to a hotel. You have to be careful or you'll start believing it."

  "It does get tiring."

  He laughed heartily, and I felt that I'd accomplished something. Then his green eyes grew serious. "You're all right?"

  "So far."

  "Have you found out anything on Jane Everett's daughter?"

  "I have to tell you a story," I said, "about your opponent."

  He read my face and knew not to press. Instead he sat and gestured to the facing chair. I caught him up on everything I'd learned since we'd spoken. When I got to Tris's story, his hand formed a fist, and he pushed the top knuckle against his lips, as if reining in fury. How the baby stopped crying. The trunk of the sedan closing. The empty crib. I told it as Tris had, and the words held the same horror. When I finished, Caruthers shook his head in disbelief, and his brilliant green eyes were filmed with tears.

  He sipped his coffee. His cheeks glittered. I stared into the fireplace. Propane flames licking at a cast-concrete log.

  He retrieved a handkerchief from a pocket and blew his nose. Then he folded it thoughtfully and returned it. "I bet Bilton didn't even know any of this. All he knew was that there was this volunteer staffer who he spent some quality time with, maybe she was starting to make a fuss, and that was it. Bilton had people to handle this for him, and they did."

  "So that makes him less responsible?"

  His shock had hardened into anger. "Hardly. But, Nick, think about who was working on this for him."

  "Charlie Jackman."

  "And who did Charlie bring this information to?"

  I was silent.

  "That's right. Frank knew about Jane Everett and the pregnancy, and he didn't come to me. He didn't go to the authorities. He didn't go to the press. And you know damn well why that is." He let the remark hang for a moment. "The more you poke at this, the more it all falls into place. You sure you want that?"

  "I want to know the whole story."

  "We never get the whole story."

  "Maybe not. But there's something you can help with."

  "Of course. Anything."

  "Tris said she overheard the hired guns saying that there'd been a leak in the Service. But that doesn't really make sense. This whole thing originated with Charlie and the California State Police. Frank caught wind of it, sure, but saying there was a leak in the Secret Service implies it turned into a Service operation."

  Caruthers blinked twice, rapidly. I watched him, watched him closely. The mighty brow furrowed. "Clearly, the Service was involved more than we'd like to think." Caruthers took a deep breath. Pinched his eyes closed. The twisting wrinkles

  made his lids look like little pinwheels. He sighed. "Goddamn it." Then he looked up. "Nick ..." A quick glance to the door. "I have to tell you something you're not going to want to hear."

  "There seems to be a lot of that going around."

  His face softened with sympathy. "I've had my people digging into this. This morning they found one of the men who held Jane Everett. With the stuff you told me, the picture pretty much resolves. Don't think I like this."

  "Because of Frank?"

  "Frank's dead, son. I was hoping to shield you. Your stepfather was one of a handful of decent men I've known in a lifetime. I wanted to see if there was some way through this where you didn't have to lose that."

  I stared at him blankly.

  "I've seen it before and I've seen it since. Someone gets the right opportunity--"

  I said, "No."

  "--or the right leverage--"

  "Not Frank."

  He said, "Jane Everett was becoming a problem for Bilton. He put Charlie on her to try to control her, keep her off the radar. But Charlie realized there was a payday in it. It looks like he enlisted Frank to see if I'd be interested in buying an ultrasound and a paternity test that nailed Bilton. But they decided Bilton would pay more to keep it covered up. Frank pulled in more Service men to make

  that happen. That's as far as we got before you walked in that door."

  "So what do you think happened from there?"

  "From what you've just told me, I think Frank saw where it was headed and couldn't go through with it. He was the leak in the Service the thugs were talking about. Charlie was in a panic, but he was smart. He put the documents somewhere that they'd go wide if anything ever happened to him. And he disappeared to let Bilton's soldiers and the agents clean up what they needed to on their respective ends of the deal. That cleanup started with Frank and ended with Jane and Grace."

  My face felt numb. I did my best to keep drawing him out. "Frank would never have gone along with blackmail, not even for a minute, not even against a politician he despised. And he sure as hell would never have used the Service for an extortion scheme."

  Caruthers leaned forward, grasped my forearm. "I know that's what you have to believe." He stood, agitated, paced a tight circle around his chair, the light coming through the copper-tinged blond hair that, along with his pronounced nose, had landed him the call sign Firebird. "I was going to say I can't imagine how painful this is for you, son. But I can--it's painful as hell for me." He shook his head, sat down again. After a pause he reached once again for my forearm. "It's the only answer that makes sense."

  The shock cleared slowly, by degrees, like a lifting fog, revealing my stone-cold distrust. Caruthers was so close I caught a waft of Nicorette when he breathed. A bead of sweat clung to his hairline. I pulled my arm free.

  Caruthers said, "We're talking about murder, now, Nick. Two murders--hell, five. This is no longer about politics and spin. It's about decency. Even if he wasn't involved in the p
articulars, this happened on Bilton's watch. We can't let a man like that sit in the Oval Office."

  "No," I said. "We can't."

  "You've got my word I will make Andrew Bilton pay for what he's done." He caught James's eye through the glass, gestured him inside. The agent came instantly. Caruthers told him, "I had to disclose to Nick details from this morning's interview."

  James hesitated a moment, then said, "That should have remained classified, Senator."

  "It was his stepfather. He deserves to know. He's been a part of this as much as anyone else. And he has some information that we need to get into the right hands."

  James nodded. "Anything he gives us I'll guard as closely as matters of national security. Even from the Service."

  Caruthers said, "Thank you, Agent Brown."

  My attention skipped, a rock on the surface of my memory--James, Agent Brown, James Brown,

  Godfather of Soul--and landed on the line Kim Kendall had overheard when she'd called Mr. Pager: Godfather's with Firebird, all's clear

  My head roared, but my face could show nothing. I'd stumbled into the lion's den. Now could I get out alive? A clumsy excuse and a rushed exit would tip my hand. Should I make a break for it? That athletic aide was conveniently out front, guarding the exit. The sliding door was less than five strides away, but the tall fence penning in the patio would take too long to get over with Brown on my heels.

  Agitated, I picked at a thumbnail, stopped when I saw Caruthers taking note. If I sat here much longer, they'd read me.

  I said, "I think I have to throw up."

  I rose. James Brown did not step back to allow me more room. A drop of sweat held to the edge of his sideburn, though his face was as impassive as I hoped mine remained.

  Walking down the hall, I could hear a semi barreling by on the freeway, blaring someone out of its lane. Behind me Caruthers and Brown conferred in hushed, urgent voices. I stepped into the bathroom, locked the door, and took a few deep breaths. A tiny window, just big enough for me to fit through. With painstaking slowness I slid it open, wincing at the sound. Stepping up onto the

  toilet, I squirmed out.