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  Lacey frowned “That can’t be it?”

  Max raised his eyebrows and regarded her. “No? I dunno, Lacey, there’s a lot of white angst in the Democratic Party.”

  “You mean among the rank and file?”

  “Naw, they don’t give a shit. I mean what you call the mandarins.”

  Lacey was unconvinced. “But nobody’s ever heard of this guy; he’s never done anything.”

  “You know Miller?”

  “Former Democratic majority leader, ignominiously defeated in the last election?”

  “That’s him,” Max nodded. “His entire staff are heavy hitters, been with the guy for years; major players, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “So their guy gets defeated, these staffers could go anywhere, everybody in Congress wants them.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, who do they go to work for?” Max took a sip of his drink. “Let me amend that. Who do they, all, en masse, go to work for?”

  “Okono?”

  “Right. Explain that to me, because I’ve never seen it happen. A freshman congressman with no high-profile committee chairmanships, no status, gets handed the entire staff of the most senior, most experienced Democrat on Capitol Hill.”

  “You’re right,” Lacey agreed. “It seems weird.”

  “It’s more than weird.” Max lowered his voice, “It’s unprecedented, and on Capitol Hill, nothing’s unprecedented.”

  “So what do you think is going on?”

  Max shrugged, then reflected a moment. “Well, there is something else…” he said it almost as an after-thought.

  “What?” Lacey asked.

  “Staffers like that get paid good money. They’re not 20-year- old kids who can afford to be idealistic. They’re older; they’ve got kids, mortgages. Freshmen congressmen ordinarily never have any dough, they could never afford those guys. But, somehow that hasn’t been a problem for Okono.” Max shook his head in amazement. “The guy has more money tailing him than I’ve ever seen in politics.”

  Max helped himself to a tiny hamburger from a passing tray. Lacey shook her head. “Claire McCracken is more qualified; she’s worked hard, she knows the issues. She’s the real deal, Max.”

  “Lesbian,” Max winked. He was starting to enjoy himself.

  Lacey was outraged. “She’s not a lesbian!”

  “No?” Max responded, trying to keep a straight face.

  Lacey was aggravated “She’s not, and you know it. Why can’t we embrace the idea that women of intellect and industry come in all shapes and sizes? It should— theoretically— be possible, for a woman to be strong and powerful and ambitious without being somehow—masculinized because she hasn’t chosen a traditionally ‘feminine’ role. And if she were a lesbian, it shouldn’t make a difference, anyway.”

  “Is ‘masculinized’ a word?” Max teased.

  She glowered at him and crossed her arms.

  “Okay, okay,” he held up a hand in truce.

  “We agree,” Max replied. “Claire is not a lesbian,” he paused for effect, “…but don’t tell me all those bull dykes at the DNC aren’t lesbians.”

  Lacey knew when to concede a point.

  “No, they’re definitely lesbians...but they’re all for Okono, anyway,” she added a little dejectedly.

  “And Oprah, right?” Max persisted.

  She regarded him, eyebrow raised. “Max, is it possible that you are still addicted to daytime TV after all these years?” Official Washington always had its sets tuned to CNN—theoretically—so that it was on top of developing news stories, but Hill staffers in particular were notorious for switching the channel to soaps and talk shows when their congressmen were out of the office.

  Max looked hurt. “Really, Lacey, you make it sound like... porn.”

  Lacey laughed: “It is—empowerment porn.”

  Max almost snurfed his drink. A passing waiter offered him a napkin, which he used to wipe the wet beads of bourbon off his bespoke suit.

  Lacey shrugged her shoulders, in mock protest “What is it with everybody’s fascination with Oprah’s sexuality lately?” she asked curiously. “Anyway, I’m the wrong person to ask. I’ve seen Oprah’s show maybe twice in my life.” She laughed. “I’m not really qualified to discuss her personal life.”

  Max was enjoying himself. “Pretty suspicious with that girlfriend always around and she’s been engaged to sensitive Stedman for what—like—thirty-five years?”

  Lacey was clearly uninterested. “Something. Look. I don’t care if they’re all gay, or none of them are gay. It shouldn’t make any difference. The point is, y’all use it to undermine them. What is so scary about lesbians anyway?”

  Max pretended to be astonished. “You’ve only seen Oprah twice? Oprah rocks.” He sipped his bourbon, and looked thoughtful. “Although, I admit it, I like Ellen, too.”

  Lacey put her hand on her hip and regarded him coolly.

  “Okay.” Max raised his hand in mock surrender. “I’ll concede all that. It only matters, because in a national election you can’t get elected if you’re gay. So it’s all very well if you don’t care, and I don’t care—but the bottom line is that a lot of people in Boise, in Scranton, in San Antonio— well, they really do care.”

  She looked at him skeptically, considering.

  “So you think McCracken is losing because people think she’s a lesbian?” she asked.

  Max sipped his bourbon. “Well, why do you think she’s losing?”

  “I think what you think, but you’re not saying—that McCracken is smarter, tougher, and a genuine leader, but she’s losing because she’s running a lousy campaign and Okono’s campaign is like a machine. I think the media loves its new shiny boy-toy Okono, but he’s an empty suit. I think the back-story—and the Okono people have been brilliant at exploiting this— is to paint Claire as a man-slaying bitch. And, of course I think the irony is that she’s probably a much warmer, nicer person than he is.”

  Max fixed her with a level gaze. “Okay. So, fix it.”

  He had obviously taken her by surprise. “Me?” Lacey replied. “How can I fix it? I don’t work for the campaign. I’m just a volunteer who’s organized a few bloggers.”

  “Oh, Lacey…” Max started to laugh.

  “What?” she asked defensively.

  “You forget I know you. How many?”’

  “How many what?”

  “How many bloggers has ‘little you’ organized?”

  “A few,” she replied

  “Lacey, don’t be coy. Give me a number.”

  “One hundred and ninety three,” she answered, staring hard into her drink.

  Max chuckled. “And they blog…how often?”

  Her voice was muffled by the glass. “Every day.”

  “Lacey!” he shook his head at her, and laughed. She was laughing now, too, in spite of herself. “Some of them, I think, all day,” she admitted sheepishly.

  He made a decision.

  “Lacey—I’m going to call you tomorrow. What’s the best number to reach you?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chicago, Illinois

  HARRISON SAT AT HIS DESK and concentrated on his steepled fingers. The reports from the black & whites who’d canvassed the residential unit were sitting on his desk in front of him. Pieced together, they told a strange story. Antwone Green, 42, former teacher, former choirmaster of the Jehovah’s Family Ministry, had no complicated business dealings, no suggestion of drug use or illegal activity of any kind. Both parents deceased, three siblings who worked professional jobs in the Illinois suburbs—no indication of financial dealings between them, saw each other occasionally and for holidays, calls from them were on Green’s answering machine. No indication of bad blood or hard feelings. Airtight alibis for all three.

  All said the same thing. Green was the baby and they’d all worried about the health implications of his lifestyle, urging him to settle down with one partner. The sister was on-record as sayi
ng the church was full of ‘haters’ and wished he’d chosen someplace else to invest his time, but none of the others were even regular churchgoers. They’d all heard of Kevin DuShane; the sister had met him once. Nice young man, she thought—if perhaps a little immature and over-dramatic. She thought her brother had a crush on DuShane, but doubted things had ever been physical between them.

  For his part, DuShane had disappeared without a trace. The rent on his apartment was paid for the next four months—cash had been slipped through the landlord’s mail slot with a note explaining he would be away for a while. They were still tracing him through Customs to see if or when he’d left the country. The Guard of Jehovah were seen regularly around Green’s housing unit and at least three separate residents had seen them in Green’s apartment complex that afternoon.

  Jay Johnson stuck his head in the door. Harrison regarded him with a pained expression.

  “Wait. I’ll be right back,” he said as he disappeared out the door. He reappeared five minutes later, closing the door behind him. With some fanfare, he deposited three bottles of pomegranate juice and three bottles of prune juice on Harrison’s desk.

  “Drink,” he said with authority. As Harrison started to protest, he raised his hand.

  “Don’t think I don’t know the signs. My wife is seven months pregnant. I know that look. Now, drink.”

  After Harrison finished the second bottle, Johnson made himself comfortable in one of Harrison’s well-worn office chairs.

  “Out of curiosity, how many days?” Johnson asked.

  Harrison knew there was no point in dissembling. “Four, not counting today,”

  Johnson started to laugh. He reached over and gave an unwilling Harrison a high five.

  “You are the iron man!” he announced. “Five days?” Johnson shook his head in disbelief. “That deserves some kind of award.”

  Johnson paused, looking at his friend critically. “Man, haven’t you ever heard of Metamucil?”

  Harrison replied stoically. “It’s for old people. I’d prefer not to discuss this, actually.”

  Johnson hooted. “It’s not for old people. It’s for people who got old shit stuck to their insides.”

  Harrison telegraphed a warning look. “It’s not a big deal.”

  Johnson was enjoying his friend’s discomfiture. “Five days? Five days? Who the hell goes five days without taking a dump?”

  “Whatever,” Harrison answered.

  Johnson was now howling with laughter.

  “You dumb-son-of-a-bitch, you’re lucky you didn’t explode!”

  Harrison was starting to laugh in spite of himself. The thing about Johnson was, his good humor was contagious. They had started together on the neighborhood beat; Johnson had always had his back. Brash and irreverent, Johnson’s sense of humor had gotten him in trouble with the top brass on more than one occasion. But Johnson was a great cop for all that, smart, industrious, and a very astute reader of human nature. He had become a good friend.

  Johnson was probably the one cop with whom Harrison knew he could be honest. He shook his head wearily. “It’s this case. I’m lucky I haven’t developed hives.”

  Johnson looked sympathetic. “Pressure from the overhead?” he asked. Harrison knew Johnson thought most of the C.P.D. hierarchy was worthless.

  Harrison rubbed his forehead. “Yeah, you could say.” He threw Johnson a file across the desk

  “Antwone Green. The original coroner’s report concluded suicide.”

  He could tell Johnson was dismayed.

  “You’re shittin’ me?”

  Harrison shook his head impatiently. “I wish I was shitting you. I wish I was shitting at all.”

  Johnson was perplexed. “How could a gunshot wound to the back of the head be self-inflicted?”

  “Good question,” Harrison replied. “Here’s another: this guy was a regular Joe. No priors. No complications. No drugs. No money.”

  Johnson was flipping through the file. “But somebody took out a professional hit on him…” Johnson concluded.

  “Right. Why? And everybody at City Hall is apparently creaming themselves to get this thing resolved…yesterday. Why the interest?” Harrison wondered aloud.

  Johnson considered the angles. “Well, there’s always pressure to clean up high profile cases; it’s been on the news. The chief takes an interest when the mayor takes an interest…”

  “…when The Minister takes an interest…” Harrison left it hanging in the air.

  “Jesus, not that creep?” Johnson was not a fan, apparently.

  “The vic was the choirmaster at the Jehovah Ministry.”

  Johnson whistled, his eyes wide.

  “Okay,” Johnson conceded, “no wonder you’re eating Rolaids like candy.”

  “It’s a problem,” said Harrison.

  “It’s a problem,” Johnson agreed, nodding his head.

  In addition to their incredible ability to put pressure on everyone from the governor on down, the Jehovah Ministry had tentacles everywhere—most officers would acknowledge— even within the Chicago Police Department. If the Ministry was involved—and that was looking increasingly likely—there was a real question of who in the department Harrison would be able to trust. And it wouldn’t just be police officers whose integrity he would be forced to question, but everyone from the coroner’s office to the D.A.

  “So why am I calling Customs trying to track down some vacationer? What’s his name?” Johnson asked.

  “Kevin DuShane,” Harrison reminded him, “friend of the vic. Apparently he was having an affair with somebody in the church and they thought he should be a little…quieter.”

  Johnson frowned. “I see. You getting calls?”

  “Sure. Not threatening,” Harrison laughed. “Nice, helpful calls. ‘Tell us how we can help.’ That kind of thing.”

  Johnson made a gagging noise in his throat.

  “Anyone suggest taking over for you?”

  Harrison chuckled at his friend’s perspicacity.

  “Roland, yesterday morning—said he had a light case load—said he was supposed to be on that night.”

  “And was he?” Johnson inquired.

  “Not according to the duty roster,” Harrison replied.

  “He had to know you’d check…”

  “Would he check?” Harrison asked. Roland was considered about the laziest detective on the force.

  “Good point,” conceded Johnson with a grin. “So what are we going to do?” Johnson wasn’t giving up.

  “Not ‘we’. ‘Me.’ Frankly, this is probably a career killer either way it plays out. I don’t want you to have any part in it.”

  Johnson looked aggrieved. “So that’s why I haven’t seen you in three days?”

  “Something.” Harrison looked at his partner sheepishly.

  Johnson was annoyed. “You seem to be forgetting something.” Harrison could tell Johnson was getting ready to lay into him.

  “No,” Harrison replied, eager to nip the conversation in the bud. “You are forgetting something. Like the three little kids—and the one on the way—you have at home. If someone ends up disgraced, or losing their job, or worse, you can’t be part of that. I only answer to myself. If I go down, well, the damage ends there.”

  Johnson regarded him coolly. “Been thinking about this, I see?”

  “Of course.” Harrison didn’t look at Johnson.

  Johnson opted for another tack. “Look—did this guy off himself?”

  “No, obviously not,” Harrison replied.

  Johnson continued his questioning. “Was he a bad dude—someone who deserved the wrong end of a .44?”

  Harrison smiled. “Nice to little old ladies with cats.”

  Johnson persisted. “But I should walk away? Drop the investigation of a good guy that gets murdered by a bad guy?” He paused, giving Harrison time to absorb his argument. “Maybe I’m missing something, but isn’t that sort of my job description? What I get paid for?” he
asked plaintively.

  Harrison sighed. “Look, we know how it works in this town. Somebody at our pay grade that screws with the Ministry is not going to…well, let’s just say—I’m not likely to end up riding a float wearing a medal.”

  Johnson looked Harrison straight in the eye, holding his gaze. “You’re right. I know how it works in this town. And if I didn’t want to be here, I would have made that decision a long time ago.” Johnson picked up the file and starting leafing through it. “Anyway, we’re getting ahead of ourselves here. We don’t really know what went down, and until we do, I’m hanging tight. If you want me off this case, you can transfer me. Okay? We got that settled? Now, drink your prune juice.”

  Harrison smiled in spite of his concern. “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rockville, Maryland

  THE PACKAGE ARRIVED IN A KINKO’S BOX by messenger, the gold foil address label in the upper left corner identified it as being from Max’s office on 12th and F. Inside on top was a copy of a FOIA request in Lacey’s name from the Federal Elections Committee. The request was backdated to four weeks ago. Attached was a copy of a document from the FEC sent to the Okono campaign alerting them to possible instances of suspicious (or in some cases clearly fraudulent) campaign contributions, and asking them to investigate and take immediate action.

  The first document outlined individual instances of improper campaign contributions—contributors who had gone over the $2,300 individual limit. Many of these individuals had provided obviously phony names and addresses—and some were over the limit by thousands—in some cases tens of thousands—of dollars.

  As Lacey started to read, she saw the names were listed alphabetically. The list went on for pages—nearly 300 pages. Underneath the first bound copy was a second—this was a list of contributors the FEC had identified as problematic because they were apparently from overseas. There were 13,176 of these contributors.

  Under U.S. federal law, only U.S. citizens are allowed to contribute to U.S. presidential campaigns. This is done to prevent foreign governments from using campaign dollars to woo U.S. candidates. Most presidential election campaigns (including McCracken’s and the Republicans’) had mechanisms in place to flag these contributions immediately and request further documentation, usually a copy of a valid U.S. passport. Confirmation was still difficult. The campaigns had no way to interface with the State Department to verify the documents provided were authentic. But the obligation was on the campaign to verify that the contributor was American. By law, foreign nationals were strictly prohibited from contributing—in any amount—to U.S. elections.