The Committee Read online

  Juliette looked toward the fireplace to conceal her smile. No suffering was too great for a man such as he, she thought. I only wish I could have been there to serve as a witness to his torment.

  “That is good,” she said turning to face him from behind a veil of pity. “At least no innocent person will be implicated in his death.”

  The remainder of Camille’s week was consumed with the mundane tasks few associated with the job of mayor, such as filling potholes, ribbon cutting, and doling out proclamations. This was accompanied by an endless stream of citizens who thought she had been elected to silence their neighbor’s barking dog, remove the homeless person sleeping on their corner, or install the desperately needed stop sign in their neighborhood.

  Even with oversized scissors aimed at yellow ribbons and in meetings with visiting dignitaries, the conversation with Lazarus Hearst never left her mind. Was he serious? How could she know if it was actually him. Did Gillette tell him about John Spalding? Should she go to the airport on Sunday night?

  The questions seemed unending and most went unanswered. It was now Sunday evening, and she still had not decided.

  “Honey,” Sheridan called out from the bathroom in the master suite of the mayor’s mansion, “you’d better hurry. We’re going to be late for the opera. It starts at 7:00.”

  Sheridan emerged in a black tuxedo and saw Camille staring blankly out the window. “Camille,” he shouted. “What are you doing? You’re not even dressed yet. You love Tosca.”

  She did not respond.

  “Camille,” he called out again and walked to her side. “Honey,” he said reaching for her arm, “are you feeling all right?”

  Camille jumped at his touch. “What? I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I wasn’t listening. What did you say?”

  “I said are you feeling all right?” he repeated with concern.

  “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I have been talking and you haven’t heard a word I’ve said. You’ve been this way all week. Maybe we shouldn’t go. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard lately.”

  “I’m fine, darling,” she said regaining her composure and gently touching his cheek. “I just have a lot on my mind with the stadium. Give me a few minutes and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Now go. I won’t be long.”

  Sheridan left Camille standing in the window. That’s final. I’m not going to the airport. The entire notion is ridiculous. Headquarters, secret societies, she scoffed. A committee who selects the president. It’s all nonsense, and I was a fool for considering it.

  Camille was silent in the back of the limousine the entire ride. Sheridan made futile attempts at getting her attention, but all fell on deaf ears.

  “Do you think the Hendersons will be there tonight?” he tested.

  There was no response.

  “I hope we’re not late. If we are, let’s skip it and go to Fat Burgers.”

  Still no response from Camille as she looked out the tinted windows.

  The limousine rolled to a stop at the foot of the main stairs leading to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. The driver hurried to Camille’s door. She emerged, wearing a dazzling aqua-blue Oscar de la Renta gown made especially for her, with Sheridan following close behind.

  “We’ll be three hours,” Sheridan said to the driver. “Make sure you’re back here when we come out.”

  “Yes sir,” the faceless driver said.

  By 7:30, Camille and Sheridan sat comfortably in mezzanine seats overlooking the grand auditorium. The opera house was full to capacity, and everyone in the room at some point looked up to see the celebrity mayor and her handsome husband.

  She faded in and out of the drama unfolding on the lavishly designed set below. Divas pouring their souls onto the stage, shedding a river of tears over unrequited love, and filling the hall with anguished arias went mostly unnoticed by Camille. Pounding overtures from the orchestra amounted to nothing more than a bothersome buzz in her ear.

  What if it’s legitimate? Camille thought.

  President Camille Ernestine Hardaway. The words reverberated in her head to the tune of the tenor singing “E lucevan le stelle.”

  I could be passing up the chance of a lifetime.

  Halfway through the first act, Camille looked at Sheridan and said abruptly, “I have to leave.”

  “What? It’s just started,” he responded.

  Camille grabbed her beaded clutch, stood, and said, “Call the driver and tell him to meet me in front. Now.”

  When Sheridan motioned to stand, Camille put a hand firmly on his shoulder and snapped. “No. You stay. I’ll send the car back for you.”

  With that, she disappeared through the curtain into the hall.

  “Is something wrong?” asked a startled usher.

  Camille ignored the question. Her Manolo Blahnik pumps made light of a flight of stairs leading to the ground floor. She moved swiftly through the lobby to the wall of glass doors and exited into the night with the fabric of her dress billowing behind. She quickly scanned the two deep rows of limousines. The SUV rounded the corner just as her heel touched the bottom step.

  The driver made his way through the labyrinth of cars toward her. Camille reached for the door handle before the car came to a complete stop. “Is there a problem, Mrs. Mayor?” the concerned driver asked.

  “Yes. I have a situation out of I town I have to attend to. Take me to the Long Beach Airport, Hanger 217.”

  “May I ask where you will be flying?” he asked sheepishly. “The head of your security detail will want to know.”

  “No, you may not ask,” she snapped. The curt response came more from embarrassment at not knowing her destination than for the impertinence of the driver. “Tell him it was a personal matter, and I will see him tomorrow morning at city hall. Now please drive quickly. I have to be on that plane at 8:00.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the driver said as he turned abruptly onto the street into traffic.

  The Harbor Freeway was filled with middle agers heading home for the night and their children heading out for the night. The car swerved in and out of traffic in a mad dash for the Long Beach Airport. It was now 7:52.

  Camille saw the familiar landmarks and called to the driver, “I need you to drive faster.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The accelerated pace turned to reckless as he swerved between lanes. Camille could hear the screeching of tires on the sharp corners leading to the airport.

  The driver slowed as he approached a red light on the off-ramp.

  “Don’t stop,” she shouted. “Keep going.”

  “Mrs. Mayor, I—”

  “Don’t talk. Drive!” she barked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The car lurched forward, full speed, through the intersection. Drivers from opposing directions slammed on brakes and fishtailed to avoid hitting the SUV.

  Within seconds of the near miss, Camille heard sirens. She looked out the back window and saw flashing red lights.

  “Do not stop,” she instructed. “Keep going. We’re almost there.”

  The driver didn’t protest and stayed on course to Hanger 217.

  At 7:57 the car, now followed closely by two police cruisers, entered the Long Beach Airport.

  “There’s Hanger 217,” Camille said. “Turn left here.”

  The car swerved onto the tarmac leaving only two tires on the ground. The squad cars mimicked the daring maneuver and closed the distance between them.

  “Drive into the hanger,” she commanded.

  The gaping entrance loomed just ahead. Fluorescent light spilled out into the night. The roar of the twelve-seat Learjet 60XR filled the cavernous space.

  Once inside Camille saw the stairs at the plane’s entrance begin to lift slowly off the ground.

  “Stop!” she shouted to the driver.

  The car screeched to a halt, enveloping the police cars in a cloud of smoke fro
m the burnt rubber.

  The officers bolted from their cars with guns pointed directly at the vehicle.

  “Get out of the car, now!” one shouted aggressively. “Show me your hands!”

  As the smoke settled, Camille swung open the door. The stairs on the plane stopped rising and slowly returned to the ground. Camille turned directly to the barrels of the guns. Flashing red from strobe lights on top of the cars streaked her face. “Stand down, Officers,” she commanded. “I am Mayor Camille Hardaway, and you are interfering with a matter of national importance.”

  The officers were stunned at the sight of the mayor standing in front of them in the aqua gown. They immediately lowered their hands to their sides.

  “Ma’am, is there a situation here? Are you in danger? Should we call for backup?”

  Camille turned quickly on her heels and moved to the plane. “The only thing I need you to do,” she shouted over her shoulder, “is move those cars so this plane can take off.”

  Camille moved quickly up the waiting stairs and vanished into the mouth of the plane. The stairs folded into place, and the door closed without assistance. The plane rolled steadily forward forcing the stunned officers to quickly return to their cars and clear the way for the rolling jet.

  The engines revved louder as it exited the hanger onto the tarmac. Within seconds, the aircraft lifted off the runway and slowly disappeared into the Los Angeles night.

  The opera ended with the usual torture, murder, and suicide of Tosca over lost love. Sheridan made his way through the crowded lobby avoiding eye contact with other patrons. Actors, who only minutes earlier were on stage, mingled among the crowd in full costume. Wait staff passed out crystal champagne glasses.

  “Sheridan!” called a jolly man with white hair, black tux, and blond trophy at his side. “Where is our lovely mayor? I saw her earlier.”

  “She had to leave suddenly,” he responded with feet still in motion. “City emergency.”

  “I hope everything is all right,” the man said.

  “Yes,” Sheridan responded hurriedly over his shoulder. “Everything is fine. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  The driver was waiting for Sheridan at the entrance, just as Camille said.

  “Where is she?” he asked the obviously shaken driver standing at the rear car door. “Where did you take her?”

  “To the Long Beach Airport. She left in a private jet.”

  “Private jet?” Sheridan asked with deep concern. “What the fuck are you talking about? Where is it taking her?” he shouted.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” Sheridan shouted again. “You allowed the mayor of Los Angeles to be taken from the city in a private plane, and you don’t know where it’s taking her? Are you out of your fucking mind? Did you at least ask her where she was going?”

  “Yes, sir, but she refused to tell me. She only said to tell the head of security she’d be back at city hall tomorrow morning.”

  “Was there anyone else on the plane?”

  “Not that I could see.”

  The nervous driver intentionally left out the high-speed chase through the streets of Long Beach and the guns pointing at Camille. “She was perfectly fine when she boarded the plane,” were the last of the evening’s accounts he would share with anyone.

  Sheridan huffed into the rear of the limo. “Drive me home, you fucking idiot,” he barked over the rear partition. “What the fucking kind of security are you? Allowing her to . . . I don’t fucking believe this.”

  “Yes, sir,” the driver stammered. “I’m very sorry—”

  “Shut the fuck up,” were Sheridan’s final words to the shaken driver.

  Sheridan repeatedly entered Camille’s speed dial code the entire drive home.

  “This is Camille Hardaway. Please leave a message,” were the only words he heard.

  “Camille, where the fuck are you? Call me.”

  “Camille, are you all right? Pick up the fucking phone.”

  Sheridan left a series of progressively desperate messages, the last of which was, “Camille, if I don’t hear from you within the next hour I’m alerting the chief of police.”

  His phone immediately beeped, indicating a text message had arrived.

  Sheridan quickly swiped the icon. “Do not call the police!” the text read. “I am fine. Will be home as soon as possible. Nothing to worry about. XOXO Camille.”

  “Where are you?” he quickly typed.

  There was no reply.

  Camille had never flown in a private jet though she traveled the world. Until now, first-class commercial flights had been the extent of her luxury transport. The gentle hum of the powerful engine amounted to nothing more than soothing white noise. Fine leather chairs, the color of foam on a steaming latte, caressed her body as she looked out the window into the darkness. She assumed no one other than the pilot was on the plane.

  Soft music from sources unknown seemed to ooze from the walls and plush carpet. It was an aria from the opera she had just abruptly left.

  That’s odd, she thought. I wonder, did they know I was just . . . Camille dropped the line of thinking midsentence, too afraid to consider the answer.

  Ten minutes into the flight, the cabin door opened. A woman appeared in the threshold.

  “Good evening, Mayor Hardaway,” she said graciously. “Welcome aboard The Constitution. My name is Angel, and I will be your attendant for the flight.”

  Angel wore a simple blue skirt and white blouse. Her ivory skin and sculpted face were so flawless she looked unnatural.

  “Whose plane is this?” Camille asked coldly.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that, ma’am,” Angel replied politely. “Your flight will be three hours and fifty-five minutes. Our world-class French chef has prepared a five-course meal specifically suited to your palate. The meal includes several of your favorite dishes and a few he thought you might enjoy. We have a fully stocked bar at your disposal, including your favorite, Boërl & Kroff Brut Rose. May I offer you a glass?”

  Camille hadn’t fully adjusted to the woman’s sudden presence and simply replied, “Yes, thank you.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  If Camille had not felt the slight breeze from the woman walking past, she would have sworn it was a ghost.

  “Excuse me,” Camille said to her just before the cabin door closed. “Where is the fight going?”

  “To Louisiana, ma’am.” Just saying the words tinted Angel’s intonation with the slightest Southern accent. “The great city of New Orleans.”

  The flight, meal, and service were flawless. Angel periodically appeared and disappeared like the subtle brightening and dimming of a lightbulb. Much of the time, Camille didn’t know whether or not she was in the cabin, even when she looked directly at her.

  At exactly three hours and fifty minutes into the flight, Angel entered and said, “Excuse me, Mayor Hardaway. The captain has informed me we will be landing shortly. If you wouldn’t mind, please fasten your seat belt.”

  The jet came to rest in a hanger identical to the one it departed from in Long Beach. Camille waited for Angel to appear one last time, but the interior cabin door remained closed. Suddenly, the exterior door opened and the steps lowered to the hanger floor. Camille retrieved her clutch and cautiously walked to the door. She peeked out, not knowing who or what would be waiting for her. Bright fluorescent lights and deafening silence greeted her at the opening.

  Suddenly she heard a car engine start. She looked to her left and saw a black Escalade idling near the rear of the jet with a man, dressed in all black, standing at the rear open door looking up at her.

  She approached the man and said, “I’m Camille Hardaway. Is this car for me?”

  The driver looked at her coldly and simply replied, “Yes, ma’am, it is.”

  It was 2:00 a.m. in New Orleans. The streets were empty except for remnants of stubborn revelers and debris left
behind from earlier that evening. The car rolled through the city at a deliberate pace. Stately homes in the Garden District reminded her of cemetery monuments lined in a row.

  Camille saw the peaks of St. Louis Cathedral in the windshield ahead and asked, “Where are you taking me?”

  “We’re almost there, ma’am.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” she said sarcastically.

  The expressionless driver offered no reply.

  The car turned onto Bourbon Street and drove slowly past the bars and restaurants still lively with patrons. Jazz chords poured from open doors and mixed in the night air with accordions playing the Zydeco two-step and trumpets belting the blues.

  Flames from gas lanterns mounted at the entrances of the centuries-old structures harkened to a time long ago. The lamps offered minimal illumination but maximum Southern atmosphere for the tourist who spilled out into the night. The car finally stopped in front of 543 Bourbon Street. A short brick path covered by a trellis of weeping lavender wisteria led up to the white antebellum mansion.

  Camille was startled when the driver appeared at her window and opened the door. He extended his arm toward the mansion, but did not speak. After taking a deep breath, Camille emerged from the vehicle and boldly walked through the trellis and up the stairs to the house.

  Before she could reach the doorbell, the door swung open and Lazarus Hearst appeared in the threshold.

  “Camille,” he said heartily, “I am so pleased you decided to come. Welcome to Headquarters. Please, come in.”

  Chapter 7

  Gideon paced the floor in his home office in boxers, T-shirt, and reading glasses tittering on the tip of his nose. The name KeyCorp Development appeared on every piece of paper spread on his desk and in the stacks of files on the floor. He studied yet another document as he walked between the desk and window.

  Sheridan Hardaway’s name only appeared on one single document in the piles of thousands of papers accumulated from public records, the Internet, and by the sometimes-borderline unethical tactics used by his own team of investigators.