Authors: Robert Ellis
The car horn tapped again, the president waiting. Frank gave Linda a look as he walked out.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said, closing the front door and double checking the lock.
Chapter 23
An unmarked limousine with tinted windows idled at the curb. Frank opened the rear door, saw the president and got in.
“You look tired,” the president said.
As the limousine drove off, three parked cars suddenly came to life, pulling into the street behind them with their lights on. Frank noted the caravan of Secret Service agents following them through Georgetown. He turned, looked up front at the agent beside the driver with the machine gun resting on his lap, then to the president staring out the window. They were passing the bars and restaurants along Wisconsin Avenue. Normal people on the sidewalks, talking and laughing and living their lives out in the open. The president’s eyes seemed to sparkle as he watched them being free.
“You get the flowers Cindy sent over?” the president asked.
“Thanks.”
“You gonna be okay?”
Frank nodded, watching the president’s eyes drift back to the window.
“I’ve been locked inside the White House for a year and a half now, Frank. No casual cups of coffee. No walks with my wife on a Sunday afternoon.”
“You’ve got your own 747 and you never have to stop at red lights. How bad can it be?”
The president smiled. “You tell me. I’m getting hit on cable every night. Radio’s a joke and the House is overrun with crackpots. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. I remember the talks we had during my campaign. I just want to make sure that when everything’s said and done, it was worth it.”
What the president had just said was true. Since Kennedy’s assassination, Nixon’s resignation and the failed coup d’état attempt over Clinton’s presidency, the office had become more of an interruption in one’s life than an achievement. You lived each day in a cage with glass walls, trying to keep your personal life a secret. Appearances being everything in a media-driven world, any misstep or indication of your humanity came off like evidence that you might be weak or unfit. Frank wondered how the people whining on talk radio would handle it if they were told that they had to live inside a glass box for four years. And that they should consider themselves lucky if they got to stay for eight years rather than four.
“There’s no reason to worry,” Frank said. “We’re gonna do well this cycle.”
“What about Merdock? His wife called. She wants to set up a campaign appearance.”
Frank reached into his pocket and fished out that bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol he’d been carrying for backup.
“Merdock’s in a tough race,” he said.
“Lou Kay’s spots are good, Frank. I’ve seen them. They’re real good. I think Stewart Brown’s hungry. Are you gonna pull this one out or what?”
“We’ve got the money.”
Frank had made the midnight drive with the president ten to fifteen times before and knew it could go one of two ways. Long or short. When they made a left on M Street, passed Columbia Hospital and made another left on New Hampshire at the Marriott, Frank knew that he was in for the long way around town. After touring Dupont Circle they would head south for a review of the monuments, then hit the bars and restaurants on Pennsylvania southeast of the Capitol. It would be an hour and a half before he was home again. Maybe even longer depending on how many people were on the sidewalks once they reached Capitol Hill. By the time Frank got home, Linda would be in the guest room with the door closed.
“It’s an off-year election,” the president said. “My two biggest bills are ready to go. The two reasons I ran for office. I’ll need a majority in the Senate to get them through.”
“You’d need more than a majority. You’d need eight seats, maybe more with the way they’re voting.”
The president was staring at him. Frank tossed the Tylenol into his mouth and swallowed the caplets with water from a set of the president’s mobile crystal glassware.
“Is Merdock gonna win or not, Frank?”
“My advice is to never count on anything. But yes, when it’s all said and done, Merdock’s the next senator from Virginia.”
Frank slipped the bottle of Tylenol into his pocket, knowing the president’s eyes were still on him.
“That’s not exactly the way I wanted to hear you say it, Frank.”
“You know what campaigns are like. His is worse than that.”
They were passing shops, restaurants, more people walking.
“If you set something up, I’ll do it,” the president said. “I need him to win. At all costs. Mel Merdock has got to win that race.”
Frank nodded. The president was gazing out the window again, his eyes eating up all the people on the sidewalks. Frank looked at the water in his glass and drank what remained. Then he sat back in the cushioned seat letting his mind roll through the possibilities. It would be okay, he decided. As long as he came up with the impossible and turned things around. He knew that Merdock’s campaign would be won or lost on television. Not through mailings or personal appearances or even shaking people’s hands. An idea began to form. On television, he thought to himself, with maybe a little help from radio. He’d have to think it over. He wasn’t sure it had ever been done before.
Chapter 24
Frank entered his office, dropping his bags from an early morning edit on the couch. He looked through the glass and could see Linda sitting before her computer reading something from the screen into her phone. As his eyes drifted away, he noticed an overnight bag hanging on her door.
His edit session had gone well, the Senate campaign for a client in Illinois coming together without much effort. It hadn’t started out that way. The opponent’s party had targeted the seat and found a candidate from the business sector who was well funded and attracted early interest. In his mid-forties, articulate and handsome, the man owned a successful firm that leased refurbished copy machines to hospitals, churches, and schools. On paper, he could have been
Robin Hood
. But then Mario discovered that the counters on the copy machines had been rigged. For every two copies printed, the counter recorded three. A technician came forward, pointing the finger at Robin Hood and claiming that it was company policy. The story got picked by the newspapers, then the local news stations. Within a week their opponent’s campaign had flat-lined and the district attorney had become involved. Now all Frank had to do was keep the story in the mind of the voters so that no one would forget it on election day.
Frank sat down and looked at the newspaper spread open on his desk. He’d already read the article, but couldn’t help reading it again. It was the story of Woody’s murder.
His eyes moved across the headline
WOODY DARROW SLAIN IN ROBBERY
, then down to the photos of Woody and Sonny Stockwell, the teenager who had murdered him. Instead of using Stockwell’s mug shot,
The Post
had reprinted a photograph from the kid’s high school yearbook. All the attitude was gone, Frank noticed. He looked young, vulnerable, like any other eighteen-year-old in his last year of school. According to the writer, Stockwell had a high IQ and had scored well on his SATs. The kid had been college bound.
Tracy stepped into the room with her notepad. One quick glance and he could tell that she was anxious.
“Reverend Neilmarker called,” she said in a voice that trailed off.
“He found Stockwell’s friend?”
She gave him a worried look. “Why are you doing this?”
He didn’t answer, concealing his excitement and beckoning her on.
“You’re to be at his church at three,” she said finally.
He nodded. Neilmarker had found Alan Ingrams. Frank glanced at his watch. He could make his meeting with the Merdocks at their home in Virginia and get back to the city in plenty of time. But he needed an hour to get ready for the Merdocks. He had an idea where he wanted to take the campaign, but he needed to flesh it out in writing.
“Stop worrying,” he said, changing the subject. “Linda’s got a bag packed. Where’s she going?”
“Colorado. They’re in trouble.”
Tracy averted her eyes. He could tell she was holding something back and lowered his voice as he made what he thought was the obvious guess.
“Is Jason Hardly going with her?”
He watched her trying to fight it. After a moment, she nodded like it hurt. Frank leaned back in his chair and looked out the window. The words came easy. He’d been thinking about it ever since he saw them together in the interrogation room the other night.
“It’s serious, isn’t it,” he said.
Tracy stepped forward, upset. “It’s what you did to Ozzie Olson, Frank. She can’t get it out of her head.”
Chapter 25
Frank pulled off the street and coasted down the long driveway to a fabulous Virginia mansion set in a neighborhood of similarly fabulous Virginia mansions hidden from the world by all the trees. Frank was familiar with the woodsy setting of McLean, Virginia because so many senators lived here. Three of his clients lived within ten miles along this very road.
Parking beside a bright red Mustang, he grabbed his briefcase and glanced at the house as he approached the front door. Stewart Brown and Lou Kay had taken a shot of Merdock’s post office box, calling it his residence. They knew that they could get away with it because they knew that Frank could never show where Merdock actually lived. His lifestyle. All the money. One look at the place would do more damage than Frank cared to think about.
He rang the doorbell and listened to the rich resonating sound that seemed to fit the price of the house and the neighborhood it was located in. As he waited, he spotted Norman, Merdock’s driver and bodyguard, polishing a brand new Lincoln Town Car by the garage. He was buffing the wax on the hood by hand—a stocky, strong-armed man who had worked for the Merdocks in Fort Worth and made the trip east. When Norman noticed him watching, he gave Frank a nod and got back to work. Frank looked past him, pleased to find the Mercedes safely stowed inside the garage and hidden beneath a canvas tarp until after election day. If a candidate were caught riding in a foreign car, no matter what make or model, it would become an issue. And as Frank had explained to the Merdocks early on, there were already enough issues in this race.
The front door opened and Frank turned around to find Juliana Merdock looking at him with those clear blue, wide-open eyes of hers.
“Thanks for letting me sit in,” she said.
He smiled at her and nodded. At twenty-eight, his client’s wife seemed younger, her body tight and still energetic.
“Any time, Juliana. You should know that.”
He stepped into the huge foyer, watching her close the heavy door. Juliana had black hair cut just off her shoulders, an attractive face, and wore a stylish suit the color of charcoal. Her skirt was cut three or four inches above the knee, her long legs wrapped in dark stockings. Frank guessed that the suit was an Armani, and that the white blouse and black ribbon bow tie had been her idea. A reminder that she came from the South.
She turned to him and smiled. “Things aren’t going quite the way we expected, are they.”
Her eyes had a certain reach about them. He liked her attitude and knew that she was smart. He didn’t really mind that she was
in
.
“They’re in the library,” she said. “
Strategizing
.”
Frank followed her across the foyer, passing an elegant stairway of carved mahogany that rose to the landing and a balcony on the second floor. The house was clean—the furnishings the work of an expensive interior designer rather than the result of a lifetime of interest and collecting. As he walked behind her, he wondered if Juliana had come from money. It seemed like she had. There was that straightforwardness about her. That special kind of confidence that comes from the knowledge that you’ve got a sizable bank account behind you. Unlike Frank, she didn’t appear to have any of the usual cuts or bruises that people get as they make the climb through life on their own.
They found Merdock and Jake in the library, sitting at a long table in the middle of the room with their eyes glued to the TV. They were watching a copy of Lou Kay’s second spot. Frank recognized it as he approached them.
“
The truth is we Virginians don’t need a politician or a Texas millionaire representing us in Washington. We need Virginia’s Lou Kay. He’s a working guy. A family man who shares our—
”
Frank grabbed the remote and hit STOP, glaring at them angrily. “How many times have you guys watched this? I told you from the beginning—where you lived would be an issue.”
Merdock sat up. “It’s more than that. It’s personal.”
“No it’s not. It’s politics. I want you to stop looking at these.”