Hunter: A Thriller (24 page)

He slid into the plush green velvet seat on his side of the mahogany booth, facing both
Frankfurt
and Charlie Alexander, Congressman Horowitz’s white-haired chief of staff. “Sorry again. My daughter was worried.”

Alexander waved off the interruption. “No problem. Carl and I were talking about this situation while you were taking her call. It couldn’t have come at a worse time, Ken.”

MacLean knew that. So did Carl, whose morose expression was not improved by a half bottle of Cabernet.

“We’re willing to do whatever it takes, Charlie.”

The patrician-looking veteran of decades of Capitol Hill battles nodded and finished chewing a piece of his pork chop. “Sure,” he said. “But we’re
gonna
have to wait a while now. Till after the holidays, when all this hopefully blows over.”

It stung him. “I was really hoping we could get in a vote this year, before the recess.”

“No go, Ken. The congressman wanted that, too. But word is out all over the Hill about the news conference. MSNBC ran it live, and I’m sure Fox and CNN and everybody else will show clips tonight. We were counting noses this afternoon. Right now, we have less than a forty-sixty shot at passage. Odds are probably
gonna
go lower than that by tomorrow. We have to let all the hysteria die down a bit.”

“I understand.” He felt desolate, for the first time in years. The dream had been within his grasp, only to be snatched away. Torn from him by some self-absorbed fear-monger, pandering to society’s basest instincts.

Alexander poked at the last piece of meat on his plate, then held it up on the end of his fork, gesturing with it to emphasize his points. “Look, Ken, I know how you feel. But
Morrie
warned you to keep a low profile on this, didn’t he? I know, I know, you had to respond to that
Inquirer
hit job, I understand. But you
shoulda
just issued a written rebuttal. Not held a
frickin
’ news conference. You never do that on something this emotional. These things can turn into sideshows.”

“Tell me about it,” Carl mumbled, his body sagging low over his plate.

“All right, then,” MacLean said. “So, how do we play this from here?”

Alexander took a big gulp of red to wash down the last morsel, then smacked his lips appreciatively. “At this point, I don’t think it does us any good for you to put out some
kinda
written reply. It only keeps this in the headlines. We need to turn down the volume, let this fade from people’s memories. And it will, trust me. So, you go about your business quietly. You do what
Morrie
told you before: You stay out of the limelight. Do whatever it is you people do, but don’t make a big public issue about it.”

“We won’t. The only thing we have coming up is our annual Christmas party. It’s black tie, invitation only. So there’s no chance of that reporter being admitted.”

“Good.... Ah, look, Ken, I know
Morrie
has attended that in the past. But circumstances being what they are, I’m guessing he may take a pass this year. Now, I’m not
gonna
speak for him and say that’s definite; just don’t be surprised if it turns out that way.”

He gritted his teeth, forced a smile. “I’ll understand if he can’t be there. Although please convey to him my hope that he will.”

“Absolutely. He’ll consider it, sure. We’ve got, what, over a month. If everything’s calmed down by then, he’ll probably show.” He wiped his mouth with his white linen napkin, leaving a pink stain, then dropped it in a heap on his plate. “Look, Ken, I know how tough this is for you, but we
gotta
face realities. The congressman is one of the most progressive Members. He’s on your side. This bill means a lot to him, too.
Morrie’ll
do everything he can to get everybody in the caucus back on board right after the holidays, and then we’ll stick it back on the calendar. I figure we can get this through in early March. Just be patient a bit longer.”

He slid awkwardly out of his seat and stood. He was a big guy: big belly, big lips, big red nose, big booming voice. MacLean also got up and shook hands. Alexander nodded at Carl, who remained seated and sullen.

MacLean returned to his seat. He looked at his half-eaten portion of Alaskan halibut. He wasn’t in the mood. Instead, he picked up his glass of Spanish white, an
Albariño
.

“Well, Carl. It looks as if we have to recalculate our priorities for the next month.”

The psychologist bobbed his head. “Yes. I’ve been thinking about that for the past hour.”

“I’m listening.” He took a sip.

“The way I see it, Ken, some of our flagship programs are now in jeopardy. I’m especially worried about the Accelerated Community Reintegration Track.”

“Yes, it would be a prime target in this poisoned atmosphere, wouldn’t it? A lot of our sponsoring partners in the communities are likely to back away from us when our contracts come up for renewal in January.”

“So if we’re going to meet next year’s quotas and mandates from the board, we’d better act now and put a lot more clients into the pipeline before it might be shut off.”

MacLean twirled the glass; the pale gold liquid shimmered in the light of the table lamp. “That makes sense to me. There are so many who have earned their chance. It would be cruel if their hopes were dashed because of all this.”

“Anyway, I have a list of candidates for placement. I can have it on your desk in the morning. And I’d like at least four of them to have Christmas furlough opportunities this year.”

“I’ve always trusted your judgment about such things, Carl. You know these clients better than anyone. I’ll sign off on the list and submit their names, along with our recommendation, to the various state corrections departments.” He was about to take another sip, then paused. “Remember, though—we were just warned to stay out of the spotlight. Is there anyone on your list who might provoke any more public controversy?”

Carl Frankfurt picked up his fork and broke off a piece of trout parmesan. “Of course not. My furlough candidates, especially, are model clients. You wouldn’t believe how much they’ve grown. Ken, I would trust every one of those guys with my life.”

BETHESDA
,
MARYLAND
Tuesday, November 18, 1:25 p.m.

“It’s me,
Danika
.”

“Hi there, Mr. Hunter! How are you this afternoon?”

“Great. Any calls or messages?”

“Not since yesterday’s call from that detective, um, Mr. Cronin.”

He stopped pacing his kitchen floor. “Call?”

“Didn’t he get in touch with you last night?”

“Why, no. How was he supposed to do that?”

Pause.

“Well, sir—you gave me Ms.
Woods’s
number, and you told me to use it to contact you if I couldn’t reach you. Detective Cronin, he called yesterday and said it was an urgent matter, so—Well, I gave him that number.... He told me he’d be calling Ms. Woods right away to reach you.”

His mind raced, considering possible implications.

“Mr. Hunter? I hope I wasn’t out of line, doing that.”

He forced a smile, hoping she’d hear it in his voice. “Oh, no. Not at all,
Danika
. That’s fine. I’m afraid I didn’t get his message, though. Perhaps she had her phone off. I’ll call him back right away. Any mail?”

“Nothing today.”

“All right. Thanks. You have a nice afternoon, now.”

“You too, Mr. Hunter.”

He closed the phone.

Thought some more.

He took the cell into his den, pulled Cronin’s business card from the small stack on his desk, then thumbed in the number.

“Cronin.”

“Dylan Hunter. You were trying to reach me?”

“Oh.... Yes. That’s right, Mr. Hunter. I was.”

But you’re surprised to hear from me.

“So what’s up, Detective?”

“I was...just going through some things and was hoping we could sit down and chat. Are you able to meet me later this afternoon?”

Forced casualness.

“No problem. How about my office? Three o’clock okay?”

“Sure. That’ll be fine. See you then.”

He snapped the phone shut. Flipped it over, thumbed off the cover, removed the battery. He’d dump this one on the way into town.

Something was off.

He thought about how Annie had left so abruptly late Sunday morning. And how she hadn’t wanted to talk that evening. Okay, she was sick. But then there was their phone chat last night. She seemed to be responding mechanically, volunteering little, with forced cheerfulness. Something like the way Cronin’s voice sounded now.

He tapped the battery against the desk top.

Felt Luna rub against his shin.

“Hello, girl.” He picked her up, put her on his lap. Began to pet her, soothing his own nerves.

“If Cronin wanted her number so badly,” he said aloud, “he must have either spoken to her, or left a message for me. Then why didn’t she tell me?”

The cat purred in response to his voice and the strokes down her back.

What if he had talked to her, though? About what?

“Maybe he said something that upset her.”

“
Mrrrrr
.”

“That could explain why she sounded so strange on the phone last night.” He swiveled the chair gently from side to side. “But it wouldn’t explain why she seemed upset the day before.”

He tried to recall the sequence of events. Everything had been great on Saturday, and it seemed fine when she got up on Sunday morning. Then she got some coffee and sat at the table. He remembered how she looked when he told her that he had written a new piece. Authentically excited, even thrilled. Then he left her to read the paper, went into the kitchen for a refill, and phoned Wonk.

And when he returned to the table, she was sick.

Or upset by something she read?

“Okay, let’s assume she really was sick. What about last night, then?”

He tried to remember the details of that call. Her voice seemed too flat at first, as if she didn’t want to really be talking to him. Then, abruptly, too cheery. He asked how she was. Better, she said. What was she doing? Oh, just cleaning up after dinner. Want to come here and stay over on Tuesday night, Annie? Sure.

It had gone like that for several minutes. Usually, she was eager to hear his voice, eager to chat. This time it was like pulling teeth.

Another thing: She hadn’t mentioned that she’d seen or heard about his confrontation at the MacLean news conference. Not until he brought it up and asked her. She said she had. Then she added only: “You made your points very well.”

He remembered feeling a bit let down. In the past, she’d been excited about his writing, always telling him how much she admired him for fighting for crime victims. And this was his biggest coup so far. Yet her response was oddly muted—as if she were just trying to be polite.

“As if she really didn’t mean it,” he said aloud.

The cat tapped his hand with her paw. He started to pet her again.

Something had happened. His gut now told him it started on Sunday morning. When she sat at the table and started to read his article.

What was it about the article?

He looked at the cell phone lying on his desk. He was tempted to call her, ask bluntly what was wrong.

No. It was better to wait until tonight. When he could see her reactions, read her eyes.

Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

WASHINGTON
,
D.C.
Tuesday, November 18, 3:02 p.m.

“Mr. Hunter?”

He glanced up from the papers on his desk. “Come on in, Detective Cronin.” He motioned to the guest chair.

Cronin smiled and was just settling in when Hunter spoke first.

“You’re concerned about something, Detective.”

It took him off-guard. As intended. But Cronin was good. He took his time making himself comfortable, all the while looking at him steadily.

“I am.”

Hunter nodded and waited him out.

Cronin gave it up. “So let me get to the point. I’ve been checking into your background, Mr.”—he paused a second, just to lay emphasis on the next word—“Hunter. And I’m having a bit of trouble.”

He smiled at the cop. “I’m not surprised.”

Cronin didn’t expect that, either. “No?”

“First, may I ask what prompted you to want to check my background?”

Cronin hesitated, obviously weighing his words. Then said, “You’ve managed to get under the skin of a lot of important people.”

“You don’t say.”

“And they want to know why you’re doing this stuff. I’ve been asked to find out more about you.”

“Asked?”

That made the cop smile—against his will, he could tell.

“Okay. Not exactly asked.”

“I appreciate the position you’re in, Detective Cronin. So, let me guess: You want to know why all information about Dylan Lee Hunter goes back only a couple of years, then dead-ends.”

Cronin stared at him, again thrown off-balance. Good.

“Well, it does arouse my curiosity.”

“I changed my name. Quite legally, I may add.”

“From what?”

Hunter held his eyes. “From a name that only I need to know.”

“Maybe I do, too.”

“Not unless I’m a suspect in some kind of a criminal investigation.”

“Maybe you are.”

He leaned back and laughed. “No, I’m not. You’re fishing, Detective. I know you have your orders, but that’s all this is. A fishing expedition. You said it yourself: I’ve gotten a lot of
veddy
,
veddy
important people’s panties in a bunch, and now they’re looking to get something on me. To shut me up.”

The cop looked uncomfortable. Obviously, this wasn’t going the way he’d planned. “You mind showing me some current ID?”

“Not at all.” He drew his wallet from his sports jacket and handed it over.

Cronin inspected it, starting with the
Maryland
driver’s license. Glanced up at him. Pulled out a small spiral-bound notepad and a gold pen and jotted down some details. “I’m wondering if the
Chevy Chase
address on this license is valid,” he asked.

“You might find me there. Sometimes.”

“Where else might I find you?”

Hunter spread his hands. “Here. There.”

“Give me your Social.”

He rattled off the number. “For what good it will do you.”

Cronin stopped writing, raised his cold blue eyes from the pad. “You mean it’s a phony?”

“Oh, it’s real, all right. But it won’t help you go back more than about two years, either.”

“You mind telling me why?”

Hunter sighed. “Okay. Maybe once you hear it, you’ll understand. And get off my back.” He repeated what he had told Annie—about being a young investigative journalist in
Ohio
, falling afoul of the Mob, having to get out of state and change his identity.

Cronin listened, keeping a poker face. When Hunter finished, he could tell something was still bugging the cop.

“You say you changed your name legally to Dylan Lee Hunter. But you still didn’t explain why I won’t get your real name when I run your Social. Nobody ever gets a new SSN,” he said. Then his expression changed. “Unless—”

“Bingo. WITSEC.” He used the insider acronym.

“You’re telling me you’re in the Witness Protection program? So you testified against the Mob, then.”

“No. I just shared my information with the feds. I never got into court. But they were kind enough to enter me into the program, anyway. New identity, with a new SSN. So if you run the number, you’ll find it on file at the Social Security Administration. But that’s all you’ll get from them.”

Cronin regarded him for a moment, then rested an elbow on the table. “You want me to believe this wild story, but you still don’t want to tell me who you really are.”

He slammed his palm on the table. “Come on, Cronin! You’ve already admitted you’re under orders to dig up dirt on me for the people holding your leash, dirt they’ll use to try to muzzle me. So, I’m supposed to trust you to keep my real identity secret? While there’s still a standing Mob contract out on me? Don’t make me laugh.”

Cronin’s face softened. “Look, Hunter—whoever the hell you are. I meant it last time, when I said that a lot of us like what you’ve been doing.”

“I don’t like what
you’ve
been doing to me in return.”