The Buck Stops Here Page 12

  The paper didn’t really hold my interest, other than to remind me that while my world was falling apart, everywhere else life was rolling along, business as usual. I was finished with breakfast before 6:00, and the sun was just starting to appear along the horizon as I came back out to my car. I couldn’t believe I would have to wait six hours before I could see James Sparks. Of course, driving there and getting inside would use up almost an hour, but otherwise the morning stretched before me like an eternity.

  I returned to the motel, determined to use part of that time to get myself organized and answer my e-mail. As I opened my laptop, I decided to start by creating a database for this case, as I always did. Certainly, I needed to sort out the facts I had gleaned thus far.

  Most puzzling to me, I thought as I began entering data, was what Tilly Sparks had said to me about James’ personal history. The man had worked with a group of computer experts, created a product, and then sold it to a country that was prohibited by the U.S. government. This caused an FBI investigation and eventually a conviction for violating export restrictions. He had acted alone, earning five million dollars for the secret trade. Unfortunately for him, not only did he have to give up the five million dollars upon his conviction, but he was also sentenced to five years in Keeplerville Federal Prison.

  From there, he must have somehow earned an early release—and not told his mother—because the next thing she knew he had gone to Virginia, stayed in a vacation home, and accidentally killed my husband with a speedboat. After that, bogus facts about James hit the newspapers, and a falsified criminal record appeared on the police computers, tied in with his fingerprints. Everyone involved with the death on my end had been told that James Sparks was a drunk driver who was given 16 years for manslaughter. Now, however, I had learned that he had no history of drunk driving and he wasn’t at Virginia State Penitentiary as we had been told, but was instead at a male minimum security federal facility located within an hour of his hometown. When his mother had questioned him about the odd facts and incorrect information that the media was presenting, he had told her simply to keep quiet.

  There was something big going on, and though I didn’t want to believe it, my mind kept flashing “Government cover-up! Government cover-up!” like a billboard.

  I wasn’t one for conspiracy theories. I wasn’t one to suspect the hallowed halls of the FBI or the NSA of nefarious activities. Certainly, I knew there were questionable decisions made at all levels of government from time to time—not to mention rogue agents like the man I had dealt with last fall in a case that involved the Immigration and Naturalization Service. But by and large I trusted the entities who watched out for our nation’s security. I really didn’t want to believe they had somehow buried the real facts of this case among a bunch of lies.

  Still, there were records missing. Falsified information had shown up on the police computers. Someone somewhere was playing fast and loose with the facts.

  As I finished inputting everything I knew, I simply sat and stared at the puzzle in front of me, knowing there was a single glimmer of hope: Maybe today James Sparks would tell me all that I needed to know, and my investigation would be over.

  Giving up for the time being, I closed out the database and then went online and scanned through my e-mail, cringing at the number of urgent notes that had piled up from Harriet. I read them all, variations on the same theme of “Are you okay?” “Where are you?” and “What’s going on?”

  I wrote her back a heartfelt apology, telling her I would understand if she was furious with me. I said I was sorry that the conversation at the meeting had been confidential and I couldn’t tell her about it, but that the foundation was not in danger of being closed down, and that I was traveling for personal matters, not J.O.S.H.U.A. business. I ended by saying it might be a while longer before I could get in touch again but not to worry about me, that I was fine.

  Once I had answered all important mail and deleted the junk, I signed off and decided to clear out my briefcase. Inside was a manila envelope, and as I picked it up, I remembered that it was my next assignment for the foundation, the one Tom had handed me as we were saying goodbye. Now I opened it with a heavy heart, knowing there was probably no future for me at the foundation. I doubted I could work any longer for a man who had so deceived me. Still, I pulled out the contents of the envelope and set everything down on the table in front of me.

  On top was the cover sheet detailing the charity’s name, address, and phone number, its function, and the amount Tom was hoping to donate. In this case, the amount was $50,000 to a place called Family HEARTS. Under the cover sheet was a brochure, and I skimmed through it, trying to get a feel for their mission. Apparently, the place served as a sort of nationwide support network for families of children who had rare diseases and disorders.

  “It’s hard enough to see your child suffer,” one parent was quoted as saying, “harder still when no one has even heard of the condition that is causing their suffering.”

  I had never thought about it, but I imagined that to be true. At least with juvenile diabetes or muscular dystrophy, there was a certain knowledge level in the general public. But the kids in this brochure suffered from conditions I had never heard of: mucopolysaccharide disorder, hyperinsulinism, juvenile dermatomyositis.

  Under the brochure was more standard paperwork: an audit report, the mission statement, minutes from a year’s worth of board meetings.

  I didn’t see a grant application, which was odd, because it was kind of hard to approve a grant when I didn’t even know what they wanted the money for. It wasn’t until I reached the last page that I caught my breath. Under the title of “Contact Information” was a list of names of the board of directors and, below that, contact information for the staff and volunteers. One of the volunteers was named Beth Sparks.

  James Sparks’ wife.

  Tom’s sister.

  Holding my breath, I reviewed the page again, and this time two other names also jumped out at me: Irene Bennett and Veronica Wilson. Irene, Tom’s mother, was on the board of directors, and Veronica was the director of the program. Whether this was the same Veronica who had been Tom’s high school sweetheart and one-time fianceé, I wasn’t sure. I had never learned her last name—but Veronica wasn’t all that common of a first name. I had a feeling that it was, indeed, her. I turned back to the cover sheet, surprised that I hadn’t even noticed where the charity was located: New Orleans, Louisiana.

  Tom’s hometown.

  I closed my eyes and tried to recall Tom’s demeanor when he handed me this file. At the time I had been so preoccupied with all that had happened at the meeting that I hadn’t really paid much attention. Now I thought back, realizing that there had been something in his face, something odd as he gave it over to me. “I’d like you to look into it,” he had said. When I protested, he repeated himself. I’d like you to look into it.

  I glanced at my watch. It was nearly 8:00 A.M., which made it almost 5:00 A.M. in California, far too early to call. Still, at this point, I didn’t care if I woke Tom up or not. I dialed his number but hung up halfway through, remembering suddenly the cell phone he had slipped into my pocket just four days before, after our meeting at the foundation. If you have to call me, that’s the phone to use, he had said. I had stashed it in my briefcase once I took off on my long drive to Virginia. Now I dug it from the pocket of the case where I had shoved it, turned it on, and studied it.

  It was the size of a regular cell phone but seemed a little heavier somehow, the mouthpiece thicker. I turned it on and fooled with the buttons a bit. On the stored numbers screen was only one name, Tom Bennett, followed by a number I didn’t recognize. I pushed the buttons to dial that number, and after about six rings, Tom answered, his voice sounding freshly roused from sleep.

  “It’s Callie. I have a question for you.”

  I could hear rustling, and I pictured him sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes, trying to get his wits about him.


  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “I need to know about this file,” I said, ignoring his question. “This charity.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, I’m calling on the phone you gave me. I assume that makes this conversation secure?”

  “Yes. Yeah,” he said softly. “Okay, Callie. What do you want to know?”

  “Was this charity somehow related to the death of my husband?”

  “Family HEARTS?”

  “Yes. I see the address. I see the people involved. What am I supposed to do with this information?”

  He was quiet for a long moment.

  “You understand that I’m not at liberty to explain, really.”

  “Tell me what you can,” I replied.

  “I thought it…I figured it might be a good way to give you access to…certain people. That’s all. I hoped it would serve you well as a concurrent investigation, if you know what I mean.”

  “This charity has nothing to do with me or you or Bryan?”

  “No, absolutely not. Family HEARTS is a good group. No connection. I really would like to give them a donation.”

  “You expect me to run a charity investigation as though nothing else is even going on?”

  “I just thought you needed a way to get there, a reason to be there. There are people connected with the charity you need to meet.”

  “Who, Tom? Like your mother?” I asked. “Your sister? ”

  He was quiet for a moment.

  “So you know.”

  “Yes, I know. Why would I want anything to do with any of these people? For that matter, why would I want anything ever to do with you again?”

  I was so angry! I closed my eyes, my fists clenched, about to hang up. It had been a mistake to call.

  “I know you’re angry, Callie,” he said. “And you have every right to be. Just don’t…don’t give up on us yet.”

  I held my breath, fighting back tears.

  “When this is all over,” he continued, “then you can walk away if you still want to. For now, please. I’m begging you. Keep your focus. There’s more to learn.”

  “I’ll try,” I whispered, the only words I could manage to say. Then I hung up the phone, not telling him that I would be learning everything in just a few short hours, when I went face-to-face again with James Sparks. After that, I knew what I would do: return to D.C., hand in my resignation to Harriet, and then go home and make some decisions about the rest of my life.

  I paced for a while, knowing I needed to go out somewhere, to do something physical to work off some steam. I really wanted to go canoeing, but I decided the best I might be able to do was catch a swim in the motel pool.

  I kept a gym bag in my car with a swimsuit and towel inside. I went out and retrieved it. Officially, the pool didn’t open until 10:00 A.M., but it was well hidden from the front desk, behind a row of rooms, and I doubted anyone would stop me as long as I wasn’t making much noise.

  Towel in hand, I worked my way over to the pool area and then slipped into the chilly water, going immediately into laps. After a while I warmed up, my muscles working hard to propel me across the water. I blanked out my mind, counting the short laps with each stroke: “Nine, nine, nine, nine, nine, nine, nine, nine, nine, nine, nine, nine, flip, ten, ten, ten, ten, ten, ten, ten, ten, ten, ten, ten, ten, flip…” In that manner I pushed forward, back and forth, counting like a mantra, until I reached one hundred. Then I turned over onto my back, chest heaving for breath, heart pounding, paddling more slowly back and forth as my muscles cooled down.

  It was going to be a sunny day, and I squinted up at the sky as I paddled, peering at the fluffy white clouds that drifted past. All of this felt like a nightmare. The only problem was, I didn’t think I would be waking up any time soon.

  Back in the room, I took my second shower of the day, but this time I took care afterward to style my hair and put on some makeup. I don’t know why I was fixing myself up to see James Sparks, other than I wanted the confidence and self-possession that looking my best always seemed to bring me. I dressed in my suit, the same suit I had worn several times now in a row. It was the only really nice thing I had with me, and though it was time to get it to the dry cleaner, I thought it could go one more round if it needed to.

  When I was completely dressed, I packed my meager belongings in their plastic bags, propped them by the door, and then I sat on the side of the bed for a moment, knowing I needed to go to the Lord in prayer.

  I didn’t want to. I was a little mad at God right then, and I really didn’t feel like talking to Him any more than I felt like talking to Tom. Still, I knew I was about to head into an incredibly difficult moment. I needed to be right with God, and that started with a willing and compliant heart.

  Unable to pray, I reached into the bedside table drawer, thinking that at the very least I could read a verse or two from the Bible. I had recently given away my travel Bible to a friend, but the Gideons, God bless them, had placed a Bible in this motel room as usual. It opened to 1 Corinthians 13, verse 12:

  For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face; now I know in part; but then I shall know even as also I am known.

  I closed the Bible, a sudden rush of emotion catching me off guard. Taken out of context, maybe God was trying to tell me something. He wanted me to persevere, to keeping working forward until I could “know fully” everything there was to know.

  “Be with me, God,” I prayed, the only prayer I was able to utter. Then I put the Bible back in the drawer, picked up my things, and went to the car.

  Eighteen

  I was sitting in the same chair as the day before, waiting for Sparks, when he came through the door. This time he didn’t hesitate but walked right over to me. He looked horrible, and I wondered if he had slept at all last night. His hair was a disheveled mess, and there were deep circles under his eyes. As he sat across from me, a guard positioned himself just out of earshot, arms hanging loosely at his sides.

  “Thanks for coming,” Sparks muttered, his manner much calmer today.

  Before I could reply, several other women came into the room from the visitor processing area. As they took seats at different tables, I realized that it must be a visiting day, and these ladies were here to see prisoners. I leaned toward Sparks, lowering my voice.

  “By law,” I said, “we can request a private conference room, if we want.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I don’t care who hears me.”

  “But I want to know the circumstances of my husband’s death.”

  “Then I’m going to tell you a little story,” he replied. “About a group called ‘The Cipher Five.’”

  He sat up straight then, looking around the room and seeming to gather strength in front of my eyes. My heart pounded, and I felt as though I were standing on the edge of a precipice, about to jump off.

  “The Cipher Five?” I asked softly.

  “This was back in the late nineties,” James continued, his voice a little louder than I would have liked. “Like the name says, there were five of us. We were a team. We were working in secret, doing things with code that Diffie and Rivest had only dreamed of.”

  He paused for effect, taking out his asthma inhaler and giving himself a squirt.

  “Diffie and Rivest?” I asked, trying to tune out the noise that was building around us. Though there were no other prisoners in the room yet, a few more visitors drifted in and, again, I wondered if we should ask for a private room.

  “The pantheons in the field!” he said, exhaling a medicinal smell as he tucked the inhaler back into his pocket. “Haven’t you heard of Diffie, Hellman, and Merkle? Rivest, Shamir, and Adelman?”

  “James, you’ve lost me.”

  “Encryption,” he said. “We were taking it all to the next level. The Cipher Five broke the door wide open, man. No one will ever know how significant our work was.”

  A noise erupted across the room and I jumped, looking to see that an empty
soda can had been accidentally knocked from a table. My nerves were at the breaking point.

  “So who were the Cipher Five again?” I asked, trying to remember the names. “Diffie, Rivest…”

  “No, no, no,” he scolded, the arrogance I had seen the day before suddenly returning to his features. “All those people, all those guys, they were before us. They laid the groundwork. Our group came after.”

  There was an odd expression on his face, and I tried to decide what his overriding emotion was at the moment. I wasn’t sure, but as he spoke I thought I detected anger—and an odd sort of defiance, though whom he was defying, I didn’t know.

  “Okay, let me get this straight,” I said. “In a long line of very significant encryption experts, you were part of a group of five people who also made important contributions to the field.”

  “Correct.”

  “So who were the people in your group?” I asked. “Who were the Cipher Five?”

  “Me, my wife Beth, her brother, Tom, Phillip Wilson, and Armand Velette,” he replied, counting off on his fingers. “All five geniuses, in our own way. We all brought something good to the table.”

  “When was this again?”

  “Back in the late nineties. Most of us were fresh out of college or grad school. Tom hired us to implement his ideas.”

  “He hired you?”

  “Yeah. He got a business loan and put together a little computer company. We were his employees.”

  “How did he find you?”

  “I went to MIT with his sister, Beth. She recommended me, and then when we started working together, she and I ended up falling in love and getting married. But that’s another story.”

  Suddenly, the inner door opened and a group of inmates spilled into the room, followed by two guards who placed themselves along the perimeter. The prisoners were all dressed in khakis, just like Sparks, and many of them greeted their visitors with hugs and kisses, something I knew was allowed in minimum security.