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“Then I will have to tell them what you did to poor Gary Clement.”
At the mention of Clement’s name, Washburn’s knees weakened. To his credit, he recovered and said, “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“I know that you do and I’ll prove it. Check your email.”
Washburn straightened up, walked slowly to his desk, and opened his laptop. He put the phone on SPEAKER and set it on the desk.
The most recent email was from Washburn’s own address. The subject line read “From the Doctor.”
Washburn was aghast at the breach in his security. “You broke into my email?”
“I thought the attached video was better coming from yourself than from my email address. You’ll know why when you see it.”
Washburn took a deep breath a
nd clicked on the attachment. When he saw the first image, he was glad he was sitting down because he nearly fainted.
The video showed him and Gary Clement, a squat, balding man, sitting on the deck of Washburn’s yacht. Other than the bright lights of the boat, it was pitch-black. Washburn would never forget the evening three months ago. They were forty miles off the coast, a location specifically chosen for its privacy. No other boat had been within ten miles. It was just the two of them on the boat.
Yet it looked like the camera filming the scene had been on board the yacht with them, cutting back and forth between close-ups of each of them. Even the audio was flawless.
“I can prove you falsified those reports,” Clement said in his nasal whine. “I made copies when we were auditing your books. You may have destroyed them since then, but the discrepancies are clear. You shipped that body armor to Afghanistan even though you knew the manufacturing process had rendered it brittle and inadequate against the firepower they were facing. Hundreds of soldiers were killed and wounded because of you.”
Washburn had to admit Clement had the leverage. Not only would the explosive allegations end his political ambitions but the subsequent investigation would send him to prison for a long time if the real data surfaced. He would lose his company, his reputation—everything.
“What do you want?” Washburn replied coolly.
“You’re not even going to try to deny it?”
“Why should I? You showed me what you have, which is why we’re out here. I thought you wanted to negotiate.”
Clement smiled. “Then I want ten million dollars.”
Washburn nodded, as if he’d expected such a figure. “And next year?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, whatever number we settle on, you will always be out there lurking with the Sword of Damocles.”
“If you give me ten million dollars, I guarantee I will never talk about this again.”
“I think I’m the one who can make that guarantee,” Washburn said. He pulled a Smith & Wesson revolver from between the seat cushions and shot Clement in the chest.
As Clement gasped for air, Washburn said, “I found your files before we came out here. Not much of a backup plan.”
Clement sighed a death rattle and slumped in the chair. Washburn tossed the revolver overboard and disappeared from the picture for a minute. He came back holding four diving weight belts. He tied one to each of Clement’s wrists and ankles and heaved the body over the side. After scrubbing away any traces of blood with the bleach he’d brought with him, he tossed that over as well. No one knew there was a connection between the two men, let alone that Clement had been on his boat that night. At the time, Washburn thought it had been the perfect crime.
Now as he stopped the video, he knew this Doctor could ask for anything and he would have no choice but to give it.
“I would delete that immediately, if I were you,” the voice on the phone said.
Washburn did as instructed, his hand shaking as he worked the trackpad.
“How did you get that video?”
“I don’t divulge my secrets. But my talents could be very useful to a man like you.”
“What talents?”
