3 a.m. (Henry Bins 1) (9 page)

“
I talked with
him.”

She cuts her eyes at me. “Who?”

“
The
President.”

“
Yeah, right. You talked
with Connor Sullivan.”

“
I did. Two nights
ago.”

It takes her three seconds to realize I'm
not joking. She takes two steps towards me. We are a foot
apart.

“
Tell me.”

I start at the beginning. The very
beginning. “So, Lassie isn't my cat. I mean, he is now, but he
was Jessica's.”

She looks at Lassie, who is sitting on the
top of the couch. Hearing his name he meows.

It takes ten minutes for me to tell bring
her up to date; the vet, the microchip, Jessica Renoix, the
goons, the tasing, the backseat chat with the most powerful
man in the world. I leave out the part of my breaking back into the
house, the pawn receipt, and the watch. 

“
She was blackmailing
him?”

“
That's what he
said.”

“
And this tape, it never
came out?”

“
I think even the people
of Jupiter would know if a video of the President banging an
eighteen-year-old campaign volunteer leaked out.”

“
Okay, so then what? He
admits to being there that night, bringing the blackmail cash, and
then leaving. Then someone else comes and kills her and takes the
money. Who?”

Well, his son for one. He'd obviously been
in contact with Jessica at some point. Maybe he knew about his
dad's affair. Maybe she'd told him everything. Maybe he needed the
money to pay off his gambling debts. Maybe Jessica and Risky were
supposed to split the money, but he got greedy and killed
her. Lots of maybes.

“
I don't know,” I
reply.  “Odds are it's a bunch of bullshit and Sullivan did
it.”

“
Is that what you think?
You think it's bullshit? You think he was
lying?”

I run the clip back in my head. His
clenched jaw. His commanding gaze as he said, “I didn't kill
her.”

“
No.” I say. “I think he
was telling the truth.”

She exhales.

I reach out and touch her arm. I'm not sure
why, but I do. It is an automatic response, as unconscious as my
next breath.

She looks at my hand on her
shoulder, then looks up at me. I don't know what is going
on behind her soft brown eyes. But I want to know.

“
You want to stay for some
coffee?” I ask.

“
It's three-thirty in the
morning,” she says with a laugh. “I've got to get to bed. Tomorrow
is going to be a circus.”

Lassie jumps off the couch and rubs up
against her leg as she starts for the door. She leans down and pets
him, then stands and pulls the door open.

“
Did you vote for him?” I
ask.

She turns. Stares for a second. A
flash of her crooked smile.

“
Rain check on the coffee,” she says.

Within ten seconds of waking up, I am on the
Internet.

PRESIDENT ARRESTED!

PRESIDENT ARRESTED FOR MURDER!

PRESIDENT SULLIVAN A MURDERER!?!

PRESIDENTIAL MURDER!

MURDERGATE!

Those are just a few of the headlines.

I click on a video and watch as the
President is escorted by his Secret Service detail and no fewer
than fifteen FBI agents down the White House steps. The Director of
the FBI is one of Sullivan's strongest opposers. He is making
a statement. No one is above the law. Even the President.

There are other videos, Wolf Blitzer,
Anderson Cooper, Bill O'Reilly, all chomping at the bit, this is
the biggest scandal since Cain and Abel went to the old fishing
hole and only Cain came back. I don't spend too much time on the
videos, but do watch a couple flashes of press conferences; the
head of the FBI, the White House Press secretary, even one where
Charles Barkley weighs in, “That guy an idiot.” Bottom line, the
President was arrested for the murder of Jessica Renoix. The
Senate and House were calling for an impeachment and the wheels
were in motion. For the moment, Connor Sullivan was still the most
powerful man in the world, but that could change any moment.

“
What do you think buddy,
should they impeach him?”

Lassie cocks his head to the side,
thinking.

Meow.

“
Stone him?”

Meow.

“
Cut off his
hands?”

Meow.

“
Okay, no
more 
Game of
Thrones
 for you, buddy.”

We get out of bed, get some grub, and sit
down to the breakfast table. I search, “Ricky Sullivan.”

I read a couple tidbits about him,
corroborating most of what my dad had already told me. The latest
hit was from twelve hours earlier. Some website called TMZ.
“Risky's Wild Spring Break.”

I read the small blurb, then call
my dad.

He answers.

“
Get the car. We're going
to Vegas.”

…

The drive time from Alexandria to Las Vegas
is approximately thirty-four hours.

When I wake up we are in Colorado.

“
Good morning,” my dad
says.

“
Morning.”

I turn around.

“
Hey guys.”

Lassie is chewing on Murdock's ear. He stops
long enough to give me a quick kiss then goes back to the business
at hand. Murdock seems to be enjoying it thoroughly.

“
You mind driving for an
hour?” asks my dad.

“
Not at all.”

We pull over and switch spots. My dad is
asleep within three miles.

I pull out my phone and log onto the
Internet. It takes me a couple moments to find what I'm looking
for. I click play.

Connor Sullivan is standing behind a lectern
on the White House steps. At the time of the press conference, he
is still the POTUS.

“
My fellow Americans,” he
begins. “I come before you not as the President, but as your fellow
man. A man wrongly and unjustly accused of a crime I did not
commit. I have every faith in the United States judicial system and
that I will be found unequivocally innocent of this heinous crime.
I am not disenchanted but proud that we live in a democratic state
where its highest powers are not above the law, and hold no ill
will towards the FBI or any other institution. The truth will come
out. God bless this great nation.”

Not bad.

I wonder how long he actually spent in a
jail cell before they rushed him into a courtroom and posted
bail.

Doesn’t matter.

What matters is in the background. His wife
is there. His son isn't.

I put the phone down and force myself to the
road. I've seen mountains before, but nothing as majestic as the
snow-capped Rockies that loom under the full moon.

At 3:58, I pull the car over into a small
dirt enclave and I nudge my father. We switch seats.

When I wake up, it will be the bright lights of
Vegas.

There are 122 casinos, 874 clubs, over 2,000
restaurants, and more than fifty strip clubs in Las Vegas. Nearly
everything is open until four in the morning, if they close at all.
And Ricky Sullivan could be in any one of them. That is, if the
paparazzi and his father's arrest hadn't sent him underground. It
takes my dad six hours and five greased palms, but he finally
tracks the President's son and his buddies to the XS Nightclub.

At 3:06, my dad pulls up to the massive Wynn
hotel and I jump out. After a twenty-minute wait in line, and
a fifty dollar cover fee, I enter.

House music blares. Purple, orange, and
green strobe lights threaten to give me a seizure.  The air is
sticky, a million tiny post-it notes. I feel like I've walked into
a beehive. It's madness. 

I push my way through the swarming bodies. A
young woman wearing six square inches of fabric grabs my crotch and
whispers something unintelligible in my ear.

She grabs my hand and yanks me towards the
dance floor.

I shake her hand off. I measure women in
minutes and she is worth about thirty seconds. Detective Ray
flashes across my mind. I give her all sixty.

When I finally get to the bar it is 3:34
a.m. 

“
Where's Ricky Sullivan?”
I scream at the closest bartender. 

He feigns ignorance. I am not the first
person to ask him this question tonight. I wave a hundred dollar
bill at him. He walks over and snags it, cocks his head to the
right, then moves on to the next customer.

It takes me four minutes to push my way
through the crowd and to the VIP tables. Two bouncers guard a thick
rope that cordons ten plush circular tables that currently hold
three NBA stars, two rappers, a restaurateur, a comedian, an
actress, a supermodel, a late-night host, and the President's
son.

Ricky Sullivan is with two other guys and
eight scantily clad women. They are sitting around a plush purple
sofa. At least a thousand dollars’ worth of bottle service litters
the table next to them. Three men in black suits stand close
by; Ricky's Secret Service detail.

They look especially alert and I'm guessing
the past forty-eight hours have been a deluge of reporters and
paparazzi trying to get a snapshot or a comment.

The bouncers appraise me as I approach.

They are checking my wrist for the bright
green band that all the 'visitors' to the VIP section are
wearing.

I have one.

I'd bought it from a girl on the dance floor
for two hundred dollars. She wiggled it off and I was able to
wiggle it on.

What can I say, I have dainty
hands.

They let me through and I pick my way past
four of the tables. When I am within six feet of Ricky Sullivan and
his posse, two of the Secret Service goons jump forward and block
my path.

“
Hey guys.”

They don't respond.

“
I just need a quick
second with Ricky.”

They look at one another.

“
Get lost,” says
one.

“
Ricky,” I yell. He
doesn't turn around.

The Secret Service guys start pushing me
back.

I pull the watch from my pocket and toss it
underhand. It lands on the lap of a girl next to Ricky.

Before my arms are wrenched behind my back,
I catch Ricky's eyes as he sees the watch.

“
He's good.”

The force that is about to break my wrist
lessens slightly. 

“
I said he’s good! LET HIM
THROUGH!”

I dust myself off, give the two SS a little
nod, and walk past. Ricky has already ushered all the girls and his
two buddies from the table. It’s just him and the watch.

I sit down a couple feet from him.

I grab the Ciroc vodka and pour
myself a vodka cranberry.

“
Where did you get
this?”

I look up.

Ricky Sullivan has his mother's brown doe
eyes and soft features. He has his father's weight, but on a foot
shorter frame. He's lost twenty pounds in the past few years, but
he's still a chubbo.

“
I got it from the pawn
shop that Jessica sold it to.”

He inhales.

“
When did she take
it?”

He pours himself a stiff drink, takes a long
swallow and says, “About two months ago.”

“
Did you know?”

“
Yeah, I knew. But I
didn't care. Just figured she needed money and was too proud to
ask. It wasn't the only thing she took.”

“
Where did you meet
her?”

“
A coffee shop on campus.
She said she had a class with me, but I could tell she was
lying.”

“
But who cares.” He
shrugs. “She was the sexiest girl I'd ever seen.”

He asks who I am. I ignore him.

“
Did you kill
her?”

He is a deer in headlights. His doe eyes
start to leak. He is crying. It takes him thirty seconds to
compose.

“
NO!” He sniffs. “She was
the first girl I ever really cared about. Ever.”

“
Did you know about her
connection to your father?”

He shakes his head. “No, she never talked
about her past. She just wanted to, well, screw mostly. At
least, at first. At the beginning, I think she just wanted to
fuck the President's son. But then, I think,
she kinda started to like me.” He smiles sheepishly, like
the idea of a girl actually liking him for himself is
preposterous.

“
Did you ever go to her
house?”

“
No. I didn't even know
where she lived. Dave and Jerry,” he nods towards the two Secret
Service guys who had manhandled me, “would sneak her up to my
apartment.”

“
How long were you two
involved?”

“
Three months.”

“
Did you know her as
Callie or Jessica?”

“
At first it was Callie,
but after six weeks, we were in bed and she told me to call her
Jessie.”

Jessie?

“
And she never told you
about her past, how she worked for your father's
campaign?”

“
Nope, never.”

“
What would you talk
about?”

“
I don't know. Movies,
books, she wanted to go to vet school someday, to travel. She liked
sports, especially the Ravens. She loved to play cards. We'd play
cards for hours.”

“
Did she ask about your
dad?”