Guilty Minds

I still had sources in Washington, including a senator I’d done work for previously, and confidentially, when I lived here. Senator James Patrick Brennan had become a friend. He was precisely the kind of guy who knew where the bodies were buried. He knew a lot about the internal workings of Washington. He was savvy and connected and he’d been around the Capitol for several decades. He might know about Slander Sheet. If he’d see me. He was a busy man.

I called Pat Brennan’s chief of staff, Kelly Packowski. Kelly had been new in Pat Brennan’s office when I lived in DC. Lovely and elegant and ferociously smart. She was still there, fortunately, and she picked right up. “Nick Heller!” she said. “How the hell are you?”

We chatted for a few seconds-she disliked small talk as much as I did, so it was pretty much pro forma-and then she said, “I have a feeling you’re calling for the senator.”

“I need to talk to him. In person would be best.” I thought, but didn’t say, that earlier in the day would be a lot better than later. Pat Brennan was a drinker-that was an open secret in Washington-and late in the day, after many bourbons, he became less than coherent. But it was already late afternoon. I’d see him when he could see me. If he could see me.

“It’s a tough day, Nick.”

“Isn’t it always?”

She sighed. “Today’s even worse than usual. Right now he’s in a meeting, but let me check in with him when he’s out and see what I can do.”

I gave her my cell phone number and hung up. Then I called Dorothy.

She answered without preface: “I think I got something on the call girl.”

“Yeah?”

“Right. Her sister’s had three meth arrests. One more time and she’s facing life without parole.”

“But does Kayla have a criminal record herself?”

“Not that I can find. Her father’s dead and her mother’s in a nursing home. She did two years at Cornelius College, which is a woman’s college in Virginia, but it looks like she dropped out. How was she in person? Did she clam up?”

“Well, she talked, but it was all memorized. Someone’s got her really scared. I feel bad for her. She doesn’t know what she’s in for.”

“The girl’s a prostitute, right? She’s chosen the life.”

“That’s kind of harsh, don’t you think?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well, there’s something about her. I like her spirit. She’s tough.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Listen, I need you to run a phone number. And do some background on an ex-DC cop named Curtis Schmidt.”

“Who’s that?”

“That’s the guy who was following Kayla just now.”

“How’d you get his name?”

“I borrowed his wallet.”

“I won’t even ask.”

“Also, I need you to see what you can find about who owns Slander Sheet. I’m sure it’ll be some media corporation owned by a shell company or whatever, but see what you can pull up. How close you can get to who really owns it.”

“What about the hotel? Claflin allegedly stayed at the Monroe three times to meet with this call girl. The hotel must have a record of that-or not. My money’s on not.”

“That’s where I’m headed right now.”

“If Claflin never stayed there, that cuts the legs out from under this bogus story.”

“It should,” I said. “This shouldn’t be too complicated.”

For some reason, though, I wasn’t feeling particularly optimistic.

I had no idea what was coming.

14

The security director of the Hotel Monroe was a fussy little man named Kevin Chung. He wore a slim gray suit and a white shirt with short little collar points and a skinny black tie. The sides of his head were shaven so close you could see the white of his scalp, and on top of his head the black hair stood up in serried ranks of bristles. If the hair on top were longer, it would have been a Mohawk.

The walls of his small windowless office were covered with cheaply framed certificates for various security courses he’d completed and professional security organizations he belonged to. The surface of his desk was uncluttered, though: nothing more than a computer monitor and a desk set and a plaque with his name on it that faced the visitor’s chair, just in case you’d forgotten who you were talking to. The plaque was unnecessarily big: He obviously considered himself an important man.

“I wish I could help you, Mr…”

“Heller.”

“Mr. Heller. But it’s a question of privacy. If I were to confirm whether this person was a guest in our hotel, I would be legally liable. I’m sure you understand. Anything else?”

His response didn’t surprise me. Most hotel security directors won’t cooperate with private investigators. You have to know the guy, or know somebody who knows the guy, so they’ll do it as a favor. But I was here cold. Some security directors you can slip a hundred to and buy cooperation. Sometimes it takes a more sizable bribe.

But Kevin Chung was an officious jerk, and I knew at once that a bribe wasn’t likely to work. I needed a different approach.

“That’s too bad,” I said. “I was hoping we could settle this case quietly, without dragging the hotel’s name into it.”

I caught a spark of concern in his eyes before he masked it with a studied neutrality. “I don’t follow,” he said.