CHAPTER SIX | FLASHBACK
Chambers eased the Mercedes into the garage and let it idle for a moment, sitting and enjoying the concerto on the stereo, letting it finish. The kids had been tough in her lectures and seminars, Matt had been his usual self at dinner, and she was in no hurry to move, except for the fact that there might be a drink in it for her if she did.
Finally, she went inside. From the garage, she entered the kitchen of her long, narrow townhouse. Normally she would have kicked off her pumps and headed for the wet bar after a day like this.
Chambers, however, violated other people’s private space for a living. It had given her a sixth sense for knowing when a space was not empty.
Her home was not empty.
Silently, she reached inside her blazer back and drew a subcompact 9mm from its holster, amused at what the university administration would think if they knew. Rather than kicking her shoes into the closet as usual, she eased them off to make less noise. She stepped over to the door that led from the kitchen to the dining area and living room and slipped her head around for a peek, without even a little rustle.
Standing in front of her picture window, staring out at the college kids walking by on O Street, was a person whose silhouette she couldn’t fail to recognize. Rail thin, straight as a flag pole, wearing a suit. Although she was seeing him from the back, she knew it would be a three piece.
"Father. What a pleasant surprise. Do you mind if I turn on a light?"
The elder Chambers didn’t turn to greet her. He simply said, "As you wish," and lifted the tumbler at his side. Noticing it, Alyssa’s eyes flicked over to her bar. He’d gotten into her Macallan 25, which she’d been saving for a special occasion. Biting her lower lip in annoyance, she poured some over ice in a tumbler, put her pistol behind the bar, and walked over to stand beside and half a step back from H. Franklin.
She thought of him as H. Franklin just then but didn’t dare say it out loud, as he hated being called that. In fact, she’d never used it aloud with anyone but Matt and her mother. He preferred "Chambers" as a form of address, or "Frank" from people who had earned the right to feel close to him.
With her he wouldn’t answer to anything but Father.
She was his daughter; she knew him well. He had come here for some purpose of his own, and he would divulge it in his own time. Asking would only cause him to look down on her for impatience.
Instead of speaking, Alyssa held her glass to her nose and breathed in. Mac 25 was very good scotch, and she didn’t intend to let the company spoil her enjoyment of it.
"I want to hire you."
She blinked. She was instantly on guard. One did not speak of "hiring" a professor. His words implied he knew about her other job, but he wasn’t supposed to know. Alyssa was fanatical about who knew. She passed on many clients who wouldn’t do business with her without seeing her face. She could count on the fingers of one hand the people who knew her face and name and also knew that she was a thief.
He didn’t say anything more for quite some time. Alyssa’s mind raced through the conversational strategies. Normally, if he left something unsaid, he would say it later. Asking just made you look weak. But in this case, remaining silent for too long might be taken as an admission.
"Really, father? Some white paper you need for a client?"
"It was never going to be kept secret from me, of course. Not for long. A Chambers expects to succeed at what he does. I admire you for that attitude – for believing you could keep it a secret. But I have more experience at being a Chambers than you. You wanted to keep it secret, and I wanted to find it out. I won."
There was no point in denying. He had made it clear that he knew. The facts were on his side. Lying would invite disdain.
So, she simply kept silent and waited.
"There’s a new young fellow running for Congress this year. Naive. Unrealistic. Thinks he can succeed by doing right rather than doing what’s necessary to win. Not unlike that Ken Wells fellow you kept out of Congress in your first job. Nice work that."
The younger Chambers absorbed the information without comment. Her father was communicating the fact that he knew exactly how she’d gotten her start in business. He intended to put to rest any lingering doubts about whether he really knew. He was also trying to intimidate her by demonstrating his ability to find out what she tried to keep hidden.
That might mean he expected her to balk at the work he wanted done, and he felt he needed extra leverage. Or, it might just be H. Franklin being his usual self.
The only safe response was to keep silent. She sipped her scotch.
"His name is Mike Vincent. He’s an upstart staffer who used to work for Lance. Now that Lance is off to the Senate, this Vincent fellow wants the House seat. Normally, of course, a man like that wouldn’t be able to get anywhere in real politics. The consultants would eat him alive for a 20 percent commission, and the donors would snicker at him as soon as his back was turned. But somehow he’s raising enough to be competitive. Somehow, he might actually win. He’s got Rich West coming in for a fundraiser, for goodness sake. West could be the next President, and he’s raising money for some guy no one’s heard of."
This time, Alyssa felt like she had the edge. Her father mentioned Vincent’s work for Reeder in passing, without any kind of comment. He did not know that she already knew Mike.
Of course, no one but Mike knew that she already knew Mike.
"If Vincent is going to go places, I need to get a lever on him. I need to know how he can be controlled. I don’t like people running around in politics on whom I can’t get any leverage. Senator West is like that. No leverage. Drives a man half mad. I want to find out who’s helping Mr. Vincent," her father finished. "Someone is keeping our young idealist afloat in very dangerous waters. I want to know who and why. From that, I hope to deduce how to keep the young fellow in line. How you find out is up to you. "
"One hates to be so crass as to quote a fee to one’s own daughter. Nevertheless, you may safely expect to be paid whatever you think reasonable."
Alyssa nodded and said nothing. No Chambers ever mentioned a dollar figure aloud unless wagering, and then only on horses, yachtsmen, or golf.
H. Franklin Chambers tipped back his tumbler and polished off the scotch. He walked out her front door and never did give any indication of how he’d gotten in.
Alyssa caught the next flight back home so she could get to the fundraiser with Rich West. It was like most such affairs. Outside a big hotel, the valet parking staff drove cars back and forth while wealthy donors went in. Alyssa wore a red suit to fit in. She allowed some untrained teenager to have charge of her Mercedes, nervously watching as he drove it away. Walking through the front door of the hotel toward the ballroom, she was flagged down by Matt Barr. He lurked outside the party with a voice recorder at hand.
"Hey Lyss, how’s it going?" He stood a little too close. "Can I talk to you for a few?"
"Of course, Matt, what’s up?"
"It’s a pretty big deal, having someone like Rich West come in to campaign for an unknown like Vincent, right? Can you say that in a way that makes it sound academic, for the analysis quote?"
She laughed. "Tonight I’m actually just another Chambers giving money to a politician, Matt, not really on the job."
"Really? Why? Are you as gaga over Rich West as everyone else?"
She shrugged. "Not to speak of. It’s just Chambers life. H. Franklin wants a family presence here."
"What do you mean by ‘not to speak of?’"
She patted his arm. "Don’t quote me tonight, Matt. Have a good time."
The party itself was a little glitzier than usual because of the presence of the celebrity Senator. Rich West was a big deal in politics. Everyone was talking about him for the next Presidential election. Some were saying there was no one else to talk about.
What no one knew is why he picked an unknown House candidate from a small state to support. Not that long ago, Vincent had been
a newbie communications director on someone else’s Senate campaign.
Remembering that meeting with Vincent, Alyssa was mostly amazed that it had worked out. The two of them really had kept each other’s secrets. It made her vaguely curious about meeting him tonight. But not curious enough to bet her life on it.
"Are you really Alyssa Chambers? You have to be. The resemblance is too strong."
She turned around to see Senator Lance Reeder beaming her a thousand-watt smile that stopped at his eyes. His eyes looked more like a wolf sizing up a meal. There was really nothing special about him other than his smile and his eyes. He was an ordinary man in late middle age collecting some extra weight in his midriff. His brown hair was thinning and graying. His suit was expensive, his posture was good, and of course there was that smile... and those eyes. His breath smelled strongly of alcohol.
Also, there was what Alyssa knew about him. She remembered her first job; she remembered her last conversation with Mike Vincent. As a consequence the man’s smile had no effect on her.
"Have we met?"
"No, but I knew your mother. You look so much like her you could be her. Well, you could be her from 20 years ago anyway."
She felt her temper rise at once at the very thought of this man’s eyes on her mother. "Goes through women like an alcoholic through bourbon," was what Vincent had said.
She reminded herself, Dignity… grace… you’re a Chambers… You’re here to do a job…
She held out her hand.
"Yes, I’m Alyssa Chambers. A pleasure to meet you."
He took her hand. Whatever followed was not a handshake. It took all her willpower not to jerk her hand back. She looked around for Matt – he would embarrass her if he saw someone caressing her hand that way.
"Lance Reeder."
"How did you know my mother, Senator?"
He accepted wine from a passing waiter, drank from the glass in a way that was more guzzling than sipping, and said, "Please, call me Lance."
Alyssa forced herself to smile but couldn’t manage any pleasant words. She waited for him to say more and pondered the concept of a hard straight punch right to his solar plexus.
A womanizing drunk telling me about how he knew my mother…
Her hands balled into fists, and she had to consciously uncurl them.
"We were… friends," he slurred. "Well, you know, your whole family. I’ve known your father for a long time. You can’t help it if you want to go anywhere in politics. You have to know Chambers."
The attempt to recover made obvious what the first words might only have hinted at, and Alyssa quickly switched from reminding herself about dignity and grace to planning how to get the man out of everyone’s sight so she could assault him.
"I’ll never forget that car crash," he mumbled.
Alyssa wasn’t sure if he meant to say it aloud or if the wine was causing his thoughts to come out of his mouth.
And what did he mean about a car crash mentioned in conjunction with her mother? Her mother died of a stroke from drinking too much…
Gritting her teeth, she forced her mind back to the task at hand. Why was money and support lining up behind an unknown, untested candidate?
"So why are you here, Senator?"
He shrugged, slurring his speech as he replied.
"Besh party goin' on in the state tonigh'. Wesh is a big deal. Vincen' usha work for me. Pick ya' reason."
"Yeah, but you’re a serious player. None of those are reasons for you to throw your weight behind someone in the primary."
His reply took the form of a question.
"D'you know D.W. Tilman?"
Chambers wasn’t keen to admit how she knew of Tilman – especially since the acquaintance was not mutual. Tilman had never seen her face. She settled on, "I seem to remember he worked for your campaign once."
"Yeah, but he’sh off to bigger'n better things now. Went ta work at the National Committee headquarters in D.C., and now he’s pullin' strings on a Presidential campaign. He’s linin' guys up behind Vincent. Not sure why. They both worked for my campaign once."
Chambers nodded, pleasantly reminded of the advantages of talking to drunk people. It was a lot easier to get information. She made as graceful an exit as she could from her conversation with Reeder and went off to gather more information.
Circulating through the room, she heard Tilman’s name pop up in other conversations from time to time, and even saw him floating by, whispering in Vincent’s ear. The pinkish birthmark on his forehead stood out when the lighting was right. Maybe Reeder was right, and this was the guy organizing Vincent’s support behind the scenes.
It seemed like an odd pairing, though, since when she met Mike Vincent, it was D.W. Tilman who sicc'ed her on him.
She turned away from watching the two whispering and almost ran face first into the broad chest of a very large, tall man. He wasn’t fat; he was like a tall brick. From his thighs to his shoulders he was wider than anyone but a linebacker and looked stronger than one, too.
Chambers recognized him at once from all his publicity, and she didn’t need him to introduce himself. Of course, he did anyway.
"Hi. I’m Rich. Nice to meet you."
"Senator West. I… I wasn’t expecting to almost run into you. Sorry."
Chambers took note of the fact that she was actually stammering. She had stolen things from the biggest names in politics and she was a Chambers besides. Normally, she didn’t impress easily but here she was fumbling for words. Maybe Rich West was as big a deal as the media said he was.
"Nothing to be sorry for. Thanks for coming and supporting Mike."
She smiled. "Why do you support him?"
"Well, Mike Vincent is going to create jobs by supporting American families," West shot back without even a pause. "Of course, I support a candidate like that."
Chambers blushed. She had asked the most basic question in the book and gotten the most scripted answer in the book thrown right back at her. It was embarrassing for someone who called herself a professor of political science.
West smiled at her, thanked her again for her contribution to the Vincent campaign, and wandered off. Chambers watched him go, regretting the fit of anger with Reeder that had thrown her far enough off her game to ask a stupid question like that.
But as he walked away, she did see D.W. Tilman walk up beside him and lean up to whisper something in his ear.
She sauntered over toward the wall, eager to take a quiet moment and look at the crowd. Tilman was playing a big role here, and she thought she had the answer to bring back to her father, but she needed time to think and more to go on.
As she passed a service exit, she paused to rest for a moment. She was away from the crowd and enjoying a moment of quiet. Like most fancy parties, the lighting was dim to create artificial intimacy. That made it easy for Alyssa to fade out of sight.
That's when someone shoved her through the door to the service corridor.
Alyssa’s breath escaped her with a "whuff!" as she fell forward into the door, knocked it open with her weight, and crashed onto the floor. She rolled as she hit, getting face-up just in time to see a tuxedo-clad form rushing through the door after her, about to strike down with his foot at her shins. From the ground, she kicked back and knocked his leg aside, then leapt to her feet.
The door closed behind them, cutting them off from the party.
The man in front of her had rich, full hair as black as hers, slicked back and gelled down until it looked painted onto his scalp. A scar decorated his cheek directly below his left eye. He was clad in a black tux with a short coat buttoned at the front, and he didn’t appear to have any desire to talk. He flew at her in a flurry of punches just as Alyssa was dropping into a guard stance. Caught by surprise, she was hard-pressed to block the assault, let alone land any blows of her own.
The momentum of a kick carried him past her a few steps, and Alyssa pivoted to face him without moving. It created a few feet of
space between them.
"Who are you?" she asked between pants, trying to catch her breath.
"Fred Harris. Do you remember me?"
She could hardly have forgotten. The Harris Affair was still one of her fondest memories. The challenges had grown greater, and the victories sweeter, but nothing ever quite felt like her first time breaking the law.
"My career took a big nose dive after Ken Wells fired me for losing that watch," he said. "But you know, this business gets in your blood. I couldn't just give it up. So I’ve been working my way back ever since. "
"Thing is, after all that effort to rebuild my career, I get tired of hearing I'm only the second-best in the field. So I figure leaving you unconscious in a service hallway will kill two birds with one stone. Revenge and a reputation as top dog."
Alyssa’s mind whipped through a couple options and came to rest on a wild gamble.
"Tilman’s working with you now? I must have charged too much for the last job."
Harris didn’t answer, but the flash in his eyes told her she’d hit close to the mark.
Before she could think about it any further, Harris charged at her, throwing a punch, then a high, sweeping crescent kick that was aimed at her head, and then a knee. She got an arm up to block and deflect the kick and stepped to the side to dodge the knee.
But she caught the punch right on her jaw.
Alyssa’s ears rang and her vision was completely obscured with flashing yellow and purple lights.
She shuffled back to create some distance, shouted to maybe throw a bit of confusion into the situation, and kept her fists up in front of her upper body and face in a guard position. She couldn’t really see yet, so blocking anything was going to take luck.
That punch really hurt!
Unable to see, the next sounds confused her. In front of her, the sound of running. Behind her, the sound of the service door, and a voice asking, "Um… excuse me?"
As her vision gradually returned, it became obvious that her assailant had run away. She turned around to see Mike Vincent and Rich West crowding in behind her in the hall, coming over to see if she was all right.
Vincent touched her jaw lightly. "I’ll call 911," he said, fumbling in his pocket for a phone.
"No!" Alyssa replied, and stepped back with every intention of turning to run down the same hallway Harris had used to escape.
Vincent held his hands in the air, away from any place he might have had his phone. "OK, OK, it’s your health insurance. Looks like you held a gun on the wrong guy this time."
Rich West turned to stare at him. "What are you talking about?"
Vincent and Chambers stared at each other, neither of them willing to speak first.
"This is my fundraiser," Vincent finally said to her. "I think I have a right to know what’s going on. Are you here doing paying work like you were the last time I saw you? Private investigator stuff?"
"I’m not a PI," Alyssa replied. "And I don’t want to talk. Thanks for scaring Harris off."
She walked away, hearing West say to Vincent, "What was all that? Private investigators? Guns?"
♦
Alyssa had a nasty bruise on her cheek when she arrived at the Chambers Estate. The butler made a fuss about bringing an icepack, and Alyssa let him, but she had no intention of holding a dripping plastic bag of melting water to her face while trying to talk to her father.
Painkillers were taking care of most of the problem, and she figured a wee nip from H. Franklin’s Talisker would deal with whatever was left over. She poured it into a brandy snifter with no ice, sank into a red leather wing chair, and waited for her father to show up.
When he walked into the room, H. Franklin Chambers’ eyes went quickly to his daughter’s bruise, then to the drink in her hand. He went over to the bar and poured some for himself. He drank his whisky over ice in a tumbler.
He sat down in a chair close to her, his gray suit rustling slightly. He crossed his right leg over his left, sipped the scotch, and waited.
"D.W. Tilman is the man you want," she said without preamble. "He got Rich West there, he got Lance Reeder to support him, and he had a plumber on the scene too – for what reason I’m not sure. But you didn’t hire me for that. You just hired me to find out who was behind the support for Vincent. It’s Tilman."
Her father nodded. "Good enough. I wonder if it’s just friendship, or if he has other plans. Tilman usually has an angle on everything he does."
She shrugged, and he inclined his head toward an alligator-skin briefcase sitting near the front door. "For you," he said. "Feel free to count it, if you're so inclined. Also, that looks like a nasty bruise. Why not sleep here tonight?" He got up and walked out of the hall.
Watching him walk away, she wondered about what Lance Reeder had said. Why had he said something about a car crash? But she couldn’t exactly ask H. Franklin. Not when Reeder had as much as blurted out that he and Alyssa’s mother had had an affair.