Sleeping Dogs (12 page)
“You sound tired, Dad.”“Down to the wire, sweetheart. I'm always like this about now in the campaign.” I almost said, “You remember.” But of course she wouldn't remember. She was the first among her friends to have parents who divorced. She'd been ten. Sometimes four, five drinks down I could still hear her weeping, begging us not to split up. I once broke three knuckles smashing my fist into a hotel wall when those images came back to me one lonely night on the road. “How's school going?”
“I'm taking theater as a minor, I've decided.”
“Well, at least you don't want to be a rock star.”
She giggled. “Why? Is that the thing now?”
“I was sitting around with some pols downtown the other night and four out of five of them said they had college-age kids who told them they planned to be rock stars. Theater sounds like a sensible decision compared to that. At least you could teach.”
“You're getting carried away, Dad. My major is still poly sci.”
“Maybe you should make your major theater and poly sci your minor.”
“You're really down tonight. Are you all right?”
“Tired, I guess.”
“You need a woman.”
“Believe it or not, I'm getting ready, I think. Finally.”
“I have a beautiful English professor here. She'd love to meet you. I even showed her your picture. She thinks you look sad and that intrigues her.”
“Wait'll she sees me if we lose the election.”
“Lake really caught up after that debate. Did anybody ever figure out what happened?”
“The official chemical report is that somebody slipped something called flunitrazepam in his Diet Pepsi. It's one of those date-rape drugs. And they figured out how to time it so it hit about fifteen minutes into the debate.”
“I haven't seen that on the news.”
“We just got word late today.”
Cupping the phone: “Hi, Lauren. I'm just talking to my dad.”
Her roommate. When she took her hand away I said, “Listen, honey, I'm beat. I just wanted to call and see how you were doing.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“I sure love you, hon.” It was one of those moments when I wanted to just sit there and sob and I wasn't even sure why.
Ten minutes later I was in my boxers with a Robert Ryan picture on TBS. Of all the noir men, Ryan's my favorite. Melancholy and crazy at the same time. Feelings not unknown to me on my worst nights.
When the phone rang I almost decided not to answer it. But I had to answer it. Otherwise I'd lie there for hours wondering what the message had been. If it was important they'd make any words they left on the machine as cryptic as possible in case one or both of us had our phones tapped. I picked up.
“I know how late this is.” Kate.
“This couldn't possibly be good news could it?”
“No, Bunny.” She loved pet names. “But not bad news, either. I just found but that Gabe is leaving us and I wondered if you knew what it was all about.”
“Who told you?”
“Gabe. On the phone. I called the office. He was still there. He was drunk but coherent. Some small press gave him a book deal?”
“Yeah, I know. Doesn't make sense to me, either.”
Pause. “You know what I'm thinking ⦔
“Probably what I'm thinking.”
“But I don't want to say it.”
“Neither do I. But I may as well hang it out there. Maybe Gabe did the deed the other night.”
“He had reason.”
“He did indeed.”
“And it wouldn't have been all that hard to do.”
“No, it wouldn't.”
“But it's not even good circumstantial evidence.”
“I forgot you went to law school for a year.”
“Two years.”
“That's even worse.”
She laughed. “You and lawyers.”
“Can't live with âem and can't live with 'em.”
“Maybe we should just forget this call. I just can't believe Gabe'd do something like that.”
“You ever hear anything about him confronting Warren?”
“Gabe? Confronting Warren? That's impossible. Gabe doesn't have it in him.”
“Yeah,” I said. “He sure doesn't.” I let go a sigh. It sounded weary even to my own ears.
“Sounds like you need some sleep, Dev.”
“I sure need something. I'll talk to you in the morning.”
I worked from my hotel room the next morning. I got Beth's phone number from Billy and called her at home. He said she was working the noon-to-eight shift at the beauty salon.She didn't sound unduly happy to hear from me. But then she had no reason to. She was struggling with her feelings about her fatherâwhom she probably loved about twenty percent less than she hatedâand I was forcing her to walk into a past fraught with proof of his sins.
“You want something. I can tell.”
“I need your help, yes. I'll pay you to help me.”
“I don't want any money, Dev.”
“Well, I appreciate that,” I said. “Did you ever do any work on the computer for your father?”
“Sometimes. He couldn't keep secretaries. He always put the moves on them and they quit.”
“I need to find his computer and his password.”
“You want his computer?”
“I need to find out who he was working with the last couple of months. That may give us our killer.”
“I guess I never thought of that.”
“I know you have mixed feelings about him, but I'm sure you want to find his killer, don't you?”
“I guess I owe him that. He didn't deserve to die.”
I was noble for once. I didn't tell her that there were a few hundred pols who might disagree with her on that. “No, he didn't. And that's why I need your help.”
Long pause. “I have his laptop here in my apartment.”
“Do you mind if I come over and get it?”
“I need to leave for work in an hour. Can you be here by then?”
I was there in forty-five minutes.
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I
went back to my hotel room and set off on a four-hour journey that took me through a list of Greaves's clients, which held several surprises. Some of the members of Congress who complained loudest about how corrupt and dirty politics had become had spent a lot of money, it seemed, with the wily Mr. Greaves. And from both parties. One page revealed a coding system that he used to hide various charges to his clients. They knew the code but were happy that nobody else did, the code hiding such items as escort services, gumshoes, even, in one case, a violent shakedown man well-known to the D.C. police. Greaves farmed out many of his smaller jobs. One of his principal tasks was collecting cash from firms that wanted favors from certain elected officials. This protected the client and the official alike. If a fall had to be taken, Greaves would take it.
went back to my hotel room and set off on a four-hour journey that took me through a list of Greaves's clients, which held several surprises. Some of the members of Congress who complained loudest about how corrupt and dirty politics had become had spent a lot of money, it seemed, with the wily Mr. Greaves. And from both parties. One page revealed a coding system that he used to hide various charges to his clients. They knew the code but were happy that nobody else did, the code hiding such items as escort services, gumshoes, even, in one case, a violent shakedown man well-known to the D.C. police. Greaves farmed out many of his smaller jobs. One of his principal tasks was collecting cash from firms that wanted favors from certain elected officials. This protected the client and the official alike. If a fall had to be taken, Greaves would take it.
Though no detail was given, there was an asterisked list of elected officials' names accompanied by specific dates and the names of cities. I was pretty sure that this was his private list of people he was blackmailing.
He'd probably gotten to them the way he'd gotten to Warren. A man's opponent would hire him, in the course of his investigation Greaves would see an opportunity to do some blackmailing on his own, and he would keep everything from his client.
He'd probably gotten to them the way he'd gotten to Warren. A man's opponent would hire him, in the course of his investigation Greaves would see an opportunity to do some blackmailing on his own, and he would keep everything from his client.
I was scouting names that recurred. Few did. You couldn't afford an association with Greaves. So you kept his employment brief. You wanted to put a nasty on your opponent's head. Once you got the nasty, it was bye-bye, Greaves. He hadn't been exaggerating when he said that he'd never been invited to a governor's ball or to a party on the Hill. If he looked like a pal of yours, the press would have you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You would be handing your opponent a formidable campaign issueâyour association with Greaves.
In the last hour I found one name that appeared three times. I cross-checked the name with the dates of Warren's travels. I was able to match the name and date to the young woman who played the hotel maid with Warren.
The full name was listed only once. It was coded SC for secretarial services. From then on she went by the initials DF. Dani Fame. Though I knew that I was probably being my old judgmental self, I suspected that anybody with a name like Dani Fame was not (a) a police commissioner, (b) a NASA spokeswoman, or (c) a nun. She was more than likely a stripper who might be doing a bit of hooking on the side. This last suggested by the fact that she'd gone in and bopped Warren with no apparent qualms.
Thus began the last of my journey. Going online and scanning through all the entertainment ads and strip club listings in the city. At any other time the names would have been fun to just sit and ponder. Mona Mountains. Candy Crevice. Bambi Big. But this was work, and about halfway through the listings I considered the real possibility that one Dani Fame might well have moved on to other cities and other pols, possibly even at Greaves's suggestion. A million-dollar score, even for him, had to be a very stressful hit. If she was in the city,
there was always the possibility that she'd somehow be identified as his associate. Even worse, he had to know that there was also the possibility that she might start blackmailing
him.
The name Dani Fame didn't inspire confidence where virtue was concerned. If you'll pardon me being judgmental.
there was always the possibility that she'd somehow be identified as his associate. Even worse, he had to know that there was also the possibility that she might start blackmailing
him.
The name Dani Fame didn't inspire confidence where virtue was concerned. If you'll pardon me being judgmental.
Then I got lucky. I not only found where she was appearing; I found her website. Only one nudie shot, breasts only. But a good number of suggestive posesâanal, oral, doggy style, missionary position, and a couple that would require the skills of a gymnast and superhero to respond to effectively. The surprise was that she had, if you scrubbed away all the bad makeup, a very pretty down-home face. And the lively blue eyes reflected a real humor, as if she knew that this was pretty hokey. I suspected she was intelligent and maybe even fun to be with out of bed as well as in.
I took a break, did push-ups and sit-ups to clear my mind for another round at the computer. I ordered a burger and fries for lunch as my reward for being such a computer whiz and then went back to work.
Detective Sayers's idea that one of the staff had drugged Warren's drink was worth following up on. I'd had the same idea, of course, and so had Kate. But as I worked through page after page, I didn't see any name or code or symbols that resembled any staff member. I spent a lot of time matching names with codes. But it led nowhere.
And then it was there. On a page by itself. At first I didn't understand its significance. I hadn't known him. His name wasn't familiar to me. I'd probably heard it only two or three times in my life.
PHIL WYLIE
I was just about to try the next page when the name's importance became clear.
Of course. The man who'd worked all those years for Warren. The man who'd been truly beloved by what seemed to be the entire staff. The man who'd committed suicide a few days ago.
PHIL WYLIE
The rest of the page was absolutely blank. No code. No indication of what their business had been. No hint of any time frame.
PHIL WYLIE
From the little I knew about the man, he'd been something of a highbrow. Opera. Theater. Galleries. And a lover of beautiful, wealthy women, any number of whom had gotten quite silly about him. The “silly” thing being nothing but envy on my part. He'd probably been the guy I'd always
wanted
to be. I still thought the Three Stooges were funny, and the last beautiful wealthy woman I'd known had been the wife of a rich client of mine. She always said that I scared her.
wanted
to be. I still thought the Three Stooges were funny, and the last beautiful wealthy woman I'd known had been the wife of a rich client of mine. She always said that I scared her.
PHIL WYLIE
Suddenly he wasn't just a name. He was a mystery. He'd killed himself. And now his name was appearing in R. D. Greaves's computer.
It was amusing to imagine these two doing businessâthe handsome, sleek Wylie and the coarse, shaggy Greaves.
I spent the next half hour reading all the local news stories about his suicide. Not a hint of foul play was suggested in any one of them. An unidentified woman, said to be “a good friend,” told a reporter that she'd noted a certain despondency in him lately. “And he was almost never depressed. He was a pure pleasure to be with.”
The stories confirmed my faded memories of his background. Moneyed family, Harvard Law, condo here, home in Aspen, political junkie who'd worked for Senator Nichols at one time. Twice married, twice divorced, a perennial on the local “Most Eligible Bachelors” list.
PHIL WYLIE
The Greaves connection just didn't make any sense. None at all.
And yet there his name was.
I poured myself a bourbon and drank it slowly, trying to think through all the angles the name presented. But by now I was too fatigued to puzzle them through. I even had to consider the possibility that the name meant nothing. That for some reason Greaves had
decided to contact him but that the contact hadn't gotten him anything. The page was, after all, blank except for the name.
decided to contact him but that the contact hadn't gotten him anything. The page was, after all, blank except for the name.
And then came the Edgar Allan Poe Hour and I nursed my familiar dusk depression for a time. Light a dirty city gray now in my windows. Roar of rush hour. Stream of limos disgorging people glittery or important enough to check into the hotel here. Voices of new guests in the hall. There would be fine food and finer sex for those lucky enough to indulge. Those insensitive swine. Did they think I
wanted
to be up here all alone? The only trouble with self-pity as a substitute for aerobics is that it doesn't do much for the waistline.
wanted
to be up here all alone? The only trouble with self-pity as a substitute for aerobics is that it doesn't do much for the waistline.
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