“Hello, Peter, I trust you have something worthy of me. I’ve been rather bored lately.”
“I do indeed. In fact it has to do with your former employer.”
“The Army or the FBI?”
“The latter,” Buckley replied.
“Excellent, I always love to stick it to the Bureau when given the chance.”
“They’re looking for a woman named Rebecca Atkins, aka Eloise Cain. And so am I.”
“And your interest in her?”
“Entirely personal. She killed my brother, Ken,” said Buckley.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I can send the jet. Just give me a location and a time.”
“I’m a bit tied up at the moment. Just finishing something up. I can be ready to go tomorrow morning around eight. I’m in DC currently. I can go out to Dulles to catch your ride.”
“All right. They’ll fly out of the Signature Terminal.”
“And where are you?”
“The great state of Alabama.”
“Okay, and what is there of interest to you in the great state of Alabama?”
“I’ll fill you in when you get here,” promised Buckley.
“Private jets are so convenient. I wish I could afford one.”
“Well, you’ll always have the use of mine.”
“Aren’t you sweet. Look, I really have to go. A few things to tidy up, like I said.”
“Right, see you soon, Britt.”
He clicked off.
CHAPTER
38
BRITT SPECTOR PUT HER PHONE AWAY and looked down at the body on the floor. A few minutes ago it was a living, breathing human being. Now she had transformed it into a corpse via a broken neck that would make it look like the very elderly and long-serving and high-ranking congressman had fallen down the stairs of his lovely home, in a stately old neighborhood in northwest DC. The tox report would show that the man had had too much to drink, and was already unsteady on his feet due to some neurological ailments and cognitive debilitation, although he had won his reelection by a landslide. And the forensic trail the fall had left would not suggest foul play, because while she had nudged him down the stairs, it wasn’t enough to change the trajectory of his descent, alerting the police that something was amiss. Then it came down to finishing the job with a slight but classic maneuver on the man’s already extensively damaged vertebra that the Army had taught her. And he had died.
Simple and easy.
Spector had no sympathy for the fellow, who was cruel and corrupt. For over four decades he had sold his influence in hundreds of different ways, with wired funds sliding into foreign numbered accounts, or substantial favors and hidden payments handed out to those he favored, relatives, friends, mistresses. Sometimes it was as simple as making sure a law wasn’t passed; indeed, he was known as a particularly efficient bill killer. And the laws he made sure would never see the light of day usually would benefit the masses, who had little money and no power. Thus, the result of his either stonewalling or passing a bill always benefited the wealthy and the connected because they could reward him. That was how the game was played, and he played it better than most.
And his growing net worth had been explained away through well-designed investment devices, or lucky business gambles that had nothing to do with luck. His real wealth was outright hidden from view in those numbered accounts in faraway places. However, he had gotten too big for his britches and made a fatal mistake in deciding to renegotiate a deal that was already done, for far better terms.
Spector’s employer on this job had had this done to them once too often by the man. Before, they had agreed to his demands. This time, they had decided to cut their losses and also take the congressman out of any more deals, as well as the remainder of his years. And with his declining health, he was getting far more difficult to trust and control. And there was growing concern he would let something slip that would spark an investigation that would turn out to be inconvenient.