Deceived (20 page)

Why was he
wallowing in things almost three decades old? His problem wasn't in the past,
it had to do with allegations made only the day before. Why wasn't he dealing
with the present?
Maybe, he realized, because the present had just blown up
in his face. The wall behind which he had shielded himself from the past had
crumbled, and the memories had come crashing forward.

Nick returned
to the couch and Meg sat beside him. "Would you tell me about your
parents, Nick," she said.

He leaned back,
closed his eyes, and did, beginning with the physical descriptions ingrained in
his mind by the photo he carried in his pocket. Then the memories started, each
one calling to mind another, and then another. Their games of charades; the
long walks; the bonfires; the canoe that flipped, sending both his parents into
the water.

Nick laughed. For
the first time he could remember he thought of his parents and laughed. His
father's face, so stern when the canoe went over. And then his mother's smirk,
the break in his father's glare, and soon all of them were howling.

"Every
snowfall, if it was good packing, my dad and I would make a snowman. Mom would
come out with a scarf and something for its eyes and nose. We'd ambush her. Pelt
her, softly, with a couple of snowballs. She'd laugh and fire back. Funny how
much I liked winters then. My hands would get so cold I had to run them under
warm water to regain their feeling. A dumb thing to remember, I suppose.
…
I
remember once
…
"

Sometime before
eleven Nick finished one story and never started another. He drifted off to
sleep, carried by a dozen stiff drinks. The next morning, late, he woke to find
himself alone, covered with the quilt off his bed. On the coffee table, he
discovered a short note: "I let myself out. Meg."

"Beautiful,"
Senator Whitford said, a whiskey and water in hand, eyes tracing the snow
capped mountain peaks in front of him. He stood on a balcony of rough hewn
white pine, connected to an eight thousand square foot lodge of the same
construction. "You know I hate to disparage the south in any manner, but
this surely puts my place in the Smokies to shame."

J.T. Frasier
nodded as he swished the ice and scotch in his glass, then took a gulp. He set
one hand on the balcony's railing. "I fell in love with Aspen out of high
school. Spent one winter here before college, skiing during the day, waiting
tables at night. I almost stayed and joined the ranks of the ski bums
…
but
dad wouldn't have it. It was back to good old Virginia. I swore I'd come back
someday."

"I'd say
you have done so in style, sir."

Frasier took
another drink. "My daughter says I'm just one more capitalist carving up
the landscape, trying to get close to what he loves and ruining it by squeezing
too tight."

"She ever
use this place?"

Frasier smiled.
"All the time."

Senator
Whitford nodded, as if sharing a private joke. "You get assigned the
guilt; she takes victimhood
and
the hot tub, huh? Well I wouldn't worry
too much. I'd say Aspen's a long way from being ruined." Senator Whitford
stared again at the mountains, then turned the discussion back to business. "We've
set the date for the next hearing, two weeks from Thursday
—
all parties
will agree to the settlement, that'll put the investigation to bed. For
good."

Frasier set
down his now empty drink and nervously rubbed his hands together. "I hope
to God you're right."

"You know
what we did to Ford. He's out of the picture for good, and without him the GAO
will sign off, guaranteed. No other agencies are investigating. We've got
nothing but clear sailing ahead."

"You sure
Smith Pettit's on board?"

Senator
Whitford nodded. "They were caught skimming from the public trough and
they know it. The settlement's going to cost them a few dollars, but things
have been made clear to them: they'll more than make up the amount in future
government business. Their board of directors is going to rubber stamp the
settlement agreement, don't worry."

Frasier looked
down at his drink, then slowly nodded. "I just want it to be over. I want
everything to go back the way it was
…
I want to be able to sleep again at
night."

Senator
Whitford clapped a hand over Frasier's shoulder. "J.T., I've never lost a
night of sleep in my life. You just get your mind right, and everything's going
to work out. The GAO will pack up its calculators and go home, wait and see. It
is
over."

Frasier tight
lipped, nodded again. "Want another drink?"

Senator
Whitford shook his head. "Seventy-eight years of living takes one holy
toll on a bladder. Believe me, it is
not
something to look forward to. If
I don't want to start wearing goddamn diapers, I make sure to quit at
two."

Frasier
shrugged indifferently. He filled his glass from a bottle of Scotch set on the
bar built into the back corner of the balcony. "I haven't drunk so much
since college."

"Well just
watch yourself. It is not the time to do something stupid. Joshua blew his
trumpet and our walls
did not
come tumbling down. Now join me in a toast
to that." Senator Whitford raised what little was left of his drink.

J.T. Frasier
smirked. A good portion of his new glass of scotch disappeared with the toast. He
returned to the balcony's railing, again taking in the vista. "Can I tell
you a secret?"

Senator
Whitford joined him by the railing. "I'd be honored."

"This is a
beautiful house, with one of the best views in the valley. I got exactly what I
wished for years ago, but if you want to know the truth I had a hell of a lot
more fun out here when I was waiting tables, living with three other guys in a
one bedroom apartment."

Senator
Whitford nodded. "Anytime you want to sign over the deed, you let me
know."

Frasier took
another drink of scotch without comment.

Pedestrians
coursed below. All with someplace to go, all with some purpose. Nick watched
them for a few moments, then lowered and latched the window, shutting out all
evidence of activity.

He turned back
to the television, to a mind-numbing daytime talk show designed, like its many
brethren, to make its viewers feel better about themselves by parading an
endless stream of troubled souls across the screen. A symptom of modern
culture, Nick supposed, to establish one's own worth not by deeds or actions,
but by pointing fingers at others, as fingers were now being pointed at him.

Nick's eleven
years of accomplishments with the GAO had earned him scant public recognition,
just a quiet respect from peers
—
all he had ever desired. But a hint of
scandal and suddenly scores of reporters clamored for an interview. Overnight
he had become newsworthy. No longer a person, but a story, to be shaped and
molded to fit the appetite of the audience.

His lawyer had
been unequivocal in his advice: say nothing, keep out of sight, let the media
circus wear itself out, then you'll be able to fight this thing on the basis of
facts, not sentiment. And so, for nearly a week now, as the half-dozen
reporters camped out on his doorstep shrunk to three, then one, then finally
none, Nick had secreted himself in his apartment
—
a self-imposed
incarceration.

To Nick's side,
the phone rang
.

He barely
stirred at the sound, just a slight twist of the neck; he had weaned himself
from answering after a half-dozen earlier bothersome exchanges. His answering
machine now screened the calls. He returned only a small fraction, to his
lawyer, of course, his secretary Judy, a few friends, and the single call from
Carolyn
.

Carolyn had
inquired after him politely, even warmly, but had made things very clear. "I
can't tell you anything," she had said. "Not about the investigation,
not who's running it, nothing. I'm sorry, but I'm in a difficult position here.
You have to understand that."

Meg had called
as well. It had been late, after nine, and her voice had reverberated through
his apartment. "Hi," she had started, sounding uncertain. "This
is Meg.
…
Just wanted to see how you were doing.
…
I don't know if
you're around, but I wondered
…
do you want to meet somewhere maybe. Catch
a coffee or something.
…
Tonight or some other time. Just call. I
…
Give me a call, huh?"

He hadn't. Not
by design, not because he didn't want to
—
he did, more than he wished to
admit
—
not for reasons he could fully understand. Hours had passed as he
looked at the phone, and with their passing, calling Meg became that much
harder, made it all the more certain he wouldn't. Then it was the next day, and
then the day after
.

He was lying to
himself if he thought time could make Meg's call go away. It wouldn't. The call
was a reality, and so was Meg
—
both weighed on his mind now more than
ever
—
but what did he have to offer her now?

The phone rang
a third time and pulled Nick from his thoughts
.

On the fourth
ring his answering machine clicked on. "This is Nick Ford," the
machine dutifully reported. "I can't come to the phone right now but if
you'll leave a message, I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

A voice came
over the machine's speaker: "Nick, it's Harry, at the
Sentinel
."

Harry Sanders. A
junior editor at the
Washington Sentinel
. Nick and Scott had dealt with
Harry frequently in the past, and never had a reason to regret doing so. A good
source, Harry was not only professional, he knew when not to be.

"Give me a
call," Harry continued. "I want to give you a heads-up on something. I'll
be at the office until six toni
—
"

A heads-up?
Nick
made an instant decision: he'd take a chance that Harry's offer of a 'heads-up'
was more than a simple come on. He grabbed for the phone. "Harry."

Harry did not
seem shocked to hear Nick's voice. "Screening your calls, Nick?" he
commented.

"Surprised?"

"Given the
circumstances, no, I guess not."

"You said
something about a heads-up," Nick pressed, short-circuiting the inevitable
expression of sympathy.

"Right. This
Sunday's edition. National section, front page. Three columns, starting above
the fold."

"On
me?" Nick asked, already knowing the answer.

"Afraid
so. It's part one of a series on bureaucratic corruption." Harry's voice
drifted away.

Nick exhaled
loudly. "How bad is it going to be?"

"Bad. I've
seen a draft. Story goes out of its way to crucify you
…
does a fairly
good job of it too."

Nick swore to
himself. "Anything I can do?"

"Not
really, unless
…
" The phone line went silent.

"I'm
listening," Nick urged.

"Nick,
there's got to be more to your story. I know you're leery of the press, but
…
Look, if you want a chance to tell your side, explain the bank account, put a
different spin on things, there might still be time for a rewrite. I can
promise you even-handed treatment."

Nick trusted
Harry to keep his word, but that didn't change the facts: there was no story to
tell. It was all some sort of terrible screw up
—
that's all
—
and
Nick told Harry as much.

"If that's
the way you want to leave things," Harry responded, clearly skeptical. "I
just thought
…
Hey, we let it go at that, then. I've done my duty, now
how you doing? Hanging in there?"

"Never
better," Nick responded sarcastically before softening his voice. "Thanks
for calling, Harry. Letting me know what's coming. Really."

"No
problem. You take care."

"I'll try.
Bye, Harry."

"
…
Oh,
Nick?"

Nick returned
the phone's receiver to his ear. "Yeah?"

"Almost
forgot. I wanted to ask you about that murder a few months ago. The Chinese
woman. Anything ever come of that?"

Murder?
Nick
had no idea what Harry was referring to.

"You know,
the woman found in the dumpster," Harry added.

"Doesn't
ring a bell, Harry."

"Your boss
…
what's
his name?"

"Dennis
Lindsay?"

"Right,
Lindsay. Hasn't he called you about it?"

At the mention
of Dennis, Nick sunk to the couch, instantly suspicious. "No. No he
hasn't. Why should he?"

"Hold on a
moment, let's see if I can find it." Nick heard a shuffling of papers,
then Harry's voice returned. "
…
Yeah, here it is. I called Lindsay,
faxed him a copy on
…
Monday I think. It's an article from our paper dated
…
let's
see
…
about three months ago. I'll read it to you." Harry cleared his
throat and began. 'Last night sanitation workers discovered the body of Suyuan
Chunnu, nineteen, in a trash dumpster in an alley off Woodruff Ave. The
deceased had been severely beaten, her hands mutilated. Cause of death has not
yet been determined by the coroner. The police are investigating.'"

Harry paused. "Lindsay
didn't call you on this?"

Mutilated
hands?
"No," Nick confirmed a second time.

"Thought
he would have by now. I didn't call you directly because
…
Well, I knew
you had a lot on your mind."

"The
article said the woman's hands were mutilated?"

"Right. Our
report on Scott's death used almost identical language. The cops asked us to
avoid specifics. You know how they worry about copycats, weeding out false
confessions. Anyway, one of our copy editors remembered the article about the
woman in the dumpster and commented on the similarity. So I dug the article
out. Thought you guys might be interested."

 "I
am," Nick said, then added quickly, "You know any of the
details?"

"You mean
her hands? Yeah, I know the details. Both of the woman's forefingers were shot
off, Nick. Right above the first knuckle."

Shot off,
right above the first knuckle, just like Scott.
Nick's stomach tightened.

"I passed
the information on to Lindsay," Harry went on. "Thought he might want
to look into it
…
see if it was more than a coincidence. I figured he'd
talk to you about it. Maybe Scott had met this woman before, maybe
…
I
don't know, I just thought it was worth checking."

Two index
fingers shot off.

"Nick?"

"Yeah, I'm
here." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Do you know any other
details? Where the woman lived, worked, leads, things like that?" He
reached for a pencil as Harry answered.

"All I
know is what's in the file in front of me. Hold on a second while I
…
Yeah,
here are the pleasant details. The woman had been beaten. There was evidence of
sexual activity, vaginal and anal. A fair amount of trauma, not your
Joy of
Sex
kind of stuff. Death was from strangulation. Coroner's not sure what
caliber of gun was used to blow off her fingers, but did determine she was
alive when it happened. The woman, Suyuan Chunnu"
—
Harry spelled the
name
—
"was born in China. As near as anyone can tell she entered the
country eight months ago, illegally. No family here."

Nick jotted
notes on the margin of an old newspaper. "You have a home address?"
Nick asked.

The line again
went silent; Nick heard more shuffling of paper. "No, just work. Evidently
some sort of sweatshop. You know how it goes, Nick. An illegal comes to the
country, gets roped into one of these shops, and that's it
…
they're little
better than an indentured servant. And if they complain to the authorities they
risk deportation, so most keep their mouth shut. It's pretty grim for most of
them."

"What's
the address?"

Harry read it
off. "Of course it might be shut down by now. Then again I don't know if
cracking down on sweatshops is high on the cops' priority list these days, not
with this city's problems."

Nick wrote the
address, then asked, "Anything else?"

"Nope. Now
you know as much as I do." Harry's voice turned tentative: "Nick, if
you do
…
at some later date
…
decide to give your side of the story
…
"

Nick understood
Harry's drift immediately. "If I talk to anybody, I talk to you first. Okay?
But let me repeat, I don't have anything to tell. That's the truth."

"Sure,
Nick. Sure."

Nick shook his
head. "Bye, Harry. And thanks again."

Nick dropped
the receiver to its base, then paced the room
.

Fingers shot
off, just like Scott. The murdered woman, Suyuan Chunnu, Chinese. Could this
all have something to do with the Yünnan Province audit, as Meg theorized?

Nick recalled
Harry's surprise. "Lindsay hasn't called you yet?" Next, Meg's words
came to him. Her admonition: "Dennis is the authority in this case, Nick. You
can't leave it to him. You've got to do
…
something
…
I don't know
what."

Perhaps Meg was
right. But if he couldn't leave things to Dennis, couldn't leave things to the
GAO, then who could he turn to?

He looked to
the coffee table, to the scribbled notes of Harry's call and the address
written there, underlined twice, of the sweatshop where Suyuan Chunnu once
worked
.

Who could he
count on? He resigned himself to the only answer and started for the kitchen
and the D.C. street map kept in one of its drawers.