What possible connection could there be between a dead small-time security consultant and the richest man in America?
She said, “Chris Bryson worked his whole life — he probably had something put away.”
“Probably. Might have been moving money around. I didn’t check his financials.”
She raised an eyebrow.
Miggie shrugged. “Hey, I ran with what you asked me to. I did confirm a PI license. As a security consultant, Bryson could’ve been doing an investigation for CSI.”
She noted that mentally. “Any other corporate calls?”
“A few, but nothing that added up to more than one or two.”
She patted the table with both hands. “So, then — that’s it?”
A crisp nod. “Afraid so. Can you get me Bryson’s computer? If I had that, I could tell you anything you want to know about the guy.”
“I’ll have Reeder check with Mrs. Bryson.”
“I’m not talking about his home computer so much, though I’d be happy to take a look. A guy who travels, in the security business? Get me his tablet or even laptop... dinosaur like Bryson, a laptop wouldn’t surprise me. That’s his safe — that’s where we’ll find all his secrets.”
Reeder hadn’t mentioned any computer of Bryson’s. She wondered where the hell any computer of his might be, and more important...
... was there something on it that got the man killed?
Four
“The World is my country, all mankind are my brethren, and to do good is my religion.”
Joe Reeder was a new man where his cell phone was concerned. Missing the call that could have saved Chris Bryson was obviously part of what inspired his new attitude. But Patti Rogers might check in with information, and so might Carl Bishop. For right now, anyway, Reeder was a field agent again — a private detective of sorts, with a client of one: himself.
And a field agent on the job lived and died by his phone. Just ask Bryson.
Seated on a bench one hundred yards east of (and down the hill from) the Tomb of the Unknowns, Reeder sent his eyes across the Potomac toward the Washington Monument, then to the National Mall and finally the Capitol, its dome currently encased in a cocoon of steel scaffolding. Last summer DC had suffered an earthquake in comparable magnitude to the 5.8 quake of ’11 that had necessitated repairs to the Washington Monument. Now the Capitol, sporting cracks in its cast-iron dome, was undergoing restoration and reinforcement for the first time since 2014.
Reeder rarely visited Arlington during the cemetery’s open-to-the-public hours; having saved a President’s life, he had the unique perk of roaming the grounds whenever he chose. In those early morning hours, the place was his alone — his and the fallen around him, whose company he generally preferred to the living. Anyway, few tourists made a visit in this kind of cold and snow, and he needed his Fortress of Solitude to clear his head.
After all, it wasn’t every morning he answered his cell before 6:00 a.m. Wasn’t every night that he put that cell on his nightstand, either, leaving the ringer on. But it wasn’t every day that he received a phone call from Adam Benjamin.
No day ever before, actually.
He’d bolted upright in the bed, like a buck private who found his commanding officer looming over his cot. Ready to blink the sleep out of his eyes and salute.
For a man who did not believe in heroes, Reeder made an exception for Adam Benjamin. The man had overcome adversity in the too-early death of his wife, and transformed himself by hard work and brains from a simple small-college economics prof into one of the richest men in the world. He’d done it all himself, and he’d done it honestly.
The billionaire investor had gradually become such a figure of American popularity that a groundswell movement based on his idea of common-sense centrism was gaining not just economic traction, but political momentum. Cable news outlets, right and left, spoke of a grassroots group that, if they could ever get themselves organized, would draft him to run independently for president.
There’d been no secretary or assistant on the line, saying, “Hold for Mr. Benjamin.” Just that familiar, much-imitated voice from television interviews, distinctive in its warm Midwestern baritone, almost — but not quite — folksy.
So familiar and imitated was the voice that Reeder wondered if this might not be a prank, worked by somebody at the ABC Security office who knew how much he admired the guy.
“This is Adam Benjamin. Am I speaking to Joe Reeder?”
He had nearly clicked off, rolled over and gone back to sleep. “Hell it is.”
“The hell it is,” the voice said with a chuckle. “Mr. Reeder, I assure you that you enjoy the dubious honor of speaking to Adam Benjamin. Or do I really sound that much like those late-night comics would have it?”
A hearty laugh followed, indicating this wasn’t the first time someone had not believed his caller.
Businesslike, Reeder said, “If this is Adam Benjamin, would you mind telling me how you got this number? And why you didn’t call me at work? That number is listed.”
“I apologize for the early hour. It’s actually earlier here in Ohio, but still I understand that this is an imposition. As for getting your number, might I immodestly mention that I own some portion of every phone company in this country? And a few elsewhere. As for my reason for calling so early, that will become apparent, if you allow this conversation to continue.”
Seemed to be Benjamin, all right. Strength, courtesy, and confidence.
“Okay, Mr. Benjamin. What’s the reason for this wake-up call?”
“Call me ‘Adam,’ if you would.”
“Not just yet. And I’m fine with ‘Mr. Reeder’ till I know what’s going on. There remains at least some possibility I’m speaking to an imposter.”
With a smile in his voice, the caller said, “But you’re the ‘people reader.’”
“Not over the phone I’m not. I need faces. Whole bodies when necessary.”
“Understood. The reason for my call, Mr. Reeder, is to discuss some business that we might do.”
“I don’t do endorsements, and all my money is tied up in my own firm or already securely invested.”
The tiniest hint of irritation came through. “Mr. Reeder, I have a reputation for being something of a ‘good ol’ boy,’ but this is hardly phone solicitation. I have others to do that kind of thing for me.”
Reeder smiled. “Well, I guess you would. That was just my way of suggesting you be more specific about what it is you want with me... or from me.”
Silence.
Then: “Fair enough, but I don’t want to talk about our potential business on any phone, nor do I wish to be seen walking into your corporate headquarters.”
“Might be a little below your standards at that.”
“We both know that it’s not,” the caller said. “In fact, your business has never been better.”
“What do you have in mind, Mr. Benjamin?”
“Could we talk about that this evening? Over dinner?”
“All right. Where?”
“The Holiday Inn Express in Falls Church, Virginia.”
Part of the greater DC metro area, but out of the way enough not to attract media attention. Made sense. But the Holiday Inn Express?
“Why that, uh, venue?”
“Well, it’s where I’ll be staying tonight.”