The Committee (13 page)

“Camille, where the fuck are you? Call me.”

“Camille, are you all right? Pick up the fucking phone.”

Sheridan left a series of progressively desperate messages, the last of which was, “Camille, if I don't hear from you within the next hour I'm alerting the chief of police.”

His phone immediately beeped, indicating a text message had arrived.

Sheridan quickly swiped the icon.
“Do not call the police!”
the text read.
“I am fine. Will be home as soon as possible. Nothing to worry about. XOXO Camille.”

“Where are you?”
he quickly typed.

There was no reply.

 

 

Camille had never flown in a private jet though she traveled the world. Until now, first-class commercial flights had been the extent of her luxury transport. The gentle hum of the powerful engine amounted to nothing more than soothing white noise. Fine leather chairs, the color of foam on a steaming latte, caressed her body as she looked out the window into the darkness. She assumed no one other than the pilot was on the plane.

Soft music from sources unknown seemed to ooze from the walls and plush carpet. It was an aria from the opera she had just abruptly left.

That's odd,
she thought.
I wonder, did they know I was just . . .
Camille dropped the line of thinking midsentence, too afraid to consider the answer.

Ten minutes into the flight, the cabin door opened. A woman appeared in the threshold.

“Good evening, Mayor Hardaway,” she said graciously. “Welcome aboard
The Constitution.
My name is Angel, and I will be your attendant for the flight.”

Angel wore a simple blue skirt and white blouse. Her ivory skin and sculpted face were so flawless she looked unnatural.

“Whose plane is this?” Camille asked coldly.

“I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that, ma'am,” Angel replied politely. “Your flight will be three hours and fifty-five minutes. Our world-class French chef has prepared a five-course meal specifically suited to your palate. The meal includes several of your favorite dishes and a few he thought you might enjoy. We have a fully stocked bar at your disposal, including your favorite, Boërl & Kroff Brut Rose. May I offer you a glass?”

Camille hadn't fully adjusted to the woman's sudden presence and simply replied, “Yes, thank you.”

“Very good, ma'am.”

If Camille had not felt the slight breeze from the woman walking past, she would have sworn it was a ghost.

“Excuse me,” Camille said to her just before the cabin door closed. “Where is the fight going?”

“To Louisiana, ma'am.” Just saying the words tinted Angel's intonation with the slightest Southern accent. “The great city of New Orleans.”

The flight, meal, and service were flawless. Angel periodically appeared and disappeared like the subtle brightening and dimming of a lightbulb. Much of the time, Camille didn't know whether or not she was in the cabin, even when she looked directly at her.

At exactly three hours and fifty minutes into the flight, Angel entered and said, “Excuse me, Mayor Hardaway. The captain has informed me we will be landing shortly. If you wouldn't mind, please fasten your seat belt.”

The jet came to rest in a hanger identical to the one it departed from in Long Beach. Camille waited for Angel to appear one last time, but the interior cabin door remained closed. Suddenly, the exterior door opened and the steps lowered to the hanger floor. Camille retrieved her clutch and cautiously walked to the door. She peeked out, not knowing who or what would be waiting for her. Bright fluorescent lights and deafening silence greeted her at the opening.

Suddenly she heard a car engine start. She looked to her left and saw a black Escalade idling near the rear of the jet with a man, dressed in all black, standing at the rear open door looking up at her.

She approached the man and said, “I'm Camille Hardaway. Is this car for me?”

The driver looked at her coldly and simply replied, “Yes, ma'am, it is.”

It was 2:00 a.m. in New Orleans. The streets were empty except for remnants of stubborn revelers and debris left behind from earlier that evening. The car rolled through the city at a deliberate pace. Stately homes in the Garden District reminded her of cemetery monuments lined in a row.

Camille saw the peaks of St. Louis Cathedral in the windshield ahead and asked, “Where are you taking me?”

“We're almost there, ma'am.”

“You didn't answer my question,” she said sarcastically.

The expressionless driver offered no reply.

The car turned onto Bourbon Street and drove slowly past the bars and restaurants still lively with patrons. Jazz chords poured from open doors and mixed in the night air with accordions playing the Zydeco two-step and trumpets belting the blues.

Flames from gas lanterns mounted at the entrances of the centuries-old structures harkened to a time long ago. The lamps offered minimal illumination but maximum Southern atmosphere for the tourist who spilled out into the night. The car finally stopped in front of 543 Bourbon Street. A short brick path covered by a trellis of weeping lavender wisteria led up to the white antebellum mansion.

Camille was startled when the driver appeared at her window and opened the door. He extended his arm toward the mansion, but did not speak. After taking a deep breath, Camille emerged from the vehicle and boldly walked through the trellis and up the stairs to the house.

Before she could reach the doorbell, the door swung open and Lazarus Hearst appeared in the threshold.

“Camille,” he said heartily, “I am so pleased you decided to come. Welcome to Headquarters. Please, come in.”

Gideon paced the floor in his home office in boxers, T-shirt, and reading glasses tittering on the tip of his nose. The name KeyCorp
Development
appeared on every piece of paper spread on his desk and in the stacks of files on the floor. He studied yet another document as he walked between the desk and window.

Sheridan Hardaway's name only appeared on one single document in the piles of thousands of papers accumulated from public records, the Internet, and by the sometimes-borderline unethical tactics used by his own team of investigators.

Frustration increased with every step. He searched the last two days for at least one additional connection between Sheridan and KeyCorp Development. His bare feet walked over papers tossed to the floor as useless.

Gideon's concentration was interrupted when Danny entered the room.

“It's two o'clock in the morning,” Danny said groggily. “Enough. Come to bed.”

Gideon peered over his glasses and said halfheartedly, “In a minute, honey. I'm almost done.”

Danny slumped onto the couch. “Have you found anything?”

“Not yet. There is something curious, though,” Gideon said with a hint of hope. “The chief operating officer of KeyCorp is a man named Brandon Birdsong. Now, he and Sheridan are the same age, and they both graduated from Cal State LA in the same year with the same degree in business. How does a guy with only a BA, from the same state college Sheridan went to, become the COO of a multimillion dollar corporation?”

“That sounds promising,” Danny said sitting up attentively on the sofa.

“There isn't one picture of Michael Kenigrant, who is named as the CEO, in any of the hundreds of articles written about KeyCorp, and he has never been quoted. Michael Kenigrant doesn't exist.”

“So you think Sheridan Hardaway is Michael Kenigrant?”

“I don't ‘think' he is, I
know
he is.”

“But even if he is, he hasn't done anything illegal,” Danny said.

“That's the point. All of the KeyCorp holdings are in Los Angeles.”

“I'm not following you.”

“In the last five years, KeyCorp sold properties to the city worth over $350 million. They owned each of the properties for less than two years.” Gideon's gestures became more animated as he spoke.

He jumped up and retrieved a file from the floor near the desk and returned. “For example, KeyCorp sold the city the properties where three of the LA Metro lines now sit. KeyCorp acquired them only six months before selling them to the city for five times to eight times the amount they paid for them.”

Gideon shuffled through the file. “Here's another one. KeyCorp bought twenty acres in South Central two years ago for pennies on the dollar. Eight months later, they sold it to the city for eight times the purchase price. KeyCorp made over 6 million in less than nine months.”

“They always seem to be in the right place at the right time.”

“Or they're privy to insider information on planned city projects. Either way, all roads lead back to Sheridan Hardaway.”

“Even if Sheridan is Michael Kenigrant, it doesn't mean Camille is in on it.”

“Of course not, but at this point, it sure looks like she is. If the whole operation were aboveboard, why would he need to conceal his identity? Even more importantly, why would he engage in an activity with even the slightest hint of impropriety? She could face a recall on those grounds alone.”

Danny looked nervously at the papers in Gideon's hands. Even for him it was clear Sheridan Hardaway was Michael Kenigrant. And if Camille didn't know about KeyCorp, once she found out, there would be every motivation to make sure the information never became public.

The entire discussion recalled painful memories of Hezekiah and Samantha Cleaveland for Danny, causing knots to form in his stomach. The husband with a secret. The wife who stands to lose everything if the secret is ever made public; desperation driving her to murder.

“You already know how I feel about this whole thing,” Danny said.

“I know, darling,” Gideon replied pulling Danny close.

“But it's not the same. Camille is nothing like Samantha. There's no way she would commit murder. She's too smart to think she could get away with it.”

“But Samantha was just as smart, and she
did
get away with it.”

The image of the Foxglove flowers in Hattie William's garden, used to poison Samantha Cleaveland, flashed in Gideon's mind.

“But Samantha didn't get away with it,” Gideon said in an attempt to comfort the man in his arms. “She's dead.”

“Samantha is not dead because she killed Hezekiah. She died because someone finally was brave enough to stop her. The world is a better place without her. I hope whoever did it never gets caught.”

“I hope not either, baby,” Gideon said pressing Danny's head to his shoulder and kissing his forehead. He could see Hattie sitting in her favorite wingback chair reading her bible. “I hope not either.”

“So what now?”

Gideon leaned back on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. “I'm not sure. I think I should just ask him directly if he is Michael Kenigrant.”

“He'll deny it.”

“Of course he will, but at least I'll have the opportunity to look him in the eye when he does. You can tell a lot when you look a man in the eyes.”

“Really?” Danny said looking up at Gideon. “Then what are my eyes telling you right now?”

Gideon smiled and said, “They're saying ‘come to bed, baby.'”

“Wow, you
are
good.”

Danny stood up and pulled Gideon from the couch by the hand. “Come on, big guy. It's way past your bedtime.”

 

 

The mansion looked just as it had over 160 years ago. French tables, chairs, and cabinets all stood in the exact same spots as when Juliette Dupree graced them with her presence.

“Squawk!”

Camille flinched when she heard the piercing cry from the next room.

“Don't be alarmed, my dear,” Lazarus reassured her. “That's just our family pet.”

Camille looked from the foyer into the adjoining parlor and saw the blue and gold Macaw pacing on its perch in a far corner of the room, then to Lazarus.

“That's Louis. Louis Armstrong,” she said suspiciously.

“I'm sorry?”

“The bird. His name is Louis Armstrong. He belongs to . . .” she stopped midsentence. “To a constituent in Los Angeles.”

“He's a relatively common breed. His name is Count Basie. His family has lived here for generations. I assure you, he has never left this room in his entire life. He was actually born in that very cage.”

Camille guessed Lazarus Hearst was a man of sixty-eight or sixty-nine. Six feet tall with a slight slump. He walked steadily and deliberately. She had never seen the media mogul before, but knew of his reputation as a ruthless businessman with immense wealth. His full head of hair was snowy white with a single lock slopping over his forehead. He wore a simple grey suit with a white shirt and yellow and black stripped tie.

Camille began to grow weary of the drama she now found herself in. “I'm here, Mr. Hearst. Can you please tell me what this is all about?”

“In due time, my dear. In due time,” he replied with a smile. “And please call me Lazarus. First, let me apologize for interrupting Tosca for you. I know it's your favorite. I hope the music on the plane helped make up for missing the rest of opening night.”

“It was lovely,” she said slowly resigning herself to his world and his whim.

“Now come with me. I want to show you something.”

Lazarus entered the parlor and walked to a portrait hanging over the grand fireplace. Camille froze in the center of the room when she saw the painting.

“Come closer, my dear,” Lazarus said. “Isn't she lovely? The most beautiful woman of her day. I hope you don't mind me saying, but seeing the resemblance, it is clear you are equally as lovely as she.”

The figure's dazzling green eyes with flecks of gold caused Camille's blood to run cold. She did not respond.

“Her name was Mademoiselle Juliette Dupree. This was her home for a time. She was the courtesan of the then governor of Louisiana, Jean-Luc Fantoché. He loved her very deeply. Some felt he could have even become president.”

“Why didn't he?” she asked.

“Well, it's complicated, but basically, Juliette decided he wasn't the right man for the job.”

Camille heard footsteps enter the room and turned sharply toward the door.

“You!” she gasped. “I should have known.”

“Good evening, Camille. Welcome to Headquarters. I'm so glad you came.”

The little man approached and reached for her hand. He lifted it to his lips and placed a kiss on the knuckle. “You look radiant. Is that de la Renta?”

“You already know, Isadore Montgomery,” Lazarus said. “I'm afraid we are the only two members who could make our little meeting tonight, but I assure you we speak on behalf of the entire Committee.”

Camille relaxed a bit upon seeing Isadore. Maybe it was the Los Angeles connection. He represented a little piece of home. She had been in his home and accepted millions of his dollars. He was a familiar face in an unfamiliar place.

“So you're a part of this, as well,” she said, attempting to gain some control over the situation.

“I am,” he said. “I'm actually the newest member, so much of this is as new to me as it is for you.”

“Member?” she asked scrounging for information.

“Yes. The Committee,” Isadore said. “May I offer you something to drink? Coffee, tea, or something stronger.”

“No, thank you,” she said politely.

Camille placed her beaded clutch on a nearby tea table and began to walk away, turning her back on the two men. She too was a master at theater. Turning her back showed she was not afraid and in control of her own space and movements. She walked from one fine antique to the next.

“This home is lovely,” she said gently running her hand along the carved wood Rococo spine of a heavily tufted silk sofa sitting in the center of the room.

“Thank you. We like it,” Lazarus said. “The home has been fitted with the latest security and technological features. If North Korea were to drop a nuclear bomb on New Orleans right now, this would be the only building remaining standing. It is fully self-contained. Whoever is fortunate enough to be in here when the bomb drops could survive without ever opening the door for a year.”

“When the bomb drops?” Camille asked curiously.

“Yes, my dear,
when
. It is inevitable,” Lazarus said in a casual tone. “It's only a matter of time.”

Camille looked away. The matter-of-fact way he spoke of Armageddon was far too much to absorb at that moment.

“I don't get here as often as I'd like,” Lazarus continued. “But when I do, I always feel like I am sitting at the center of the universe.”

“Indeed we are,” Isadore said with a mischievous smile.

“What do you mean?” Camille asked, turning to the two men.

Isadore looked at Lazarus for permission to answer her question, which was granted with a slight nod.

“You see, Camille,” Isadore said, looking her directly in the eye, “every major decision in the past one hundred and fifty years determining the course of this country was most likely made in this very room.”

 

 

“Where did she go?”

“That's the point, I don't know,” Sheridan snapped. “She got on a plane and left.”

“We have to call the police,” Tony Christopoulos said into the phone. “This is serious.”

“She sent a text from the plane and specifically said do not call the police.”

“But she could be in danger.” Tony began to panic. “What if she's been kidnapped?”

“She wasn't kidnapped.”

“How do you know?”

“Her imbecile driver said she entered the plane alone. There was no one in the hanger except for the pilot.”

“Where are you now?”

“In the limo. He's driving me home.”

“Come to my house,” Tony said. “We have to decide what to do.”

“I'll have him take me home to my car, then I'll be right there.”

Sheridan arrived on Tony's doorstep within thirty minutes of the frantic call. It was a first-floor loft on the boardwalk in Venice Beach. Vaulted ceilings, hard surfaces, and terra-cotta floors created the perfect echo chamber for the constant roar of the Pacific Ocean only steps from his open sliding glass doors.

“I don't like this,” Sheridan said rushing past Tony at the front door. “I don't like it at all. Do you think she knows about Vandercliff?”

“I don't think so,” Tony's analytical mind quickly deduced. “I would be the first person she'd tell if there were any suspicions about you or the project.”

Sheridan clung to the ounce of relief found in the reasoning.

“It could possibly have something to do with Isadore Montgomery,” Tony continued. “You saw how shaken she was after he whispered in her ear at the party. And he would certainly have a private jet. Fuck, he would have a private fleet.”

Sheridan quickly replayed the scene at Montgomery's home in his head. “You're right. That does sound more plausible. Whatever he said that night threw her off her game, and she refused to talk about it.”