Barnes heard the sound of another cork being popped. Yes, indeed, it was going to be a very long night. For some, much longer than others.
CHAPTER 6
The Rittenhouse Hotel, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, May 20, 12:01 a.m.
The US congressman from New York’s Seventeenth District preferred to use his American Express Platinum card whenever he prepared lines of cocaine, for the same reason he used a hundred-dollar bill instead of a twenty to snort it. Because it impressed the young ladies he paid handsomely to consume the drugs with him. Most didn’t seem to care that he was the most powerful representative from what its residents considered the greatest state in the Union. And even fewer seemed to care that many in Democratic politics considered him a good bet to be their next presidential candidate. Perhaps it was because the little whores didn’t believe him. But then again, how could they possibly fathom what kind of money and power he had backing him? And not just his family’s, either.
The escort service did include on their roster a number of better-educated, more articulate young ladies, but Henry Townsend figured if he wanted to debate, he could always argue with his wife when he got back home. That was what he was getting away from. Her, the kids, his staff, the press, all of it, for just a few hours. A mini-vacation. A layover in Valhalla. Where time stopped. And he could enjoy the view from the penthouse suite of whatever hotel in whatever city he happened to be in while he created nice long lines of cocaine for himself and whatever her name happened to be.
Tonight, it was the Rittenhouse Hotel in Philadelphia, and her name was Allison. At least, that’s what she claimed it was. Allison had brought the drugs with her, because they were included in the $5,000 fee the congressman had already wired her employer. This outfit was the most exclusive, most reliable, and most discreet entity of its kind in the world. New clients were thoroughly vetted before being taken on. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the personal guarantee of Henry’s father, Terence Townsend, a longtime customer, the service would not have taken on Henry as a client.
The New York congressman never did much of the cocaine himself. It was mostly for the girls. He liked them all cranked up. He knew to be careful with his own intake, because too much would impede his performance. But a line or two would get him going like nothing else could. The rest was for her. Allison. Or whatever her real name was. He didn’t care. She liked to party, and that was exactly what she was here for. She leaned over the mirror on the bed, did two of the lines, then threw her hair back.
Henry admired her beautiful young face, as well as the magnificent curves beneath her Victoria’s Secret lingerie, which looked brand new.
Henry chopped up another dozen lines of the white powder. Two for him, ten for her. Somewhere around number eight, she’d taken a break to service him. He was rough with her from the start, just like he planned on being the rest of the night. He tore off her brand-new lingerie and took her from behind. His hands were around her throat. Not quite choking her, but on the verge of it. Letting her know he could at any second. Because that’s what he really enjoyed. Letting them know.
“Allison” slowly leaned downward toward the mirror on the bed to finish her last two lines, which should have been enough to last awhile.
All Henry could think was that the young lady multitasked with ease. He pulled her up by the back of her hair, shuddering with anticipation. Oh, did he have plans. The things he was going to do to this young lady.
Because the congressman was behind her, he couldn’t see her face when it happened. Her stunning young eyes bugged out, more in shock than in pain, because she couldn’t breathe. Her skin suddenly turned pale. Her hands clenched the sheets as she went into cardiac arrest due to what would later be determined a congenitally thin lining of her left artery. For the moment, all she knew was that she needed to scream, and couldn’t.
She arched, and clenched, and then went completely limp. At first, he thought the girl just might have passed out, which would have been disappointing, but not devastating. It had happened before. But when he rolled her on her back, her skin was blue. It was clear she wasn’t breathing. And that he was now in a full-on crisis. “This is not happening!”
It had been over two decades since he’d taken any kind of CPR class, but he did his best to remember the basics. He tilted her head back, opened her airway, gave three strong breaths into her lungs, then placed both hands on her chest and gave three firm compressions. Nothing happened. He repeated the sequence. Still nothing. “Come on, breathe, you stupid little bitch!” He continued the compressions, pausing only to fill her lungs with air. His rage now turned to desperation. “Please, dear God, breathe!”
Over the next several minutes, his pleas grew increasingly pathetic. But there was nothing he could do. The girl was dead. Finally pausing to catch his breath, he looked around the room to assess the damage. Cocaine was sprinkled all over the bed. Ripped lingerie and empty champagne bottles were strewn about the floor.
If it wasn’t for the dead girl, the scene would be inviting. But there she was, cold and motionless. Ruining everything.
Henry quickly paced around the room, figuring out what he should do. There would be no getting out of this cleanly. The suite was registered in his name. The hotel had lots of security cameras, which undoubtedly had captured him coming and going. He had no access to a vehicle, even if he could magically transport the body outside the hotel. And he was much too high to seriously consider driving, anyway. The thought of being pulled over while transporting a dead hooker was so ghoulish it was almost funny.
Henry was going to need help, and knew exactly who he would turn to. The group who’d been in the shadows his entire political career, helping him whenever and however necessary. Like his derelict record in college that had somehow been sanitized. And his many other indiscretions that had never reached the light of day. Most importantly, he had won every election he had ever entered, by doing exactly as he was told. Not only did these people have the ability to rewrite the past, they could determine the future as well.
Henry had never once deviated from their instructions or guidance, because while certain aspects of his character left much to be desired, his survival instincts were superb. He knew better than to disobey them, whoever they were.
He took out a second phone, a device they had given him with explicit instructions: use only in case of emergency. Well, this certainly qualified. Henry pressed the “1” button, speed-dialing the only number he was ever to call from this device.
“Yes?”
“I need your help.” Henry’s voice quivered slightly. He knew he sounded high.
“Is the matter urgent?”
“I wouldn’t have called otherwise.”
The phone’s GPS transmitter let the man on the other end know that Henry was calling from inside a hotel in Philadelphia. “What is your room number?”
“It’s 3902.” Henry decided to ignore how unsettling it was that they already knew what hotel he was in. He convinced himself this was a good thing.
“Two friends will be there within ninety minutes. Do not leave your room. Do not communicate with anyone else. When they are outside your door, I will text you.”
The two men were seven minutes early. The time was 2:28 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time when the text message arrived on Henry’s phone: knock knock.
Henry peered through the peephole at the two expressionless men. They wore nylon sweat suits and baseball caps. Phillies and Mets. Henry had never seen either man before, and knew he would never see either one again. He opened the door and stepped back as they entered. Both men put on surgical gloves. There would be no trace they were ever here. They locked the door behind them and moved quickly from room to room to assess the situation.
It was bad.
Henry followed carefully behind them. “Please tell me you guys can get me out of this.”
Mets fan turned to him and spoke evenly and clearly. “You must do exactly as we say.”
“Just tell me what to do.”
Phillies fan pointed to the beige carpet next to the bed where the dead girl was sprawled. “Stand here.”
Henry did so. It seemed a little strange, but he was not about to question a damn thing.
“Face her.”