Electing To Murder Page 4

  Foche was mildly concerned. “I seriously doubt McRyan will find much at the scene that will trace this back to us, but we handled Stroudt without much preparation.”

  “So?”

  “We should keep a little eye on this McRyan. He obviously has some ability.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Virginia? Really?”

  Sebastian McCormick slumped his angular six-foot-two frame into a soft conference table chair and put his Budweiser to his lips as he looked out the windows of the twenty-second-floor conference room of the Thomson Campaign Headquarters in downtown St. Paul. At thirty-six, he was hitting his stride as a master political operator. Although he’d worked one previous presidential campaign, most of his experience was with Minnesota state politics. But this go around he’d hitched his wagon fully to the Judge, who was the master, and McCormick was soaking up every last bit of knowledge he could from Dixon and had impressed all in the Democratic Party in the process. He now knew every power player in the party, had them on his cell phone and now they all took his calls. In four years he expected to either be running the re-election campaign of President James Thomson or that of whomever the Democratic Party ran. His star had shot that high, with no small thanks owed to the Judge.

  He’d just run the gauntlet of the evening political shows with tonight being his FOX News night with The O’Reilly Factor and Hannity. Earlier in the day he taped an interview with Rachel Maddow for her show. It was non-stop now, day after day, interviews during the day, for the network nightly news and the political talk-show gauntlet at night. Tomorrow morning he would do Morning Joe. Such was the life of the deputy campaign director. While there were numerous deputy directors, there was no doubt who was second in command and it was McCormick. The Budweiser was a way to decompress, blow off a little steam before he put another few hours in on his cell phone and laptop and then he might even think about letting his head hit the pillow. With less than a week to go, he’d be lucky to get three or four hours before he had to get going again. But he didn’t care. He was made for this game, he loved it, thrived on it; it provided him energy, it was his passion. Sebastian lived, ate and breathed politics.

  His passion for politics was shared by the lovely Kate Shelby, also a deputy campaign manager and these days, his frequent bedmate. Sleep was all the shorter in supply with Kate and her five-foot-nine model figure to distract him. Before he could get his three or four hours of sleep, he liked to take a tour of Kate and she of him. He figured they were both feeding off the adrenaline of the campaign. On occasion in the last few months, he wondered what things would be like between them when the momentum slowed, when life returned to a more normal pattern or at least what passed for normal in politics. Would there be something there for the two of them then? He hoped to start finding out in a week.

  Tonight, Kate was his savior for another reason. She and her assistant, Sally Kennedy, were carrying in two full bags of Chinese food from Orachon’s. Chinese food, pizza, beer, sub sandwiches, coffee and donuts were the key components of the diet of a political operative.

  “How’d it go tonight?” Kate asked, having done the political show tour a few nights lately herself.

  “I taped with Maddow earlier. She was fine, although there’s always an undercurrent of ‘we’re not liberal enough’ from her,” Sebastian replied, opening a box of sweet and sour chicken. “O’Reilly wasn’t bad, some really good back and forth amongst the bluster. You can tell when he respects you.”

  “How so?” Kate asked.

  “He actually lets you answer. I did Hannity tonight as well.”

  “Hannity? Really? What’s next, Glen Beck?” Sally Kennedy asked. What self-respecting Democrat would even consider going on Hannity since Colmes left?

  “Yeah, I’ve sat in with Sean a few times and he didn’t disappoint,” McCormick smiled. “He was a tool as usual. He’s so used to guests that turn his show into an echo chamber that he’s not used to handling someone who can push back and tell him he’s full of shit. He doesn’t know what to do. If you get him just a little off track the whole thing turns into a train wreck for him.”

  “I heard he had a bunch of Republican Super PAC guys on tonight,” Shelby stated.

  “Indeed,” Sebastian answered. “He had on that casino mogul Osmundson who’s ponied up something like $50 million dollars, the banking guy—Torgerson—and then Christian Pope.”

  “The Pope Oil & Gas Christian Pope? That Christian Pope?” Sally asked. “He’s kind of a recluse, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know about recluse. I think he just prefers his privacy,” Sebastian answered. “I actually chatted with him for a few minutes before he went on. He was a little shy but very engaging. The guy wasn’t bad to deal with and I watched the segment of the show he was on and he played it pretty straight, or at least straighter. Torgerson and Osmundson acted as if the world will end if the governor is elected, which of course Sean loved. They even went down the road of accusing the governor of waiving the work requirements for welfare.”

  “That old saw?” Shelby replied astonished. “I thought that one was dead by now. The governor wanted a waiver to experiment.”

  “Exactly, and to his credit, that’s exactly what Christian Pope said,” Sebastian answered, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Pope even gave the governor credit for the economy here in Minnesota. Of course, that was before he listed Thomson’s many other sins against the Free Enterprise System, so I don’t expect a campaign donation from the man, but he was a far cry from the other two; they’re just crazy irrational delusional.”

  Sally’s cell phone went off. She pulled it from her purse and pushed her long red hair behind her right ear so she could read the display, a small smile creasing her lips.

  “Mac?” Kate asked.

  “Yes. I haven’t talked to him all day so I need to take this. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Say hi from me,” Shelby replied as Sally walked to the far corner of the conference room, placing her back to them. Then to McCormick she said quietly, “It’s her boyfriend, Mac.”

  “McRyan? The St. Paul Detective?” McCormick asked through a mouth full of fried rice.

  “Yeah. I’ll tell you, Sebastian, she’s loved working on the campaign these last few months, but I gotta tell you, it’s kinda cute how she misses him so much. Those two really have a connection.”

  “Like us?” Sebastian asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  Kate smiled back, “We’ll have to see, won’t we.”

  * * *

  Joyce Dixon had a middle initial of J. The J stood for Judge and that was a good thing. ‘Joyce’ simply didn’t fit for the mass of a man that was the Judge. The Judge was six foot four and pushed three hundred pounds, an impressive man in size and appearance. All of his suits were worn with suspenders to hoist his finely tailored dress pants over the girth of his stomach. His custom dress shirts always contained three things: a plain white collar regardless of the shirt color, his initials on the left cuff and two or three cigars in the chest pocket. The cigars were rarely lit during business hours, although the Judge could easily do so if he wanted as he constantly fiddled with a red, white and blue Zippo lighter in his fingers. While the Judge was now in his mid-sixties, his hair remained jet black, a large mane combed back and for the last ten years, a Fu Manchu mustache defining the mouth that produced a deep and booming voice.

  Forty years ago, the Judge was an imposing starting defensive tackle for the Minnesota Gophers. From there he became an imposing federal prosecutor and US Attorney. His success as a prosecutor led him into politics, but not as a candidate. The Judge loved the conquests of politics, the competition, the thrill of victory, but not necessarily the governance. He never wanted to be a representative or a senator. Making the trains run on time was not his thing. He preferred the combat of lawyering or campaigning. He excelled at the process and sixteen years ago grabbed the brass ring, running the campaign that elected a junior senator from Tennessee to the p
residency of the United States. At that point, the Judge figured he was done with political campaigns and took his just reward, attorney general of the United States. He served for eight years, amassing an impressive record as the nation’s top lawyer, despite the fact that he served in an administration that had its fair share of missteps and minor political scandals. When the eight years were up, the Judge, his reputation fully intact, became the man you went to if you were a Democrat and wanted to run for the Senate or consider a run for the presidency. He was the ultimate party player, broker and elder, and many a politician with national aspirations made the trek to St. Paul to get the blessing and guidance of the Judge.

  While Judge Dixon liked his role as party elder, he didn’t like his party losing the last two presidential elections and, lo and behold, one of the best possible candidates for this go around was sitting in his own backyard. So he came out of his informal retirement and talked his good friend, Minnesota Governor James Thomson, into running for president. Getting the governor elected would be the cherry on the top of a brilliant legal and political career.

  Other than running national political campaigns, another thing the Judge liked was mentoring bright young people. His newest students were Sebastian McCormick and, as of late, Kate Shelby. McCormick ran the governor’s last reelection campaign and had done so flawlessly. After Thomson’s reelection, the Judge reached out to McCormick and offered to serve as a sort of mentor. McCormick eagerly accepted. The Judge watched and mentored as McCormick successfully engineered Minnesota Senate and House campaigns for the party. It was clear to the Judge, perhaps as good a judge of political talent as anyone, that McCormick was a very skilled fish in the small Minnesota political pond. He needed a bigger body of water to play in and the Judge was only too happy to provide it when he coaxed Thomson into running for president.

  Shelby was working for the governor when the Judge started coaxing Thomson to run. Thomson spoke highly of her and the Judge quickly came to agree with the governor’s assessment. Despite a lack of political experience on the national stage, he made her a deputy campaign manager working under McCormick. The Judge had come to learn that “under McCormick” meant something else the last few months, but he didn’t mind. The two of them together created an impressive political machine. If McCormick was the Judge’s right-hand man, Shelby was clearly number three in the campaign hierarchy.

  However, it wasn’t just James Thomson that brought the Judge and McCormick together. A mutual friend also played a role in that merger. McCormick went to college at Virginia with a bright young woman named Dara Wire. The two briefly dated but in the end they became good friends with interests in politics and the law. While McCormick went to law school and then into politics, Wire was induced to skip law school as she was recruited into the FBI. In the FBI, as a very young agent, she caught the eye of Judge Dixon while he finished his time as attorney general. At a young age, Wire went undercover with the bureau working against organized crime along the east coast. It was work that led to her needing the help of McCormick and the Judge years later. It was that help that now led to her service to the Thomson presidential campaign. A topic the Judge was now discussing with her.

  Wire called the Judge in the morning about what she witnessed in Kentucky. His radar immediately went off when told the details, particularly the shots fired. There was something going on at that meeting, something related to the election and something Heath Connolly couldn’t allow to get into the open. Ever since the campaign finance scandal two months ago, the Judge had worried that Connolly would go even blacker in trying to win the election. Kentucky made him worry he was right.

  “Did you track down the rental car?” the Judge asked.

  “Yeah, your Justice Department guy helped me out—car was rented to a Jason Stroudt of Alexandria, Virginia. Does his name ring a bell?”

  The Judge leaned back in his chair and looked to the ceiling. After a minute, he said, “Kinda. It’s a name I know I’ve heard before for some reason.”

  “I figured you might have. Stroudt, along with Adam Montgomery run …”

  The Judge snapped his fingers: “… The Congressional Page. I know Montgomery’s name. He’s a writer for some of the political publications that interest the ‘inside the beltway crowd.’ I guess Stroudt probably does some of that as well, but I’ve heard of Montgomery more. They probably run the blog as another form of business.”

  “Looks like it,” Wire answered, “at least based on my research today.”

  “Montgomery, he’s had some articles show up on RealClearPolitics from time to time, lately commentary on campaign finance, Citizens United and Super PACs. Historically, the blog tended to mostly cover congressional issues, the progress of bills in the House and Senate, committee issues, real inside baseball kind of stuff with a focus on good government. They tend to lean a little right politically, David Brooks Republicans as opposed to the Tea Party types. I’ve seen Montgomery interviewed a few times on C-SPAN. He’s not a real dynamic personality. He’s more or less a grinder who works Capitol Hill.”

  “If you say so, Judge,” Wire replied. “The blog page is down today. I haven’t been able to pull it up and I’ve gone back to it several times. No go. Calls to their offices are just rolling to voice mail, nobody is picking up. So I did some further Internet research on them. I noted the inside politics stuff as, well, pretty bland, I could use it to cure my insomnia.” She flipped through her notes. “However, if you go back far enough, they appear to have another pet issue.”

  “Which is?”

  “Voter and election fraud.” Wire handed over copies of the articles printed off the web.

  “Voter suppression and voter ID issues?” the Judge inquired.

  “No, more like actual fraud in elections,” Wire answered, handing printouts of the articles to Dixon.

  The Judge took a quick scan of the articles. The first one by Montgomery involved a review of the voting irregularities in Florida post 2000. In Montgomery’s view, despite efforts in some counties, many areas in Florida remained susceptible to voting issues because modernized voting machines had not been put in place. Two other articles authored by Montgomery reviewed voting irregularities in Ohio in 2004.

  “So our boys are interested in campaign finance and voter fraud, they show up last night in Kentucky and Connolly’s boys are shooting at them when they’re discovered.” The Judge raised an eyebrow. “So what the hell did they see?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to see myself, Judge,” Wire answered. “I didn’t have a chance to get into position before all hell broke loose. All I have is the photos. I can easily identify Connolly but the rest will take a while. Sorry, I wish I had more.”

  The Judge took out one of his cigars and lit it, not caring about the fact the building was no smoking. He was the Judge, who was going to stop him. He took a deep drag on the cigar and blew smoke into the air. He shook his head: “Fucking Connolly, what is he up to now?”

  Wire shook his head. “He’s a snake.”

  “He’d fuck one if you held it straight,” Dixon railed as he took a drag on his cigar. “However, we know why you were in Kentucky last night, but we need to figure out what drew Montgomery and Stroudt there, what they saw and what Connolly was up to. Maybe its election fraud or maybe it’s something else. Whatever it was it was enough for the security people to open fire.”

  “And those two were not a safety concern,” Wire replied.

  “That’s right, Dara,” the Judge replied, gesturing with his cigar. “They saw something, something not meant to be seen and we need to find out what that was and right quick, kiddo.”

  “I’m on it,” Wire answered as she pushed herself up out of the guest chair.

  “What’s your next step?” the Judge asked.

  “Fly back to Washington and see if I can track either Stroudt or Montgomery down there. See if either of them went back home. I have a 6:08 a.m. flight to DC to find out.”

  The Judge pi
cked up his phone, “Not soon enough, Dara. I want you starting at 6:00 a.m. there, not here. I’m going to get you back there tonight.”

  * * *

  McRyan and Lich were back at the St. Paul Department of Public Safety and Mac’s first order of business once he reached his desk was to call Delta Airlines regarding the boarding pass.

  “I’ll call if I need anything further,” Mac said politely. “Yes, I have your direct number. Thanks much.”

  Mac moved his mouse and opened up an e-mail. He clicked print twice and walked over to the printer. “So our Delta passenger is in fact Jason Stroudt and he hails from Alexandria.” Mac took a print-off of Stroudt’s flight information and handed it to Lich.

  “Alexandria. So he’s from lake country. That makes him somewhat local then,” Lich said.

  “Negative, Ghostrider,” Mac answered as he walked back to the printer. “His current address is Alexandria, in the great Commonwealth of Virginia.” Mac took off another copy, this time of Stroudt’s Virginia driver’s license.

  “Virginia? Really?” Lich said, looking at the document quizzically. “What the hell is a guy from Alexandria, Virginia, doing at The Snelling?”

  “The better question is: what is a guy who lives in Virginia, but flew in this morning from St. Louis, now doing dead at The Snelling in St. Paul?” Mac asked as he walked over to his chair and plumped himself down, exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is something a little different than the usual from The Snelling.”

  “When did he get to St. Louis?”

  “Good question, Dicky Boy,” Mac answered, turning to his computer. “I asked Delta about that but Stroudt hadn’t been on another Delta flight in two years. So he got to St. Louis by some means other than Delta. We have to look into that to see if we can construct a timeline for his last couple of days.”

  “What does Mr. Stroudt do for a living?” Lich asked.

  “I don’t know yet. The contact at Delta sent me an e-mail with payment information for Stroudt.” Mac opened the e-mail and scanned the information. “He booked his flight under a corporate credit card for a TCP Enterprises with a Washington DC address. You take this information and start looking into that. See if he rented a car and perhaps track it down.”