The Dirty Secret (47 page)

Then why does Marcus Boley’s sister have your cell phone number?

He seemingly read her mind. “Monica’s very bright, ambitious and a Republican in her own right. The state party asked me to interview her for a job with Jonathan’s administration. If we win, that is. And that thought makes Mr. Petrenko and his boss damn unhappy.”

Vaughn twisted the prisoner’s wrists enough to make him wince. “I wondered why he had a file on Boley in his car! I bet Berkeley County’s boys will want to look at his pistol, too.”

Petrenko’s face remained impassive, but his restrained hands were balled into fists.

A tall silver-haired woman climbed out of a maroon Ford Focus and approached them.

“Glad you all are so punctual,” Magistrate Irwin announced with a smile. “I like starting my shift with a bang! So what do we have?”

“For starters,” the sheriff said. “This dumbass burglarized Rikki’s home, threatened her life and attacked me.”

The magistrate scowled, wagging a finger at Petrenko. “Shame on you! What else?”

“We’re filing charges against Tabatha McCallen,” Rikki said, “and we have a search warrant for you to sign in that case, too.”

Irwin’s eyes narrowed. “Charging her with what?”

Rikki handed her the complaint. Irwin adjusted her glasses and read it. Reaching the section that described the nature of the alleged crime, her blue eyes sparkled and she suppressed a giggle. “Wonderful! Come right in, and we’ll finish the paperwork so you can transport this man to the regional jail and move forward with your case against Mrs. McCallen.”

“
Jail?
” Petrenko asked in a high-pitched voice. “Aren’t you going to set bail and give me a chance to post it?”

Irwin heartily guffawed. “You broke into the prosecutor’s house and attacked the sheriff, and you want
me
to grant you bail? You must think I’m even stupider than you are.”

GOVERNOR’S MANSION
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, DECEMBER 15, 9:05 A.M.

Luke Vincent adjusted his silk tie as CNN played in the background. Contemplating what might unfold put a knot in his stomach tighter than the one around his neck.

If I make it through the day without Tabatha publicly kicking me in the nuts, and without seeing Donna break down in tears before
physically
kicking me in the nuts for being a cheating bastard, I will get down on my hands and knees and thank God every day for the rest of my life.

“Adding to today’s drama are the confusing and conflicting reports surrounding the death of Marcus Boley,” the TV reporter explained. “In a video that CNN and other media outlets received early this morning from an anonymous source, Mr. Boley apparently confessed to rigging his county’s vote totals to swing West Virginia’s five electoral votes in favor of Governor Royal, and initial reports indicated Boley may have committed suicide.”

What?!
Vincent turned from the mirror and sat down on the bed, facing the TV.

“However, our sources say no other evidence indicates Boley improperly influenced the election. Moreover, we’re now hearing that his death may have been a homicide.”

Vincent felt his body go numb.
Oh, my God.

“In the meantime, the world will watch the Electors cast their ballots with bated breath, wondering if Governor Royal will hold onto his projected two-vote victory. From Charleston, West Virginia, this is Sylvia Chan reporting.”

Vincent felt the warm touch of his wife’s hand on his shoulder. “That’s just awful,” Donna said. “That poor man.”

I just hope Bowen had nothing to do with it. If so, I might as well have shot Boley myself.

CHAPTER 106

PLEASANTS COUNTY COURTHOUSE
ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY DECEMBER 15, 9:40 A.M.

Petrenko waited for Magistrate Irwin to finish the paperwork sending him to jail until a preliminary hearing on his felonies could be held within the next 10 days. “Could I have my cell phone to make a call?” he asked.

The deputy shook his head gravely. “Sorry. It’s been confiscated as evidence.”

“But the number I need to call is saved on it!” Petrenko said, exasperated.

The deputy shrugged. “Sorry. Rules are rules.”

No bail, no phone. What a crock of shit! It’s like I’m in Soviet Russia again!

Nervously tapping his foot, Petrenko tried to remember Mazniashvili’s cell number.
Come on! Think!

In a flash, the number came to him. “Can I at least use the magistrate’s phone to make my call?

The deputy handed him the phone. “Sure.”

Petrenko cradled the handset between his right ear and shoulder, staring at the keypad as he dialed the number.
1-917-STALIN1
.

After three rings, Mazniashvili answered. “Who is this?” he gruffly asked.

“This is Yuri. I’ve been arrested, and I need the best lawyers money can buy.”

Mazniashvili spat out an unspeakably vile string of Georgian profanity. “How could you have been so careless?!”

I thought that paunchy old man was a pushover. I got overconfident, and now I might have to spend the rest of my life in jail.

“I’d bet this line is monitored,” Petrenko replied. “But I’ll tell the lawyers about it when they visit me in the North Central Regional Jail. That’s the
North Central Regional Jail.
And once those lawyers are lined up, please check on our friend, Aristocrates, because I may be tied up for a while, and she’s a little frazzled. I believe she’s in Charleston, as is the other friend I told you about. Their contact information is in my email at work.”

The billionaire mumbled. “I got it. Remain calm. Help is on the way.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,
vozhd.
”

WEST VIRGINIA STATE CAPITOL
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, DECEMBER 15, 10:15 A.M.

Bowen rushed into Vincent’s office, panting heavily. His face was scarlet and sweaty.

“Jesus, Dick! You look like you’re about ready to keel over! What’s going on?”

Bowen slumped forward, resting on the back of a Queen Anne chair. “I just got the word that an arrest warrant has been issued for Tabatha in Pleasants County. But I forgot to charge my cell phone last night. and it died on me, so I had to race down here to tell you in person.”

“What’s she wanted for?”

Bowen stood up, gulping for air. “We got problems. I’d suggest you have all State Police units stationed on I-77 between here and Parkersburg be looking for Pleasants County Sheriff’s cruisers.” He handed Vincent a piece of paper. “Or
that
SUV registered to Sarika Gudivada. Or
that
Cadillac with Virginia plates registered to David Anderson.”

“And what should I tell the troopers to do if they see one of these vehicles?”

“Delay ‘em. If she’s not arrested before noon, I think she’ll vote our way today.”

Vincent looked like his brains had been microwaved. “What are you talking about? I thought you told her last night I couldn’t have anything else to do with her!”

“I did! But I think she has bigger incentives to vote for Melanie Wilson today than your dick. Let’s leave it at that. The less you know, the better.”

CHAPTER 107

CHARLESTON CITY HALL
OFFICE OF THE MAYOR
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, DECEMBER 15, 10:25 A.M.

Mayor Booz Hancock stalked around the fax machine like a caged panther. Nearing sixty, his hair remained black thanks to coloring products he would swear on a Bible he never used. His dress shirt looked like he had found it that morning wadded up on his closet floor.

The contrast between the mayor and his police chief was pronounced. Wearing an ironed blue uniform, the chief’s black wingtips were polished to a shine. He sat on the sofa with his hat in his lap, patiently awaiting orders.

“Gil said it should be here any minute,” Hancock groused. “If this is so important, why the hell aren’t they moving quicker?”

“We’re ready to act as soon as it arrives,” the chief said calmly.

It was as if he had said
Abracadabra
. The fax machine rang then emitted a high-pitched screech. The mayor squared himself in front of it, rubbing his fingers expectantly.

The moment the first sheet printed out, Hancock snatched it up and read it. “It’s about time,” he said. The three-page fax came from the Pleasants County Magistrate Court. The “Warrant For Arrest” was addressed to “Any Law Enforcement Officer,” and stated:

“Therefore, you are commanded in the name of the State of West Virginia to apprehend the above-named defendant and bring that person before any magistrate in this County, to be dealt with in relation to these charge(s) according to law. This arrest warrant is to be executed FORTHWITH.”

The third page was a black and white glamour photo of Tabatha McCallen. A note at the bottom indicated a digital copy had been sent to the Mayor via email.

Hancock smiled and handed the fax over. “All right, Chief. You know what to do.”

“Right. We’ll get copies distributed to our units posted near the Capitol entrances.”

Hancock nodded once. “And what will the officers say if any Capitol rent-a-cops or, God forbid, actual State Troopers question them? You know … wondering why they’re lurking around the Capitol, for God’s sake.”

“They’ll say we received an anonymous tip someone may try to sneak a bomb into the Capitol to disrupt the Electors’ meeting,” the chief replied. “Our city’s police officers are providing an additional ring of security to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

“Good. And one last thing, Chief: Are you sure these officers can be trusted?”

“When you called me last night, I went through our roster and hand-picked these men. If I can’t trust
them
, I can’t trust anybody.”

Mayor Hancock smiled and smacked his hands together. “Well, get moving then!” Like lightning, he raced around his desk, hammered on his keyboard and printed out a photo of the nefarious Tabatha Pettigrew McCallen. He handed it to the chief, who wheeled out the door. Hancock then whipped out his cell phone.

“Hello, Gil? This is Booz. Yeah, I got that fax. It’s under control. Now, then … once we’ve managed this crisis for Governor Royal, you need to let that son-of-a-bitch know I fully expect Charleston’s federal grant applications to go to the top of his administration’s to-do list. And he’d better put smiley faces on ‘em, too.
Capice?
”

ESQUIRE HOTEL
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, DECEMBER 14, 10:35 A.M.

Tyson Vasquez entered the hotel lobby, quickly scanned it, then stowed his sunglasses and made a beeline for the front desk. “I’m here to see Tabatha McCallen,” he announced.

The receptionist punched on the keyboard, then looked sad. “I’m sorry, sir, but she’s already checked out. Are you Alex Beria?”

I am today
, he thought. “Yes, I am.”

She bent down then popped up holding a sealed white envelope. “She left this for you.”

“Thank you,” Vasquez said. He opened the envelope and unfolded the note inside.

Dear Alex,

As I said in my email, the second half of the money must be wired before noon today if you people want the deal to go through. No money, no deal. I’ll call my bank this morning before I go to the Capitol.

If you need to reach me, call my cell.

Tabby

Vasquez returned the note to the envelope, shoving them both into his suit jacket pocket. Whipping out his cell phone, he turned around and headed toward the door.

“Mr. Mazniashvili? This is Tyson. Aristocrates has flown the coop, and she’s trying to change the terms of your deal.”

CHAPTER 108

MID-OHIO VALLEY AIRPORT
PARKERSBURG, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, DECEMBER 15, 10:40 A.M.

“What is taking so long?” Rikki half screamed.

Dave gripped the Cessna’s yoke and took a deep breath. “Once we get clearance from air traffic control, we’ll be on the ground in Charleston in 35 minutes.”

“We should have just driven,” she shot back.

Sheriff Vaughn fidgeted in the backseat, holding a cell phone to his ear. “Uh. Maybe not. My deputy says the State Troopers still aren’t letting him back on the road. There’s a report someone stole one of our cruisers and they’re detaining him until they get to the bottom of it.”

Dave cracked an I-told-you-so grin. Rikki harrumphed and stared out the side window.

The plane’s inboard radio squeaked. “November-Three-Seven-Six-One-Whiskey, you are cleared for takeoff.”

“Roger, Tower,” Dave replied, staring through his sunglasses at the runway. “Thanks.”

Dave slowly taxied down the runway, aligning the Cessna with the centerline. Gently pushing the throttle forward, the engine and propeller roared ever louder, and he used the rudder pedals to maintain his runway alignment.

“I gotta go,” the sheriff said before hanging up.

The plane sped up. Carefully monitoring his instruments, Dave applied back pressure to the yoke when his airspeed hit 55 knots, causing the nose to lift. Rolling forward, he felt the plane exhibit its tendency to turn left, so he applied the right rudder to counter it and then pitched the plane up to 75 knots to climb off the runway.

As they banked higher, the barren, tree-covered rolling hills spread around them in every direction, broken only by sparse patches of mostly middle-class housing and the thin gray ribbon of Interstate 77 that paralleled their course to Charleston.

“Okay, guys,” Dave yelled over the roar of the plane. “Hold on tight!”

CHAPTER 109

CHARLESTON TOWN CENTER MALL
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, DECEMBER 15, 11:00 A.M.

Tabatha strolled through the boutique, browsing the latest fashions from New York.
Soon enough, price will be no concern, and I’ll be able to enjoy everything I’ve deserved but couldn’t afford.