Washington, D.C.
Jason Brill pushed away from the laptop computer on his desk. He rubbed his eyes and then tried to twist the knot out of the back of his neck. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see that he had been on the Internet nonstop for the last several hours. No wonder his eyes were starting to cross and his stomach was growling.
There appeared to be no secrets in Arthur Galloway’s life. Of course, Jason didn’t have access to anything on the order of FBI classified. What he did have would certainly not point to or highlight any suspicious activity. One thing Jason had learned from Senator Allen was how to read a bank account. Jason’s first assignment with the senator had been to find a leak within the senator’s own office staff. “Follow the money,” Senator Allen had told him. “A person’s bank account can’t hide a person’s true character.” Within days, Jason had found the staffer, an intern with a sudden passion for Prada and a new secret boyfriend at the
Washington Post.
After spending hours accessing and analyzing Arthur Galloway’s finances for the last five years, Jason had put together a profile that exhibited mostly sadness and defeat rather than anger and revenge. There were paychecks from an accomplished career at the University of Chicago and an alumni newsletter that named him professor of the year. Mortgage payments and property taxes for a two-story home in a Chicago suburb. Then things began to change drastically after a seventeen-thousand-dollar payment to Krauss, Holmes and Sawyer’s Funeral Home.
A search of Google easily found the obituary for Meredith Galloway and an earlier article almost five years before in the
Chicago Tribune,
featuring three artists who were making it big on the international level. It included a photo of an attractive, dark-haired woman with an infectious smile despite the brooding brown eyes. It was her face that made it easy for Jason to commit the story to memory.
A large deposit followed by a large payment to the mortgage company indicated the sale of the house in the suburbs. Almost immediately came new paychecks from Florida State University and monthly payments to an apartment complex. All during this time there were no unusually large withdrawals, no paid memberships to suspect organizations, no purchases online of ingredients for deadly terrorist attacks or books from Amazon.com on defaming the president or his administration. Nothing Arthur Galloway bought or paid for seemed out of the ordinary, let alone marked him as a threat to the energy summit or to EchoEnergy or William Sidel. The only thing that connected him at all was his daughter.
Almost a year ago everything stopped. Outside of a onetime payment to a Dr. E. J. Fullerton, Arthur Galloway’s financial history—checking accounts, savings accounts, credit card accounts, everything—came to a grinding halt.
Dr. Fullerton’s longstanding association, currently as chief of staff, with the Florida State Hospital at Chattahoochee, Florida, seemed evidence enough of where Arthur Galloway was. No one on staff, however, would confirm that he was a patient. Even without confirmation Jason knew Galloway couldn’t possibly be a security risk. So why would William Sidel be worried? Whatever the daughter’s agenda, the father was hardly in any shape to even help her. Jason wondered if this was really about the energy summit.
Jason’s gut said no. He decided he needed to check something that had been nagging him ever since he and Senator Allen left EchoEnergy and Tallahassee after their trip last week.
He found a menu for a Thai place that would deliver, so he could order something to eat. He’d be here a while. All he needed was William Sidel’s social security number. He already had authorization codes and passwords—one of the perks of an important senator’s chief of staff.
After a few hours he would have a profile similar to what he had created on Arthur Galloway. Maybe following the money would tell him what the hell William Sidel was up to. And while he was at it maybe he’d check one other profile. Just because it was eating at him and maybe because he needed to find out why it was so easy to murder a member of a senator’s staff and keep the news media from pouncing on it.
Washington, D.C.
Jason Brill pushed away from the laptop computer on his desk. He rubbed his eyes and then tried to twist the knot out of the back of his neck. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see that he had been on the Internet nonstop for the last several hours. No wonder his eyes were starting to cross and his stomach was growling.
There appeared to be no secrets in Arthur Galloway’s life. Of course, Jason didn’t have access to anything on the order of FBI classified. What he did have would certainly not point to or highlight any suspicious activity. One thing Jason had learned from Senator Allen was how to read a bank account. Jason’s first assignment with the senator had been to find a leak within the senator’s own office staff. “Follow the money,” Senator Allen had told him. “A person’s bank account can’t hide a person’s true character.” Within days, Jason had found the staffer, an intern with a sudden passion for Prada and a new secret boyfriend at the
Washington Post.
After spending hours accessing and analyzing Arthur Galloway’s finances for the last five years, Jason had put together a profile that exhibited mostly sadness and defeat rather than anger and revenge. There were paychecks from an accomplished career at the University of Chicago and an alumni newsletter that named him professor of the year. Mortgage payments and property taxes for a two-story home in a Chicago suburb. Then things began to change drastically after a seventeen-thousand-dollar payment to Krauss, Holmes and Sawyer’s Funeral Home.
A search of Google easily found the obituary for Meredith Galloway and an earlier article almost five years before in the
Chicago Tribune,
featuring three artists who were making it big on the international level. It included a photo of an attractive, dark-haired woman with an infectious smile despite the brooding brown eyes. It was her face that made it easy for Jason to commit the story to memory.
A large deposit followed by a large payment to the mortgage company indicated the sale of the house in the suburbs. Almost immediately came new paychecks from Florida State University and monthly payments to an apartment complex. All during this time there were no unusually large withdrawals, no paid memberships to suspect organizations, no purchases online of ingredients for deadly terrorist attacks or books from Amazon.com on defaming the president or his administration. Nothing Arthur Galloway bought or paid for seemed out of the ordinary, let alone marked him as a threat to the energy summit or to EchoEnergy or William Sidel. The only thing that connected him at all was his daughter.
Almost a year ago everything stopped. Outside of a onetime payment to a Dr. E. J. Fullerton, Arthur Galloway’s financial history—checking accounts, savings accounts, credit card accounts, everything—came to a grinding halt.
Dr. Fullerton’s longstanding association, currently as chief of staff, with the Florida State Hospital at Chattahoochee, Florida, seemed evidence enough of where Arthur Galloway was. No one on staff, however, would confirm that he was a patient. Even without confirmation Jason knew Galloway couldn’t possibly be a security risk. So why would William Sidel be worried? Whatever the daughter’s agenda, the father was hardly in any shape to even help her. Jason wondered if this was really about the energy summit.
Jason’s gut said no. He decided he needed to check something that had been nagging him ever since he and Senator Allen left EchoEnergy and Tallahassee after their trip last week.
He found a menu for a Thai place that would deliver, so he could order something to eat. He’d be here a while. All he needed was William Sidel’s social security number. He already had authorization codes and passwords—one of the perks of an important senator’s chief of staff.
After a few hours he would have a profile similar to what he had created on Arthur Galloway. Maybe following the money would tell him what the hell William Sidel was up to. And while he was at it maybe he’d check one other profile. Just because it was eating at him and maybe because he needed to find out why it was so easy to murder a member of a senator’s staff and keep the news media from pouncing on it.
Pensacola Beach, Florida
Sabrina hated to see Miss Sadie leave. For the past year she had been Sabrina’s only true friend, though she certainly didn’t want to keep the old woman from her home. It was probably safer for her back in Tallahassee. By now, anyone looking for Sabrina would have discovered her gone. Yet after only half a day with Eric, Sabrina almost wanted to go back with Miss Sadie. There was something about Eric’s new life she didn’t trust. She was the one on the run yet Eric was the one who seemed all too prepared and familiar with life on the run.
The instructions he gave the old woman sounded more like a covert operation. It reminded Sabrina of some of the stuff they’d play when they were kids and Eric liked to pretend he was Steve Austin, the Bionic Man.
In a matter-of-fact tone, he had told Miss Sadie what to look for when she got back.
“It may seem like something perfectly ordinary, but doesn’t look right,” he told the old woman. “Maybe a cement truck at the end of the block, but no road or sidewalk construction. Maybe a cable-TV guy going door to door.”
Miss Sadie only nodded, but the information unnerved Sabrina. She wanted to believe Miss Sadie would be safe. She hated herself for having gotten her friend into this mess.
Eric filled the Studebaker’s gas tank and stocked a cooler of fresh goodies. He even offered an escort of one of his friends. Instead of the escort, Miss Sadie accepted a cell phone and number.
“You need anything, you call,” Eric instructed her. “Anything at all.”
After several promises and a somber goodbye, Miss Sadie and Lizzie Borden headed out. Shortly afterward, Eric took the plastic bag with the EchoEnergy glob of waste, saying he knew someone who could help identify the contents. He made Sabrina promise she wouldn’t leave his apartment or even answer the door and then he left. And that’s when she felt it, the hollow, empty feeling of being alone.
She paced his small apartment out of restlessness more than curiosity. Yet she couldn’t help noticing that there was very little here that personalized the place. No photos, no mail, no favorite take-out menus, which she remembered Eric had been famous for when he lived in Chicago. Their mother had kidded him about having more restaurants on his phone’s speed dial than women’s phone numbers. Eric’s quick comeback had always been that the two were his only vices—take-out food and women—noting that he never smoked or did drugs, drank very little alcohol and rarely swore.
Sabrina glanced in a few drawers. Come to think of it, there were no signs of women visitors, either, not even the overnight variety, though Sabrina had always suspected her good-looking, charming brother was more talk than action.
Sabrina had told herself that two years was enough time for a person to change. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea. She missed her brother, faults and quirks aside. She peeked inside his closet, hoping for a glimpse of familiarity. Instead, she found Ralph Lauren shirts and khakis and Sperry deck shoes. Everything had a designer label. Since when did Eric care?
Back in the corner was a set of Ping golf clubs and a Head tennis racquet. Outside the apartment door on the second-floor deck Sabrina had noticed a smaller version of what she thought to be a surfboard. Athletics had always come easy to Eric, so this stuff fit, though her very social brother had usually chosen team sports like basketball at the Y and league baseball. Golf was social, she told herself just as she noticed an engraved silver-plated nameplate on the golf bag that read
E. Gallo.
There was more than enough room on the nameplate. Why would he abbreviate his last name? Or was that what Eric was calling himself these days? And if so, why?
Pensacola Beach, Florida
Sabrina hated to see Miss Sadie leave. For the past year she had been Sabrina’s only true friend, though she certainly didn’t want to keep the old woman from her home. It was probably safer for her back in Tallahassee. By now, anyone looking for Sabrina would have discovered her gone. Yet after only half a day with Eric, Sabrina almost wanted to go back with Miss Sadie. There was something about Eric’s new life she didn’t trust. She was the one on the run yet Eric was the one who seemed all too prepared and familiar with life on the run.
The instructions he gave the old woman sounded more like a covert operation. It reminded Sabrina of some of the stuff they’d play when they were kids and Eric liked to pretend he was Steve Austin, the Bionic Man.
In a matter-of-fact tone, he had told Miss Sadie what to look for when she got back.
“It may seem like something perfectly ordinary, but doesn’t look right,” he told the old woman. “Maybe a cement truck at the end of the block, but no road or sidewalk construction. Maybe a cable-TV guy going door to door.”
Miss Sadie only nodded, but the information unnerved Sabrina. She wanted to believe Miss Sadie would be safe. She hated herself for having gotten her friend into this mess.
Eric filled the Studebaker’s gas tank and stocked a cooler of fresh goodies. He even offered an escort of one of his friends. Instead of the escort, Miss Sadie accepted a cell phone and number.
“You need anything, you call,” Eric instructed her. “Anything at all.”
After several promises and a somber goodbye, Miss Sadie and Lizzie Borden headed out. Shortly afterward, Eric took the plastic bag with the EchoEnergy glob of waste, saying he knew someone who could help identify the contents. He made Sabrina promise she wouldn’t leave his apartment or even answer the door and then he left. And that’s when she felt it, the hollow, empty feeling of being alone.
She paced his small apartment out of restlessness more than curiosity. Yet she couldn’t help noticing that there was very little here that personalized the place. No photos, no mail, no favorite take-out menus, which she remembered Eric had been famous for when he lived in Chicago. Their mother had kidded him about having more restaurants on his phone’s speed dial than women’s phone numbers. Eric’s quick comeback had always been that the two were his only vices—take-out food and women—noting that he never smoked or did drugs, drank very little alcohol and rarely swore.
Sabrina glanced in a few drawers. Come to think of it, there were no signs of women visitors, either, not even the overnight variety, though Sabrina had always suspected her good-looking, charming brother was more talk than action.
Sabrina had told herself that two years was enough time for a person to change. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea. She missed her brother, faults and quirks aside. She peeked inside his closet, hoping for a glimpse of familiarity. Instead, she found Ralph Lauren shirts and khakis and Sperry deck shoes. Everything had a designer label. Since when did Eric care?
Back in the corner was a set of Ping golf clubs and a Head tennis racquet. Outside the apartment door on the second-floor deck Sabrina had noticed a smaller version of what she thought to be a surfboard. Athletics had always come easy to Eric, so this stuff fit, though her very social brother had usually chosen team sports like basketball at the Y and league baseball. Golf was social, she told herself just as she noticed an engraved silver-plated nameplate on the golf bag that read
E. Gallo.
There was more than enough room on the nameplate. Why would he abbreviate his last name? Or was that what Eric was calling himself these days? And if so, why?