The Committee (11 page)

“Oh, you saw the interview.”

“Yes, I did, and I saw other things too.”

Gideon felt exposed whenever he was in Hattie's presence. He knew there was no way to hide anything from her prying third eye, the eye that saw things in and around people they would prefer remained secret.

He leaned back on the sofa and asked cautiously, “What did you see?”

“How is Danny?” she asked ignoring his question. “Are you taking good care of him? He loves you, and that's what you need most in your life right now. Not more fame. You've got plenty already.”

“He's doing fine. We take care of each other. I love him more now than I ever have. He means the world to me.”

“That's a blessing, son. Exactly what God wants for you.”

“It's interesting,” Gideon said pensively. “Danny said I should speak with you about Camille Hardaway too. Have you two been talking?”

“Yes, but not about this.”

“What have you seen?” he asked, leaning forward.

“What's more important is what I know your spirit has been trying to tell you about her. Have you been listening to your heart? The heart will keep you out of harm's way. All you have to do is listen. What has it told you?”

Gideon considered not telling Hattie about the grumblings in his stomach whenever Camille came near him. He quickly concluded deception was pointless, however, under the gaze of her caring eyes.

“It tells me something is evil about her. That she is a dangerous woman, and I should be careful around her.”

“And are you listening to what the Lord is trying to tell you?” she asked already knowing the answer.

“Hattie, you know I love you and listen to everything you tell me, but you don't understand,” he replied defensively. “This is my job. I wouldn't be where I am today if I backed away from every story that made me uncomfortable. When my instincts tell me there is a story, I have to follow it. It's what I do.”

“Even if it puts your life in danger?”

“What do you mean, danger?” he asked boldly.

Hattie sighed deeply and said, “There are forces around Mayor Camille Ernestine Hardaway . . .” She paused considering her words carefully. “The only word I can use to describe it is evil, and it will consume everything in its path—including you, son,” she said, deliberately omitting the more graphic details of her startling visions.

A chill rushed up his spine when he heard the words. The concern in her eyes caused him to look down to the now tepid cup of tea.

Hattie allowed him a few moments to sort his thoughts, and then continued. “You've gotten too close already, son. It's time to let her go her way, and for you to go yours.”

“If you are trying to scare me, it's working,” he said abandoning his usual fearless bravado. “But do you realize this woman will most likely become the first black female governor in the history of the United States. And who knows, after that . . . She could conceivably become president. If she is surrounded by such dark forces, don't you think I have a responsibility to do something about it?”

“It's not your job, son. Have you already forgotten how both you and Danny were almost killed by Samantha Cleaveland? Do you want to put Danny in danger again?”

“I would never put him in harm's way.”

“I know, baby, but if you continue down this path, that's exactly what you'll be doing.”

“You're talking in riddles,” Gideon said with a hint of frustration. “How am I jeopardizing Danny's safety? He's not involved in my work.”

“Are you being intentionally naïve?” Hattie asked. “If someone wants to hurt you but can't, the next best thing is to hurt someone you love.”

“I understand. But you still haven't told me why Camille would want to hurt me. I don't have any incriminating information on her. I made her look good in my interview. I elevated her onto a national stage by having her on my program. Why would she want to hurt me?”

Hattie considered just how much information Gideon could handle before responding. “Son,” she said with the full weight of her maternal instinct, “it's not only Camille. My spirit tells me there are people and spirits around her she doesn't even know about. Very powerful forces in this world and in the spirit world that have plans for her future. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said listening intently.

“I don't know who they are yet, but mark my word, it's not for good,” she continued. “They need her for something. I can feel it. But I don't know what. They want to use her power to do their bidding here on earth. It's not good, son. Not good at all.”

Hattie cupped her hand to her mouth. Gideon could see she was deeply troubled. “Are you all right?” he asked leaning in closer. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, baby, I'll be fine,” Hattie paused before continuing. She reached for a napkin on the coffee table and dabbed her moist upper lip. “These are evil times we live in, son. Evil times, and I know Camille Hardaway has something to do with it all.”

It was a perfect California evening. Five hundred of the city's richest, famous, and most powerful residents gladly paid $250,000 per head for a ticket to be in the same room with Camille and Sheridan Hardaway. The room overflowed with Givenchy, Gucci, and Valentino gowns on the arms of black tuxedos. The first private fundraiser for the new Doberman Stadium was held at the Holmby Hills estate of one of the wealthiest men in the world.

The host, tech giant Isadore Montgomery's net worth was easily greater than the combined wealth of everyone in the room. At thirty-four years of age, he was the third-richest man in the world, all because he invented a cellular telephone half the world owned and the other half wanted. Now, the planet revolved on the axis of his technological edicts. If Isadore Montgomery said the next must-have electronic gadget was tennis shoes with a DVD mounted on the toes so you can watch movies while jogging, the world would camp out for weeks at the neighborhood big box store to be the first to own a pair of “Isadore Montgomery's Movie Shoes.”

Isadore designed and built the ultramodern glass mansion. The home was fitted with technology the government would not know existed for at least another ten years. The electrifying sunset seen through every glass wall on the first floor seemed to have been orchestrated just for his party.

He was the ultimate tech guru and his word was golden. Single, dull, five-foot-six, moderately unattractive, completely heterosexual, and excruciatingly shy, according to
People
magazine, Isadore Montgomery was the most eligible bachelor on the planet.

“May I have your attention please,” Isadore said softly from the grand glass staircase making it appear he was riding a crystal waterfall. Music from a live band in a remote corner of the room stopped abruptly, and the crowd fell silent. “As you all know, the reason for this evening is to raise money for the new Doberman Stadium. I'm happy to announce ticket sales tonight, combined with the pledges many of you have made, we have already raised $50 million and counting,” he said excitedly.

Gasps and sustained applause erupted throughout the room.

“So if tonight is any indication,” Isadore continued, “I predict this city is going to have a new stadium very, very soon.” The room burst into laughter and applause again.

“None of this would be possible without one very special person,” he said, pausing to look in Camille's direction. “Mayor Hardaway, would you please join me up here? Now remember,” he chuckled with a semismile. “I'm a little shorter than you so you'll have to stand a few steps down.”

The crowd laughed on cue as Camille made her way to the stairs. Her black sleeveless Oscar de la Renta gown with a sheer overlay was streaked with trails of black embroidered shooting stars. A single strand of dazzling diamonds dangled from each ear, and more strands made a double loop around her wrist. She took her place on the glass waterfall one step below Isadore, making them the same height.

“For those of you who don't know it, the idea to build Dober Stadium came from this stunning woman standing with me,” Isadore said. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the illustrious mayor of our great city, Camille Ernestine Hardaway.”

As the audience greeted her with applause, Isadore kissed Camille's cheek and whispered prophetically, “The stage is yours, Mrs. President.”

Camille's radiant smile gave no hint her heart had momentarily stopped beating. Isadore's words left her stunned. She watched his back as he descended the stairs, leaving her standing alone with the clapping sea of money, silicone, and couture at her feet.

When Isadore reached the floor, he turned, looked up at Camille, and winked with a wicked little smile. The applause slowly subsided, but Camille hadn't yet regained her composure. The room fell silent as she stared blankly at Isadore, who instructed her to proceed with a slight nod of his head only she could see.

“Thank you, Isadore,” she heard fall involuntarily from her lips. The words snapped her out of the confusion-induced trance. She lit up and became the magnificent Mayor Camille Hardaway once again.

She opened with, “One point six billion dollars,” and paused to look boldly into the crowd. “You heard me correctly. Doberman Stadium will cost the city of Los Angeles $1.6 billion. I'm not worried about raising that kind of money because, for this crowd, that's vacation mad money.”

The room exploded in laughter. Charm poured from the beautiful woman and consumed the room like a flood. Camille shared the gargantuan details of the project as if they were already complete. “Fans of the Dobers will be treated to views of magnificent California sunsets over the ocean during game nights. Commercial spaces will line the perimeter of the complex offering high-end goods and fine dining experiences. The residential portion will include the finest architectural living spaces with world-class views.”

By the end of her speech, the stadium complex was fully occupied and generating millions in tax revenue. The 50 million pledged before she spoke steadily climbed to 1, 2, 3, and 400 million as her smooth and confident words loosened wallets, trust funds, and investment portfolios.

Camille was greeted at the foot of the stairs by a kiss from Sheridan. Cameras flashed, enveloping the couple in a shroud of light. Samantha clung to Sheridan's arm, even when he tried to pull away, as they made their way through the adoring crowd.

“What's wrong?” he whispered in her ear under the guise of an affectionate peck on the cheek. “You're hurting my arm.”

“Where did he go?”

“Who?”

“Isadore Montgomery,” she snapped through a clinched smile.

“I don't see him. He left halfway through your speech. I haven't seen him since. He could be anywhere in this big-ass house.

“What happened? Did he say something to you?” Sheridan asked protectively.

“Yes,” Camille said. “No . . . no. I don't know. Maybe I misheard him but . . .” she stopped midsentence and loosened her grip on his arm. “Never mind. It was nothing. Let's just shake the rest of these hands and get out of here. I want to go home.”

Closed circuit cameras tucked into hidden crevices of the room, behind mirrors, in chandeliers, and transparent ones imbedded in the many windows, followed Camille as she worked the crowd. Her image was captured from every possible angle and fed to a bank of monitors in the control room buried deep within the bowels of the glass mansion.

Isadore Montgomery sat alone in the soundproof room and watched his newest acquisition with great pleasure. “She is perfect,” he said.

“Yes, I knew you would agree once you met her in person,” came the disembodied voice of Lazarus Hearst. “The country will love her too.”

“I'm not so sure about him though,” Isadore said while studying the screen as Camille charmed another investor.

“Your instincts are right again,” Lazarus said. “Preliminary reports on Sheridan Hardaway are not good. He's apparently been making millions on real estate investments using information received from Camille and her chief of staff, Tony Christopoulos, who, by the way, he also happens to be fucking.”

“Oh shit,” Isadore blurted. “Then she's out.”

“Not necessarily. Accidents
do
happen,” Lazarus said casually.

“And Americans love a widow.”

“So true. Jacqueline could have been president if she'd been able to pull herself together after the assassination. We offered, but she turned us down.”

“Different times,” Isadore said, “America wasn't ready for a woman in the 1960s.”

“America is ready for whatever The Committee tells them they're ready for,” Lazarus said dismissively.

Isadore laughed. “When are you expecting the final report on him?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Is she coming to Headquarters on Sunday?”

“We won't know until Sunday at 8:00 p.m. My instincts tell me she'll be there. The Committee will have to make a decision about how to deal with Sheridan before then. She has to be made aware of our plans.”

“Why?”

“So rich and yet so naïve,” Lazarus said. “She has to be a part of the decision if we decide to eliminate him. Her hands have to get dirty. The dirtier they are, the more control we'll have over her.”

“She'll never agree to it.”

“You underestimate her hunger for power. If Camille is made of the stuff I think she is, she will come to the same conclusion. Sheridan Hardaway must die.”

“And what about Tony Christopoulos?”

“He can be of use to us right where he is. I'll have a little talk with him.”

 

 

Gideon typed
Sheridan Hardaway
into the Google search engine in his office. The screen quickly blinked, and the results appeared. The page indicated there were approximately 4,380,000 results.

Gideon clicked on the results one by one, undaunted by the volume of Web sites containing the name Sheridan and/or Hardaway. Dozens included images of the handsome man with and without Camille. Numerous articles contained his name, but most were incidental mentions in stories about his wife.

Gideon scribbled notes on a yellow pad. “Graduated with a bachelor of art degree from Cal State Los Angeles. Born in Hawthorn, California. Real estate broker, no children.” All information Gideon already knew about him.

He scanned dozens of Web sites. The information began to repeat itself.
Graduated with a bachelor of art degree from Cal State Los Angeles. Born in Hawthorn, California. Real estate broker, no children.

Maybe there really is nothing,
Gideon thought as he tapped the mouse to close the fiftieth site.
Not even an outstanding parking ticket.

Just as Gideon was about to give up, the name KeyCorp Development appeared as the next option. He found it odd Sheridan's name didn't appear in the brief synopsis on the search page.

He opened the site. It was the usual well-designed corporate Web site with smiling models who had no idea the company had used their images.

 

 

 

 

Gideon read page after page of the Web site, but Sheridan's name was nowhere to be found.
Why did it come up in a search for Sheridan Hardaway?
he thought, looking curiously at screen.

“That's interesting,” he said aloud. “KeyCorp Development was incorporated six years ago. The same year they were married.”

His reporter instincts kicked in. Gideon went to the state of California's Web site. “Now let's see,” he said speaking to himself, “who filed the original papers with the state to form the corporation.”

When he entered the company name, the familiar hourglass icon appeared and began to spin as it sorted through billions of binary codes. The page finally blinked onto the screen and slowly opened inch by inch.

“OK,” he said leaning toward the screen, “let's see what we've got here.”

 

 

Gideon stared at the screen and read the words repeatedly to ensure his brain wasn't playing a trick.

Articles of Incorporation filed by: Sheridan Hardaway

“Son of a bitch,” he said slowly. “Does Camille know about this?”

 

 

“Yes,
mon chéri
. Drunk on life, intoxicated by your beauty. Inebriated by my good fortune!” he exclaimed.