A Bustle in the Hedgerow (CASMIRC Book 1) Page 7

  Heath Reilly.

  CASMIRC.

  No Jackson Byrne yet, but it was a start.

  Randall knew that he must allow for some degree of variation, even if that felt uncomfortable to him. But, so far, his Work proceeded as planned.

  18

  About thirty miles away, in her cubicle at The Washington Post, Corinne O’Loughlin looked at the same website. A couple of hours earlier she had submitted her latest piece on the investigation into a hit-and-run in Georgetown. A popular female lacrosse player for the Hoyas had been struck by a Chevy sedan in the early hours of Sunday morning, almost four days ago now. She remained in critical condition at Georgetown University Hospital. Corinne had been covering the story all week for The Post. It provided little excitement for her (and her readers, to be honest), but it kept her writing, and it kept her editor off her back.

  Now she had been scanning the World Wide Web for something else to pique her interest. She had nothing in particular to get home to, except an empty loft apartment. Besides, the speed of the internet service in her office far surpassed even the DSL hook-up she had at home.

  She remembered hearing about Adrianna Cottrell on Monday; she made a mental note at that point to continue keeping tabs on the investigation. York, PA sat outside of the area of interest for her readership, but, if a story turns juicy enough, everyone will want to read about it. With the sudden murder of a child, this story had started off quite piquant. It had potential.

  Plus, though her hard exterior would never admit it, Corinne had identified with the victim. The photo that had been in the local papers, the posed school portrait, easily could have passed for Corinne’s third-grade photo. They had the same curly, orange-red hair and pale, freckled skin. They shared the same innocent, child-like appearance as well. At 32, despite working at The Post for nearly a decade, Corinne still was often mistaken for a high-school or college intern by new-comers.

  Until they met her, that is.

  A former editor had once described her—to her face—as “acerbic.” She took it as a compliment. She thought harshness, aggressiveness, and biting honesty were pre-requisites for investigative reporters. Well, good investigative reporters, anyway. She never apologized for her tenacity or her frankness. She felt very comfortable in her own pasty skin; she didn’t care if others didn’t like her.

  She finished reading the article on the WHTM website, then went back to the caption. She too recognized Heath Reilly. She had reported on the Lamaya Hollows murder from the beginning and had met Heath through Jackson Byrne.

  She instinctively swallowed hard to suppress the bile suddenly accumulating in her stomach.

  Like most people, Corinne had liked Jack Byrne the minute she met him. She found him handsome, charming, and very intelligent. She continued to enjoy seeing him throughout the case, as he treated her with respect. In Corinne’s experience many members of law enforcement see the press as the enemy, always trying to hinder their investigation. She felt that Jack saw her, and her colleagues, as a resource. Information often flowed bi-directionally, as they each tried to help the other further understand the case.

  But then he solved the case, blowing everything wide open. As Corinne struggled to put all of the pieces together, Jack met with a retired editor and they took the story to a national publishing house. The Hollows case should have been her big break, catapulting her into the national spotlight: a full-length book, the talk-shows, the prolonged interviews during an episode of Dateline dedicated to the case. She had anticipated a subsequent move to one of the national weekly magazines afterwards.

  But Jack Byrne beat her to it.

  Corinne O’Loughlin was no stranger to ill will. As a first generation Irish-American, it seemed that at least some degree of bitterness ran through her veins. But this acrimony towards Jack stood in such contrast to her initial sentiments about him that it actually bothered her. Upon further introspection, the fact that her resentment bothered her caused her even more resentment. It could quickly turn into a vicious spiral.

  She tried to forget about Jackson Byrne and continue about her tasks. And, as per usual, she accomplished this with aplomb.

  Reilly’s presence in York surely signaled that CASMIRC had been enlisted to assist with the Cottrell murder. This seemed slightly odd to Corinne, as she would not expect CASMIRC to get involved necessarily in a single, relatively low-profile homicide. On a hunch, she launched an internet search on child strangulation. Within a few minutes, she found herself reading about the Stephanie McBurney murder.

  Consider her interest adequately piqued.

  Corinne spent the next few hours compiling information about both murders. When her eyes finally began to feel heavy, she checked the time on the corner of her monitor. 2:18 am. She saved a notepad document to her flash drive and shut down the computer. She then made a mental note to call Jack Byrne tomorrow. She surmised that very little happened within CASMIRC without his knowledge. He must have an inside scoop on this case.

  If she could swallow her pride long enough to get some information from Byrne—and, to reach a goal, Corinne O’Loughlin could muster the strength to do just about anything— perhaps she still had a chance to create her big break after all.

  DAY FOUR:

  THURSDAY

  19

  Jack's morning had not started off well.

  He left the house in a bit of a hurry that morning. He had planned on meeting Prince and Senator Johnson for lunch at 1:00 pm, until Prince called him shortly after 7:00 that morning. Jack hadn’t yet finished his first cup of coffee of the day, and he certainly hadn’t showered. Vicki had left to take Jonah to school about five minutes earlier.

  “Good morning, Jack. I hope I didn’t wake you,” Prince had said after Jack answered his cell on the second ring.

  “I wish, actually. I haven’t slept past seven since Jonah was born,” Jack replied.

  “Slight change in plans, my boy,” Prince had said jovially. “Lunch wasn’t going to work so well for Senator Johnson, so he suggested we reschedule.”

  “Oh,” Jack said casually, careful not to reveal his disappointment. He knew this meeting was pivotal for him to make his decision, and he did not want to put if off any further.

  “Can you do a 9 am? At the Senator’s office?” Prince posed.

  “Whoa, uh—,” Jack looked at the clock: 7:14. It would take him well over an hour to get into downtown Washington at this time of day, and he hadn’t even showered yet. “If I hurry.”

  “Well, hurry then. I’ll see you in a little bit,” Prince instructed, then hung up.

  Jack threw his cell phone on the bed, turned on the shower, and stepped in with the water still lukewarm. He shampooed his hair, lathered soap on his hairier body parts, rinsed off, shaved, toweled dry, brushed his teeth, and got dressed in one of his finer suits. His first attempt at tying his tie ended with the long end halfway down his crotch, so he had to tie it a second time. Albeit minor, this served as the only setback in his whirlwind preparation before leaving the house at 7:41.

  He felt underprepared for this meeting. He had planned on spending the better half of the morning continuing his preparation. After returning from dinner with his mother, Jack played checkers with Jonah for a while—Jonah didn’t quite understand all of the rules, but he loved sitting down with his father to play a “serious game”—before bathing him and reading a bedtime story together. (Corduroy again.) Then he had done some additional research on the laptop for about thirty minutes, sitting in bed with Vicki before turning out the light.

  Now he regretted not spending some more time with it last night. Jack rarely got nervous, but his career could hinge on this meeting. He felt as if he were on his way to the bar exam without having studied. He hated that feeling.

  Jack arrived at the Hart Senate Office building on Constitution Avenue at 8:59, after parking in a garage on the opposite block. By the time he took the elevator to the fifth floor and walked down to Senator Johnson’s offic
e, his watch read 9:02. He hated being late almost as much as he hated being underprepared.

  This morning had not started off well at all.

  The outer door to the office stood ajar, so Jack poked his head in. A young woman with dark hair pulled back in a bun sat at the front desk. She looked up and smiled at Jack, her teeth crammed together at odd angles, as if she either had more of them than the average person, or her mouth was just too small to house the normal number. Either way, she could have benefitted from some orthodontic work earlier in life, Jack thought. Though he disliked such judgmental sentiments bubbling from his subconscious, this one did seem to lighten his mood a bit, providing much–needed internal levity.

  “I am Ana Gorczyka, Senator Johnson’s assistant,” she said, standing up and walking around the desk as she extended her right hand. She had an Eastern European accent, but the English flowed off her tongue quite naturally. Her friendly voice automatically made her seem more attractive than her appearance. “And you are Special Agent Jackson Byrne.”

  “Yes.” Jack shook her hand, impressed with the firmness of her grip. “Nice to meet you.”

  “And you too, sir, of course. I read your book when I learned of this meeting, and I enjoyed it immensely. I found it very insightful.” She turned to lead him to an anteroom separating her entry office from the Senator’s. “Right this way, Special Agent Byrne.”

  Jack followed, initially flattered by her compliment until the former portion of her comment settled in. She read my book since learning of this meeting? His book was no great tome, by any stretch, but it measured just under 300 pages. Either she’s a very fast reader, or this meeting’s been planned longer than I’ve known about it.

  Before he could ponder this thought any longer, Ana opened the door to Senator Johnson’s office and announced his arrival. “Senator Johnson and Mr. Prince, Special Agent Byrne is here.”

  “Jackson Byrne!” a rotund African-American man said as he stood up from his large mahogany desk and walked around to the front of it to greet his visitor. Though Jack had seen Montgomery Johnson before, in print and on television, it took meeting him in person for Jack to realize that Johnson reminded him of James Earl Jones, circa Field of Dreams era. Even his voice shared similar characteristics, though not quite as booming. Jack hoped to one day hear Johnson give a “Luke, I am your father,” but he decided not to request that on his first visit.

  “Senator Johnson, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jack said as he shook the Senator’s hand. Not quite as firm as his assistant’s, Jack thought, but still very respectable.

  “Please, call me Monty,” the Senator replied in his slow, genteel drawl. Jack surmised that most people in the Senator’s life called him Monty. He possessed a welcoming air that fit such an amiable nickname.

  Jack turned to his right to face Prince, who had also stood. “Philip, nice to see you again,” he said as they exchanged a shake.

  “Indeed,” Prince concurred. “Twice in one week.”

  “Can I get anyone something to drink?” Ana asked from the doorway. “Coffee? Tea? Water?”

  Both guests declined politely.

  “OK. Well, thank you, Ana,” Johnson said, dismissing her.

  “I’ll be at my desk, sir, if you need anything,” Ana said as she bowed out of the room.

  Johnson signaled for Jack to sit in one of the leather armchairs behind him. Jack eased into the luxurious chair and absorbed the otherwise plainly-decorated room around him. It emanated a warm ambience, all burgundies and browns, oak and leather. Despite the two large windows behind Johnson’s sizable desk, with thick fabric shades held open by tasseled gold rope, the room still seemed preternaturally dark. It reminded Jack of a sitting room, or, more likely, a smoking room, in one of those Old Boys’ Clubs.

  Johnson sat down in a chair beside Prince, both of them facing Jack. Johnson placed his elbows on the chair’s arms and folded his hands in his lap. Suddenly the entire scene reminded Jack of the 80’s film Trading Places: Johnson and Prince as the Ralph Bellamy and Don Ameche characters (Wasn’t one of them even named Montgomery!?), sitting in their executives’ club, making a wager about the ruination of the Dan Aykroyd character and the ascension of the Eddie Murphy character. Though he had a pretty good idea—at least he hoped he did—Jack wasn’t yet sure which character he would represent.

  Johnson nodded his head toward the door where Ana had recently stood. “Nice girl. Very smart and very motivated. I think she’ll do well in this town.” He leaned forward, as if telling a little secret. “She is very excited and a little nervous about this meeting this morning.” He smiled as he leaned back.

  Jack seemed outwardly a little confused by this. “Really?” Inwardly, this comment did not surprise him. He had seen the animation in her eyes when she spoke about his book earlier.

  Johnson nodded, and Prince just smiled. Jack sensed that they might share an additional secret, one he was not yet privy to.

  Johnson sat back in his chair, projecting a relaxed air. “So tell me about yourself, Jack.”

  Jack leaned forward with his elbows on the armrests. “Well, I was born in Florida but grew up just south of Chevy Chase…”

  Johnson began shaking his head and held up his hand, flashing the international sign for “stop.” He spoke in a very deliberate yet relaxed manner. “Not a history lesson, Jack. I know all about that: son of a District Attorney—whom I knew and liked very much, by the way— UVA undergrad, Michigan Law, so on and some such. I don’t mean any offense.”

  He looked at Jack, who shook his head. “None taken,” Jack replied.

  “I’ve read your book. Skimmed it, to be honest, but I was fascinated by what I read. I would like to hear about you, who you are now. I know that we have approached you about this opportunity, not the other way around. But you’re pursuing it this far. Why?”

  Johnson’s directness caught Jack a little off guard. He felt prepared to answer this question; he just didn’t think it would come so early in the conversation in such a straightforward manner. “Well, sir—“

  Johnson cut him off again with a raise of his hand. “Monty, please.”

  If Johnson didn’t come across as so likable, Jack would be getting pretty pissed by now about the repeated interruptions.

  “Monty,” Jack continued. “To be honest—which seems to be a theme here today—being a Senator has always been a dream of mine. It’s one of the main reasons I decided to go to law school years ago. I ended up in corporate law for a short time out after graduation, mainly because that’s what everybody did. It’s what I felt most comfortable with given my training at Michigan. But I hated it, for a variety of reasons that I won’t bore you with now.

  “When I got into law enforcement with the Bureau it felt like a great fit. I possess certain talents and attention to detail that enabled me to excel. Solving crimes, particularly those against children, and bringing justice to families and communities has offered me great satisfaction. But over the past few years I’ve sensed an urge to contribute more. That was the main motivation for writing my book. In solving the Hollows case, we discovered so many injustices within the system. Essentially, as you know, I feel that that was a preventable crime, like countless others in our society. As a Senator, if I can help put better legal parameters in place—and help provide the means to uphold them—I can work to prevent crimes before they happen instead of solve them after the fact.”

  Jack noticed that Prince’s face lit up, like a valedictorian’s proud parent on graduation day. Johnson smiled too.

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound preachy,” Jack apologized, but he knew he had said what they wanted to hear. Yes, he had rehearsed his brief a couple of times, but that did not make it any less earnest.

  “No, not at all.” Johnson crossed his legs, still emanating repose. “There’s your platform, Jack. It’s that motivation and that character that will win you a seat in the Senate.”

  Prince spoke for the first time since they a
ll sat down. “How committed are you to this, Jack?”

  “Quite, I suppose. But, my biggest concern is not knowing where to go from here, what lies ahead.”

  Johnson opened his mouth to speak, when a knock came at his office door. He closed his mouth and smiled a knowing smile. He glanced down at his wristwatch as he pushed himself to a stand. Jack looked at the small mahogany mantle clock that sat on the front edge of Johnson’s desk. 9:10.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked someone else to join us briefly.” Johnson moved toward the door.

  Prince stood up and straightened his jacket before buttoning the top button. He looked at Jack, scrunched his face with a smile, and flapped his fingers upward into the palm of his hand. Stand up, the flapping fingers told him.

  Jack stood up as Johnson got to the door and swung it inward halfway, such that Jack couldn’t yet see the guest.

  Johnson shot his right hand into the threshold. “Hello, sir. Thank you so much for coming this morning.”

  Jack could hear the visitor’s voice as their hands clasped together in greeting. “Senator, my pleasure. Nice to see you.”

  Jack thought he recognized the voice. Within an instant he suddenly placed it. A stunned look appeared on his face, revealing his astonishment.

  Johnson opened the door all the way as the guest stepped inside. Johnson announced, “Mr. President, I’d like you to meet Jackson Byrne.”

  20

  Corinne had set her alarm for 9:00, but hit snooze on the first pass. She turned it off on the second beeping—What an inhumane sound, she thought, as she did on almost a daily basis—but stayed in bed for another few minutes. She eventually got up and walked over to her desk in the corner of her bedroom, unceremoniously picking a wedgie from her underwear on the way. She picked up her cell phone, unplugged it from the charger, and walked back over to sit on the edge of her bed. She tapped the touch screen to open up her contacts. She typed “J,” and Jackson Byrne’s cell phone appeared as the first number on her list.