Pure plastic. Maybe you’re right, Helen, but think about it. Once he’s elected, Mel Merdock won’t owe anybody anything.”

She rolled her eyes without saying anything. He didn’t think that she seemed convinced.


 

 

 

 

Chapter 8

 

 

It was bird shit, he realized. Caught in the wipers and smearing the windshield as it mixed with the rain like chalk. Raymond pulled into the lot at Miles, Darrow & Associates and backed into a space at the far end beneath the trees.

He cut the engine and switched off the lights, eyeing the building carefully as he listened to the end of tape 1, side 2: defining your goals and how to reach them. Once your goals were defined, you had to take that first step. The writer likened it to the kickoff in a football game. Once the ball was in the air, your goal was triggered. Success depended on follow-through, breaking your goal down to a series of short tasks or plays and always having a backup plan if something went wrong.

For the past five years, Raymond had worked out of Baltimore, where he lived with his wife and two sons. He’d done well, managing to provide his family with a nice home in a safe upper-middle-class neighborhood. Both of his boys were smart and athletic. And both would be going to college soon. The idea of expanding his client base, working his way into Washington, becoming a player of perhaps international scope, appealed to Raymond not for the fame it might bring him, but because of the higher income it would generate. Besides, Washington was an easy commute. And from what he’d been reading in the papers lately, there seemed to be a growing need for men and women with his experience and qualifications.

Raymond opened his thermos and filled his driving mug with piping hot coffee. As he sipped through the steam, he glanced at the rearview mirror. Sonny Stockwell was sitting in the backseat with his eyes open in a thousand-yard stare. His body was wrapped from the shoulders down in a plastic drop cloth Raymond had picked up in the paint department at Home Depot. Stockwell had actually died on the drive over, less than a half hour ago. Raymond had heard it as his labored breathing suddenly quieted and the car became still. He knew rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet. But the kid’s bowels had relaxed, and despite the plastic, Raymond could smell his shit in the air.

He cracked open the window and tried to ignore the foul odor as he looked back at the building. He knew that the consulting firm occupied the entire structure. The first floor had been relegated to storage, which struck Raymond as odd until he’d gone upstairs and seen the view of the Capitol from the windows above.

Raymond had scouted the location two days before using the psychology of distraction. After making a sizable purchase at the florist on the corner, he had posed as a delivery man. He’d walked right in, getting a feel for the layout as the woman with blond hair opened the flowers from her desk thinking that they were a gift from an anonymous lover. The woman had said her name was Linda. And from his research, he knew her to be a partner in the firm. She had been younger than Raymond expected, more beautiful, though a bit too small-boned for his taste.