Hope Never Dies Read online

  Well, that certainly sucked the air out of the room.

  “Do the police know about your theory?” Abbey asked. “The transportation board has already wrapped their investigation. They’ve cleared Amtrak of any wrongdoing. The engineer didn’t hit him intentionally. Calculating the speed of the train and the amount of time he would have had to brake—there’s just no way anyone could have done a better job of braking. That doesn’t sound like murder to me.”

  “Finn didn’t kill himself.”

  “I never said he did.”

  “I know how your type operate,” I said.

  “Frankly, Mr. Biden, I don’t believe you know my type.”

  There wasn’t anything I could say to that.

  “I’m still investigating,” she said.

  “You’re a liar. You’re hiding something. I know when I’m being lied to.”

  “It’s funny you should bring that up.”

  “Guys,” Grace said. “Please.”

  Abbey toyed with the end of her ponytail. “If you want to know what I was doing at the motel the other night, I’ll tell you. It’s no big secret. I’m a private investigator. Most of my clients are insurance companies, and they hire me to investigate suspected fraud. And before you ask—every time a claim has to be paid, the insurance company suspects fraud. That’s just the way the industry works.”

  I switched the frozen vegetables from my left hand to my right. It was a California vegetable medley. Carrots, broccoli, and cauliflower.

  Three of my least favorites.

  Abbey continued: “In the case of an accident like this, I’m interviewing witnesses. Family. Friends. Anyone who can clue me in to the victim’s state of mind. I also look for physical evidence.”

  “Like a note,” I said. A suicide note.

  She nodded. “In the event of a victim taking their own life, a third of the time there will be a note. Lately, people have been leaving them online, so that makes things easier for us. Paper notes have a way of getting lost. Families want to hush things up, especially if there’s insurance money on the line.”

  “I can’t believe you think we would do something like that,” Grace said.

  “I don’t believe anything until I have evidence that I’m confident will hold up in civil court. I’m not some amateur sleuthing around on a whim.” She smiled icily, but made a point of not looking at me. “I was at the motel as part of my routine investigative process. Many deaths occur at motels—if I told you the number, you’d never stay in one again—and there’s always a pad of paper on the desk or nightstand. Sometimes in the drawer. Rub a pencil over it, and you can see the impression of the last thing someone wrote before tearing the top sheet off.”

  “That really works?” I asked, dumbfounded.

  “You think Raymond Chandler just plucked it out of thin air?” she said. “In this case, there was no notepad. There weren’t notepads in any of the rooms. It was a dead end.”

  “If you’d just handed me your card at the motel, instead of pulling a fast one…”

  “I wanted to play things close to the chest,” she said. “So to speak.”

  I looked away. We didn’t need to get into the state of undress Barack and I had found her in.

  Grace picked up my still-full mug and took it into the kitchen. Abbey and I sat in silence again. I felt rotten, like I’d been caught by a truancy officer skipping class to watch a double feature at the Comerford on Wyoming Avenue.

  When Grace returned, I stood up. “Where do you want the vegetables?”

  “Keep them,” she said flatly. I’d broken her trust. There was nothing I could say to patch things up.

  29

  The Little Beast was still parked two doors down from the Donnellys’. The front passenger-side door was locked. I waited a few seconds for Steve to unlock it. When I didn’t hear the automatic door click, I shielded my eyes and peered through the pitch-black window.

  Empty.

  I’d left Steve specific instructions to not leave it unattended. He didn’t know what happened to unattended vehicles in this area. I did.

  A couple of black teenagers with low-slung pants were sitting on a porch behind me. They were passing a cigarette back and forth. I was pretty sure it wasn’t tobacco. They were staring at me, trying to figure me out. For the first time, I wondered if my bright aloha shirt wasn’t as inconspicuous as I’d thought. It didn’t scream “Joe Biden.” But it was definitely screaming.

  “How you kids doing?” I said.

  They didn’t respond.

  “Joe!”

  Barack waved from halfway down the block. He had a big-gulp cup. Steve was carrying a takeout bag.

  “That guy was trying to break into your car,” one of the teen boys shouted to them. The kid could have been fifteen or sixteen. His hands were buried in the pockets of his hoodie.

  Barack handed them each five bucks. “Thanks for watching it. But I know this guy. We’re cool.” Barack had the keys, and he unlocked the doors. “Get in, Joe.”

  I was opening the passenger door when a polished Ford Galaxie rounded the corner. I tensed up as it rolled slowly down the street, rims spinning. I could feel the bass pumping from the speakers rattling my fillings. It reached the intersection and sped off.

  “Is there something bothering you, Joe?” Barack asked.

  I didn’t have a racist bone in my body. But I did have a healthy fear of ending up in the crossfires of a gang shootout. I’d been in war zones before, but many of them paled in comparison to Riverside. Though the neighborhood had a relatively small footprint, it accounted for a hugely disproportionate amount of violent crime in the city.

  I stammered out a few sounds that only vaguely resembled words, trying to find some way to articulate my concerns about the area without coming across as a bigoted crank. Before I completely embarrassed myself, he mercifully cut in.

  “Chill. Anyone messes with you, they’re messing with me. And I’ve got two words for you: predator drones.”

  He hopped in back.

  “The DEA warrant looked legit,” I said, sliding into the front seat. “I don’t know what to do about that just yet. I hadn’t expected another agency to get involved.”

  “They don’t go after low-level users.”

  “We could get in touch with them. If they were sharing information with the Wilmington PD, we should have heard about it.”

  “Esposito’s trying to brush us off,” Barack said. “Maybe she’s giving them the cold shoulder too.”

  “Dan would know…except I’m not going to reach out to him until we know more. He might not help us anyway.”

  “If he’s your friend, he’ll find a way. That’s what friends do.”

  I ran a hand through my hair. I was due for a trim soon.

  “I did learn that Grace hasn’t seen the duffel bag,” I said. “Oh, and there’s a watch missing, too.”

  “Expensive?”

  “Doubt it,” I said. “Finn never went for the flashy ones. The cheap ones, they don’t last that long, so he was always buying a new one every couple of years. I don’t know what his last one looked like.”

  Steve started the SUV. Its 6.2-liter V8 roared to life.

  “So the Amtrak workers, they all buy their own watches?” Barack asked.

  “You think Mariano Rivera would take the mound with a glove that wasn’t his?” I said. “Back in the day, the railroads required engineers and conductors to carry them. They had to be accurate and reliable—there were watch inspectors who checked everything out, even. These days, they can use whatever watch they like, as long as it’s in good working condition and displays the time down to the second. Lot of conductors go for vintage pocket watches. Most engineers use wristwatches.”

  “You sure know a lot about trains.”

  “I don’t know jack squa
t about trains. I know a lot about Amtrak. There’s a big difference. I’m not a foamer, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Speak English, Joe.”

  “A rail fan,” I said. “A foamer. It’s usually not a complimentary term. They’re also called trainspotters, railnuts. Hoggers.”

  “Hoggers?”

  “Don’t you start, Barack.”

  A tight-lipped smile spread across his face.

  “You guys get me something to eat?” I asked.

  “Those vegetables not fill you up?” Steve asked.

  Even he was giving me a hard time now.

  I squeezed the bag in my hand. It was thawing out, and dripping into my lap. “About that…”

  I explained the strange encounter and handed the woman’s business card to Steve, who called in a request for a background check on her. Just to be safe.

  “You’ve got a little bruising under your eye,” Barack said.

  That’s what happens when you take a sandal to a stiletto fight, I thought. I rummaged through the fast-food bag. Whatever grilled chicken breasts they’d gotten for themselves were long gone. They’d saved me three breaded chicken fingers.

  “No dipping sauce?” I asked.

  “There’s ketchup in there,” Barack said. “They had barbecue sauce, but I know you can’t handle anything hotter than honey mustard.”

  I told Steve to start the car.

  “Where are we going?” Barack asked. “Off to interview a witness? Examine a crime scene? Shake down some heavies?”

  I shook my head. “We’re going to get me some danged barbecue sauce.”

  30

  I found what I was looking for at the gas station’s condiment bar, next to the rack of wieners and taquitos. I pumped a whole coffee cup full of Mad Mark’s Southern Pit Viper Extract BBQ Sauce. It was a deep burgundy, loaded with pepper flakes. My taste buds burned at the sight of it. Then I grabbed some water for Steve and joined Barack at the counter.

  He was waiting with a bottled green tea. He had his back to the counter and his cap down, trying to play it cool so he wouldn’t be recognized. The girl at the counter was reading a paperback thriller, oblivious to the fact that the forty-fourth president of the United States was leaning back on an elbow right in front of her.

  If Barack was hidden in plain sight, I was practically invisible. Older Delawareans knew me, but the younger generation—and transplants—usually looked right past me. The only vice presidents anyone recognized were the ones who had gone on to become president. And Al Gore, who had drawn attention to himself with a beard big enough to have its own zip code. With the five o’clock shadows Barack and I were sporting today, we were well on our way to looking like a couple of hippies too.

  Barack stared at my cup. “What are you trying to prove, Joe?”

  I pointedly ignored him.

  “Hot one out,” I announced, tossing a five spot on the counter. Barack rolled his eyes—he wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible. However, I was a Delawarean. And Delawareans make small talk.

  The girl looked out the window. “Global warming,” she said with a shrug.

  “Actually, it’s more of a gradual process than that,” Barack said, suddenly interested in our conversation. “That’s why we prefer the term ‘climate change.’ What you’ll see is a degree or two warming over the next fifty years, which will be enough to cause the sea levels to rise ten feet. When that happens—”

  “Is that coffee?” the girl asked, pointing to my cup.

  “Barbecue sauce.”

  “I have to charge you the same as a coffee.”

  “Whatever. Oh, and add his drink, too,” I said, motioning to the green tea.

  I took my change and left Barack at the counter. He was sketching out a diagram on the back of a napkin, trying to explain the complexities of climate change to somebody who probably couldn’t count to twenty without taking off her shoes.

  “What’s taking him so long?” Steve asked, as I slid into the passenger seat and set the barbecue sauce in the cup holder between us.

  “He’s giving a seminar on global warming.”

  Steve sighed. “We’re going to be here a while. What do I owe you for the water?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  The pump stopped. Steve hopped out to take care of things. I snuck a look at the gas pump, curious about the cost of filling the Little Beast. I saw the dollar amount and nearly choked on my tongue. It was more than the GDP of Rhode Island.

  Steve returned with the receipt.

  “I hope you get reimbursed for that,” I said.

  “I’ve got the president’s card,” he said, flashing a platinum Visa.

  A motorcycle rolled in a couple pumps behind us, on the opposite side. Normally I wouldn’t have noticed, but Steve was watching the bike intently in the side mirror. Steve was always watching—watching this, watching that. Movement caught his eye; lack of movement caught his eye. He was a good agent.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” Steve asked.

  “From Wednesday night?”

  “From your first term. I was on your detail.”

  I wracked my brain to place him, to no luck. I never forgot a face. Secret Service agents, however, were always hiding behind their same sunglasses and same haircuts and same suits and same attitudes.

  “I’m sorry. Were you on my detail long?”

  “Close to eight months,” he said. “You were kind of a jerk.”

  “To you?”

  “To all of us.”

  I’d heard the criticism before. Agents had complained—anonymously—to the press about my detachment. They also complained about my swimming habits. Apparently, not everyone wanted to see the vice president sans trunks.

  “I’m sorry if I gave you a hard time.”

  “I didn’t care,” he said. “I don’t care.”

  “But you brought it up.”

  His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

  “I’m the son of a car dealer from Scranton,” I said. “Having a security detail wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world for me.”

  “For what it’s worth, following someone around twenty-four-seven isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world for us, either.”

  “I get that. It’s just not how I was raised. I wasn’t brought up to think I was better than anyone else. Nobody deserves special treatment.”

  “The vice president and his family deserve special treatment.”

  Other protectees were warmer with the agents assigned to protect them. Nobody made friends with their detail, but they treated them like human beings. Not human shields.

  “I was afraid of getting too close,” I said. “Not to you personally, but to all the agents. I couldn’t put a name and a face with somebody I knew might be tasked with taking a bullet for me. I’d never be able to live with the guilt. I’d rather take the bullet. It’d be easier to live with.”

  “Or die with.”

  “Or that.”

  We sat in silence. I could still see Barack inside at the register, talking animatedly with his hands. The woman behind the counter was, for her part, transfixed. Give him five minutes, and Barack could have an atheist singing hymns.

  “We shouldn’t hang around here much longer,” Steve said.

  I turned to look for flashing lights in the distance, but there weren’t any. We’d stopped at a gas station on the edge of town, where the city turned into country. I’d become increasingly paranoid that Esposito would catch up to us sooner rather than later.

  The biker was still fueling his Harley. He turned to the side, and I caught a brief glimpse of the large patch covering the back of his leather vest. A giant skull with diamond eyes. The skull was grinning, a dagger between its teeth. Beneath it were the words MURDER TOWN. The chapter locat
ion. The club’s name at the top of the vest was obscured by the biker’s hair.

  “I’ve seen that skull before,” I said.

  “The skull?” Steve said, adjusting the mirror. The guy had turned back around. Steve would have to wait to get a look for himself.

  “The one on the back of his vest. The guy in Darlene’s room had a tattoo just like it.”

  “You mean the minister?”

  “He wasn’t a minister.”

  The biker was fiddling with the pump. They make you jump through so many hoops these days just to fill your tank. Is this a debit card? Would you like a car wash? How about a ninety-nine-cent coffee? How about some flipping gas?

  “He hasn’t been following us,” Steve said.

  “How would you know?”

  “I’d know.” The guy glanced in our direction, then looked away. “I’m going inside to get Renegade.”

  “You recognize the patch?”

  “We’ve had training on motorcycle clubs. I can’t place the design, but it looks familiar. There aren’t many with chapters in Wilmington. Climb over here and take the wheel. Meet us out back.”

  Before I could protest, Steve was on his way into the gas station. What I really wanted to happen was for him to detain the biker. See what we could learn about that skull. See if he was in a motorcycle club with the other guy, the guy who wasn’t a minister. Unfortunately, Steve had other plans.

  I crawled into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The Little Beast roared to life.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Steve emerge from the employee entrance. A beat later, Barack exited behind his human shield. Unfortunately, Steve was a foot too short to be one hundred percent effective, so Barack had to crouch.

  “Let’s see what you can do,” I said, putting the pedal to the metal. The Little Beast lurched forward and my head hit the seat back. I pumped the brakes and threw the SUV into reverse in one neat little motion, then spun around toward the employee entrance. I skidded to a stop just inches from backing over Steve and Barack and turning them into gas station hot-dog meat.

  Steve threw the door open and they tumbled into the backseat. The biker rolled past us and stopped at the road. He threw a lingering look in our direction. The windows were tinted so I knew he couldn’t see me, but he was staring me down nonetheless. He shouted something that I couldn’t hear, and gave me a one-fingered salute before tearing off down the two-lane highway.