Fate of the Union Page 5

  She said, “Chris Bryson worked his whole life—he probably had something put away.”

  “Probably. Might have been moving money around. I didn’t check his financials.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  Miggie shrugged. “Hey, I ran with what you asked me to. I did confirm a PI license. As a security consultant, Bryson could’ve been doing an investigation for CSI.”

  She noted that mentally. “Any other corporate calls?”

  “A few, but nothing that added up to more than one or two.”

  She patted the table with both hands. “So, then—that’s it?”

  A crisp nod. “Afraid so. Can you get me Bryson’s computer? If I had that, I could tell you anything you want to know about the guy.”

  “I’ll have Reeder check with Mrs. Bryson.”

  “I’m not talking about his home computer so much, though I’d be happy to take a look. A guy who travels, in the security business? Get me his tablet or even laptop . . . dinosaur like Bryson, a laptop wouldn’t surprise me. That’s his safe—that’s where we’ll find all his secrets.”

  Reeder hadn’t mentioned any computer of Bryson’s. She wondered where the hell any computer of his might be, and more important . . .

  . . . was there something on it that got the man killed?

  “The World is my country, all mankind are my brethren, and to do good is my religion.”

  Thomas Paine

  FOUR

  Joe Reeder was a new man where his cell phone was concerned. Missing the call that could have saved Chris Bryson was obviously part of what inspired his new attitude. But Patti Rogers might check in with information, and so might Carl Bishop. For right now, anyway, Reeder was a field agent again—a private detective of sorts, with a client of one: himself.

  And a field agent on the job lived and died by his phone. Just ask Bryson.

  Seated on a bench one hundred yards east of (and down the hill from) the Tomb of the Unknowns, Reeder sent his eyes across the Potomac toward the Washington Monument, then to the National Mall and finally the Capitol, its dome currently encased in a cocoon of steel scaffolding. Last summer DC had suffered an earthquake in comparable magnitude to the 5.8 quake of ’11 that had necessitated repairs to the Washington Monument. Now the Capitol, sporting cracks in its cast-iron dome, was undergoing restoration and reinforcement for the first time since 2014.

  Reeder rarely visited Arlington during the cemetery’s open-to-the-public hours; having saved a President’s life, he had the unique perk of roaming the grounds whenever he chose. In those early morning hours, the place was his alone—his and the fallen around him, whose company he generally preferred to the living. Anyway, few tourists made a visit in this kind of cold and snow, and he needed his Fortress of Solitude to clear his head.

  After all, it wasn’t every morning he answered his cell before 6:00 a.m. Wasn’t every night that he put that cell on his nightstand, either, leaving the ringer on. But it wasn’t every day that he received a phone call from Adam Benjamin.

  No day ever before, actually.

  He’d bolted upright in the bed, like a buck private who found his commanding officer looming over his cot. Ready to blink the sleep out of his eyes and salute.

  For a man who did not believe in heroes, Reeder made an exception for Adam Benjamin. The man had overcome adversity in the too-early death of his wife, and transformed himself by hard work and brains from a simple small-college economics prof into one of the richest men in the world. He’d done it all himself, and he’d done it honestly.

  The billionaire investor had gradually become such a figure of American popularity that a groundswell movement based on his idea of common-sense centrism was gaining not just economic traction, but political momentum. Cable news outlets, right and left, spoke of a grassroots group that, if they could ever get themselves organized, would draft him to run independently for president.

  There’d been no secretary or assistant on the line, saying, “Hold for Mr. Benjamin.” Just that familiar, much-imitated voice from television interviews, distinctive in its warm Midwestern baritone, almost—but not quite—folksy.

  So familiar and imitated was the voice that Reeder wondered if this might not be a prank, worked by somebody at the ABC Security office who knew how much he admired the guy.

  “This is Adam Benjamin. Am I speaking to Joe Reeder?”

  He had nearly clicked off, rolled over and gone back to sleep. “Hell it is.”

  “The hell it is,” the voice said with a chuckle. “Mr. Reeder, I assure you that you enjoy the dubious honor of speaking to Adam Benjamin. Or do I really sound that much like those late-night comics would have it?”

  A hearty laugh followed, indicating this wasn’t the first time someone had not believed his caller.

  Businesslike, Reeder said, “If this is Adam Benjamin, would you mind telling me how you got this number? And why you didn’t call me at work? That number is listed.”

  “I apologize for the early hour. It’s actually earlier here in Ohio, but still I understand that this is an imposition. As for getting your number, might I immodestly mention that I own some portion of every phone company in this country? And a few elsewhere. As for my reason for calling so early, that will become apparent, if you allow this conversation to continue.”

  Seemed to be Benjamin, all right. Strength, courtesy, and confidence.

  “Okay, Mr. Benjamin. What’s the reason for this wake-up call?”

  “Call me ‘Adam,’ if you would.”

  “Not just yet. And I’m fine with ‘Mr. Reeder’ till I know what’s going on. There remains at least some possibility I’m speaking to an imposter.”

  With a smile in his voice, the caller said, “But you’re the ‘people reader.’”

  “Not over the phone I’m not. I need faces. Whole bodies when necessary.”

  “Understood. The reason for my call, Mr. Reeder, is to discuss some business that we might do.”

  “I don’t do endorsements, and all my money is tied up in my own firm or already securely invested.”

  The tiniest hint of irritation came through. “Mr. Reeder, I have a reputation for being something of a ‘good ol’ boy,’ but this is hardly phone solicitation. I have others to do that kind of thing for me.”

  Reeder smiled. “Well, I guess you would. That was just my way of suggesting you be more specific about what it is you want with me . . . or from me.”

  Silence.

  Then: “Fair enough, but I don’t want to talk about our potential business on any phone, nor do I wish to be seen walking into your corporate headquarters.”

  “Might be a little below your standards at that.”

  “We both know that it’s not,” the caller said. “In fact, your business has never been better.”

  “What do you have in mind, Mr. Benjamin?”

  “Could we talk about that this evening? Over dinner?”

  “All right. Where?”

  “The Holiday Inn Express in Falls Church, Virginia.”

  Part of the greater DC metro area, but out of the way enough not to attract media attention. Made sense. But the Holiday Inn Express?

  “Why that, uh, venue?”

  “Well, it’s where I’ll be staying tonight.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Anyway, you said dinner. The only meal they serve is breakfast, and I’m pretty sure we’ll be past the cutoff.”

  The warm laugh again. “We’ll come up with something to eat, Mr. Reeder. I’m not asking you to brown bag it. As for the . . . accommodations? I like my privacy, including coming and going as I please. Under the radar, so to speak.”

  “I think it’s time for you to start calling me Joe.”

  “Not ‘Peep,’ as the media would have it?”

  “No. I hate that nickname.”

  “You could have it worse. As a boy they called me ‘Adam Ant.’ So make it Adam.”

  “All right, Adam. But frankly, with your money, you could rent
a floor at a five-star hotel and have plenty of privacy, and they’d probably get you in and out without anyone knowing.”

  “I could. But it’s easier for me to rent an entire Holiday Inn Express in the suburbs, have them put ‘Welcome Conventioneers’ on their sign, and keep a truly low profile. Which would you choose?”

  “If I had the dough,” he admitted, “probably your way.”

  “It’s only common sense,” Benjamin said, invoking the catchphrase that had been his calling card since he began his investment business.

  “I do apologize for the early call,” he went on, “but I have to allow for making my way to you, and there are arrangements to handle. Shall we say six? Just go to the front desk.”

  The rest of the day, Reeder wondered what kind of business Benjamin might have for him. Hiring ABC Security didn’t require one CEO calling the other. Several years ago, Reeder had sold 49 percent of his firm to investors—he wondered if Benjamin had secretly been one of them.

  Now that ABC was making more money than ever, was America’s savviest investor coming after the rest of the company? If so, Benjamin approaching Reeder personally might have to do with a sort of celebrity-to-celebrity courtesy. Otherwise, in the greater scheme of things, ABC would seem small damn potatoes to a wheeler-dealer like that.

  Benjamin’s astounding phone call had brought Reeder to Arlington National Cemetery to think things through, to mull it over. Back up the hill, he heard the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns click his heels together. Judging from a sound Reeder had heard many times, the guard was at the north end of the mat. So was Reeder. The guard would turn toward the tomb and face east, but wouldn’t see Reeder. His bench at the bottom of the hill was behind a low wall. Of course, the guard might note the plume of Reeder’s breath.

  Silently, Reeder counted to twenty-one with the guard.

  As Reeder’s lips formed the last number, the guard’s heels clicked and the count began again. In twenty-one seconds, the guard would take twenty-one paces south, click his heels, then turn east again. Reeder knew the ritual as well as any guard who ever walked the mat.

  To him it meant peace and serenity, its symbolism and every click of the guard’s heels giving him a little surge of patriotism, of purpose. He never spoke of this, had never shared it even with his late friend Sloan, and certainly not Melanie or Amy. Patti Rogers might get it, former Army MP that she was. He knew some, perhaps many, would consider him an aging cornball, mired in a red-white-and-blue past that never really existed. Their loss.

  With a sigh, he rose. Ready for the meeting, whatever it might be.

  Back in his Prius, just reaching to turn the key, he was interrupted by the trill of his cell. No more ignoring that! He checked the caller ID—PATTI ROGERS.

  “Hey, Patti. Anything yet?”

  Her hello was: “Do you have your friend’s computer?”

  “No, but I can get to any home computers through his wife. The cops would probably have any work machine.”

  “What would your friend Chris have had with him on a job? In his motel room? A tablet maybe?”

  Reeder thought for a moment. “Seems like the last time I was at his office, he used a laptop. Cops should have that, too. I’ll check. What about his two phones?”

  “Nothing much on either. Miggie says Chris’s computers are our best shot.”

  “Thanks, Patti. I’ll talk to his wife, Beth, later tonight. Right now I’ve got a meeting with Adam Benjamin, of all people.”

  “Did you already talk to Miggie?”

  “Huh?” How had she made a leap from a billionaire to a computer geek? “Why would you—”

  Interrupting, she said, “Only thing Miggie found on your friend’s cell were a couple calls from that Common Sense Investments group of Benjamin’s.”

  “Huh. You think Chris may have had money with them?”

  “Don’t know,” she said. “My bad for not running his financials.”

  “I’ll ask Beth,” Reeder said, mostly to himself.

  “Should I have Miggie run those financials?”

  “Please.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.” He smiled at the phone. “But it’s nice to know Uncle Sam’s finest is at my beck and call.”

  “Anything for a taxpayer. But there’s a quid pro quo here—I want to run something past you, next time we’re together.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Something my unit’s getting nowhere with.”

  “Sure. Dinner tomorrow night?”

  She said, “Right. I’ll buy. I’ll pick where.”

  Even with rush hour traffic, the drive to Falls Church wasn’t bad, though it got dark quickly once he got going. At the Holiday Inn Express, Reeder saw at once that things looked off. Three black SUVs were parked at the curb in front of the entry doors. Though neighboring motels and restaurants were doing good business, the Holiday Inn Express lot was empty but for a half-dozen vehicles along one side of the building, employees probably. Those conventioneers welcomed by the hotel’s marquee must have been out on the town . . .

  So Reeder didn’t have a whole lot of trouble finding a parking place. Inside, past the automatic doors, he saw a female desk clerk at left and four men scattered around the small lobby—sofa, easy chair, table by the breakfast area, one casually chatting up the young glazed-looking brunette. They wore black suits and various one-tone ties and guns tough to spot under their suit coats. Tough if you weren’t an ex–Secret Service agent.

  The sofa guy rose. At fifty-something, he was ten or more years older than the others, and might have been ex–Secret Service himself, earpiece, wrist mic. Dark hair clipped close, brown eyes wary.

  Reeder skipped the desk clerk and her chaperone and went over to the man who’d risen upon his entry.

  “Mr. Reeder?” he asked. Voice polite, eyes hard.

  As if Reeder’s mug and white hair hadn’t been splashed all over cable news for the last year. “Right. Here to see Mr. Benjamin. But you know that.”

  He nodded. “If you’ll follow me . . .”

  While the two who were still seated stayed behind, the desk clerk’s chaperone fell in behind Reeder and his escort, in a kind of hi-ho-hi-ho line. They walked down a corridor a short distance to a first-floor room.

  The fiftyish bodyguard, Reeder just behind him, knocked at room 103.

  A security man inside opened the door and allowed them in. Just another Holiday Inn Express room, not fancy but acceptable, if you were some midlevel or lower executive. Across the room, a man and a woman sat on opposite sides of a round table, sleek high-end laptops back to back. Both sexes wore business suits in shades of gray; midthirties, shortish dark hair, the female’s a lighter shade of brown, tied up in a bun.

  When Reeder entered, neither acknowledged him even with a glance, though both closed the lids of their computers. Sitting in a wing chair in one corner, a guy around Reeder’s age did not take his attention from his smartphone at this new arrival; his suit coat lay folded on the back of the chair with a military care that went with his short brown hair. An inch-and-a-half scar along his right cheekbone started just under his eye.

  They were all businesspeople, no doubt, although the scarred man’s business might be security. The laptop pair were minions of the man who was not in the room: Adam Benjamin.

  Reeder’s fiftyish escort exited, closing the door behind him. The inside bodyguard took his post there, remaining silent. Everybody remained silent, including Reeder. If they didn’t want to talk to him, he didn’t want to talk to them. Then a flush, running water, and the bathroom door opened.

  Adam Benjamin strode out, a smile splitting his face as he saw Reeder, coming right over to offer a hand.

  Though dark-framed, large-lensed glasses provided a hint of the professor he’d once been, Adam Benjamin was clearly no weakling refugee from academia. According to Benjamin’s most recent book, Common Sense for the Uncommon Man—which Reeder had read on a plane last year—the man worked o
ut daily (he’d played football at Ohio State), ate well but sensibly (cheeseburgers an unguilty pleasure), and steered clear of tailored clothing, as evidenced by his navy blue, red-pinstriped cardigan with open-throat white dress shirt, navy slacks, and well-worn black loafers.

  His silver hair still showing some dark brown, Benjamin was approaching seventy, but looked some years younger, his oval face handsome, in an avuncular way—strong Roman nose, wide thin-lipped mouth, kind dark eyes. In the flesh as on television, he personified the middle-class values that he extolled in the media.

  “Joe,” he said as they shook hands. “Adam Benjamin.”

  “Yeah. I recognized you.”

  That chuckle was even warmer in person. “And I you.”

  And still they shook, Benjamin’s grip firm but no self-conscious knuckle crusher. Reeder met the pressure.

  “I may not have sounded like it on the phone, Adam, but I am a fan.”

  “That’s flattering. As am I of you, sir.”

  Reeder finally stopped the handshake. It had gone on too long and, anyway, this mutual appreciation society routine was getting a bit much.

  The scarred guy in the wing chair had put the smartphone away. He was on his feet, climbing into his jacket.

  “Joe,” Benjamin said, gesturing, “this is my majordomo, Frank Elmore.”

  Reeder shook hands with the man, just a single firm shake. Elmore’s eyes were on Benjamin. The guy knew which side the butter went on, and who wielded the butter knife.

  He said, in an emotionless baritone, “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Not now, Frank. Get yourself something to eat. I’ll call.”

  The laptop pair tagged after Elmore, pausing just long enough for Benjamin to identify them: “My VP of Special Projects, Lynn Barr, and my chief accountant, Lawrence Schafer. I’m sure you recognize Joe Reeder.”

  With small meaningless smiles, the pair exchanged nods but not handshakes with Reeder, then followed Elmore out. But for the bodyguard just inside the door, this would seem to be a private meeting.

  Big wide smile from Benjamin. “Joe, have a seat.”