Conspiracy

136

Two things were important — the faked credentials Chief Ball waved in his hand and the strut of his body as he entered the Paley house. He wouldn’t have been able to say which was more persuasive.

“The first thing we need are two people at the top of the driveway, next to the gate,” he said, to no one and everyone as he flipped his wallet closed. “And there’s no one on the back fence — I could have hopped it and climbed up on the patio and no one would have noticed.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Chris Stevens,” said Ball, using the name on the ID.

“Who the hell are you?”

“It’s twelve hours before the reception,” said one of the men standing in the foyer.

“Who are you?” asked Ball.

The man identified himself as a member of the sheriff’s department. Ball frowned for just a moment, then made a show of becoming more conciliatory, his voice hinting at forced congeniality. “I don’t want to bust your chops. I’m just doing my job.”

“What is your job?” asked a woman, appearing from the top of the steps.

“Christopher Stevens, ma’am.”

“You’re from LAPD?”

Ball smiled without answering.

“Who are you with?” she asked again, coming down the stairs. Two other agents, both male, followed her down. Ball could tell they were Secret Service by their lapel pins, but they didn’t identify themselves.

“I work for the senator,” Ball told the woman. “Tim O’Rourke sent me over.”

She smirked. “Let’s see some ID.”

“Sure.”

Ball pulled out the campaign ID he had made a few hours before at the campaign headquarters.

“Driver’s license,” said the woman.

Ball reached into his pocket and took out the license. The agent held it sideways, making sure it contained the holo-graphic imprint used by New York State. Then she studied the ID number.

“Run this,” she told one of the men. Her eyes still locked on Ball’s, she asked for his Social Security number.

Ball repeated the memorized number. The man who had taken the license nodded, then retreated to another room inside the house.

“He’s going to remember that?” Ball asked the woman.

“He’s good with numbers.”

The Social Security number and the ID on the license belonged to the real Christopher Stevens, who was in O’Rourke’s files as a backup driver and occasional extra “suit” for work in the district. Ball had met Stevens a few times. He was a few years younger and two inches taller, but otherwise the general description was close enough that the scant information on the license matched.

Ball stood quietly, waiting while the information was checked against the criminal and Secret Service databases.

He knew the criminal check would come clean, and as long as Stevens hadn’t made any threats against the President in the last few weeks, the Secret Service files should have nothing against him, either.

The female agent stared at him the whole time. Ball stared back. The last thing he wanted to do was seem weak.

Finally, the man returned with Ball’s license. The agent handed it to the woman, nodding almost imperceptibly. She took it, looked at it again, flipped it over in her hand, then handed it back.

“So who did I just give my credit report to?” asked Ball, taking the license. “I want to know who to call when the phony charges hit my account.”

One of the male agents smirked. The others didn’t.

“Lucinda Silvestri,” said the woman.

Ball extended his hand. Silvestri looked at it a moment, then finally shook it. Ball had expected a crusher grip, and he got one.

“Where’s O’Rourke?” said the man who had smirked.

“I don’t know whether he’s under the weather or what.

He told me a couple of days ago to come out in case I was needed. Called me this morning, told me to be here.”

“He didn’t have you shovel him off a barroom floor last night?”

“That’s enough,” snapped Silvestri. “Mr. Stevens, stay out of our way.”

“I’m only here to help,” said Ball, holding his arms out in protest. “I’m just doing what I’m supposed to do.” Silvestri frowned, and went back to the stairs.

“O’Rourke’s a bit of a joke,” said the agent who’d spoken earlier. “No offense to you.”

“Look, the guy’s my boss. I can’t bad-mouth him,” said Ball. “I know you guys run the show.”

“Preston Dell,” said the agent, extending his hand. “You come from New York?”

“Yeah, upstate. I was a cop in New York for twenty years.

Took retirement. Have a little security firm. They call me mostly when the senator’s back home, you know? I first met him when he was a congressman.”

“You like Rockland?”

“That’s the next county down,” said Ball, not sure if the agent had made an honest mistake or was testing him. “I live in Goshen. That’s Orange County. Not much difference, I guess, except for the house prices. Damn hard to afford anything now.”

“I have a cousin in Pearl River.”

“I don’t know Rockland too well,” said Ball, “but that’s pretty close to the city, right?”

They traded geo graph i cal references for a few minutes.

Ball had been to Goshen many times over the years — the Orange County Jail was there — but he didn’t know it like he knew Pine Plains or the towns around it.

“County building is a crazy jumble,” he told the agent. “I get lost every time I go to get my license renewed or for jury duty.”

“They let you serve?”

“Well, funny

thing — they won’t automatically dismiss you in New York, but most of the lawyers won’t let you on a jury. So you go through a big rigamarole. Earn forty bucks for the day, though. Pays for lunch over at the Orange Inn.”

“Yeah,” said the agent. “Listen, stay away from Lucinda, all right? She and O’Rourke have had some words. And stay away from the bar.”

“Absolutely,” said Ball.

“Things won’t really get rolling until after lunch.”

“I’ll fade into the background until then.”

“Good,” said the agent, turning to go.