Conspiracy (4 page)

He was so sorry. Maybe it wouldn't be that serious, after all. He'd call her later tonight to see how Mary Beth was.

Continuing into his own office, Cady flung the brown leather briefcase toward the sofa, where it landed with a thud on piles of papers. "Yes," he shouted as he moved toward his desk chair. "We nailed that damned Kuznov."

Suddenly something in the center of his desk, on top of the mess of papers, caught his eye. It was a brown legal-size mailing envelope, blank on the top except for his name, which was neatly typed on a white label. Cady was certain that it hadn't been there when he left for the courtroom. He sat down and ripped open the envelope. Inside he found a bundle of documents held together by a butterfly clip. On top was a piece of plain white bond typed with a note:

 

Dear Mr. Cady:

It has come to our attention that Senator Charles Boyd was first elected to Congress ten years ago after a campaign financed by a large illegal political contribution. Senator Boyd violated the law then. He continued to violate it with votes that he cast, bought by this money, for many years. He should be prosecuted now, and these facts should become publicly known before the presidential election. Documents supporting the statements set forth above are enclosed

.

There was no signature. No other marks on the paper to identify the author.

Cady leafed through the attached documents. A deed of sale, an SEC decision, and a criminal court conviction caught his eye. Margaret must have still been here when the envelope had been dropped off. She could tell him who had brought it With long, fast strides, he walked back into the outer office and checked the Rolodex on Margaret's desk for her daughter's telephone number. Nancy answered on the first ring. "It's C. J. Cady down at the U.S. attorney's office."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Cady."

"Listen, I'm sorry to bother you, because I know Mary Beth's sick, but—"

"Oh, that's nothing. She's just got a cold and a runny nose. You know how kids are."

"But I thought..."

"What is this? First my mother and now you."

"What did you say?"

"Mother just called from the Washington Hospital Center. Somebody had called her at the office to say that Mary Beth was in intensive care. What kind of nasty person plays a prank like that? Mother was frantic with worry. She's on her way here. Do you want me to have her call you?"

Now Cady understood how the envelope had ended up on his desk. "No," he said slowly, "I don't think so."

He returned to his office and closed the door. Seated in his black leather chair, he began reading the documents that supported the charge against Boyd. Then he suddenly stopped. He dug into his cluttered desk drawer, looking for the little white booklet with Jim Doerr's home telephone number. Before he could find it, the phone rang.

"The champagne's chilled," Anita said. "It's party time."

"Listen," Cady said, "a personal emergency has come up. You and Ed had better go ahead without me."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Anything I can help you with?"

"Afraid not. But thanks. I'll work it out."

He dumped the contents of the drawer on the desk in order to find the office telephone directory.

A teenage girl answered the phone in Doerr's Georgetown house. He heard her shout, "Daddy, it's for you." She sounded irritated that her father would be tying up the line during prime evening phone time.

"Hello?"

"It's C.J. Sorry to bother you."

"Nonsense. I should be calling you. I heard about
our
victory in the Kuznov case on a news bulletin on TV. Congratulations. But I do appreciate your calling to make sure I knew about it."

"Unfortunately, that's not why I'm calling."

"What's up, then?"

"I think we'd better do this in person. May I come out to your house?"

"Can't it wait until morning?"

"Afraid not."

* * *

Cady knew that Jim Doerr had little enthusiasm for his job. Until four years ago he had been a successful practitioner with a large Washington law firm, specializing in white-collar crimes. He had jumped on the Webster bandwagon early, organizing the preparation of policy papers evaluating the country's criminal justice system. He was hoping for the A.G.'s job, but that went down the tubes when the president's old crony, Hugh McDermott, got the nod. Doerr had accepted the U.S. attorney job as a stepping-stone to a judicial appointment, which thus far had failed to materialize.

"You're not going to like my conclusion," Doerr said after listening to Cady, "but I think it's right under the circumstances."

"What's that?"

"I'm a political appointee, and the president who appointed me is in the midst of a reelection campaign. I can't possibly get into this."

"Should I take it to Attorney General McDermott, then?"

"That would be worse. Hugh is the president's closest adviser. He's his campaign manager."

"But he's also attorney general of the United States."

Doerr looked annoyed. "Of course I know that. All I'm saying is that at this point you can't take it to him."

"So what do I do?"

Doerr shrugged his shoulders. "You're on the civil service side. You should investigate this as you would any anonymous tip involving a public official. It's your case. Run with it. Follow normal procedures. Keep me posted in the same way you did in the Kuznov case."

Cady looked down at his hands. This case was potentially explosive, and here his boss was saying he didn't want to touch it. "Suppose I tell you I won't do it?"

Doerr glared at Cady. "Then I'll have to tell you to look for another job. You're the best I've got. I'd hate to lose you, but I wouldn't have any choice."

"Thank you for your vote of confidence," Cady replied, not trying to conceal his sarcasm.

It was raining as Cady walked down the steps of Doerr's house to R Street. He was clutching his briefcase with the Boyd documents so tightly that he suddenly realized his hand, damp with perspiration, was aching. He felt very much alone, angry at Doerr, but not surprised. He had learned long ago that in Washington it was SOP for political appointees to let civil servants take the fall while they pursued their own agendas. Yet even by those standards, what Doerr had done was despicable. For chrissakes, Boyd was running for president.

Cady was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice the man in the long tan raincoat, lurking around the corner, mostly concealed by a parked SUV. The man was watching Cady carefully.

The grim expression on the prosecutor's face told the man everything he wanted to know. When he had left the package for Cady, he had been confident that Doerr wouldn't lift a finger to get involved. Now he knew he had been right.

Cady was on his own—precisely what the man wanted. He had snared a powerful hunter. Next, he would begin placing food in the hunter's path, leading him to a defenseless prey.

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Maria Ferrari was her real name, but since the age of twelve she had insisted that everyone call her Taylor. At the funeral of her mother, a victim of leukemia, she had told family and friends, in the grimy shadow of a steel mill in Donora, Pennsylvania, that she wanted to be called by her mother's maiden name, and she wouldn't respond to any other.

Now, twenty-six years later, she was seated at the kitchen table in Charles Boyd's Georgetown house with the senator and Bob Kendrick, who shared the responsibilities with her for running Boyd's presidential campaign. As morning sunlight filtered in through filmy white curtains, she was drinking coffee while studying the results of the most recent presidential polls.

A smile lit up her face, and she pushed her jet-black hair to the side. "We're in the lead," she cried. "We're finally out in front."

Kendrick reached for the papers in her hand. "Three percentage points isn't much," he said somberly. "Barely outside the margin of error. With a month to go we have to stay in a full-court press."

She slapped him on the back. "C'mon, Bob, a month ago nobody gave us a chance. What this proves is that the senator's message is getting through."

Kendrick laughed. "You mean the New Age crap you packaged for him."

"Oh, don't be such a cynic. The American people believe in the senator. They know that he wants to change the system of 'politics for politicians' and do something for the people." As both men knew, her emotion and conviction had played a large part in Boyd's surge. "They understand that he wants to build on the diversity of their country and turn it into a common purpose—a better life for all Americans."

"It's okay with me," Kendrick said. "The main thing is for him to sound good. I've done enough of these presidential contests to know that's what it's about—not substance. You're writing the speeches. Just make him sound like he cares. Like he feels the people's pain."

"But he does. That's the point," Taylor insisted.

She turned toward the senator, who was amused that they had been discussing him as if he weren't there. Dressed in a lightly starched blue shirt good for television cameras, he had a broad smile on his face.
Now he even looks like a winner,
Taylor thought.

Since the end of the convention, the senator had faced an uphill battle, as challengers often did against an incumbent, trailing President Webster in double digits. He had never worried but kept pressing forward. The pace had been mind-numbing, his sleep minimal, but he had managed to keep his sense of humor.

The image he projected was an honest reflection of what he was, Taylor believed: a sincere and intelligent man who could be trusted. That was why she had joined his campaign, and when it came down to the bitter end, that was why he would be elected president. In the confines of polling booths the American people would agree with Taylor that the senator was someone who cared about them and their problems of raising children, getting adequate medical care, funding their retirement, and paying for heat and gasoline.

"Look here," Boyd said. "You're both telling me the same thing. I'll keep pushing the New Age theme as hard as I can. Now, let's talk about energy. Taylor, when do you want me to give the speech you wrote on that topic?"

Kendrick interjected. "If you give that speech, it'll hurt our fund-raising with corporate America and people who drive gas-guzzling SUVs."

"I don't care," Taylor said. "The burning of fossil fuels by Americans at such a prodigious rate is destroying our environment and producing global warming." She thought with sadness about the destruction of the permafrost she had witnessed two summers ago when she had been hiking and mountain climbing in Alaska. "A radical reduction has to be a top priority for this country."

"Most Americans aren't as smart as you are," Kendrick fired back.

"Then we have to educate them," Taylor replied with determination.

The senator raised his hand. "Listen, Bob, the reason I'm running is because I want to lead this country in the right direction. It's a good speech. When and where do you guys want me to give it?"

Taylor glanced at the schedule on her laptop. "Thursday evening in Chicago. There's a dinner sponsored by the Midwest Business Council. It's ideal because the Chicago metro area has gotten a huge percentage of its power from nuclear energy for decades without an accident."

"Good. I'll do it."

Taylor's ebullient mood drained away as she saw the senator's wife, Sally, coming toward the kitchen.
Jesus, that woman is always trouble. What does she want now?

Sally trundled across the floor dressed in tight-fitting black stretch slacks and a red Stanford sweatshirt. She was a pathetic figure, Taylor thought. Reasonably pretty when she had been young, she had spent her days since then in an unsuccessful effort to fight off the ravages of time. She looked every bit of her fifty-seven years. Already a large-framed woman, she was bulging with flab.

"I have to talk to you, Charles," she announced. "Alone."

He glanced at Taylor and Kendrick. "Give me five minutes, would you, guys?"

Taylor grabbed her laptop and retreated with Kendrick to the living room.

"You were with them both yesterday in Pennsylvania," she said to Kendrick. "Do you have any idea what Sally's up to now?"

"Her highness wants him to go over to St. Michaels this weekend when we do prep for the debate. She says there are fewer distractions."

Taylor grimaced. "What's her real agenda?"

Kendrick lowered his voice to a whisper. "What I've been able to deduce is that she's invited some hot new Italian painter to spend the weekend as a houseguest. She wants him to exhibit his work at her gallery. She figures that she can land this budding Michelangelo if he's exposed to the man who might be the next president of the United States."

Taylor looked worried. "We can't let him do it. The final debate is next Monday night. That's five days from now. It's critical that he spend the weekend here in Washington preparing. We'll never get him to focus over there."

"I couldn't agree more. But it's not going to happen."