Stranglehold

Chapter 11

I got into headquarters just after seven the next morning. I’d spent forty-five minutes on the StairMaster in the hotel gym, then had an egg and a piece of toast and three cups of coffee in the café. I was the only one in the office for a time. I didn’t want to think about Monica Davies and why Bobby had had her card and how Susan Cooper might be involved in all this. I forced myself to go through the internals that had been faxed late last night.

The difference between public polling and internal polling is sometimes complicated but generally comes down to the fact that internal polling is done in more depth. Public polling is about the horse race; internal polling goes after demographics — age, occupation, general political beliefs — and delves into issue details. Another factor is where respondents come from. Public polling tends to use random numbers from the phone books. Internal polling uses registered voters. What made me happy this morning was the sudden shift we were seeing in rural voters supporting Susan. We’d been lagging behind. But now we’d jumped up by four percent and that was encouraging. Same with blue-collar males. Duffy was still ahead with this group, but in the past week we’d added three percent blue-collar males. The trend was up, and we were sitting on a story tying Duffy to some union-busting operations done by two companies he owned part of. We had decided to hold these until the next debate. This would help us get more blue-collar votes.

Ben came in with his hand wrapped around a large paper cup of coffee and the scent of autumn morning on his clothes. “You don’t look too bad.”

“Thanks, neither do you.”

“You think we’re getting respectable in our old age?”

I laughed. “You’re going to have us buried before our time.”

He sat down at his desk. “Well, since you’re so young and studly, did you get lucky last night?”

“Nope.” Then I looked up from the internals I was still going over. The way he’d said it — “You mean you got lucky last night?”

He swiveled in his chair so I could see him and his big happy face. “Hold your applause, but yep, I did indeed get lucky last night. This reporter from Channel 6. The NBC affiliate. Forty-three and worried about her job with all these hotties coming right out of college and working for half of what she’s making. I like her.”

“Good. Now that you’ve lost your virginity I’ll have to see about losing mine.”

He pointed to the desk two down from his. “You know who sits there?”

“Oh, no. No, thanks.”

“Last night Kristin told me that she had a very serious crush on you.”

“She’s too young.”

“She’s not that much younger.”

“You know what happened last time.”

“Hey, Kristin isn’t like — what the hell was her name?”

“Donna.”

“Kristin isn’t like Donna. Donna was all fucked up.” Pause. “Plus she was making it with Neil Ransom on the side, anyway. You know, when she was seeing you.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. That’s why everybody in the office hated her. She was doing this stalking number on you, but she was also getting it on with Ransom.”

“I thought they hated her because she was bragging about sleeping with the boss.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. You mean you really didn’t know?”

Ben’s phone rang. Just before he picked up, he said, “Well, I told Kristin I’d tell you that she’d like to go to dinner tonight. She ended up going out with her cousin last night and having a pizza.” Then: “Hello?” And: “Who’s calling, please?” He covered the speaking end of the receiver with his hand and said, “She sounds very young and very upset. Line three.”

“No dinner, Ben. Seriously.” I picked up my phone.

“Mr. Conrad?”

I recognized the voice immediately even through her tears. “Gwen?”

“You said I could call you.”

“Yes. Of course. Are you all right?”

“I am, but Bobby isn’t. He’s in jail. They arrested him this morning. They said he killed that woman. Somebody saw him running from her hotel room. I’m scared for him and I’m scared for my baby.”

Full circle. The motel room to the red-haired man to Monica Davies to Bobby. “Where are you now?”

“I’m at the police station. They won’t let me see him.”

“You stay there. I’ll be right down.”

“I’d really appreciate it, Mr. Conrad.” Starting to cry. “He didn’t kill her. He really didn’t.”

After hanging up, I said to Ben, “I need the name of a good criminal attorney in this town. Fast.”

“What the hell’s going on?”

“Just the name, Ben. I’ll have to explain later.”

“Well, one of our backers is a man named James Shapiro. Very good reputation. Very nice guy.”

“Fine. Thanks. You got his number?”

A minute later I was talking to James Shapiro’s secretary. “He’s not in right now.”

“I’m with the Cooper campaign. Dev Conrad. Something’s come up and I really need to talk with him. I hate to lean on you this way, but it’s important.”

“Well, he’s probably in court.”

“Can you reach him there?”

“Yes, one of his people can get a message to him.”

“Here’s my cell phone number. I’ll be in my car soon, but please have him call me as soon as possible.”

“All right. Mr.... Conrad?”

“Yes. Conrad. Thank you.”

I got directions to the police station from Ben.

“You got me scared, Dev. Young woman crying and a criminal defense lawyer...”

“It’d take too long to explain. And it’s between you and me, obviously.”

“Really? Shit, I thought I’d call the Chronicle and give them an exclusive.”

Traffic was light so I moved quickly. I was getting close to the street I wanted when my cell phone toned.

“Mr. Conrad?”

“Thanks for calling, Mr. Shapiro.”

“Jim. Please. You probably don’t remember this, but we met one time at the governor’s inauguration ball. Debby said it was an emergency. I just stepped out into the hall to call you. One of my associates is conducting the cross, anyway.”

I told him what I knew without mentioning Susan. Just that I liked this young woman and wanted to help her.

“So you don’t know anything about this Bobby?”

“Afraid I don’t.”

“Monica Davies, huh? I wish I could say she didn’t have it coming.”

“I feel the same way.”

“All right, Dev, I’ll be there. I need a little time, but I’ll be there.”

I pulled into the parking lot of the long, low, lean police station. The tan limestone exterior and the wide windows in front gave it an open feeling you don’t find in many law enforcement facilities. I swung the car into an empty parking spot. “I’m at the police station now.”

“I’m about six blocks from you. I need fifteen minutes, give or take. I’ll see you then.”

The same architectural feeling continued inside the police department. The walls were painted a light blue, the tile floors were a complementary darker blue, the lobby furnishings were modern but comfortable, and the front counter was held down by two attractive women in regular blouses and skirts, no uniforms of any kind. This might have been the office of a medical clinic. The grit was found in the back half of the building, the one where the windows were barred up and down.

I went to the counter and asked if Detective Priya Kapoor was here and if I could speak to her. One of the women told me to have a seat and she’d see if the detective was available. Then I asked her about Gwen. She said, all maternal rather than all cop, “She’s in the bathroom being sick.”

I sat down and started to wait. I’d been there only a few minutes when the front doors opened and a sobbing woman and an angry man disrupted the busy but tranquil air.

The woman, mid-forties I guessed, worn from work and dashed dreams, sat in the seat across from me. She kept dabbing her face with her gnarled handkerchief and looking at me with watery blue despairing eyes. If she even saw me. Sitting there in her rumpled, fake leather jacket and blue jeans, she seemed to see beyond me, to some other terrible realm that was summoning her.

The man, now at the counter, had taken to shouting. “He took it for a little ride and brought it back! This is total bullshit! I want to see Cummings! That bastard has it in for my kid and won’t give him a break!”

The woman didn’t turn her head to watch her husband. But each time his voice got especially loud her body would jerk as if she’d been stabbed.

The man came over and sat down in the chair next to hers. He took her hand, a surprising bit of gentleness given his flinty face with its broken nose and scars across the left side of his throat, the same tender way Bobby treated Gwen. This man had a full dark gray-streaked beard and massive arms sticking out of his yellow sports shirt. His Bears cap had a union button on it.

She put her head to his shoulder and said, “This time they’ll send him to a real prison, Bob. A real prison.”

“Those sons of bitches,” he said.

After my years in army intelligence, when I’d functioned pretty much as a detective, I’d thought about joining a police force somewhere. I’d spent three nights in a squad car riding around Chicago. The dangers I’d seen were tolerable; there’d been moments when they’d been exhilarating. But the heartbreak was what I couldn’t handle. The beaten wives and the forlorn children, the sad junkies, the prisons of poverty, the people afraid to walk the streets of their own neighborhoods. I didn’t have the gut for it.

I studied their faces as they slumped together across from me, the eternal grief of parents whose child is in serious trouble.

Detective Kapoor wore a wine-red blouse and a black skirt today. She was a dream of radiance and charm. “Mr. Conrad, if you’d like to follow me.” She made no eye contact with the couple on the chairs.

“I’m meeting a lawyer here in a few minutes. A Mr. Shapiro.”

The smile was enigmatic. “Oh, yes, Mr. Shapiro.”

I couldn’t tell if her tone was disapproval or some kind of amusement. When I got to my feet I felt guilty a moment for deserting the couple across from me. As if I should have stayed with them in silent commiseration. But I was relieved, too. I had a desperate situation of my own to tend to.

Her office was small but organized with ruthless efficiency. God forbid that anything was out of place. She had a Mac and a window and a framed photograph of her with a very young girl who resembled her a good deal. Her desk was cleared and her pencils, six yellow ones, were lined up like bullets next to a small notepad.

“I’m wondering why you’re here, Mr. Conrad. And what your interest is in Bobby Flaherty.”

“I’m a friend of Mr. Flaherty’s wife.”

“I see. But a young woman like that — would you mind telling me how you know her?”

“I’m just a friend.”

“So you’ve known her for a long time?”

“Not a long time. But some time.”

This was her morning for enigmatic smiles. “Jim Shapiro doesn’t come cheap.”

“I assumed that was the case.”

“And Mr. Flaherty certainly won’t be able to afford him.”

“I assumed that would be the case, too.”

“Will you be paying Mr. Shapiro’s fees?”

“I haven’t had a chance to talk about money with him yet. But I’m sure we’ll work things out.”

“I’m just surprised that you’re so interested in this case.”

“As I said, Gwen is a friend of mine.”

The knock on the half-open door was perfunctory. A tall, trim, gray-haired man came into the office. He roiled the air with his sense of energy and purpose. He looked like one of those adventurous men you see in print ads for expensive brands of whiskey, the kind of masculine self-confidence juries love and prosecutors fear.

He carried a slender briefcase and a ready smile. “Watch out for her, Conrad. Her bite is much worse than her bark. I’m Jim Shapiro.”

We shook hands and he took the empty chair next to me. “How’s the beautiful Priya today?”

This time the smile wasn’t enigmatic at all. She obviously liked Shapiro. “The beautiful Priya, as you say, is sitting here trying to figure out why Mr. Conrad is so interested in helping Mr. Flaherty.”

“It’s just his nature. Mr. Conrad’s. Helping other people.”

“You two have never met before now, have you?”

“Not technically, Priya. But how did you know that?”

“Body language. I make a study of it. You’re two strangers sitting side by side. Which makes me all the more curious.” She addressed her question to me. “Did you get Jim’s phone number from the Yellow Pages?”

“Men’s room wall,” Shapiro said. “You know, ‘For a good time call... ’ ” They both laughed at his joke. Then: “Look, Mr. Conrad and I really do need to talk. How about you drifting off somewhere for about ten minutes and letting us use your office?”

She pushed back from her desk and said, “Actually, there is something I need to check on. But I can’t give you more than ten minutes.”

“Perfect. I really appreciate this.”

As she came out from around her desk, the stylish cut of her skirt emphasizing the pleasing line of her long legs, she said, “Maybe in ten minutes you and Mr. Conrad can come up with a reasonable explanation for why Mr. Conrad is so interested in this case.”

She left us with another one of her unreadable smiles. She was careful to close the door tight.

Shapiro jumped up and parked himself on the edge of her desk. “We can talk here. I’ve used this room before. Priya assured me it’s not bugged.”

“And you trust her?”

“We used to date for a while. We both got divorces at the same time. But you know how those kinds of relationships go. We weren’t over our spouses. But anyway, she’s a cool lady. And yes, I trust her.” He rubbed his hands together as if savoring a hearty meal. “So what’s this got to do with Susan?”

He knew how to cut through the bullshit. “What makes you think she’s involved?”

“Dev, look, if we’re going to work together, remember one thing — I’ve been around the block more than a few times. Okay? You arrive in town yesterday, Monica Davies is murdered, and here you are getting a lawyer for this Flaherty kid. Have you even met him?”

“Once.”

“When and where?”

I described the motel scene. I didn’t mention Susan’s involvement.

“So you just happened to be cruising past this motel and you decided to pull in. And you just happened to find a room where this girl, Gwen, was crying. Two big coincidences there. Now, tell me how Susan plays into this.”

“Attorney-client privilege?”

“Just give me ten bucks.”

“In movies they only give the lawyer a dollar.”

His grin took ten years away from his face. “Fuck movies. This is real life. Movies never get anything right anyway.” Then he was serious again: “Now, where does Susan come into this?”

I told him what I knew, including the part about a witness seeing Bobby run away from Monica’s hotel room. Shapiro had a small notebook tucked into his back pocket. He dug it out and started scribbling with one of Priya’s carefully laid-out pencils.

“Wow,” he said when I finished. “None of this makes any sense yet, does it?”

“Not to me. Susan obviously knows the Flahertys somehow.”

“And yesterday morning she told you that everything is all right now?”

“That’s what she said. But I’ve learned that she can suck it up and play it real happy even when it’s all going to hell. That’s what makes her such a good candidate.”

“I want to talk to Gwen. See what she’ll tell me.”

The knock came. I yanked out my wallet. He saw a one peeking up and plucked it free. “This’ll do.” The grin again.

Detective Kapoor came back in and said, “I can take you back to where Mr. Flaherty is, if you’d like, Jim. And you don’t have to worry about him having said anything damaging. He won’t say anything at all.”

She stood aside while I walked out into the hallway. When Shapiro walked out I said, “You have my cell phone number. Call me right away when you’re finished.”

The detective’s dark eyes gleamed with amused suspicion. “Oh, yes, Mr. Conrad here is very interested in this case even though he can’t explain why exactly.”

Shapiro patted me on the back. “A good Samaritan if I’ve ever seen one.”

Her eyes rested on me briefly. Then she turned back to the lawyer and they began walking to the far end of the hall. I walked to the lobby, hoping that Gwen was back.

The married couple was gone. Gwen, appearing to be younger and frailer than ever, sat with her hands clutched tight together staring at the opposite wall. Today she wore a faded brown maternity top that looked as if she’d bought it used. She didn’t quit staring at the wall even when I sat down next to her. Her nose and eyes were a furious red. I took one of her hands and placed it in mine.

“I noticed a coffee shop about half a block from here. Why don’t I buy you something to eat?”

“I’d just throw it up.” Despite her appearance, her voice was strong, steady. “But I could use some tea.”

I hoped the autumn day soothed her as we walked. The temperature was in the high fifties and the sun made the painted colors of the trees bright as copper. She eased along with her burden: young, sweet, lost. More than once I’d wondered if my interest in her was a form of repentance for being such an absent father to my own daughter while she was growing up. The siren call of elections had kept me on the road, and not until the last few years with my daughter back East in college had I gotten to know her.

The coffee shop was small and of another era with its chrome-bottomed counter stools and its hand-painted pine booths. I noticed photos of the previous owners — faded black-and-white pictures of a deceptively simpler time.

When my Danish came I sawed off a third of it, placed the slice on a napkin, and pushed it over to her side of the booth. “Give it a try.”

“I don’t know if I can hold it down.”

“Up to you. It’s there if you get the urge.”

She sipped her tea. “This is what I need. It’s just been — we weren’t even awake when they came. The police, I mean. We were down to our last few dollars, so we were in this real dive of a motel. It was a lot worse than the one we were in yesterday even. Bobby registered under our real name. That’s how they found us.”

“Why did they come after Bobby?”

“The drawing they made.”

“A police composite?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what they call it. It was only on TV for a short time. The night clerk at the motel recognized Bobby and called the police.” Her shoulders slumped and she was bound up in her misery. “He won’t tell me anything about it. No matter how hard I beg him. He just keeps saying that he’ll explain it to me someday. I’m having such a hard time with my pregnancy, and I’m so sick all the time that I haven’t really paid much attention.”

“Why was he at Monica Davies’s hotel room?”

She looked exasperated. “I already told you. He wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Monica Davies had a partner. Does the name Greg Larson mean anything to you?”

“Oh, yes. That’s the man who got into it with Bobby yesterday. The bloody towel you found.”

Circles within circles within circles. Larson and Bobby Flaherty.

“He really scared me. Bobby made me go for a walk when Larson came. When I got back I heard them fighting. I was afraid Bobby might be hurt, so I rushed into the room. They were wrestling. Larson looked over at me when I came in, and Bobby shoved him. Larson hit his head against the edge of the bathroom door. He started to faint, I think, but then he managed to stagger over to the desk. That was when he fell down against the chair. The back of his head bled on the desk. I was screaming for them to stop. Bobby was scared then, too. He ran into the bathroom and soaked a towel under the shower and brought it out to Larson. He made Larson sit down and see if he was all right. I could see Larson was real mad, but he was worried about his head, so he had to concentrate on that. Bobby even offered to drive him to the ER. That’s why it’s so crazy to say that Bobby killed anybody. He really freaked out when he saw that he’d hurt Larson.”

I had to weigh her words here against the words Bobby had been flinging at me as we fought yesterday. He had a temper for sure, but the way he took care of Larson made me wonder if he had any killer instinct. Or maybe he was just worried about his own fate. It’s easy to be naive about criminality.

“Why was Larson there?”

“I don’t know. Bobby wouldn’t tell me.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“Twice. He came at night and Bobby left with him. Bobby was pretty drunk when he got back, but he still wouldn’t tell me anything.” Her gaze had fallen on the piece of Danish I’d cut for her. “I guess I’m getting hungry.”

“Why don’t you eat that and I’ll order you anything else you want.”

“I don’t like being a mooch.”

“I’m treating you. That’s not being a mooch.”

Those deep green eyes watched me for a few seconds. “I can’t pay you back.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

“I don’t mean just with money. I mean I can’t even tell you anything about what’s going on. Because I don’t know myself.”

“Maybe we’ll find out together.”

The moods were fast as light, shifting in texture and color. The lower lip trembled and the eyes filled. “Our poor baby. Not even born yet and his father is in jail. That’s what I’m worried about.”

The waitress was nearby. She came over when I waved at her. “Why don’t you bring Gwen here her own Danish?”

“Sure.” She finished writing on her ticket pad and said, “Be right back.”

“I don’t know if I can eat that.”

“You’ll be surprised. My ex-wife always said that, too. Then she’d clean out the refrigerator.”

Gwen smiled and some of the sadness left her eyes and mouth. “Yeah, I was thinking it’s sort of like those models do. They have that — what do you call it? — where they eat and then throw up?”

“Bulimia.”

“Yeah. But even with that I’ve managed to put on a lot of weight.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “You’ve put on weight? What did you weigh before? Ninety pounds?”

“No. I weighed a hundred and now I’m a hundred and ten. All the women in my family are small. Actually, so are the men; for men they’re small, I mean.”

The Danish came. She ate shamelessly while I sat and watched her. She wiped out the Danish in a few bites and then sat back, sated. “Boy, I guess I was hungrier than I thought.” A sigh. “But I feel guilty. Bobby’s in jail and here I am stuffing my face.”

“I’m told Jim Shapiro is a very good defense attorney.”

“Bobby didn’t kill that woman.”

“Did he ever mention her — Monica Davies?”

“No. Never.”

“How long have you been in town here?”

“Ten days. I always count them.”

“You’ve never told me what brought you here.”

“I’m not sure. We’ve never had much money. Bobby told me that maybe he could get some kind of steady gig here. You know, with a band that played five or six nights a week. You can make pretty good money when you do that. I pretty much believed that when Bobby started talking about it. But the more I thought about it, the more I started thinking that maybe that was just an excuse. That maybe there was something else going on that Bobby didn’t want me to know about. And then when Larson started coming around, I knew I was right. But I still didn’t have any idea what was going on. That’s one thing Bobby and I have always argued about — he just kind of sneaks off and does stuff and never explains himself. The funny thing is that I trust him — you know, where other girls are concerned. I really don’t think he cheats on me. But I wish he’d tell me where he goes when he takes off like that.” Talking that much seemed to have tired her. She placed her hands reverently over her belly and closed her eyes briefly. “I’m just so worried about him.”

I wanted to ask her about Susan Cooper again. But right now she didn’t need any more grief.

“Why don’t we head back to the police station and find out what’s going on?”

She sat up straight, eyes open, and said, “God, I don’t know what I’d do if you hadn’t come along.” Then she started her awkward slide out of the booth. I was thinking how good it would be when my own daughter was pregnant. I had so much to make up for. I wanted to do it right this time.

We sat in the lobby for half an hour before Jim Shapiro appeared. Gwen made two trips to the bathroom. She got thirsty and I managed to find a 7UP for her. On cue, five minutes after drinking the pop, she went to the bathroom again.

Shapiro appeared in a rush. He didn’t look happy. He took us to a corner in a kind of huddle. He put his hand on Gwen’s shoulder and said, “Honey, I’ve arranged for you to see your husband for fifteen minutes. I need you to do me a favor.” He glanced at me before he finished. “I need you to make him understand that this is a very serious charge and that I can’t help him if he won’t help me.” He took his hand from her shoulder. He frowned in my direction. “He said he doesn’t know Larson and that he never met Monica Davies.” Back to her: “He’s lying. He also says that he doesn’t know Congresswoman Cooper, but if that’s true why did Dev here see her go into your motel room yesterday? Do you see what I mean?”

“Yes.” She touched her stomach. I wondered if she was in pain.

“Tell him that for your sake and the sake of your child he has to tell me everything he knows about Larson and Monica and Congresswoman Cooper. They all tie together.”

“Won’t Congresswoman Cooper tell you anything?” Then she frowned at me. “I should’ve told you I knew her, Mr. Conrad.”

“That’s all right.”

He looked at me again. “I’ll be talking to Dev about that while you’re in seeing Bobby. Now, you see that officer over there by the desk?” She nodded. “He’s waiting for you. He’ll take you back to see your husband.”

“I’m scared, Dev.”

“You’ll do fine.”

She walked over to the officer waiting for her.

“Listen, Dev, I’m due in court in half an hour, and I need to swing by my office before I go there. I’m not getting anywhere with Bobby right now, so that means you have to get somewhere with Susan. I don’t know what the hell’s going on here, but she’s involved somehow and that’s going to lose her the election. I’ll do this pro bono — tell her that — because that’s how much I want her to win. But, man, I have to know what I’m dealing with.” Then he caught himself and said: “They’ll probably bring Gwen back here. But Priya will grab her if she sees her and start asking questions. I don’t want that to happen before I get something from Bobby. Get Gwen out of here as fast as you can and hide her someplace.”

I was back sitting in the lobby again. A pair of wannabe Hell’s Angels came in sneering and giggling and giving the woman at the counter grief. They said they were waiting to see a Detective Walker. A female uniform walked by, and one biker nudged the other, then pointed to his groin and ground his hips. The other one laughed with teeth that would have done a caveman proud. Finally a male uniform the size of a beer truck and with the disposition of a crocodile came out and laid a manila folder on the reception desk. He had some business with the receptionist. She nodded to the bikers and rolled her eyes. They were making pistols of their fingers and aiming them at two detectives in a glassed-in office. The officer sidled over to them and said, “Why don’t you boys go over there and sit down? Darla here’ll call you when Walker’s available.” They gave him no problem whatsoever.

They walked over and sat down in chairs facing me. I was wearing a suit, which seemed to make them giddy. They did a lot of communicating with their elbows. A fun couple.

Gwen came slow and gray out into the open area in front of the reception desk. She didn’t seem to quite know where she was. I was out of my chair immediately.

She leaned against me. I wondered if she was going to pass out. I got my arm around her shoulder and we started to leave the station. The bikers said something and giggled again. I’d have to stop back and kill them later. I’d be bringing an Uzi. I hurried her down the steps as soon as possible. I was waiting for Detective Kapoor to shout at our backs that she wanted to question Gwen.

There was a concrete bench half a block down. I helped her over there and we sat down. She put her head against me. I hugged her. I could smell her hot tears. There was nothing to say for now, so I just sat there holding her.

Cars and people came and went. Smoky melancholy autumn was on the breeze briefly and it was jack-o’-lantern time for a moment. I imagined Gwen dressing her little boy or girl up to go trick-or-treating. She’d have a good time taking the little one around all got up in costume with a bag ready for plunder. And all this misery would be forgotten. Or so I hoped.

She gathered herself in a self-conscious way. She stood up, drew her hands down her cheeks to dry her tears, then walked around in tight little circles taking deep breaths. People going into the station gawked at her, of course, but if she noticed she didn’t seem to care.

Then she came back and sat down and said, “You need to talk to Susan Cooper. I wasn’t supposed to mention her name, but right now I don’t know what else to do. They usually send me out of the room when they talk. But I think I’ve pretty much figured out who she is.”

“She’s his mother.”

“How did you guess? They don’t look alike at all.”

“She’s taking a lot of risks. And hurting her campaign. She wouldn’t do that unless she was really involved with Bobby in some way.”

“One night Bobby was crying and she was holding him and rocking him back and forth like a little child. That was when I knew she was his mother. But he won’t talk about her to me. And he won’t talk about Craig, either.”

“Who’s Craig?”

“I’m not sure. But he scares me. And sometimes he gives Bobby money.”

“What’s he look like?”

“He has red hair for one thing. He’s big, too. And he always — I don’t know how to say it — it’s like he’s always ready to explode. That’s why he’s dangerous.”

“Do you know his last name?”

“I only heard it once. Craig Donovan, I think.”

“And Bobby won’t talk to you about either of them?”

“He just says we’re going to have some serious money pretty soon. That’s how he always says it, ‘serious money.’ But when I ask him, he says I’m better off not knowing and that I’d just worry if I knew.”

“C’mon,” I said.

“Where’re we going?”

“I’m going to find you a decent motel. I’m hoping Jim Shapiro can get Bobby out pretty soon.”

“Really?”

“Jim’s good. And if all they have on Bobby is that he was seen running from Monica’s room, I doubt they can hold him much longer.”

It was nice to see her smile.

Chapter 12

David Manning was climbing into his shiny, new silver Aston Martin convertible when I pulled into the headquarters parking lot. He wore tan slacks and a navy-blue blazer over an open-collared white dress shirt. He might have passed for dapper if his face wasn’t so drawn and his glance so tired. When he saw me he reversed course and came out of his car.

“Morning, Dev.”

“Morning, David.”

“Just stopped by to see if my wife had turned up yet.”

“She’s not inside?”

“No. And nobody seems to know where she is, either.”

The side door to the headquarters opened. Doris Kelly emerged and started walking toward us. Her pale blond hair caught the sun. In her shy way, she was a compelling woman, one of those quiet ones who become more interesting the longer you’re around them.

“Sorry I kept you, David. I just wanted to call and see how they were treating my mother at the nursing home. She just moved in yesterday.”

“That’s fine, Doris. How’s she doing?”

“Well, so far she likes it.” The shy smile again. “Of course, it’s just been twenty-four hours.” She turned to me. “I guess they’re having trouble finding Susan again.”

“That’s what David was saying. Was she home last night?”

“Got home late,” David said. “I waited up for her till about two and then just went up to bed.”

“You really need your sleep, David,” Doris said. “You work so hard.”

He laughed. “She not only helps me at the foundation; she’s also my substitute mother.” He touched a gentle hand to her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mom. I get plenty of sleep.”

“But Susan did come home, David?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m not sure what time. But she was there when the maid served breakfast. She told me she was at Jane Clarke’s after the fund-raiser.”

“I guess I don’t know that name.”

“Her best friend for years. They were inseparable for a long time. They had a little falling-out. Now they’re close again. She probably would have said more, but then Natalie came downstairs.”

“It didn’t go well?”

His mouth tightened. “Natalie started in on Susan about how she’s been doing this wrong and that wrong. You know Natalie when she gets going. I tried to get her to back off a little...” The way his voice trailed off indicated that he hadn’t had much luck. But then I’d seen him with Natalie. He was her prisoner, but instead of a gun she wielded a checkbook.

Doris’s blue eyes narrowed. “They’re always putting you in the middle, David.”

He smiled at me. “My defender here.” He checked his watch. “We’ve got a meeting at the foundation in fifteen minutes. We need to get going. I’m sorry this campaign seems to be coming apart for you, Dev. But I think Susan will come around. She usually does.”

The word that stayed in my mind was “usually.”

Inside, Kristin and Ben were both on their phones. I sat down at a free computer and started checking my e-mail. I decided against sending money to a Nigerian prince who promised to swell my bank account into a fortune, against purchasing a “male enhancement” drug that would make me the envy of all the guys in the locker room and ensure that the ladies would be lined up around my block, and against signing a petition to investigate our current president to see if he was an extraterrestrial. After that I logged on to the Web site of the local newspaper and saw a photograph of Greg Larson. The headline read CONTROVERSIAL POLITICAL CONSULTANT QUESTIONED BY POLICE.

Now I was sure Bobby would be back on the street sometime today. If the police were talking to Larson, then something must have happened to make him seem suspicious to them. There had been rumors for a year that Larson and Monica no longer got along. The story on the Web site indicated that they were in Aldyne because a political magazine wanted to do a lengthy profile of them. And this was a congressional seat that their party definitely wanted to win. The piece said they’d been here for five days.

I didn’t see who walked in the door because I was busy on the computer, but when I heard Kristin say, “Thank God,” I knew it had to be Susan.

“Morning, everybody. I thought I’d get a workout in before the day started. I’m ready to go to the luncheon, Kristin, if you are.”

I logged off the computer. By now Susan was walking to the coffeemaker. She took it black. She wore the usual impeccable suit — this one in dark brown — and two-inch heels. She must have sensed me watching her, because when she turned around she had her smile prepared and it was a good one. You couldn’t go wrong with that smile. It made me reconsider sending off for that male-enhancement deal.

“Morning, Dev. Everybody seemed to have a good time last night.”

“Yeah,” I said, “except Monica Davies.”

She was way too good at covering herself to do anything dramatic. But it was there in her eyes, tiny pinpoints of panic when the name came up. Bobby Flaherty to Larson to Monica to Susan Cooper. And now another name, the red-haired man, Craig Donovan.

“Well, as much as I disliked her, I didn’t want her to die, Dev. I’m not very good at playing God.”

“Somebody sure as hell was,” Ben said, heading for the coffee himself. “Crushed her skull.”

“The police are questioning Larson,” Kristin said. She stayed at her desk. “The tabloids are going to go crazy.”

“I wonder if they’ll start looking into all the rumors about those two,” Ben said. “You know, that Georgia congressman they worked for that time basically said they were blackmailing him. But then he shut up all of a sudden.”

“He shut up because the party got to him,” I said. “The same way we’ve gotten to a few of our boys sometimes. Nobody wants the kind of investigation that would lead to. The congressman got elected, his kid got a cushy lobbying job in Washington, and for dropping his charges they helped him set up one of those nonprofit foundations where a good ole boy can get rich if he’s careful.”

“Yeah,” Ben said, “standard operating procedure in Washington.”

“Including a lot of our own people.”

Ben laughed. “You know, sometimes I swear you’re a spy working for the other side.”

“I just want to keep reminding myself that we’re just about as dirty as they are.”

“Just about. But not quite.”

“We’ve sure had our moments, Ben.”

He smiled. “Yeah, but we don’t talk about them.”

Kristin was putting on her coat. Her red hair was more vivid than ever. She had a hard time not looking glamorous.

“We’ll see you in a while,” Susan said, still treating me to that bullshit smile. She had to be wondering how long she could elude me. I was starting to wonder the same thing.

When they were gone I asked Ben, “You ever meet a friend of Susan’s named Jane Clarke?”

“Oh, yeah. Couple times. Very nice woman. Why?”

“I think I’ll go see her.”

“Susan said she took back her own name after she got divorced. She should be in the phone book.” He picked up the local one and handed it to me. “I should tell you, I had a crush on her for about three hours one night when we all went out to get pizza.”

“Three hours,” I said. “That’s a record for you, isn’t it?”

Ben laughed. “Almost.”

The area the Google map directed me to had the look of a movie set. The McMansions were set against a couple of miles of autumn trees, blazing with the ironic beauty of death. Behind them ran the river and on the far side of the water there were hills packed tight with more trees. The pretentiousness of the houses intruded on the natural splendor. The streets and the false fronts could deceive the movie cameras but not the closer scrutiny of a passerby. I had the same feeling here, the stagey boastful way these homes presented themselves suggesting an emptiness inside.

Jane Clarke’s house was either a Spanish-themed Tudor or a Tudor-themed Spanish hacienda. Both styles fought for dominance. The long rolling lawn was mostly topsoil, and the few trees looked as if they wouldn’t be mature even by the end-time, when God or George W. Bush came back to take care of us once and for all. I thought of a story about some rich Southerner who’d built a huge McMansion that closely resembled the White House. It even had an oval office. I assumed Jane Clarke’s house would have at least six bathrooms, with plasma TVs in at least two of them.

The doorbell resonated throughout the house. It was a full minute before I heard footsteps, tiny ones, working their way to the door. I wasn’t sure why she looked familiar, but she did. She was attractive, dark-haired, and shiny with sweat. She was Susan’s age, no doubt, early forties. Her white T-shirt and red shorts looked damp. They also were filled out so well, I’d doubtless be thinking of her throughout the day. “Oh, great. A good-looking guy finally comes here and I’m all sweaty from the stationary bike.” She had a nice big inviting smile. “Hi, Dev. I saw you at the fund-raiser. Susan pointed you out.”

“That’s right. That’s why you look familiar. I saw you with her.”

She opened the door wider. “I’ve got coffee on in the kitchen. Go pour yourself a cup. I’ll take a quick shower and then we can talk.” As I stepped into the vestibule, she said, “You’re worried about Susan and I’m worried about Susan. But I won’t tell you anything that will hurt her.”

The kitchen was big enough for a small restaurant: hardwood flooring like the entire downstairs, two refrigerators, a butcher-block table that could have accommodated a cow, two sinks, two stoves, and an espresso machine. There was a built-in coffeemaker for those pedestrian thinkers who didn’t want espresso and the inevitable wine storage units. I got myself some coffee and sat in one of the chairs by the huge window that overlooked the russet-and-gold hills behind the house. Spread across the table in front of me were pages of houses that some Realtor had provided. The houses were the kind I liked, old-fashioned with porches and venerable trees and sidewalks, homes likely built in the boom after the big war.

She burst into the kitchen saying, “Sorry I took so long.”

“I watched the clock. Less than ten minutes.”

“That’s why my hair’s still wet.”

I watched the way her backside moved when she poured coffee. She had a sweet little bottom and short but graceful legs. I liked her a ridiculous amount.

When she sat down across from me, she said, “Is it all right if I take this towel off my head?”

“Sure.”

She patted the towel on her hair one last time and then swept it away. In the light now I could see the wrinkles around her mouth and hazel eyes and the tiny point where her nose had probably been broken a long time ago. But to me she was all the more appealing for the wrinkles. I was at the age when I wanted women who were at least as road-tested as I was. She took a sip from her coffee and sat back and smiled. She’d changed into a pink top and jeans, and somehow the pink made her smile even more fetching.

“Couple things first,” she said. “I hate this house, in case you’re wondering. This was my husband’s idea. He was in a dick-measuring contest with all the other lawyers in his firm. He left me because my warranty had expired. He met a lady lawyer at a convention in Chicago. She’s beautiful, so I can’t blame him there. But, of course, I do blame him. I used to hope there was a little gallantry left in this world, but my husband proved there wasn’t. He handled the whole thing very badly. But I got a decent settlement and I got this house. I’m trying to sell this place so I can move into a house like the one I grew up in. My father was a high-school history teacher. We weren’t used to luxuries.”

“I was looking at some of these sheets. Looks like you wouldn’t have much trouble finding the kind of place you want.”

“The problem is the economy. This is an expensive house. And a lot of lawyers are being laid off in most of the big firms. Even a few of the CEOs Sean knew — Sean was my husband — they don’t have the kind of money they once had, either.”

“That doesn’t exactly break my heart.”

“From what Susan has told me about you, I didn’t think it would. She told me you were a commie. And a very cynical man. But that she trusted your judgment and liked you very much.”

“The only part of that I don’t agree with is the commie part. They aren’t radical enough.”

“You and my soon-to-be ex would get along fine. He thinks everybody in your party should be put in prison.”

“He sounds like a lot of fun.”

“He was for a long time. But you know how marriages go.”

“All too well. But I suppose Susan told you about that, too.”

“She said that two of your staffers told her that you seemed lonely to them.”

“That would be Ben and Kristin. And they both seem lonely to me, so I guess we’re even.”

“How about some more coffee?”

“Fine. But I can get it.”

When I started filling my cup she said, “I like a man who knows his way around the kitchen. You know how to pour your own coffee.”

Coming back to the table I said, “I have the home video. I studied it very hard for a week. I made a lot of mistakes — I kept pouring it on the floor — but I finally figured it out.”

“Smart-ass. What I meant was my soon-to-be ex assumed that since I didn’t have a job as such — not that he wanted me to have a job, by the way — I should become his personal servant. Whatever he wanted, I did. Susan saw the bind I was in a long time before I realized it myself.”

“And speaking of Susan.”

She sighed and shrugged slender shoulders. “You want to find out what’s upsetting her so much, but there are some things I won’t discuss. She’s been my best friend since seventh grade, when my family moved here. Even when she went away to private school we stayed in very close touch. The only time we didn’t get along was when she got into drugs and sleeping around. I did a little bit of both myself, but I pulled back while there was still something left of me. Susan seemed determined to destroy herself. I couldn’t handle watching it.”

I meant to startle her, and I did. “And somewhere during that time she had a son. His name’s Bobby Flaherty and he’s in town now.”

She’d been reaching for her coffee but withdrew her hand. “I can’t believe she told you that. She swore me to absolute secrecy.”

“I figured it out for myself. She’s been avoiding me so that we won’t have to discuss it.”

“How did you ‘figure it out’?”

“A couple of things happened and it seemed like the only explanation. But I need you to give me your impression of her the past few weeks. She’s been missing scheduled campaign stops and she really blew off the last debate with Duffy. As a cynical commie, I’m worried about the campaign.”

“But you’re not worried about Susan?”

“I like Susan and I admire Susan, but I wasn’t hired to be her shrink. I was hired to get her elected. So that’s my main concern right now. And this thing with Bobby has obviously taken its toll on her.”

She was up and crossing the hardwood floor to the coffeepot before she said, “She loves him very much.”

“I assumed she did.”

When she came back she said, “There’s only one thing I’ll tell you.”

“All right.”

“And I’ll only tell you this because the two times I’ve asked her about it she just dismisses it, tells me I’m imagining things.” She picked up her cup and blew on the coffee. “There’s a man who followed us a few times. A redheaded man. She said she’s never noticed him and therefore I’m crazy. But one night after we had dinner downtown I dropped her off at campaign headquarters. Her car was there. We said good night and I drove off. But when I got to the end of the alley I looked in my rearview mirror, and I saw him pull in right next to her. And she walked over to his car. I went around the block and got as close as I could to them without being seen. They were standing there talking. They both looked very angry. I went around again, but this time their cars were gone.”

“Did you tell her about what you saw?”

“I tried to last night, but she was so depressed about everything I didn’t want to push it.”

“So she spent most of the night here?”

“Yeah, it was like being in college again. We sat up all night and talked. It was nearly five o’clock when she left.”

“You think she cares about the election?”

“Very much. She’s really ambitious now. I sort of kidded her one night and said, ‘You’ve had a taste of power and you want more.’ And she said, ‘It’s terrible, Jane. But it’s true.’ ”

I finished my coffee and said, “Well, thanks for the coffee and the company. I should have called before I came out here, but I figured you’d just stall me if I gave you a chance.”

“I would have. But I’m glad you came.”

She walked me to the front door. “Do you mind if I’m a little bit forward?”

“Be my guest.”

“If you don’t have any plans for tonight, would you consider having dinner with me somewhere?”

“You beat me to it. I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

“Dammit. So much for staying cool and mysterious. I blew my chance.”

“I’ll call you later when I find out a little more about how the day is going to go.”

I walked out into the smoky scent of autumn. The sky was as pure blue as a baby’s eyes. As I was opening my car door I glanced back at the house. She was in the open doorway waving to me. It felt so damned good I forgot completely about being a cynical commie.

Chapter 13

The call came when I was only a few blocks away from campaign headquarters. The plan was to use the McDonald’s drive-through and eat in the office. The call offered me a new and unwelcome alternative.

“How did you get this number?”

“My name’s on your screen, huh?”

“What the hell do you want?”

“I got the number from Ben. I convinced him it was important. I want us to have lunch together. Since we’re staying in the same hotel, that shouldn’t be any big hassle.”

“The answer is no and I’m going to end this conversation.”

In a singsong voice he said, “I know something about Susan that you don’t know.”

“I doubt that.”

“She’s in trouble and you know it. And I’m serious about knowing something you don’t.”

Nobody ever accused Greg Larson of not being clever. There was no way I could hang up now. “We can talk about it right now. I don’t need to have lunch with you.”

“Then you’re a fool, Dev. This is serious shit.”

I saw the McDonald’s a block ahead. I didn’t want to give him the pleasure of telling him that I’d meet him.

He did it for me. “Fifteen minutes in the Governor’s Room. You know where it is.”

He clicked off.

Ten minutes later I was angling my rental up into the parking garage that was attached to the hotel. From there I found an elevator that took me to the ground floor. Larson was sitting in a wing chair reading The Wall Street Journal. When he saw me, he folded the paper and stood up. He was a heavy man who somehow retained his good looks despite the whiskey flush on his face and the bulge above his belt line. Expensive and clever tailoring helped, as did the startling white hair. He had a boardroom gravitas that intimidated most people who didn’t know any of the things he’d done. He started to put out his hand but then stopped. “I don’t suppose you’d want to shake.”

“Let’s get our food and you tell me what’s so important. I don’t want to be around you any longer than I have to.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not sensitive. Otherwise you’d have hurt my feelings with that remark.” I knew actors who would beg for his teeth. They were bright beauties. “It’s because of Bill Potter, isn’t it?”

“I said let’s go eat.”

“He was a poor candidate.”

“He was an honorable man. He lost both his legs in Iraq and he had a promising career in the Senate.”

“His father was a leftist and his brother was a fag.”

I took two steps toward him. I was happy to see the fear spoil his central-casting face. “Listen to me, you piece of shit. Don’t push it or I’ll take you apart right here. You understand me?”

I’d spoken louder than I’d intended. His eyes scanned the lobby to see if anybody was aware of what was going on. I turned and walked toward the Governor’s Room, the main restaurant so named because a governor in the early part of the last century had come from Aldyne. His bearded scowl hung from every wall.

We took a table that overlooked the river. Fishermen lined the far shore. They were likely much happier than I was at the moment.

Larson ordered a double scotch and water. I ordered a cup of coffee.

“Think you’ll get me drunk and I’ll tell you everything?”

“Just tell me what you want to tell me.”

“The ladies must really like your idea of foreplay.”

He waited until the waitress had brought our drinks and taken our orders and then he said, “Monica and I were about to dissolve our partnership.” He must have expected some dramatic response from me. I just stared at him. “I found out what she’d been up to the last three or four years.” I still said nothing. “Are you interested in this or not?”

“Not so far. Why would I care if two sleazebags didn’t want to work together anymore?”

He sat back, folded his hands on the table, and frowned. “I have to admit I probably went a little overboard on Potter. But it was a close race, Dev. I hit him with the only thing I could.”

“His father’s a decent man and so is his brother.”

“I guess that’s where we differ. If the old man is so ‘decent,’ why is he such a socialist?”

“Universal health care makes him a socialist?”

“Hell, yes, it does. And you know what I’m talking about. Some of the op-eds he wrote against going to war in Iraq bordered on treason.”

“You’d better look up treason, Larson. You don’t know what the word means. And all he said was that we were being lied to. That hardly qualifies as treason.”

“And his brother — that state doesn’t want some flaming faggot to be its senator’s brother. Especially when he’s always pushing for gay marriage and gay adoption.”

I smiled. I couldn’t help myself.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m sitting here talking to some fop with manicured fingers who’s had two or three face-lifts and two turns at liposuction. You’re the flamer, Larson. Not Dave Potter. He’s like his brother Bill. He did two tours in Iraq when it was at its worst. So knock off the phony John Wayne bullshit. And Wayne was a draft dodger, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“That was a nice little speech.”

“Bill Potter was a good senator and a decent man. Unlike the hack you got elected. I was surprised he didn’t show up wearing his white sheet and carrying a torch.”

“Very funny.”

“So what the fuck do you want? I’m giving you three minutes to lay it out or you’ll be eating both of our lunches by yourself.”

Out came the salads, came a refill of coffee for me, came the fresh hot bread.

“I found out that Monica was blackmailing three of our clients. One of them was Natalie Cooper.” He was pleased with himself. He’d gotten my attention. But my silence made him uneasy. He hurried on. “That’s why somebody killed her.”

“And you, of course, didn’t know anything about the blackmail?”

“I’m ruthless. I’m not stupid. Monica was both. She went through our money as soon as we got it. She even tried to convince me we needed a private jet. But she was a good front for our firm. She was good on TV and the cable boys didn’t hate her the way they hate me. So she was useful. But she was greedy and so she got into blackmail.”

“If she didn’t cut you in, how did you find out about it?”

“I had her computer hacked. She was smart enough to never say anything outright, but after I read a few hundred e-mails it became clear what she was doing.”

“Why are you telling me? Shouldn’t you be telling the police?”

“You’re losing your savvy, Dev. The police know there was a lot of friction between Monica and me. A couple of people in the hotel told them about our shouting matches. They wouldn’t mind pinning her death on me. The press would love it. It’d be like seeing Karl Rove in a perp walk. You people would be having multiple orgasms if you saw something like that. So I’m sure as hell not going to let them know that I had a good reason to want to kill her.”

Our food came. I had no appetite. I stuck to coffee. He started sawing on his rare steak immediately. After his cheeks were puffed out with meat and his lips glistened with blood, he said, “And there’s another reason. If any of this ever hits the press, I need you to verify that I told you all this. If I’d had anything to do with the blackmail, I sure as hell wouldn’t have told you about it.”

“Because if the story gets out about blackmail, you’re out of business whether you had anything to do with it or not.”

“You don’t have to sound so goddamn happy.”

I pushed my plate away and then pushed my chair back.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“I have work to do.”

“I tell you all this and you just get up and leave without saying anything?”

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

I threw down a ten for the tip and left the Governor’s Room. The old fart in all the framed photographs and paintings looked crabbier than ever.

Chapter 14

The Cooper estate stretched across a sprawling piece of land that was partly forest and partly field inhabited by the massive stone Tudor-style great house and the lesser servants’ quarters and the stables where the horses were kept. Senator Cooper had bred and raised trotters. The white fences were stark in the bright afternoon. I pulled up on the circular drive and parked in front of the place. I stood for a moment watching a man walking a horse in from the field to the stables. There was something timeless about it, like a French pastoral painting. The door had a leaded-window insert and was made of half-timber paneling. I had the feeling a tonsured monk might open it.

A friendly woman in a russet-colored dress greeted me. The white hair framed a handsome face that had likely persevered seventy-some years in this vale of tears. “Yes, may I help you, sir?”

“My name is Dev Conrad. I need to see Mrs. Cooper.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Conrad. Please come in. My name is Winnie Masters. I’m Mrs. Cooper’s secretary.”

My feet echoed on a gleaming dark floor as she led me through an entry hall that was probably as big as the tiny house where my ex-wife and I spent our first two years. This house felt like a museum, and I didn’t like it at all. As we moved down a hall I began to notice an endless number of framed photographs on the walls. The late senator and Natalie in meet-and-greets with everybody from Bill Clinton to Nelson Mandela to Bono.

As we continued our trek I noticed a formal dining room to the left. There was enough room for a good share of the United Nations to eat there. Winnie Masters finally stopped when we reached another Tudor door. This one hadn’t required three trees to build, but it still had the sturdy and somewhat forbidding air of all such doors. Winnie opened it, then stood aside while I walked into a timbered den filled with icons of many different eras. The enormous floor-to-ceiling bookcases contrasted with the largest plasma screen I’d ever seen. The snapping flames in the brick fireplace seemed out of place in a room where a dozen theater seats were set in front of a movie screen partially covered with a curtain. There was a dry bar in a far corner. Before she directed me to a deep leather chair, Winnie Masters produced a quaint little coffee cup and said, “Do you take anything in your coffee, Mr. Conrad?”

“No, thanks.”

Cup and saucer in my hand, my weight sinking into the luxury of the leather chair, I sat back and gawked around.

“This was the senator’s favorite room.”

“I’ll bet.”

“The rolltop desk over there came from one of Jack Kennedy’s homes. The senator worked in the White House when President Kennedy was in office. I don’t think he ever got over what happened that day in Dallas. Mrs. Cooper has told me that he still had nightmares about it right up to the time of his own death. He was very proud that he was able to get that desk.”

“I’m sure he was.”

“I never knew Senator Cooper, of course; I only came here after he died to help sort through his papers. Then Mrs. Cooper asked me to stay on, and it’s been quite interesting. After my own husband died, I thought my life was over. But working here — well, as I say, it’s quite interesting.”

I wondered how much she knew about any of it. If you want to know the skinny on a hospital, ask a nurse; if you want to know the secrets of a corporation, ask the executive secretary; if you want to know anything about a sociopathic former starlet, do you talk to her factotum?

“Have you seen Susan today?”

I liked the way she handled it: “Now please, Mr. Conrad, you don’t expect to get me in the middle of all this, do you?”

“I thought I’d give it a try.” I liked her smile and I liked her.

“You know what a spear carrier is in theater?”

“Sure.”

“That’s what I am in this household. I deliver messages. I don’t interpret them and I don’t enhance them in any way. I like it here because it’s interesting and because I have a very nice room on the third floor. I don’t want to leave.”

“So you can’t be bribed?”

“Not unless you’re willing to pay for all seven of my grandchildren’s college educations.” The blue eyes held intelligent amusement. “Now, why don’t I go and see if Natalie’s busy?”

I always look over the books in libraries, private or public. There was one section that was essentially Americana. The novels ran to Sherwood Anderson, John Dos Passos, Ernest Hemingway, Willa Cather, F. Scott Fitzgerald — novelists he might have read when he was in college back in the fifties. There was also a good deal of nonfiction, notably books by Saul Alinsky, the Chicago man who taught poor people how to organize and challenge those who held them down. He was a true champion of the downtrodden. His life was threatened many times by those who claimed he was a communist, but he continued on anyway. His books inspired millions of young people. I took down a copy of Reveille for Radicals and turned back the cover.

They’d been married twenty years before her heart finally gave out. From all I’d read about the couple Patricia was as progressive as her husband. She’d been a sociology student at Alinsky’s alma mater, the University of Chicago, and had met her husband when they’d both been marching to protest a particularly usurious loan company that exploited poor blacks. She’d come from money and prominence but had betrayed her class, as it was often put in those days. She’d worked hard to get her husband elected, first to the House and then to the Senate. The Washington gentry hadn’t liked her. Too liberal. But then, so was her husband.

Then she died, and after two years of loneliness he met Natalie, and while she hadn’t changed him radically at first, he soon enough became unrecognizable to his old friends. He became interested in becoming wealthy, and if you can’t become wealthy holding a Senate seat, then you are incompetent beyond repair. I believe the term is “license to steal” and that applies to both sides. Natalie was his unindicted co-conspirator. She was the darling of the lobbyists; she understood how secret deals were made to fill the coffers. I tried to imagine Natalie reading Saul Alinsky. I couldn’t help myself. I laughed out loud.

“Do you talk to yourself, too?” Natalie had come in.

As I put the book back on the shelf, I said, “Yes, I do, and I find myself pretty damned interesting.”

“I checked with Ben. That one radio interview still hasn’t been rescheduled. You’re supposed to do what I tell you to.”

I turned to her and said, “Supposedly you hired us because we know more about campaigning than you do.”

“We’ll see how you feel when I stop payment on the very large check Winnie mailed to your firm today.”

By now she was inside the room. At first she’d been addressing me from the doorway as if getting closer might cause her to be ill. She wore silver lamé lounging pajamas — trashy chic. She carried a martini in her left hand and a good deal of malice in her eyes. “I want you to leave.”

Why waste time? “How much did Monica Davies want from you to keep quiet about Susan?”

You could never quite forget that she was an actress, not a great one but one who understood some of the basic skills of the craft. And this she did well — rolled her eyes and smiled. “Oh, God, you’re really going to try and bail yourself out with this kind of bullshit?”

“Larson told me it was a lot of money.”

I had the pleasure of watching the word “Larson” have the effect of a bullet between the eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?” The acting wasn’t so good this time.

“He doesn’t want his firm to be associated with blackmail. And I don’t blame him. So before the story breaks he wants to know what’s going on. And so do I.”

She walked past me, headed for the fireplace. At any other time I would assume that she wanted me to admire her body in the silver lamé pajamas. This time she was just stalling. We were well past the point where she’d ever care about me finding her seductive.

When she reached the chairs in front of the fireplace, she said, not turning around, “You may as well sit down.”

“I’ll stand.”

She finished her martini and walked halfway back to me. Her years showed now, and they were cruel years. Winnie was so much more appealing than she’d ever be. Natalie wouldn’t be able to fathom how that would be possible.

“I did it for Susan’s sake.”

“That’s a lie. You did it so there’d be a Cooper in the House and eventually in the Senate. You did it for yourself, not for Susan.”

“I’ve done a whole lot of things for Susan, and the bitch will never be grateful for them. I tried very hard to be her friend. I knew I’d always be her stepmother and nothing more. But some stepmothers and their daughters get on very well. Not her. She wouldn’t have any of it. She hated me from the day I came into this house. You should have seen her at our wedding. She would barely speak to me. Everybody saw it. It was humiliating. She idealized her mother, that was the problem. Her mother was this grand lady who gave herself to helping the poor. And I was this slut — she actually called me that more than once. This slut. She said I was corrupting her father.”

She set her martini glass on a small table. She was performing, but at least the writing was getting better. “When I met John and saw all the opportunities he’d passed up, I wanted to help him. I’d been in Washington a few years by then and I knew a lot of people. He had this big house and this reputation as a reformer, but he didn’t have all that much money. And times were changing. He’d come into office when the liberals dominated. But then things turned around, got very conservative. Susan always says that I made him change his votes. Well, if I hadn’t, he never would have been elected for his last term — maybe not for his last two terms. And so he started traveling in conservative circles. We both did. We met a lot of different people. I’ll grant you they were people he wouldn’t have liked before, but he’d mellowed. And he became friendly with them.”

All this was reverie; I wondered if she’d forgotten I was here.

“I need to know about the blackmail.”

“Well, you can blame that bitch for that.”

She was back at the dry bar then, fixing herself another martini. She talked as she worked. “We sent her to Smith. She stayed two years and then ran off to Paris. And then she traipsed all over the world. The worst part was when she came back to the States. The people she took up with — she was always getting into some kind of scrape. John was beside himself. That was when he developed sleeping problems. I’d find him in the middle of the night sitting up and staring at the wall. I always knew who he was thinking about. Worrying about.”

“The blackmail. Tell me about the blackmail.”

She sipped what she’d created. She turned it into stage business, pursing her lips as if she were a wine taster considering the latest offering, then came around from the bar, toting her glass, and said, “I didn’t know about any of this until recently, when Monica Davies contacted me.”

“Know about any of what?”

“I’m coming to that.”

She seated herself with great style, setting her drink on the arm of the leather chair. “You really should sit down, Dev. This may take a while.”

“Not if you get to the point.”

“The point, dear, is that my sweet little stepdaughter Susan slept around a lot.”

“So?”

“And she didn’t always sleep with the best sort of men. I always wondered if the thugs she dragged home were for my sake — to upset me, to rub my face in it. Her father was more understanding. He always sided with her and said that I was being a snob.”

“And the point is what?”

“The point is that over the years there were two of them who later on tried to blackmail her. Threatened to go to the tabloids when Susan announced that she was running for Congress. I insisted she let me handle them, and I did. I hired a private detective and he found out that they were both on parole — if that tells you anything about the kind of man she was seeing — and he told them he would turn his files about them over to their respective parole officers immediately if they didn’t cease and desist.”

“And did they?”

“Of course. What choice did they have? But then Monica Davies came along.”

“When did this start?”

“We were in Chicago at a regional convention and Davies was there. She took me aside at a cocktail party and whispered a name to me. The name didn’t mean anything to me at the time. But she said to ask Susan about the man. That she’d tell me all about him. So naturally I did. And I had the great pleasure of seeing my stepdaughter start to come apart. All her haughtiness and arrogance — gone, just like that. In fact, she looked sick to her stomach when I started questioning her. At the time I didn’t know anything about the man, but when Davies came back to me and started demanding money, she filled me in about him. A terrible, terrible person.”

“Am I supposed to guess his name?”

“His name is Craig Donovan.”

I walked over to the leather chair facing hers and sat on the arm. “Obviously Donovan went to Monica with his story. Monica would do the blackmailing because she was a lot more dangerous than he was — you knew that. You knew how ruthless she was. And she could destroy Susan overnight. So she cut Donovan in for a piece of it. Then she let you and Susan know what she wanted.”

She lifted the martini to her mouth but not before offering me a coy smile. “Very good. You should have been a private detective yourself, Dev.”

“I’m smart enough to know that Susan has a son named Bobby Flaherty and that Bobby’s in town with his young wife.”

“Goddammit,” she said. She made fists of her tiny hands and squeezed her eyes shut as if trying to will me out of existence. “This is all coming apart.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re paying them for.”

The eyes were open now and they blazed at me. “You’re not very smart after all. A child she gave up for adoption. A sleazebag like Craig Donovan the father. How would that look when the press got hold of it?”

“It wouldn’t look good. But it could be explained. Bobby was born twenty years ago. Susan can make the case that she was in no condition to be a mother. She and Bobby are getting close now. I could see them at a joint press conference talking about all this.”

“Oh, right. Can you imagine what Duffy would do with this?”

“It’s better than living at the mercy of a blackmailer. And it’ll come out eventually anyway. You’ve got several people involved, and that’s a sure way of some reporter picking it up.”

“What if Donovan goes on TV? Just putting him in front of a TV camera would damage her. I only met him once, but everything about him was sinister. Susan really did like slumming. And again I always thought it was another one of her childish ways of getting back at me.”

“How was the money delivered?”

“Wyatt handled it. He’s a very dutiful husband. He arranged for the money in the first place. Even for us, putting a quarter of a million dollars in cash is difficult. He put it in a large black briefcase with a lock on it. A combination lock. And took it to Monica Davies’s hotel room. She took it. She offered him a drink, but he said he’d never drink with anybody like her.”

“Did he think anybody else was in her room?”

“I asked him that myself. He said that he told her he needed to use her bathroom so he could look around. But he didn’t see anybody.”

“Was it a suite?”

“I asked him that, too. He said no. That’s why he was pretty sure there wasn’t anybody else there. There weren’t many places to hide.” She put her hands over her face and then took them down. “What’re we going to do, Dev?”

“I’m not sure yet. I need to learn a few more things.”

“I’m just terrified it’ll leak out somehow. All the stories about her wild-child days will be back in the news again. She won’t have a chance.”

It was time to go. “I’d appreciate you letting that check go through. I’d hate to have to sue you.”

She was on her feet and standing two inches from me. “Oh, Dev, you know my temper. I say a lot of things I don’t mean when I’m angry. Of course the check will go through. And, of course, you’re not fired. I need you now more than ever.”

I was tired of her and her devious charms. “I can find my way out. And I’d like to talk to Wyatt before I go.”

“Wyatt’s playing golf. Just keep me informed.” She waved her dismissal. “Winnie’s around somewhere. She’ll see you out.”

She was right about Winnie. I was no more than ten feet from the study when Winnie appeared and fell into step with me.

“You missed a good one in there. Acting class. Every fake emotion you could think of.”

“Oh, now, weren’t you at least a bit charmed, Mr. Conrad?”

“Afraid not.”

“I’ve seen her win over some very powerful men.”

“Not anybody I’d care to know.”

At the door she said: “There’s more to her than you might think.”

“There’d have to be. Nobody could be that superficial.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to put you in the loss column.”

“Loss column?”

She touched her fingers to her temple. “I keep a running score of who she’s able to win over and who she’s not. I’m afraid you’re in the loss column.”

“What’s the score now?”

She smiled as she opened the door and held it for me. “You’re her only loss.”

“I’m proud of myself.”

She touched my sleeve. “Between us, I’m proud of you, too. Now good-bye, Mr. Conrad.”

I went back to the office and found David Manning using one of our phones. His face was red and his voice was sharp. “I’ve told you. Everything is fine with us. Very happily married. I don’t know how many times I have to say it. Now I’m very busy.”

As he spoke, his assistant, Doris Kelly, watched him. She was seated on the edge of the small divan where staffers relaxed sometimes. Her hands were tight little fists and her knuckles bone white.

“Look,” Manning said into the phone, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s just that you’re about the tenth caller in the past couple of hours. You’re just doing your job and I should understand that. But I’m telling you the truth, all right?” Pause. “Thanks for saying that. I appreciate it.” Pause. “You, too. Bye.”

Away from Natalie and his servitude Manning was a competent, collected man. As he started to speak his eyes met Doris’s. “I’ll bring you up to date, Dev. There was a scene this morning. Natalie called. She wanted to see me. Urgent. I canceled a meeting so we could talk. I had a sense of what she was going to say, but it was still a shock. She came to my office and told me that a reporter had stopped her assistant Winnie and was asking questions about Susan and me — about our marriage and whether we slept in the same room. All those things. So then Natalie managed to track down Susan and demand that she come over to the office, too.”

He stood up. His anger was harsh in his eyes and voice. “Then when Susan came, Natalie told us that we need to start being seen in public together. Then Natalie got crazy. Everybody was shouting. There was a reporter in the lobby. I doubt she could hear the exact words, but she certainly heard all the anger.”

“I don’t like the sound of that, either,” I said. “Did you hear any of it, Doris?”

“Yes. I have a small office outside of David’s. I’m his receptionist, among other things.”

“She’s everything, Dev. I’m the most disorganized man on the planet. I couldn’t get along without her.” He nodded to Ben. “I just needed to get out of the office. So I came over here to tell you folks what happened. That reporter must have filed a story about it already because that was another reporter who called me here.”

“We have to be at the college in twenty minutes, David.”

Manning smiled down at Doris and said, “See what I mean about how she keeps me organized?”

After they were gone, Ben said, “I’ll start working on a press release.”

I went to one of the computers and started checking every local news source I could find. One newspaper, four radio stations. Two of them carried stories of an angry exchange between Congresswoman Cooper and her stepmother.

“Two sources have the story, Ben.”

“Everybody over at the Duffy campaign is probably drinking champagne and snorting coke and fucking each other’s brains out.”

“Let’s go join ’em.”

He held up a hand. “I don’t want to smile.”

“All right.”

He laughed. “You’re right. If we could catch Duffy all coked up and hitting on some seventeen-year-old volunteer...”

“Dream on.”

He went back to banging out the press release. Hunched over his computer, his tie askew, a yellow pencil behind his ear, he looked like a reporter for a big-city newspaper of the forties or fifties, one of those hard-nosed guys in a film noir. He was one of the few people I knew who could write and talk at the same time. “That Doris. I always go for those kinds of looks. The sexy librarian. But I could never get near anybody who looks like her. I think there are certain types who are attracted to certain other types. And whatever her type is, my type doesn’t do it for her.” He blew out a breath. “I’m babbling.”

“Gee, I hadn’t noticed.”

He paused long enough to flip me the bird. Then: “I’ll finish this release and get a couple reporters over here and we’ll talk it through. We have to answer it. ‘All campaigns have spirited moments and this was just one of ours.’ I’ll make the argument about campaign tactics and say it didn’t have anything to do with the marriage.”

I spent the next half hour working on the campaign. I’d recently seen a documentary about my chosen profession. The script made an interesting point early on. Political campaigns have been with us for centuries, dating back to when a segment of Greeks had pushed to banish or kill Socrates. They had tried to discredit and smear him and it had worked. Political parties today did the same thing with less dire consequences. What I studied now were pages of microtargeting, a breakdown of key voting blocs we needed to win over, and how to tailor everything from our direct mail to our billboards to appeal to them.

We were headed into the final push, and that meant our TV and radio expenditures would quadruple. Not only did we have to create commercials that did us good, we had to create commercials that did us no harm. In every election cycle there is a story of a commercial or a series of commercials that damages the candidate who created them. You then spend your time, your desperate frantic time, trying to undo what you’ve done. This happens most often when you’ve made negative charges that are so nasty even some of your supporters find them unacceptable.

I wanted to know which segments we were still having trouble with. Duffy was a hardliner but not a fool. He ran a careful, persuasive campaign that appealed to voting segments across the board. His chief vulnerability was that he’d been a lobbyist for twenty years before moving back to his hometown and running for office. We were happy to remind voters that he had worked as a hired gun for some pretty odious people and corporations, including one that had replaced local workers with a large number of undocumented ones. We’d decided early on to keep body-punching him with his history. By contrast we reminded voters of how much Susan had done for her district. We’d always known the race would tighten, and the internals we were seeing bore that out. We still had a safe lead. The task now would be to keep it.

Ben finished his press release and we went over it. We acknowledged that there had been a “discussion” between campaign staffers that had gotten heated, but then, “What campaign doesn’t have heated discussions now and then?” We could deny that it had ever happened, that somebody had made up this “fight” story to discredit us, but that would only keep the incident alive. The press would push harder and harder to make us admit the truth. This way, with any luck, they’d quote our release and go on to something else.

The other staffers were gone. Lunch hours were staggered and there was work to do all over the district. During all this Kristin was in and out. She’d asked me twice if I knew where Susan was. There was another radio interview show she was supposed to be doing later this afternoon. I couldn’t help her, of course. The final time she hurried back into the office she said: “She just called me on my cell.”

I swiveled around in the chair. “Susan, you mean?”

“Right. She said she’d call the station at four and would do the interview.”

“Did she say where she was?”

“No.”

“Great.”

Her gaze moved from me to Ben and back to me. “Do I get to know what’s going on here? Why wouldn’t Susan tell me where she was?”

“I don’t know.”

She glanced at Ben. “He’s lying, isn’t he?”

“I can’t tell. He won’t tell me what’s going on, but maybe he doesn’t know where she is.”

“This whole thing is coming apart, isn’t it?”

“Kristin—”

“Don’t play that ‘Kristin’ bullshit, Dev. What’s going on? You’re the boss, but Ben and I are running this campaign. We asked you to deal with Susan only because you seem to be able to get along with Natalie. We deserve to know what the hell is going on.”

Ben said, “I agree, Dev. I’d say if you don’t trust us enough to tell us what you’ve found out, then why did you hire us in the first place?”

“Maybe I’ll just go get drunk and call you later.”

“Ben and I will go with you. We’ll get you so bombed you’ll tell us everything.”

“Susan’s name may come up in the Monica Davies murder.”

“My God. Are you serious?”

“No, Kristin, I’m making it up because I enjoy watching you and Ben go into shock.”

“You don’t mean she actually committed the murder?” Again she glanced at Ben.

“I don’t have any way of knowing. But my guess is no.”

I spent ten minutes laying it out for them. The motel with the blood on the desk. Gwen and Bobby. Larson. The blackmail.

“And you don’t know anything about this red-haired man — this Craig Donovan?” Ben said.

“He’s Bobby’s father. You see the resemblance to Susan when you look closely at Bobby. But he doesn’t look like either one of them to any great degree.”

“So what the hell are we going to do now?” Kristin said.

“There’s only one thing to do,” I said. “Find Donovan and confront him.”

“How do you find him?”

“I’ll have to lean on somebody I don’t want to.”

They stood beside me while I made my next phone call.

The Stay-Rite was a grim little motel on the north edge of Aldyne. It made the place where Gwen and Bobby had been staying look upscale. Two long flanks fanned out from a central office in standard fashion. The white stucco exterior looked as if a giant had pissed on it, long ugly streaks of rust covering much of the surface. In spots the walkway in front of the rooms had been reduced to rubble. One window bore a poster of Toby Keith and a few showed Confederate flags. The motel must have had rates for lengthy stays.

I’d learned about the place when I’d called Gwen from the office.

“Is Bobby there?”

“He’s taking a shower.”

“Good. I need to know where I can find Craig Donovan.”

“Oh, God, Mr. Conrad, I can’t tell you that. Bobby would never forgive me.”

“I’m trying to help Bobby, Gwen, whether he knows it or not. You know that, don’t you?”

She hesitated and then said, “Please never tell him I told you.”

So here I sat on the edge of an industrial zone. The streets were lined with food franchises, tattoo parlors, convenience stores, and strip malls that looked like they’d been lifted from third-world countries.

I didn’t know how I was going to handle it. This was the man with all the answers, and I didn’t much care how I got them.

The sun was behind the clouds. The afternoon had a faint scent of winter on it. Dog shit, what appeared to be dried human vomit, and the stain from a broken bottle of tomato juice covered the walk in front of room 146. Jagged pieces of glass looked like piranha teeth. Welcome home.

A game show played behind the faded red metal door. A female voice shouted, “Go for it, you stupid bitch! Go for it!” I had to knock loudly to be heard.

If you were drunk and forlorn enough, you might take her home when the bar announced last call for the night. She was maybe thirty and pretty in a ruined way. The breasts were balloons trapped inside a yellow terry-cloth halter. The exposed belly was fleshy but not unattractive. The lower legs were shapely but the thighs were heavy. The red-and-blue cobra tattoos that climbed both her arms were nicely done. The teeth showed a heavy tobacco habit. And her right eye was her spiritual résumé. Somebody had punched her very hard and recently. She was a floozy. The hand on the hip, the cock of the head, the insolence of the brown gaze. “Who’re you supposed to be?”

I smiled at the way she’d said it. “Well, I’m supposed to be a doctor. That’s what my folks wanted. But it didn’t turn out that way. Who’re you supposed to be?”

“If it’s any of your business, I’m supposed to be cutting hair at my sister’s beauty shop right now, but she’s such a bitch, I can’t stand to be around her. So what do you want?”

“I’m looking for a man named Craig Donovan.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I have a message for him.”

“I’m beginning to think you’re a cop. I hate cops.”

“Not a cop. Just a private citizen with a message.”

The insolence was now anger. “You’re lucky he isn’t here. He’d punch your face in.”

“The same way he punched yours in?”

Her stubby fingers touched her eye. The wound was fresh enough that she winced. “He didn’t mean it.”

“He mustn’t have meant it when he put those bruises on your arm and neck, either.”

Her cheeks colored. “Maybe I had it coming. I got a little drunk and I was talking to this guy at the bar while Craig was in the john and—” Then: “Why the hell am I telling you anything? This isn’t any of your business. Now, get out of here before he comes back.”

“Think he’ll kick you around a little more if he sees me here?”

“It’d be worth it just to see him pound your face in. Now go.”

Behind her the phone rang. She traipsed back to it. Her bottom had survived her years. Nice and tight. She picked up and said, “Well, I can’t fucking help it how busy you are. I’ve got the flu. I already told you that and I can’t come in.” Pause. “Well, what difference does it make if I’m sick in my apartment or sick over here?” Pause. “Well, you go right ahead and think I’m shacked up if you want. But I won’t be in until I feel better.”

She slammed the phone down and came back. “My sister’s a real bitch. She runs this beauty parlor down the street. She treats me worse than any of her other beauticians. They have a day or two off, she don’t say anything. I take a few days off...”

I had no doubt that she was an ideal employee. She had a good attitude and seemed easy to get along with.

Behind her the TV crowd erupted. I wondered if the contestant had taken her advice and gone for it after all.

“My name’s Dev Conrad. Tell him I work for Natalie Cooper and tell him that I’m staying at the Commodore Hotel.” I reached into the inside pocket of my suit coat and pulled out a loose card. “My cell phone number’s on there. Tell him to give me a call.”

She snapped the card from my fingers and looked at it. Fear played in her eyes now. She swallowed hard. “When I give him this card he’s going to say that you came into the room and I let you do something to me.”

“Grab your clothes. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. I don’t want to see you get hit anymore.”

“For your information, I’m in love with him. He told me he’d marry me.” She was beyond help again. “I’m not gonna spend my life working for my sister, that’s for sure.”

“What’s your name?”

“Why?”

“Just like to know who I’m talking to.”

“Heather, if it’s any of your fucking business.”

Somewhere in the ether the TV crowd had a collective orgasm.

She stepped back into the dank darkness of the room and slammed the door.

I was used to spending time with women who lived in apartments or condos. Chicago women mostly. It had been a long time since I’d pulled into a driveway and walked up to a door. Inevitably I thought of high-school days and facing parents in order to drag off their daughters for love or something like it. Even in your forties those memories are vivid. Too many of them were like opening night in front of a hostile audience. I always had to writhe through small talk while trying to seem as harmless as possible. Yes, sir, I promise to get your daughter home at nine-thirty, and with her virginity still intact.

At least Jane didn’t have a father on the premises. She opened the door in a rush of smiles and perfume and a small hand that squeezed one of mine. She wore a black wrap dress that emphasized her slender hips and small but most intriguing breasts. Her red beaded necklace matched the color of her lipstick. “This is exciting. A real date.”

Behind her in the vestibule two mutt cats — one golden tom and one black-and-white female — stood primly watching us. She turned to them and said, “Now you’ve got plenty of food and water. And I’ve left the TV on for you in the family room. I’ll see you later.”

As she was locking the door, she said, “It’s pathetic how I talk to them. But when my marriage started going south I guess they became the kids we never quite got around to having.”

“I’ve got a cat of my own in Chicago. She has my power of attorney.”

On the way to the restaurant she’d selected, she spent a few minutes trying to find a station that played old standards. “It’s funny. I love a lot of the music today, even some of the rap. But when I want to feel like a grownup, I like Sinatra and Tony Bennett and people like that.”

“You like rap?”

“I said ‘some of it.’ I had my twelve-year-old niece with me this summer for a month. Her folks are going through a divorce and we’ve always been close, so she came out here from Connecticut to get away from everything at home. I couldn’t believe how much rap she listened to. A very upper-class white girl. Anyway, I guess she wore down my defenses. There are three or four rap songs I actually enjoy.”

The restaurant was tucked into some pines. There were so many Beemers, the parking lot resembled a dealership. The owner was also the greeter, an Aspen type, a big guy in a red flannel shirt, a black leather vest, and jeans. The Rolex on his right wrist spoiled the effect he wanted — a TV version of a cowhand — as did the capped teeth. There were two levels to the place — the enormous fireplace and bar downstairs and the tall booths and tables on the second level. The waitress dressed pretty much like the greeter. She was young and sweet and probably couldn’t afford a Rolex. While we waited for our drinks, Jane said, “If I start getting drunk, stop me. I’m an embarrassing drunk, believe me.”

“I’ve been known to be pretty embarrassing myself.”

“Did you ever get into fights?”

“Not when I was drunk. Sometimes when I worked in army intelligence but not very often.”

“My soon-to-be ex thought he was a heavyweight champion when he got drunk. He was always picking fights. When he woke up the next morning I’d have to remind him of what he’d done.”

“I’ve had too many of those nights myself.”

“Did you drink a lot when you were married?” Then, “Damn.”

“What?”

“I shouldn’t have asked that question. It was stupid.”

“Logical question given what we were talking about. And no, it wasn’t the drinking; it was the fact that I spent so much time away from home working on campaigns. I wasn’t faithful and neither was she. She had a good excuse for it. I didn’t.”

“Do you get along with her now?”

“I don’t see her that often. My daughter says that she’s very happy with her new husband. I’m glad for her. I was a selfish bastard. When I found out she had a lover, I got jealous and stupid. I ranted for days even though I’d pushed her into it.”

“Maybe she would have been unfaithful anyway.”

“Maybe. But the point is, I blamed her when I’d been unfaithful long before she was.”

We started in on the warm bread hidden in a basket and wrapped in a heavy wine-red napkin. As she picked up the butter knife, she said, “I tried to be unfaithful one time. I found this note in his pocket from one of the secretaries where he works. It was obvious what was going on. I got dressed up and went out to a bar just the way women do in movies, and I sat at a little table and three or four men hit on me. I was never a beauty like Susan, but I did all right. And it was fun sitting there and flirting and feeling the way I did in college. But when it came down to going home with this guy — and he was really good-looking — I just couldn’t do it. And it’s not because I’m so moral or anything. We’d been married for eleven years and even when he was cheating — I guess I just didn’t want to be like him. Does that make any sense?”

“Sure.”

The salmon steaks were very good. We both drank Manhattans. The longer we talked the more I liked her, and in the candlelight her sensible good looks took on real beauty. I knew I was getting interested in her because I was starting to wonder what she thought of me as well.

“Are you dying to ask me about Susan?”

“Well, I thought I’d get around to it eventually.”

“She called me.” Her expression and her voice tightened. “I sounded flip just a moment ago. I shouldn’t have. I’m really worried about her.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing new, really. But her tone of voice — really desperate. Something must have happened. This is just terrible for her. She’s so afraid that the press will find out about Bobby before she’s ready to talk to them about it. It doesn’t help that Natalie keeps trying to control everything. Natalie still believes she can contain this thing. That sure doesn’t help Susan any. I’ve told her that I can’t see how this will be such a terrible scandal. She put her boy up for adoption. She didn’t abort him. And he got a much better home environment than she could have given him at the time. I guess I don’t understand politics.”

The waitress appeared and asked us about dessert. Neither of us was interested. I asked for the check.

“It’s early yet,” I said. “Would you like to go someplace else?”

“Not really. I’d rather just go back to my house. Maybe watch TV. Hopefully with you along.”

“That sounds good. I just hope professional wrestling’s on tonight.”

She made a face. “Are you serious?”

“No,” I said.

“God, you do deadpan very well. I thought, This guy likes professional wrestling?”

“I mostly watch old movies and talk shows.”

“I get tired of all those talking heads. They think they’re so important.”

“You noticed that, huh?” I said as I signed the MasterCard form.

A few minutes later we were walking through the night to my rental. Jane leaned against me. I had my arm around her shoulders. The parking lot had been full, so we’d had to slide into the lone slot in the narrow drive of the business next door, right on the edge of the adjacent loading dock.

She’d tucked herself into me as we walked. Her head came just to my chest and I could smell clean hair and light perfume. She felt good there. Comfortable. I was looking forward to going back to her house. I didn’t think I’d be spending the night, but I was sure we’d know each other a lot better by the time I left. My daughter was always urging me to meet somebody. Maybe I had.

There was little light and that made it all the easier for him. As I leaned over to unlock her door, he ran at me and leapt on my back. I didn’t even have time to turn around. He honored the verities of an earlier era. He wore brass knuckles and he hit me hard enough and fast enough that I was on the ground before Jane could even start screaming. Elapsed time was seconds.

He stank of sweat, whiskey, and aftershave. As I twisted around I got a glimpse of red hair and a pair of insane blue eyes. I was aware of Jane trying to pull him off me. He somehow flung her away with such force that she fell over backward. I heard her crash on the concrete. She was still screaming.

I was on my hands and knees, trying to get my footing, fighting through the pain from the pounding my head had taken.

“Tell that bitch the price is double now, Conrad. I want another payment of the same amount by eight o’clock tomorrow night. You understand that?”

I found my rage. I came up off the ground so fast that I surprised him. I slammed into him with such force that he had to struggle to stay upright. I was all fists and fury. The biggest problem I had was my vision. All the brass punches had taken their toll. My vision was gauzy. I was still swinging at him, but he’d moved back and I was starting to stumble.

I heard Jane behind me. Running toward me. “He’s got a gun, Dev!”

And so he had. Later on it would have a strange humor for me. Brass knucks and a gun. Susan Cooper sure had picked a sweetie pie.

Between my failing eyesight and my pain, he didn’t need his gun to make sure I was no threat. He just lunged forward and shoved me. Not even rage could keep me upright. I slumped against the rental. I could hear him running away, but it was just sensory data. I was too weak to care.

I started to slide down the side of the rental. Then Jane had her arms around me. “I’m going to get you in the car, and then I’m driving us to the hospital.”

“No, no hospital.”

“What? He could’ve killed you!”

I was having a hard time swallowing. “Your place. Your place.”

I leaned away from the car so I could open the passenger door. I managed to crawl inside and lay my head back against the seat. I don’t know whether I passed out or just went to sleep. It didn’t matter. I was out.

Strange room, strange clothes, strange memories. Moonlight through a window, silver and shadowed. I lay on a bed in a pair of pajamas I’d never seen before. My own animal smells; my own animal contours as I stretched. There was pain, and with the pain came memories. The parking lot and the brass knuckles and the gun. Three bumps on the left side of my head. The impulse to get out of bed was slowed by the fact that I was dizzy. I had to move carefully. I didn’t even try to stand up at first. Just sat on the edge of the bed. I needed a bathroom and then I needed some coffee. A fragment of fantasy — me beating Craig Donovan to death. His face bloody, his eyes pleading as I sent him into the darkness.

The door opened. She was backlit and in silhouette. “I thought I heard you.”

“What time is it?”

“Just before four-thirty. You got about eight hours’ sleep, anyway. How’s your head feel?”

“How the hell did you get me into pajamas and then into bed?”

“I’m more resourceful than you realize.”

“You’d have to be.”

“But you didn’t answer my question. How’s your head?”

“Hurts. But I doubt it’s anything serious.”

“I went online and checked for the symptoms of a concussion. You didn’t seem to have them, so I put you to bed. There’s a bathroom right down the hall. I’ll heat up some coffee. You be all right?”

“Yeah. And thanks for taking care of me.”

“That’s the most scared I’ve ever been in my life. I’ve never seen anything like that before. I wanted to kill him. Even as mad as I get at my ex, I never seriously think about killing him. But this guy—”

“Believe me, I’ve been thinking the same thing. I hope I get a chance to pay him back.” Then: “I’ll be all right. I’ll see you in the kitchen.”

“You sure you don’t need help?”

“I’ll be fine.”

I knew I was feeling stronger. Something like pride was keeping me from telling her that I was dizzy. I was beginning to realize that Donovan had hurt my ego far more than he’d hurt my body. Even though I hated all the macho bullshit that burdens most men, I didn’t like the feeling of being helpless and at somebody else’s mercy. Jane had seen how weak I was. I didn’t want to stand up and fall down.

“You sure?” She didn’t sound sure.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll see you in the kitchen.”

After her silhouette vanished from the doorway, I stood up and stayed in place until the worst of the dizziness faded. Then I started the slow, careful process of getting to the bathroom. The cold water I splashed on my face brought me awake, the warm muzziness of the bed banished. I was pissed off. Oh, did I have plans for him. My anger overrode any pain I had. It was as if a TV minister had laid hands on me and I’d been reborn. I smiled at myself in the mirror for being such a clever bastard. At the moment my image of a TV minister seemed the wittiest thing I’d ever thought of. What a fine, swell, wonderful guy I was.

The smell of bacon and eggs lured me like a sea siren to my seat in a small nook by a line of casement windows. I would have bet I wasn’t hungry.

Jane brought me a cup of coffee and said, “Food’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

I took her hand. “I owe you for this. Thanks very much.”

She leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. “Well, look at it this way, Dev. You gave me the most memorable night of my sheltered life.” She took her smile back to the stove and finished up our breakfast.

We went over everything again, of course. She still thought I should have called the police. But now that I was awake I began focusing on what Donovan had actually said about doubling the payment, and by eight o’clock tonight.

Jane said, “I wonder why Donovan came after you.”

“I left my card with his girlfriend yesterday. He obviously thinks I’m the point man now — that I’m acting for Natalie.”

“I keep wondering how Natalie’s going to take it,” she said. “You know, when you tell her Donovan wants another payment.”

“I’m wondering the same thing.”

“Do blackmailers usually do stuff like this?”

The conversation amused me suddenly. “Well, I looked it up in Blackmailing for Dummies and they said that it’s always a possibility.”

“Blackmailing for Dummies. You must have quite a library.”

“I hope you get a chance to see it sometime.”

“Boy, is Natalie going to be pissed. If I didn’t love Susan so much, I could almost enjoy seeing Donovan treat Natalie like this.”

Just then a jagged slice of pain cleaved my skull. I must have winced because Jane said, “Let me get some Tylenol.”

I didn’t argue.

When she came back, she served us breakfast and I swallowed the capsules. French toast, eggs, and bacon. I allowed myself to feel fat and lazy for a few minutes. But then the pain reminded me that I had things I needed to do.

“I need to go, Jane. The food — everything...” I rose and took a few steps toward her. I took her hand. “Thanks. I really owe you.”

“You’re leaving now?”

“It’s almost five-thirty. I want to get ready to go see Natalie and Wyatt.”

“Nuts,” she said. And laughed. “My mother said that I was a very spoiled child and that that was my favorite word whenever I didn’t get my way.”

I took the linen napkin, dipped the edge of it in her glass of water, and then wiped away a tiny button of egg yolk on the side of her lovely mouth.

“Oh, great,” she said, “I’ll bet that looked sexy, whatever it was.”

I raised her gently to her feet. We were both in pajamas. As we kissed I felt her warm yielding body shifting against mine. I think we were both in a kind of trance as she led me back through the house. When we passed one door she said, “That’s the master bedroom. Where I had to sleep with you-know-who. The guest room all right?”

“Fine.”

And it was fine indeed.

I walked into the headquarters’ office at 6:47. Ben was already there drinking coffee from a large McDonald’s container and studying his computer screen with enough concentration to levitate it. Without looking up he said, “Couldn’t sleep. Kristin called me late last night and said she was at a club where a reporter told her there’d be a big story about internal problems in our campaign.” Then: “By the way, you’re off the hook. She told me she met this guy last night and she’s in love.”

I took my own McDonald’s coffee container to the desk I’d been using. “I take it the story ran.”

“Yeah and it’s long. I haven’t finished it yet.”

I logged onto the newspaper Web site and started reading. I was only a quarter of the way through when my head started pounding again. Words could hit just as hard as Donovan’s brass knuckles.

“I wonder how long this guy has been dating Duffy?” Ben said, referring to the reporter.

“It sure as hell reads like that, doesn’t it?” The bastard had done a good job. The infighting between Susan and Natalie, how Natalie treated her staff, and citing four well-known and embarrassing moments from Susan’s past.

“It doesn’t get any worse than that,” Ben said.

“The hell it doesn’t.”

I gave him a quick version of what had happened last night and Donovan’s demand for a double payment. “The son of a bitch might do anything, Ben. That’s the hell of it.”

“He’s a sadistic bastard.”

I was on my feet again. “Now I have to go talk to Byrnes and Natalie.” I walked over and picked up my coat.

“You remember any prayers?”

“Yeah.”

“If I had to face Natalie, I’d say a whole lot of them.”