CHAPTER NINETEEN
Pushing off from the edge of his desk, Agent Andrews created a few feet of distance and pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed a moment to process. The six individuals in his office represented the power of this nation. His body trembled after hearing the hand-delivered best scenario: Alex Cutler and Tara Capaldi colluding to misinform the public as to the means and probable cause of Roy Guillen’s death three days prior.
His exuberance reached a point where he wanted to scream, prance around the room, and embrace each person for an extended length. Being a professional, he buried his true emotions and allocated himself time to absorb it all. After half a minute, he said, “So tell me exactly how you came to know this.”
A few people shared inquisitive looks—as if the head of the LOC should grovel instead of assume control of a meeting in his office.
Mr. Townsend stepped forward and placed his hands on the edge of the desk. “Are you doubting us?” The man had graduated from West Point near the top of his class, but everyone in the room, including Townsend, knew he had reached his ceiling a decade ago. “You think we all came here to run some parlor trick on you?”
“Calm down, Art,” Nadine Dewitt said coolly. Being an assistant to the deputy director of the CIA gave her clout, regardless of her exact title. “Mr. Andrews is only being thorough. We expect nothing less.”
Agent Andrews, he thought. But on the heels of such fortuitous information, he let the error go uncorrected.
The other members held sentiments similar to the assistant. These people were the vipers of the enforcement community, and this meeting represented his initiation. Andrews possessed the authority they needed—and now the ammunition—to exert said control over the Lobby without fierce opposition. News of this magnitude granted a wish for him, and he’d make these people happy. He simply needed a full assessment to align this assault from every angle. When he launched his full-scale offensive, he wanted it tight enough to decimate Broumgard, right down to the lowliest employee.
“I have no doubt,” Andrews began, “to the credibility of your claims. I wish to hear the start, to grant me a full aggregation of the facts.”
Mr. Townsend was tall and lean with a great head of black hair. Those three attributes probably helped him make it one rung higher than he deserved. The man shook his head as if confused and backed away. “There used to be procedures for gaining access to certain information.” He found a spot behind the pack and crossed his arms.
“There still are,” said Kathleen Sousa—a woman above reproach. Being the overseer of CRYPTLOG, the super program nobody wanted to admit existed, gifted her with the paralyzing fear of potentially knowing the dark secrets of everyone in the room. Everyone except Andrews, that is. He lived by his virtues. Still, she hadn’t sent an aide or an assistant in her stead, and no one doubted her influence.
“Agent Andrews has been granted full disclosure. This will be his rodeo, so it might be prudent for us to show him our willingness to assist with any and every thing he needs.”
A man, whose name Andrews didn’t recall, but whom he remembered worked for Lisa Chapman, head of the NSA, leaned forward, cleared his throat and began, “On June eighteenth, at two twenty-seven in the afternoon, a nine-one-one call was placed from the Cutler residence, emergency responders were dispatched. Using satellites, we recorded the body of Mr. Roy Guillen being removed from the main house. When comparing that video to the news report of a nice, peaceful death in the guest home, we knew something was amiss.
“Shortly after they loaded the body, Tara Capaldi, who also acts as their security specialist, arrived. Ms. Capaldi is extremely adept in matters of this nature.
“We have tried to corrupt individuals from previous cover-ups. The money they receive keeps them tight lipped. Those would have made wonderful cases, but now we’re talking about criminality and a public relations disaster that could topple the Lobby once and for all.”
Andrews listened to his own rhythmic breathing. He knew he possessed exceptional intelligence, but even geniuses slipped from time to time. With his A-game intact, he would have recorded this, and later on, listened to that last line over and over; perhaps found solace in it for the rest of his days: topple the Lobby once and for all.
“Before we even sunk our teeth in, we learned many unsavory individuals were upset with Tyrell Simpson, paramedic number three, for quitting his job that afternoon.” Another of the suits leaned in and tossed a folder on Andrews’ desk.
He’d go through it later.
“Apparently, Mr. Simpson’s been pilfering cases of Fentanol, among a half-dozen other medications, for almost three years.
“We quickly built cases against a pair of his flunkies, and offered them immunity for their stories. Next, we approached Mr. Simpson with one simple question: do you want to keep Tara’s money and sit in prison, or tell us what really happened and remain free?”
Excitement arced in the air. Everyone knew this whole fiasco would harm the Broumgard Group. With the combined power these men and women—along with their bosses—wielded, everyone might get their wish and deal the Lobby the coup de grace.
As head of the LOC, Andrews had the authority to declare a seventy-two hour moratorium on nothing but intuition. With eyewitness testimony, he’d be able to temporarily close all Atriums. With proof that the man who’d spent the most time inside the contraption had died while interacting with the machine, he’d issue a full thirty-day ban for the general safety of the public.
Agent Andrews’ only stipulation: he collared Alex Cutler. Besides that, only one question remained. “When do we begin?”