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participate as a connected man in the nation’s capital. Quietly. Socially. And those same people expected Billionaire Webster, as he was called, to attend. Politicos always used the “B” word to segregate out those who could be counted on to write checks for almost anything asked of them.
    He smiled at the thought of politicians thinking they were using him when it was he using those empty suits. The favors Webster bought and extorted from regulators and congressmen had made millions, even billions for Webster’s clients, and for himself.

Chapter 7
    Linda stepped off the bus in front of Cynthia’s condo building and, finding a sun-dried bus bench next to the curb, sat down to see if Captain Ahab would show up, knowing full well that if he did, it would freak her out.
    After ten minutes of not seeing anyone, she rose and opened the cranky iron gate that announced all entries into the courtyard of the Oceanview Condos.
    Cynthia’s condo, located halfway back on the side, lacked the quality ocean view promised by the name of the development. Cynthia had told Linda she had difficulty seeing distances so she chose a unit close enough to allow her to listen to the surf, without paying for a view she could not fully appreciate. When the weather permitted, Cynthia often walked down onto the beach to watch the waves break and spread silently across the smooth sand. She often commented about the popping of the tiny bubbles over the breathing holes from the clams, or whatever lived in the basement of the sand.
    Hope and fear met in Linda’s throat as she pressed Cynthia’s doorbell.
    No answer.
    After ringing again, she noticed that yesterday’s Portland, Oregon newspaper, a bit wet, lay beside the door. She rang a third time, and keeping her ear close to the door she heard the bell, a melodic tune she couldn’t quite place. Cynthia always needed a few extra minutes to get to the door and this time she was likely coming from a sickbed. Linda stood back nearer the rail, cleared her throat and waited hoping Cynthia would soon open the door and clear up the mystery. When that didn’t happen, Linda got out her cell phone and dialed one more time, with each ring beseeching her friend to pick up the phone and assure her that all was well. But the phone, like the door chimes, brought only empty promises.
    Linda reached into her leather shoulder bag for the key to Cynthia’s condo. Linda had never before let herself in, always choosing to respect her friend’s privacy by knocking and waiting until Cynthia opened the door. Several years ago Cynthia had said, “Take this key, dear. I want you to have it, just in case.”
    Linda decided that right now defined just in case .
    Linda hollered through the open door, “Cynthia!” Hearing no reply, she stepped inside. “Cynthia? Are you home? It’s Linda.”
    Cynthia’s living room looked normal, even smelled normal. Cynthia used plug-in air fresheners, changing fragrances each time she plugged in a new one. Cynthia always chose flower scents, but this one had an aroma not reminiscent of flowers. Perhaps the old woman had left some food out on the kitchen counter.
    Cynthia’s hobby, ceramic dolls, stood in silent vigil on the high shelf rimming the room. Early American furniture, arrayed on medium-length cut pile wall-to-wall carpeting, looked as it always did: neat and orderly. A flowered TV-tray with gold metal legs fronted the red rocker, a throw blanket over its back. Cynthia’s bifocals, waiting flat on their temple bars, were on the table beside the rocker. Her prized Thomas Kinkade lithograph silently looked out from over the tweedy couch against the far wall. Two stone coasters, the kind that absorbed moisture, waited on the small kitchen table where they had been left last Friday when their cribbage game ended.
    She found no food on the kitchen counter, only the day before yesterday’s newspaper, an inside page folded over to the crossword puzzle. Beside the puzzle lay