RESIDENT EVIL PIERSHERRY

Chapter 7

AFTER COLLIN SHUT the front door behind him, Sherry shrugged
at the two FBI agents.
"He gets a little protective sometimes." She said this not as an apology,
more an explanation. Although in truth, it would take a lot more time than any
of them had that morning to fully explain the wonder that was Collin.
"How long have you two been friends?" Wilkins asked.
"Since college. We lived together our senior year, along with our friend
Amy." Sherry eyed the frittata and realized she was starving. She glanced
over at Piers, who stood against the counter looking as though he didn't plan
to leave anytime soon. She sighed. Apparently she'd be having a side of
scowling FBI agent with her eggs that morning.
"I assume this has something to do with the Hodges investigation?"
She walked over to the overhead cabinet to the left of the sink and pulled out
three plates. She handed one to Wilkins and gestured to the frittata. "Help
yourself. If it's half as good as Collin's omelets, you won't want to pass this
up."
She offered a plate to Piers, catching his look of surprise. Sure, she had
her share of flaws, but being rude to guests in her home wasn't one of them.
Correction: being obnoxiously rude to guests in her home wasn't one of
them. When said guest had declared on national television that she had no
balls, she still considered vague aspersions and semitransparent snubs to
be within bounds.
"No, thanks," he said awkwardly. "I . . . ate earlier."
Sherry grabbed forks and napkins for her and Wilkins, feeling Piers's
eyes on her. She ignored this and paused for a moment at the utensil
drawer, debating over what one might use to slice a frittata. A pizza slicer? A
pie cutter?
"How about a spatula?"
Sherry saw Piers watching her with amusement.
"It's that flat metal thing with the handle by your left hand," he said.
"I know what a spatula is," she assured him. And she actually knew how to use one, too--for flipping grilled cheese sandwiches. One of the few
things she could make without burning. Fifty percent of the time. Maybe forty.
She served herself a hearty slice of the frittata and took a position
against the counter on the opposite side from Piers. It felt odd standing close
to him in the confines of her kitchen. Too intimate.
"Do you have a lead in the investigation?" Sherry asked between
bites.
"Not yet," Piers said. "We're waiting on the lab reports, and we're going
to interview Senator Hodges's staff over the next few days. The purpose of
this visit is to discuss some security issues related to you."
Sherry stopped eating and set her plate down on the counter, not
liking the sound of that. "What kind of security issues?"
"We'd like to place you under protective surveillance."
She felt her stomach tighten into a hard knot. "You think that's
necessary?"
"Consider it a precautionary measure."
"Why? Do you have a reason to believe that I'm in danger?"
"I would put anyone who witnessed this high-profile of a murder under
surveillance," Piers said vaguely.
"That's not an answer." Sherry turned to his partner. "Come on,
Wilkins--you're the good cop. Level with me."
Wilkins smiled. "Surprisingly, I don't think Piers's trying to be the bad
cop this time. He's the one who suggested that you be protected."
"If that's the case, then I must really be toast."
Shockingly, Sherry could've sworn she saw Piers's lips twitch at the
corners.
"You're not toast," he said. "If it makes you feel better, there are politics
in play here. Davis isn't going to let anything happen to a federal prosecutor
who's assisting an FBI investigation."
"You're still skirting around the issue. Why is it even theoretically
possible that I'd be in danger? The killer never saw me."
"We have a couple of theories about what went on in that hotel room,"
Piers said. "My instinct is that someone was trying to frame Senator Hodges
for murder. If that's the case, when that someone realizes that the FBI hasn't
arrested Hodges, he's going to start wondering why. And although your involvement in this case is being kept confidential, we'd be foolish to ignore
the risk of a leak. I'd like to be prepared for that possibility."
"But I barely got a look at the guy," Sherry said. "He could walk right
up to me on the street and I wouldn't recognize him."
"That's exactly why you're under protective custody."
Sherry fell silent. Sure, she'd always known the situation was
serious--a woman had been smothered to death, after all--but in the hours
that had passed since Friday night, she'd been hoping, perhaps naively, that
her involvement in the mystery surrounding Mandy Robards's death and the
blackmailing of Senator Hodges was primarily over.
She reached up and pinched between her eyes, feeling a headache
coming on. "I could've stayed at any other hotel that night, but no--it had to
be the Peninsula."
"We'll keep you safe, Sherry."
She peered up at the unexpected words of reassurance. Piers seemed
about to say something else, then his expression turn impassive once again.
"You're our key witness, after all," he added.
"So will it be just you two watching me, or will there be other federal
agents involved?" Sherry asked.
"Actually, since the Bureau has primary investigative responsibility,
CPD will handle the protective custody," Wilkins said.
So it wouldn't be Piers guarding her. "Oh. Good." The idea of being in
continual contact with him unnerved her. Not because she couldn't handle
him, but because she didn't need him glaring at her all day long. Those dark,
watchful eyes were enough to put anyone on edge.
"How will this protective surveillance work?" As a prosecutor she'd had
cases where she'd placed a witness in protective custody--usually, as Piers
had said, merely as a precautionary gesture--but she'd never been on this
end of things.
"There'll be a car posted in front of your house whenever you're here,
and the officers will follow you to and from work. When you get to your office,
you'll be protected there by building security," Piers said.
Sherry nodded. The U.S. attorney's offices were located in the
Dirksen Federal Building, along with the U.S. District Court for the Northern
District of Illinois and the Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals. Everyone entering the building had to pass through metal detectors, and anyone
wanting to access her floor needed proper identification. "What about when I
go places other than work or home?"
"Such as?"
"I don't know, all the places people usually go. To the grocery store. To
the gym. Or to meet my friends for lunch." She deliberately didn't mention
that she also had a date on Wednesday evening, thinking that particular
information was nobody's business but her own. Well, Collin and Amy knew,
but they didn't count. They knew everything.
"I guess you'll just have to get used to having a police car outside the
grocery store, the gym, and wherever it is you go for lunch with your friends,"
Piers lectured. "And this goes without saying: you need to be careful. The
police surveillance is a precautionary measure, but they can't be
everywhere. You should stick to familiar surroundings, and be vigilant and
alert at all times."
"I got it. No walking through dark alleys while talking on my cell phone,
no running at night with my iPod, no checking out suspicious noises in the
basement."
"I seriously hope you're not doing any of those things anyway."
"Of course not."
Piers pinned her with his gaze.
She shifted against the counter. "Okay, maybe, sometimes, I've been
known to listen to a Black Eyed Peas song or two while running at night.
They get me moving after a long day at work."
Piers seemed wholly unimpressed with this excuse. "Well, you and the
Peas better get used to running indoors on a treadmill."
Conscious of Wilkins's presence, and the fact that he was watching her
and Piers with what appeared to be amusement, Sherry bit back her retort.
Thirty thousand hotel rooms in the city of Chicago and she picked the
one that would lead her back to him.
"AREN'T YOU THE least bit curious to know what the hell the FBI's
doing?"
Despite the fact that the light was dim--they had deliberately chosen a
table in a dark corner of the bar--Grant Lombard could tell that Alex Driscoll,
Senator Hodges's chief of staff, was one very nervous man. From both the
edge in Driscoll's voice and the way his eyes kept darting around the bar,
Grant knew he was looking at a man who was struggling to keep his shit
together.
"Of course I'm curious," Grant told him. "But pushing the FBI isn't going
to get us any answers. And it might land Hodges in jail."
Driscoll leaned in, lowering his voice to a hiss. "I don't like it--they're
hiding something. I want to know why he hasn't been arrested."
"What do the lawyers say? For the money you guys are paying them,
somebody should be able to tell you something."
"The little pricks are telling us to lay low."
"Then maybe that's what you should do." Grant took a sip of his
beer--not normally his drink of choice, but anything stronger could impair his
perception and ability to read Driscoll.
"I would think, as the senator's personal security guard, that you might
want to muster up some interest in this," Driscoll spat out. He grabbed one of
the cocktail napkins the waitress had brought with their drinks and dabbed
his forehead with it.
The gesture did not go unnoticed by Grant. Frankly, he was surprised
Driscoll had survived without having some sort of fit or breakdown when the
FBI questioned all of them.
"All I'm saying is that we need to be very cautious in how we handle
this. Did Hodges ask you to come talk to me?" Grant asked, even though he
already knew the answer to that. Hodges didn't do anything he didn't know
about.
"Of course not. He's so grateful the FBI hasn't arrested him, he doesn't
take a piss nowadays without first clearing it with Piers Nivans." Driscoll took a heavy swig of his whiskey rocks, which seemed to help calm him. Either that,
or he was changing tactics and a better actor than Grant thought.
"Look, Grant, we've worked together for a while now. So you've been
around long enough to know that a scandal like this can't be contained
forever. Eventually somebody's going to leak something to the press. As the
senator's top advisor, I need to flush out those leaks. Maybe even catch
them before they're sprung."
Grant feigned hesitation. Just as he hoped, Driscoll took it up another
notch.
"For chrissakes, Grant, it's not like you're a fucking boy scout. You've
been covering up Hodges's affair with that whore for over a year now."
Grant stared Driscoll in the eyes. "What is it you want me to do?"
"Find out what the FBI knows."
"If your twenty-five lawyers can't accomplish that, what makes you
think I can?"
"You have other ways," Driscoll said. "You've always come through for
us in the past."
"My ways require incentives."
"Use whatever incentives you want--as long as I get my answers. I
want to know what the FBI's hiding, and I want to know fast." Driscoll stood
up and pulled out his wallet. He threw a few bills on the table. "And
remember, you report directly to me. Hodges doesn't know and will never
know anything about this."
"The senator is lucky he has you to clean up his messes," Grant said.
Driscoll picked up his glass and stared at the amber liquid. "If he only
knew the half of it." He finished his drink in one swallow, set the glass down,
and walked off.
Grant took another swig of his beer, thinking about how convenient it
was that Driscoll was such a paranoid asshole.
With the chief of staff's orders as a cover, he was now free and clear to
go about using his ways to find out what the FBI knew, and more important,
how concerned he needed to be about their investigation. They were holding
something back, even an idiot like Driscoll could tell that. And given what
Grant personally knew about the crime scene--which of course, was pretty
much everything--the only explanation for the fact that the FBI had not yet arrested Senator Hodges for Mandy's murder was that they found something
that Grant had overlooked. And as calm as he might've seemed on the
outside, that possibility was starting to make him pretty fucking nervous.
Probably because the possibility that he had overlooked something was not
entirely far-fetched.
He had, after all, been in a bit of a hurry after killing the bitch.
Mandy Robards.
If his ass wasn't on the line, Grant would've gotten a good chuckle out
of the irony of the situation. Even dead, she was still screwing people. Took
one hell of a talented prostitute to do that.
And talented she had been, if at least half the stories Hodges had told
about her were true.
He'd been working for Hodges for nearly three years now. Because
Hodges was both a U.S. senator and an extremely wealthy man (CNN's
most recent list had estimated his net worth at nearly $80 million), he had
employed a private security guard for years. When his prior bodyguard had
left three years ago to work for the Secret Service, a friend of a friend had
recommended Grant as a replacement.
Generally, Grant liked working for Hodges. It certainly was an
interesting job. In a nutshell, he handled all actual and potential threats, both
direct and implied, against the senator and his political career. This meant
that he acted as Hodges's personal bodyguard, traveled with the senator
wherever he went, and was the liaison between Hodges and the various
outside security and investigative agencies they worked with--everyone from
the state and federal officials who handled the death threats the senator
occasionally received, to the security staffs at both the Capitol and Senate
Office Building.
Over the last three years, Grant had become one of the senator's most
trusted confidants. In fact, he knew things even Driscoll didn't know.
Like how it had all started with that damn Viagra.
According to Hodges, he'd started down the little-blue-pill-popping
path "to help things out with the wife," and Grant believed that was true. The
senator was essentially a good-hearted man, better than most politicians
Grant had met (and in his line of work he'd met quite a few), but like most
politicians, he was susceptible to flattery and had a misguided sense of
invincibility. So when those little blue pills kicked in, and Hodges got a bit
more vim in his verve, he began to avail himself, so to speak, of female
companionship--of the paid variety.
Within a few months a pattern developed: when business required the
senator to be in the city late at night, he would spend the night at a hotel
instead of making the fifty minute drive back to his North Shore estate. On
those nights, Grant would arrange for one of the girls to stay in the same
hotel. Hodges was either smarter than most cheating men, more paranoid,
or both--he would never allow the girls to come to his room. Nor would he
buy a condo in the city to use as home base for his extramarital affairs, out of
fear that reporters would watch his place and keep track of the comings and
goings of any visitors.
Mandy Robards was not the first girl the escort service sent, but after
only one night, she became Hodges's favorite. Unbeknownst to the senator,
Grant had taken upon himself the task of waiting in his car outside the hotel
in order to make sure that the women "exited safely from the premises" (aka
got the hell out of the hotel in the dead of night when no one was watching).
In the beginning, his reasons for watching the girls had been somewhat
altruistic--it was his job to protect the senator after all--but quickly he began
to see the value in having as much information as possible about Hodges's
dirty secret.
From the car, he had observed the handful of women the senator
rotated through as they went in and out of the hotel. Mandy wasn't the
prettiest of the bunch--in fact, except for her flaming red hair, her looks were
generally unstriking--but Grant suspected that was part of her appeal.
Perhaps the fact that she wasn't drop-dead gorgeous made it easier for the
senator to buy into the four-hour fantasy that she was there because she
genuinely liked him, not for the two thousand dollars in cash he handed her
on the way out the door.
What Grant had seen in Mandy, on the other hand, was an opportunist.
It was after her third visit with the senator, probably about the time she
felt safe in assuming that she'd become one of his regulars, that she'd
started things in motion. Although it would be months before Grant realized
it.
She had exited the hotel--the Four Seasons that time--nearly four hours to the minute after she'd arrived and surprised him by ignoring the
open cabs that drove by. Normally, the girls made a fast getaway from the
hotel, probably to shower. Instead she lingered for a moment, then turned
and strode toward his car in her high-heeled black leather boots. She
knocked on his window and cocked her head at an angle when he unrolled it.
"Want to join me for a drink at the bar?" she asked in her pack-a-day
voice.
While normally such a suggestion from a woman would have certain
connotations, Grant had sensed this was more than a casual invitation. True,
he was a good-looking guy and worked out everyday to maintain the
muscular build he'd acquired in his Marine Corps days, but seeing how she'd
just had sex with another man--his boss, no less--the idea of her hitting on
him right then was just gross.
Thus assuming there was more to it, Grant had agreed. Truthfully, he
was intrigued. And he was more intrigued, an hour later, when he left the
hotel bar having gotten nothing from Mandy other than the distinct
impression that she'd been chatting him up over drinks. She'd seemed eager
to learn about him and his background, yet all she'd revealed about herself
was one minor (and frankly, not exactly jaw-dropping) detail.
"It's not like I want to be an escort forever, you know," she said with a
sigh.
No shit, really? And here he'd thought prostitutes had such good
401(k) plans.
But Grant kept his mouth shut. And after her next visit with the senator,
Mandy asked him to join her for another drink, and then the visit after that,
too. It became an arrangement between them, and it wasn't long before their
talk became less casual. Nevertheless, out of an abundance of caution on
both their parts, it took about five months of circular conversations, the loops
of which gradually grew smaller and smaller, before they finally got down to
the point.
Blackmail.
What made it work, in essence, was that they were both gamblers.
Grant's game was poker, and some unfortunate losses at high stakes tables
had put a real stress on his credit. Mandy's game was sex, and she'd been
waiting for the escort service to throw her the perfect score. When the married senior senator from Illinois showed up on her hotel room doorstep,
she knew she'd found him.
The plan they devised had three parts: they would catch Hodges on
video performing those acts of service generally considered outside the
traditional senator/constituent relationship. Mandy would then present
Hodges with a copy of the video and her demand. When Hodges balked at
the blackmail and turned to his personal security guard and most trusted
confidant for advice, Grant would make a big show of exploring all the
options. He would then use his influence to steer the senator away from
going to the authorities, and would ultimately and most reluctantly inform him
that he had no choice but to pay.
They were careful in their planning, only meeting in person. No
exchanges by phone or email. No records that could link them together.
They decided it would be a one-time deal, after which they would go their
separate ways. Mandy would quit the escort service and get out of town, and
Grant would continue on with business as usual, with the senator none the
wiser to his involvement in the scheme.
They agreed to ask for five hundred thousand dollars.
Then they agreed it wasn't enough and bumped it up to a cool million.
Not an exorbitant sum to Hodges, whose family had founded one of the
largest grocery store chains in the country and owned an NFL football team,
and certainly an amount he could pay without much doing. But it was enough
to get Grant back on his feet after the gambling losses and more than
enough to get Mandy off her back. The profits would be split fifty-fifty, they
agreed.
Or so Grant had thought.
The time to strike came when the senator was invited to a
thousand-dollar-per-plate charity fund-raiser for a children's hospital that
would keep him in the city late into the evening. Hodges asked him to make
the "necessary arrangements" and Grant set about doing exactly that. They
would be staying at the Peninsula, where Hodges was a frequent visitor, and
Grant knew the layout of the hotel well. He'd been given a tour by hotel
security earlier in the year when the senator's son, daughter-in-law, and two
grandchildren had stayed there that had pretty much told him everything he
needed to know, including that which was most important: where the hotel kept their cameras.
Mandy requested room 1308, a room she'd stayed in before. Given its
location, it suited their needs perfectly. It was in a corner and right across the
hall from a stairwell, providing Grant a low-visibility means to sneak in and
out of the room. And, personally, he got a kick out of the sinister connotations
that came with the number thirteen. Another man in his position might have
felt guilty, planning to screw his boss out of a million dollars, especially when
that boss had been fair and respectful to him. But Grant was not that man.
Senator Hodges was weak. Sure, Grant had vices, everyone did, but
the senator had put himself in a position to be preyed upon by others, and
that made him a fool. Plus the guy had more money than sin and Grant didn't
see anything wrong with redistributing some of that wealth in his direction.
Given what he knew about the senator's private affairs, he'd earned that
money just for keeping his mouth shut.
When the night finally arrived, everything started out smoothly enough.
After Hodges headed to the hotel after the fund raiser to--how
thoughtful--call his wife to say good night, Grant drove his car into a dark
alley a few blocks away and quickly shed the trademark suit and tie he
always wore when working with the senator. He threw on a nondescript black
blazer, hooded T-shirt, and jeans, an outfit that would make him less
identifiable on the off chance anyone spotted him around room 1308. A few
minutes later, he parked the car and entered the hotel through its back
entrance, located the stairwell that would lead him to Mandy's room, and
hurried up the thirteen flights of stairs. Having timed things nearly to the
minute, Mandy had just arrived herself and was waiting in the room. She had
a small video camera she had purchased, per his instructions, from a spy
shop on Wells Street.
Grant set up the camera, gave Mandy a thirty-second tutorial, and hid it
behind the television that was conveniently located in front of the king-sized
bed.
"What's with the gloves?" Mandy asked, taking in his black leather-clad
hands while he worked.
In hindsight, Grant probably should've given the answer to this
question a little more consideration, as it was the first sign of trouble.
"Just being careful," he'd said matter-of-factly while opening the armoire doors another quarter inch and checking to make sure the camera
wasn't visible.
"Just being careful how?" Mandy asked.
When Grant turned around, he saw she had her arms folded across
her chest.
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You mean, just being careful, as in, if
Hodges doesn't go for this, and he turns me in to the cops, there's no proof
you were ever involved? Is that the kind of being careful you're talking
about?"
She might not have been the prettiest call girl Grant had ever seen, but
she wasn't the dumbest, either. Unfortunately, he didn't have a lot of time to
finesse the situation.
"We're blackmailing a United States senator, Mandy. Yes, I'm being
careful. And so should you. But it's not exactly going to be a secret to Hodges
that you're involved in this. You're the one screwing him, remember? Not to
mention, the one who's making the deal with him for the money."
"Funny how, when you say it like that, it sounds like I'm the one who's
doing all the work," she said. "Not to mention"--she mimicked him--"the one
taking all the risks."
Fucking women. He should've known she'd start bitching about
something last minute.
Grant took her by the shoulders, tempted to give her a good shake.
"This was your plan, Mandy. And it's a good one. Just keep cool, and let's do
this."
It took a moment before Mandy nodded. "You're right." She exhaled.
"I'm sorry, Grant. I think I'm getting nervous about all this."
"Don't be nervous," he told her. "All you need to do is turn the camera
on when you hear Hodges knock--make sure you put the armoire doors back
in the exact spot they're in now, then turn the camera off when he leaves.
The rest of it is no different than any other job. I'll be watching in my car from
the street below. Turn the lamp by the window on and off three times so I'll
know when you're done. I'll come up, check the tape to make sure
everything's okay, and then you'll leave just like you would any other night."