When No One Is Watching (25 page)

“Like I said, you’ve got a great memory. What about the 911 recording? Is the quality good?”

“As I recall, it’s perfect. I remember the caller saying he’d been in an accident and that the guy in the other car was hurt pretty bad. That’s about all there was to it.”

“Did the caller sound drunk?”

“Hmmm … Not that I remember, but it was ten years ago. I seem to recall him sounding a bit panicked, which is pretty normal, but I don’t remember thinking that the guy sounded drunk.”

“Did you recognize the voice?” Slazak asked, trying hard to sound nonchalant.

“No. Should I?”

“Probably not. I was just curious.”

“Well, like I said, it’s a good quality recording, so it may be fairly easy to recognize the voice if you think you know who it is.”

“I’d like to get my hands on that stuff as soon as I can. When can I come by and get it?”

“I’ll be home about seven o’clock tonight, so any time after that is fine. I live in Oak Lawn now.” He gave Slazak the address.

“Thanks, Nolan. I still owe you.”

“Yes, you do, Slazak, and don’t think I’ll forget it.”

Slazak was about to hang up, but caught himself. “Hey, Nolan, how’s everything with you?” he asked in a voice that was softer and sincere. “Has life treated you okay since you left the force?”

“Life is good, Slazak. Thanks for asking. I’ll see you tonight.”

CHAPTER 37
L
ike sharks sensing blood in the water, the inner circle of the Hamilton campaign organization was in a frenzied state, eager to launch into attack mode. Freddy Salazar had just briefed the team on his meeting with the former Chicago cop whose story could dramatically alter the course of the presidential election campaign. In addition to Hamilton and Salazar, the inner circle consisted of George Raines, director of campaign strategy; Susan Nash, deputy campaign manager; and Martin Schwartz, chief media adviser. Due to the nature of the issue, Schwartz’s two assistant media advisers, Derrick Woods and Tina Witherspoon, were also present.

 

The entire group seemed to be talking at once, as soon as Salazar finished sharing his report. Henry Hamilton raised his arms and whistled loudly. “Okay, listen up, team. We need to work together closely on this one, and we need to work fast. Let’s talk about how we get this story out. There are lots of options. We could leak it to the media. We could call a press conference. We could have Slazak call a press conference. Or we could turn him loose with a single reporter, as long as it’s the right one. There are probably plenty of other avenues as well. Tell me what you think.”

George Raines spoke up first. “We need to keep our distance on this, Senator. If it comes from our camp, then some people will be skeptical, and it looks like we’re fighting dirty. There’s no need to go there. Let it come directly from the source, which is the cop.”

“That’s a good point, George, but I think we need to take a big step back before we go there,” said Susan Nash. “Let’s make sure that this guy is for real before we go off half-cocked with this thing. What do we know for certain? What evidence is there to back up this guy’s story?”

Freddy Salazar spoke up. “I called our sources with the Chicago PD. Slazak left the force abruptly, right after the accident, just like he said. And I was able to confirm that he’s been getting a full pension even though he was ten years short of qualifying for it, so that part of his story checks out, too. He also told me that he left incriminating evidence in the custody of a crime lab guy by the name of Nolan. My source tells me that there was an evidence technician on the force by the name of Michael Nolan, who left the department and went into private business about five years ago.”

“That’s not much,” Nash replied curtly. “So, we know who this guy is, but exactly what evidence does he have?”

“I was just getting to that,” said Salazar. “I spoke with Slazak by phone less than an hour ago. He confirmed that Nolan does have hard evidence, and that it will be in Slazak’s hands tonight. More specifically, he’s got a blood analysis report showing that the blood found in the car is Type B negative, which is fairly rare. Less than 2 percent of the population has that blood type. Van Howe made his medical records public, and guess what: he’s Type B negative. Moran, the guy who was convicted, is Type O. And it gets better. There’s a recording of the 911 call that was made from the accident site.

The quality of the recording is said to be excellent, and Slazak is convinced the voice will be recognizable as that of Blair Van Howe. I’d say that’s pretty compelling stuff!”

“It may be, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” cautioned Schwartz. “Let’s wait until we can examine the evidence for ourselves.”

Again, multiple voices began chattering at once. Senator Hamilton allowed the animated and sometimes heated discussions to continue for several minutes; then he again raised his arms, gesturing for silence.

“Here’s how I see this,” he spoke over the crowd, which abruptly came to the attention. “Time is of the essence. We need to act fast. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and we can’t miss it. If this guy Slazak gets cold feet or disappears, we have nothing. He’s ready to move, so we need to move now.”

Martin Swartz looked doubtful. “But if his evidence doesn’t pan out—”

Hamilton abruptly cut him off. “Slazak should have that evidence tonight, and he’s agreed to share it with Freddy. We won’t make any decisions until that happens, but in the meantime, let’s get our plans in place. Hell, even if his evidence isn’t as solid as we hope it’ll be, the strongest evidence is Slazak himself. It doesn’t matter whether he can prove his case beyond a reasonable doubt. He doesn’t have to. The mere fact he comes forward with this story will raise all kinds of questions about Van Howe.”

“And those questions themselves may cause Van Howe’s lead in the polls to evaporate overnight,” Freddy Salazar pointed out in a confident voice. “The court of public opinion doesn’t require proof beyond a reasonable doubt.”

Henry Hamilton paused for a long moment and stared at his advisers with a look of newly found confidence. “Ladies and gentlemen, elections are unpredictable. They can turn on a dime. Unexpected developments can dramatically alter the course of events. It looks to me like the outcome of this election may very well be in the hands of an ex-Chicago cop by the name of Victor Slazak.”

CHAPTER 38
T
he late-August sunshine beat down on his face, and the sounds of summer surrounded him—lawnmowers, sprinklers, and the ubiquitous cicadas—as Danny Moran trudged along Longwood Drive, a gently winding street at the base of the city’s only real hill. Perched atop the hill were stately old mansions built during the early part of the twentieth century by some of the most renowned architects of the time. Spacious, well-manicured lawns sloped downward toward the street, creating a scenic backdrop for a morning exercise walk.

 

Danny’s walks had always invigorated him, physically and mentally. Until this past summer, he’d always walked alone and found it to be a good time for reflection and meditation. Therefore, it was with some reluctance that he had given up that solitary time to allow T. J. McGrath to join him in his daily exercise routine. Despite his reservations, Danny soon found that he enjoyed having T. J. accompany him, both because he felt it was doing T. J. some good and also because he truly enjoyed the company of his young friend. He hadn’t seen or heard from T. J. since his startling and tragic revelation, and his walk now felt lonely.

For years, Danny’s three-and-a-half-mile walk had taken him precisely one hour. The exercise had typically left him feeling clearheaded and energized, even when the elements were not cooperating. Today, the weather couldn’t have been more pleasant, yet his legs felt heavy and his breathing labored before he got halfway through his route. The walks had been getting progressively more difficult over the past few months. He had tried to shrug it off as a natural part of the aging process, but he was only fifty-one years old. Then there was the persistent nagging pain in his abdomen and the sporadic vomiting for no apparent reason, as well as the fact that his friends had been telling him that he looked tired.

Danny sat down on a fire hydrant, not because it looked inviting or comfortable, but because he felt like he couldn’t go on without stopping for a rest. “Crap,” he muttered to himself. “I’ve got to do something about this.”

He knew that, on some level, he’d been in denial. Life was so good for him now. He remembered telling Allie when he turned fifty that he felt better about himself than he ever had and that he was certain the best years of his life were right in front of him. He couldn’t allow some pesky health issue to interfere with that. Yet he couldn’t go on like this anymore, either. His daily walk had become a dreaded, grueling ordeal, rather than the invigorating highlight of his day that it used to be. He changed course and walked toward the office of his good friend, Dr. Rich Carroll, on Western Avenue, hoping that Rich would be able to see him without an appointment.

CHAPTER 39
B
obby Rosensteel was in his element as he scurried around the San Diego Convention Center. In three days, the place would be overrun with thousands of delegates, politicians, and reporters. This morning, the advance guards were doing their things: television crews setting up their equipment, security details receiving their briefings, facility personnel making sure that the seating and festive convention décor were just right.

Bobby had his own reasons for being there early. He wanted to personally ensure that the accommodations for his boss and the staff were suitable and that the setup of the stage and the convention floor was to his liking. In addition, he had scheduled meetings with party leaders and convention organizers to ensure that every aspect of the carefully choreographed program was precisely as he wanted it. He had also arranged pre-convention meetings with elected officials from key states where he needed those officials to be vocal and visible in their support of the Democratic nominee to get the vote out.

Bobby had attended every Democratic National Convention for the last twenty-eight years. Some were memorable and some were not. He was determined to leave nothing to chance and to make this one the most memorable yet. There would be no suspense this time, no surprises and no dissension within the party ranks. He could not remember going into a convention when the presidential nominee had generated such universal and enthusiastic support throughout the party. It was more than just party loyalty and support—it was unabashed excitement, an infectious exuberance generated by a candidate whose charisma sparked comparisons to our greatest presidents. His popularity was soaring, as evidenced by an ever-widening gap between him and the Republican candidate, Henry Hamilton. This would feel like a coronation. It would be a celebration and a preview of the inauguration festivities that would surely follow when Blair Van Howe was elected president of the United States in sixty-nine days.

Bobby’s cell phone rang as he chatted with the television engineers, checking out the various camera angles on their monitors. He looked at the caller ID, excused himself, and walked away from the television technicians to answer the call.

“Bobby, it’s me. Can you talk?”

Bobby Rosensteel felt a rush of adrenaline at the sound of the voice. It was Derek Woods, his mole inside the Hamilton camp. He had given Woods strict instructions not to contact him by phone except under the most urgent circumstances.

“Hold on, Woodsie, let me get to a quiet place.” Bobby stepped outside and walked along the expansive concourse overlooking San Diego Harbor, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the brilliant sunshine sparkling off the blue waters. “Okay, talk to me,” he ordered.

“Hamilton’s team is about to drop a bombshell,” Woods said in a voice that was low and urgent. “They’ve come into some information that implicates Van Howe in a messy situation that happened ten years ago. If it’s true, this could blow Van Howe right out of the water.”

Sam McIntire awoke to the sound of loud pounding on his hotel room door. “Hold on, I’m coming,” he bellowed irritably. He opened the door, and Bobby Rosensteel rushed past him into the room.

“You haven’t been straight with me, Sam!” Bobby shouted, flailing his arms. “I need you to come clean right now!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam shot back, looking surprised and angry.

“When I accepted this assignment, I told you and I told Blair, no surprises! I told you that if there were any skeletons in the closet, I needed to know about them up front. Remember that?”

Sam glared at him. “What’s your point?”

“You’ve been holding back on me, both of you!”

Sam drew himself up to his full height and glowered at the agitated little man in front of him. “What the hell are you talking about, Bobby?”

“Here’s what I’m talking about: Hamilton’s camp has information about a car accident that happened ten years ago. My sources tell me that they believe Blair was driving home from a party late one night, and he ran somebody off the road. The guy was killed. Blair’s former partner was with him, but he was drunk and passed out. They claim to have evidence that Blair fled the scene and framed his partner, who wound up in jail. Please tell me that’s not true, Sam!”

“Shit!” Sam muttered angrily, turning his back on Bobby and walking toward the window.

“Sam?” Bobby’s voice rose with alarm at the lack of any denial.

“That’s bullshit,” Sam replied in a steady voice after a long silence. “At least, most of it.”

“Tell me what part of it is
not
bullshit,” Bobby demanded.

“Here’s what happened,” Sam said slowly, still staring out the window at the sailboats darting around the harbor. “Blair and his partner, Danny Moran, were at a reception late on a Saturday night. Moran drove home, but he was pretty loaded. He passed out at the wheel and drove a guy off the road, into a tree, and the guy died a few days later. Blair did what he could. He tried to help the guy out of the car, but he couldn’t get him out. He was really wedged in there. Moran wasn’t hurt, but he was passed out. Blair called 911, and when they got close, he took off. It was stupid as hell, but Blair had just announced his candidacy for Congress. He was afraid that if word got out that he was there at the accident scene, the public would find fault with him—you know, guilt by association.” Sam turned around and shrugged. “That’s what happened,” he said meekly. “Blair didn’t cause the accident. There was nothing he could have done to save the guy other than what he did.”