Part 23 (1/2)
39.
STROMEYER TOOK A CIRCUITOUS PATH TO THE ROTARY MEETING. While anyone could have seen from the organization's Web page that Banner was scheduled to speak that day, the most dangerous time for her would be en route. Once there she'd be surrounded by the other attendees, a much less desirable target. Getting there, though, was going to be time-consuming. She started from her house, leaving out the back door and jumping the neighbor's fence. The neighbor's name was Stan, and he took his morning coffee in a sunroom facing the yard. Stromeyer often jumped his gate when working on a particularly sensitive matter, or when she wished to avoid the press. Stan was a sixty-year-old former a.n.a.lyst at a right-wing think tank. Stromeyer considered herself a centrist, leaning toward liberal. Their divergent political views didn't hinder the relations.h.i.+p in the least. Each of them had worked long enough in Was.h.i.+ngton to realize that most issues in the world were neither a simple black nor white but a complex shade of gray. They both lamented the violence that pockmarked the globe.
Stan was in his solarium when Stromeyer swung her leg onto his side of the fence and placed her toes on the overturned wheelbarrow placed there. He cranked open a cas.e.m.e.nt window.
”I hope this doesn't mean that the witch-hunt is getting you down,” he said through the screen.
Stromeyer smiled at him. ”Just being cautious. If you see any shady characters floating around, you'll be sure to call me?”
”I'll shoot them first, then call you. How's that?”
”Works for me,” Stromeyer said.
She waved good-bye before running past his garage to the alley behind, where Alicia was waiting for her. They rode Alicia's cycle to the nearest Metro stop. From there Stromeyer took the train to a location three miles from the Rotary club, doubling back in a cab to the front door of the imposing redbrick building. The cab turned in to the circular drive and stopped.
She was thirty minutes early. The lobby was empty, with the exception of one lone man behind a reception desk. Stromeyer stepped up to him.
”I'm the speaker. I know I'm a little early. Is there somewhere I can get something to drink before we begin? Perhaps some lemonade?”
The man pointed to the lounge entrance on the far left side of the lobby. ”Over there is the lounge. The bartender isn't on duty yet, but you can get a water bottle from a refrigerator behind the bar. Senator Cooley's there, pouring himself a stiff one.”
Stromeyer doubted that. Cooley was a notorious teetotaler. When campaigning in the South, he would put on cornpone airs and call alcohol ”the devil's brew.” Stromeyer thought it was an act, but no one had ever seen Cooley take a drink, so perhaps she was wrong. She strode over to the doors that separated the lounge area from the lobby. They were heavy leather-covered panels with studs outlining the perimeter. She hauled them open and stepped inside.
The doors closed behind her with a swis.h.i.+ng sound. It was dark in the lounge, which was paneled in gleaming mahogany. A thick carpet covered the floor, and leather club chairs were scattered in small seating configurations. On the far wall was an elaborate carved-wood bar. The bottles of liquor gleamed in the faint light. Cooley stood at the cus.h.i.+oned edge, his back to Stromeyer. He didn't turn when she walked across to him, leading her to believe that he didn't hear her.
”Go away. Can't a man even have a drink in peace?” Cooley slurred his words. When Stromeyer came abreast of him, she was aghast at what she saw. Cooley stood belly to the bar, with an entire bottle of Jack Daniel's in his hand. It was already half empty. Stromeyer looked for a gla.s.s but couldn't find one anywhere on the gleaming wood top. The lack of drinkware didn't seem to faze Cooley, who took a huge swallow of the amber liquid straight from the bottle. He lowered the container a fraction while he raised an eyebrow at her. ”You look like you've seen a ghost.”
Stromeyer gathered her thoughts. Something was very wrong here.
”Senator, I'm surprised to see you drinking, especially this early in the day. I understood you to be a teetotaler.”
Cooley put the bottle down with a thud, resting it on the bar but never taking his hand off it. He looked about to weep.
”I am. Been sober twenty-five years.” He gazed at the bottle in his hand. ”But guess that's all over now. Gotta start from square one.” He took another huge gulp. ”Right after I finish this bottle.” He took another swig. He was drinking so fast that Stromeyer was becoming frightened. It was as if the man were possessed.
”Maybe you should hand me the bottle. You've had a lot in a very short time. It can't be good for you.”
He shook his head. ”Never was good for me. Practically ruined my life, way back then. But I can't give you the bottle. What you don't know, but I do, is that once I start, I don't stop.” He shook the bottle at the shelves lining the back of the bar. ”I'll drink everything on those shelves without stopping.” He took another swallow, and this time when he lowered the bottle, Stromeyer could see tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his free hand. ”'Course, in those days I was what my first wife called a mean drunk. Now it looks like I'm a sloppy drunk.” He made a sound that was halfway between a sob and a gulp. ”But I gotta finish off this whiskey and get the next. So go away and leave me to it.”
Stromeyer reached out. She wrapped her palm around the neck of the bottle above where his fingers grasped it. A fine line of blood ran down his hand.
”Senator, you're bleeding.” Stromeyer pointed at a small puncture wound.
He nodded. ”It's nothing. Man b.u.mped into me in the lobby and hit me with his pen.”
”What type of pen?” Stromeyer couldn't keep the sharp sound out of her voice. The revelation that he'd been stuck with a pen rattled her. Just like Caldridge, she thought. But Cooley was six thousand miles away, so the odds of the two things' being connected seemed remote.
He shrugged. ”White one. Dug into me. Doesn't matter.” He didn't release the bottle.
”Let go. I'll take it. Something's not right about this.”
For the first time, he seemed to really look at her. Focus on her. ”You're Darkview's vice president.”
She nodded.
He snorted. ”You must be loving this. The great man falls. Bet you always thought I was a liar.”
He was so close to the truth that Stromeyer could feel her face coloring a little. She shook off the embarra.s.sment.
”If you've been sober for twenty-five years, what possessed you to drink now?”
Cooley shook his head in what looked like true bewilderment. ”I can't tell you. I was only in the building a few minutes, and then I had the most overwhelming craving for a drink. I was here and with Jack in a heartbeat.”
Stromeyer tried to imagine a substance that would force a man to drink, but nothing came to mind. Cooley unwrapped her fingers from the top of his hand, breaking her train of thought.
Once again he was focused on her.
”You look scary smart just now. I can almost see the gears turning in your head.”
”I'm thinking you were poisoned,” Stromeyer said.
He had the bottle halfway to his lips, then stopped. ”Poisoned?”
Stromeyer nodded. ”Fast-acting. Somehow triggered a drinking binge.”
He stayed frozen, holding the liquor in the air. ”Drugged in order to drink?” He burst out laughing. ”Now, that's a good one!” He brought the bottle closer to his mouth.
”Stop it!” Stromeyer snapped out the order. She used the tone she'd utilized for years in the military, when some grunt was insistent on doing some foolish thing that was going to get him killed, demoted, or both. Like the men before him, Cooley stopped. The whiskey stayed in midair.
”Put that alcohol down! Quit acting like your actions are out of your control. A man who's been able to avoid drink for twenty-five years certainly has the wherewithal to avoid succ.u.mbing to a poison, for G.o.d's sake. If you were drugged, then as soon as it fades, you'll be back to where you were. Nothing lost, nothing gained. Status quo. Now, do it.”
Cooley put the bottle down with a clink. He shoved it at her. ”Here.”
Stromeyer took hold of it. A garbage can lined with plastic sat in the corner of the bar. She tossed the Jack Daniel's at it. It flew in and crashed to the bottom.
”You'd better get out of here. There's an entrance to the kitchen in that corner.” Stromeyer pointed to a set of swinging doors. ”Leave that way. Hit the Metro and go home.”
He straightened. ”Yes, sir!” He snapped out a salute. The action made him stagger sideways, ruining the effect. He waved her aside. ”Out of my way.”
”I'm not in your way.”
”Oh.” He paused. ”I meant that metaphorically, of course.”
Stromeyer rolled her eyes.