“Elliot! Come on. It’s almost ready.”
“I can’t, sweetheart. I have to go.”
“At least let me put a piece in some Tupperware. How late do you think you’ll be?”
“Don’t wait up. How long will it take for the lasagna?”
Diane appeared in the kitchen doorway thirty seconds later with a container. Elliot kissed her and took it from her. “Thanks. You’re an angel.”
“Remember to chew.”
“Yes, dear.”
Elliot practically ran to his car, so great was his excitement, and failed to notice the sedan parked at the end of his block — a perfectly natural oversight, since it was the first time he’d ever been under surveillance.
The passenger watched Elliot reverse out of his driveway and pull away from the house. He set down the high-power binoculars and turned to the driver. “Looks like it’s game on.”
The driver dropped the transmission into drive and eased from the curb. “I wish we could have intercepted the damned thing.”
“Too many people around, and broad daylight. Not a chance. But we’ll get the bitch’s friend before the night is over. The reporter’s the priority.”
“Yeah. I got that. Let’s just hope he didn’t copy it.”
“We’ll do a break-in tonight. Sanitize his system.”
“At least we know he didn’t send it to anyone.”
“He’s too careful. No way would he share that until he’s able to vet it. That’s why he’s going into the office. As predicted.”
The driver smiled sadly. “It’s good to be right, isn’t it?”
“That’s what we do.”
“Damn straight it is.”
Elliot’s mind was redlining as he traced the familiar route to the paper. The implications of the data he’d received were staggering. It detailed a plot so complex, so Machiavellian and twisted, he could hardly believe it. Or rather, he didn’t want to, because if it was true, everything he had known and believed was a lie.
That it would land on the front page was without question, if the details proved accurate. Elliot’s gut said they would — the files contained detailed financial records with dozens of front companies, including at least ten that were subsidiaries of one of the largest insurers in the world, which had also been the beneficiary of a massive bailout during the financial crisis. He’d always believed it had been the recipient of the taxpayer’s largesse because its largest creditor’s former chairman had been Treasury Secretary at the time; but if the information on the flash drive was accurate, that was only the tip of the iceberg.
Elliot had no problem believing that what he’d just read was possible. He’d studied enough history to know that humans were capable of anything. But the average citizen would go berserk if they knew.
And he had been put in the position of being the one to break the story — for which he had no doubt he’d receive a Pulitzer and be looking at a book deal that would dwarf that of Woodward and Bernstein. That was the positive. The negative was that he’d make powerful enemies in the process and might have to move to Mongolia to feel safe.
But who was feeding him the gold? Someone had painstakingly obtained, probably illegally and likely in violation of national security, enough proof to cause a seismic schism. It troubled him that he didn’t know who his leak was, but it wasn’t essential to the facts. And he couldn’t entirely blame the whistleblower — one look at how Edward Snowden had been pursued for baring the NSA’s surveillance programs to the world would convince most thinking humans to forego the honor of landing in official crosshairs.
Traffic was light as he neared downtown, and the underground parking garage was almost deserted when he pulled into his usual slot. The paper’s offices would be open, of course — the news never slept, and there would be a crew working to get the next morning’s edition put to bed. Alas, sales were down markedly, as many turned to the Internet for their daily jolt of sensationalism rather than buying dead trees. The way of the world, he thought, as his shoes pounded on the concrete garage floor, echoing in the enclosed space.
The elevators required card keys to activate, and he retrieved his from his wallet and swiped it through the reader. A green LED blinked twice and the steel double doors opened. Elliot stepped inside and swiped his card again, and then punched the button for the seventeenth floor.
He ran a quick calculation as the car rose. It would take him a week, possibly two, to put out soft probes in order to verify the data. He’d need authorization for at least two research assistants, due to the volume of data information that would need to be sifted through. And he would have to swear everyone involved to silence. That the story was volatile was an understatement of epic proportions.
The indicator showed he was at the fourteenth floor when the elevator lurched to a stop.
“What the—”
The lights blinked and then shut off as a sharp metallic clank sounded from beneath the car.
Elliot’s stomach somersaulted as the floor dropped away and the elevator free-fell a hundred and fifty feet, its emergency braking system disabled. The plunge lasted the longest few seconds of Elliot’s life, which was extinguished abruptly when it crashed into the cement subbase, moving at well over a hundred miles per hour.
Hours later, firefighters pried the wreckage apart and found Elliot’s mangled remains. Nobody noticed when one of them pocketed a flash drive from the victim’s pocket, and immediately after left the site due to dizziness.
A glowing obituary honored Elliot’s tireless work in exposing corruption, and within a week his death was forgotten by all but his family, who moved two months later, their home too filled with the ghosts of the past to ever be comfortable again.
Chapter 9
Spencer, Allie, and Drake sat on the deck, watching the sunset over the Pacific, cold beers in hand, a mild offshore breeze ruffling their hair. A few stragglers and beachcombers roamed the sand as the last of the diehard after-work surfers caught their final waves.
“How is it down in Laguna Beach, Spencer?” Allie asked, as the sun sank into the sea.
“Gorgeous. Not as many trust-fund kids and Hollywood hotshots as Malibu, but stellar views.”
“Hey. Watch it — that’s my hood you’re dissing,” Drake said, and held out a sweating bottle of Anchor Steam to clink against Allie’s. She obliged with a happy sigh and went back to contemplating the salmon sky.
“Shame about the house. I hope you get that straightened out,” Allie said.
“Yeah. Nothing’s ever easy, is it? What about you? Sounds like you have your hands full with your dad’s estate.”
“I’m hoping to get the last of it settled in the next couple of weeks. I’ve got an excellent legal team out of Houston that’s keeping the worst of the leeches at bay.” She shrugged. “I can’t believe how many there are when big money’s involved.”
“Tell me about it,” Spencer said with a frown. “Are you planning to stay in Texas?”
Allie looked at a spot somewhere to the left of Drake’s shoulder. “Depends. This is pretty sweet. I’m just not sure I could get used to the whole Baywatch lifestyle.”
“Hazzle-whatever’s a star in France. Like Jerry Lewis, without the telethon,” Spencer said.
“Good to know I might have that to fall back on. Is that where unemployed treasure hunters go to die? Take up miming or painting or something?” Drake asked.
“It’s sad. The bistros are lousy with them,” Spencer said. “They’ll usually leave you alone if you buy them a drink.”
Allie nodded. “Or they start crying. I hear it’s kind of like the island of misfit toys, only without claymation.”