She pulled on the glass door, anxious to get to her office now that a decision had been made. She pulled so hard the building seemed to shudder. A cry came out of nowhere and Lauren fought it back, falling against this formidable and immovable object. The guard who came to investigate peered at her through the double glass doors as if she was a nut.
“Let me in. Let me in.” She pleaded even though he couldn’t hear her. Lauren pantomimed. He could see, for God’s sake. Finally, Lauren fumbled with her purse, found her credential, and slapped it against the door. The metal edge of her gold badge scratched the glass. The man moved closer and Lauren stepped back as he unlocked the door.
Lauren thought she remembered to say thank you when she finally got in. She might even have said hello. The metal detectors were turned off for the night, so she ignored them, and walked past the high desk where the guard sat reading every night. She was almost to the elevators when he put his hand on her shoulder. Lauren jerked away and spun toward him. There were angry words on her pale lips, but she didn’t have to say them. The look in her eyes was enough to make him drop his hand.
“Lauren Kingsley. I’m going to the twelfth floor. I’m going to my office.” He could fill in the night register if it was that important.
Lauren didn’t go to the twelfth floor, though. She stopped on the fifth and walked down the hall, going faster as the echoing of her heels bounced off the walls. At the high and wide doors that opened to Wilson Caufeld’s courtroom Lauren dropped her purse and used both hands to pull at the handle of the locked courtroom door. That’s when Lauren fell apart.
She pulled harder. Her chignon came undone. Her hair billowed out around her shoulders, falling over her face, obscuring her view as she grunted with the effort of her work. If she could just open the door, Wilson would be there waiting for her, smiling at her and telling her that hard work always paid off. They would speak once more if she could just get that door open.
“Let me in,” she muttered as she pulled. “Let me in, Wilson. Don’t be gone...”
Lauren’s hands slipped once then she attacked again. The racket she made could have roused the dead. How she wished it would. Wilson had died when she was disappointed in him, angry at his rulings, miffed that he hadn’t put her first. He had died trying to do the right thing while she had complained endlessly. Wilson was dead and she hadn’t said goodbye. Wilson had died alone just as she was alone now.
Lauren heard nothing except her own pleas careening around in her head; she felt nothing except her powerlessness against the stronger metal locks. So intent was she on proving everyone wrong, Lauren didn’t hear the footfall of a man coming toward her. It wasn’t until he pressed himself against her, grasping her wrists and throwing them up against the door to stop her near hysteria that she even knew he was there.
Lauren whimpered but she didn’t fight. Instead, she rested her cheek against the wood, almost grateful that someone had stopped her. She was so very tired and now she could rest. They stayed locked together until Lauren began to mark time again by the sound of her brutal breathing. It was only when the man behind her laid his cheek against the one she left exposed that Lauren began to cry.
Pressed against her, Eli Warner had a tough time not doing the same.
Death was a funny thing. Some people bore it well. Wilson did, as far as Allan could tell, but this was his first go round with the grim reaper. His parents were still alive but separated for years—from him not one another. Wilson was his family and still he didn’t feel anything he expected to feel as he looked at the judge.
Perhaps, if he’d been standing right next to Wilson’s body, there would be some sort of emotional upheaval. Perhaps, if he wasn’t behind a plate glass window, he would feel less detached. But he wasn’t inside, so Allan didn’t shiver with disgust or cringe with discomfort or feel wretched with sorrow. Instead he rested his arm on the glass and placed his forehead against it as he looked. A police officer, who had stood quietly behind him for five minutes, now needed to take his leave. The cop cleared his throat.
“Mr. Lassiter? I’m going to be going now, sir.” Allan didn’t look at him, so he tried again. “We weren’t quite sure who to call. The bureau agents didn’t want us to call anyone. They wanted to make sure all the political stuff was taken care of. The president had to be called. You know.” Allan could feel the man fidgeting. “But that just didn’t seem right. Does it seem right to you that they didn’t want us to call his family? I mean not that you’re official family, but I understand you’re the closest the judge had.”
Allan finally looked inquiringly at the officer. What a funny question. This wasn’t a matter of right or wrong, and it was funny the man didn’t see that. Still, Allan’s perception could be a little off so he answered as he thought he should.
“No, of course not. That doesn’t seem right,” Allan mumbled. It was hard to talk. Allan felt drained but he knew that now was the time to get himself together and he needed to do it pronto. He squared his shoulders. “I can understand their reasoning. You have to be careful of politics. When you make things known,” he looked back at Wilson’s body, “and how you make things known, can change the outcome of important events. You do have to be so very, very careful.”
“Yeah, I guess you’d know about that.” The officer spoke as a matter of course, but Allan turned cold. He waited for the other shoe to drop. Fortunately, the cop didn’t have a clue he even had one in his hand. “Well, wish we could have prevented it. It’s tough out there. I don’t think there’s anything we could have done. It happened fast. He was a good guy.”
“Yes, he was,” Allan said as the officer backed away and finally disappeared.
Allan put his head against the cool glass of the window, relieved to be left alone. The officer had been right about one thing. Wilson Caufeld was a good guy. He was a man whose excellent intentions had gone awry at the end. When the coroner’s assistant stood by the gurney and looked at him Allan looked back steadily. The woman took it as a sign that he was finished with the viewing and tucked Wilson away before she left too. Allan stayed there, head on his arm, and tears coming to his eyes. They went no further than that.
Ten minutes later he opened the door to the anteroom. Edie stood up, her purse clutched in both hands in front of her. Her wide lips were set in a line that threatened to dissect her face; her eyes were smudged black with mascara.
“Well?”
“They’ll do an autopsy, but it’s pretty clear what happened. He was shot through the chest. The coroner said an inch or so to the right and he would have made it.”
“An inch.” Edie murmured, dazed and disbelieving. “An inch could have cost you a lifetime of work. It’s so amazing, Allan. So amazing.”
Allan took her arm and stood beside her, so close they were almost embracing. She slid her eyes over and up to meet his. Without another word, they walked back to the car. Allan opened the door for her. Edie got in, catching his hand before he could shut her inside.
“I’m sorry, Allan,” Edie said. “I’m so very, very sorry.”
“I am, too,” Allan agreed.
When he rounded the car Allan couldn’t help but smile. Inside, Williams was doing the same.
12
Lauren wore a dress. Actually it wasn’t as much a dress as a column of mourning: black, sleek, unadorned save for a long gold chain on which hung a perfect pearl. The dress ended at her ankles where one could just glimpse the sheen of dark opaque stockings before they fused into half boots the color of coal.
Wilson Caufeld had clasped the necklace around her neck the day she graduated from law school. Petite as she was, Lauren looked ever more delicate in her costume, yet her handshake was even and strong. She greeted people who loved Wilson and consoled those whose grief, in reality was not nearly as overpowering as hers.
She wandered among men and women jammed into the offices of Caufeld, Gordon & Willard where, as a hopeful young man, Wilson had launched his career. The firm s
till carried his name but all interest in it had long been sold. Yet much of Wilson remained. The comfortable chairs, the burgundy carpet, the well-stocked library were all traces of his influence. Yet Wilson’s influence wasn’t relegated only to things.
People from the “old neighborhood” appeared out of nowhere and Lauren couldn’t quite grasp where the “old neighborhood” was. Everywhere Wilson had lived the neighbors had believed him to be theirs alone. There were old men and young women, black and white, Hispanic, all with a story to tell about how Wilson Caufeld had helped them, if only by listening to their tales. Lauren listened, smiling at the conceit of her claim to Wilson. These people stood aside, unsure of themselves while the mighty mingled and murmured about the travesty of Wilson Caufeld’s murder at the hands of anarchists. They were all afraid, these mighty men. Those from the neighborhoods were simply resigned to the fact that things happen.
“Lauren,” Allan took her arm and the old black man she had been talking to melted away though she gestured for him to stay. But Allan was insistent that she pay attention to him.
“Yes, hello.” She shook hands with the woman by Allan’s side without thinking; she smiled without feeling any joy.
“This is Marge Everhill,” Allan said. “She edits The Daily Journal. I was just telling her how much we appreciated the fine article she did on Wilson.”
“Marge, it’s nice of you to come,” Lauren said.
“I wish we were here celebrating Judge Caufeld’s confirmation.”
“Don’t we all,” Lauren said softly.
“Aren’t we all just terrified? Whoever heard of the bad guys going after the judges? I mean this stuff happens in Italy, not here.”
“It’s happening here now, Marge,” Allan said, turning to take two drinks off the tray a waiter was passing. He gave one to each of the women. “The militia doesn’t recognize judicial boundaries. What’s really odd is that Wilson was giving them the breaks. Shows how stupid they are.”
“Not stupid enough. Nobody has found Henry yet. The FBI has pulled out all the stops to find him.”
“I heard there was a death threat a day or two before the judge was killed?”
“Marge,” Lauren put her drink on a table behind her, “I hope you won’t think this rude, but I don’t think we’re up for an interview.” She glanced at Allan who was surveying the crowd near the front door. He looked like he was at a cocktail party scoping new clients. Peeved, Lauren apologized for them both. “I’m sorry. There are just so many people here. Maybe in a few weeks.”
“No, my fault.” The woman patted Lauren’s arm. “It’s the reporter in me. I can’t shake it. I really just wanted to let you know I’m sorry, I’m shocked, I’m appalled. He was an excellent man. You know, though, I am curious about one thing. What on earth do you think he was doing in Baldwin Hills? That’s the one part of this that just doesn’t add up.”
Lauren shook her head. Allan knew the answer. “That’s where he first lived with Victoria. They were really young. In fact, that was about the same time he started this firm.”
Lauren blinked back a sudden resentment that, even after all these years, Allan knew so much more of Wilson’s life than she.
Marge talked on. “Well, that makes sense. Wilson Caufeld never forgot anyone. I think it’s admirable he still had friends there.” She gave a sigh and her drink went by the wayside, too. “It was a lovely service. I’ve got to get back to the office. Hang in there, the both of you.”
Allan walked her a few steps but was back with Lauren before anyone else could corner her.
“Come on.” He took her hand and led her toward the library. “I want you to go in there and put your feet up for a minute. You look like death warmed over.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
“Hey, I’m trying to help here.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” She patted his hand.
“Do you want me to bring you some food?”
Lauren shook her head. “Are you sure you don’t mind if I bow out for a minute? I can’t listen to one more person speculate whether it was Henry Stewart or the whole Independent Militia that pulled the trigger. It’s sick. It’s such a waste.”
“It’s natural, Lauren. These people are no less prominent than Wilson was. If he can be taken out, they could be next. I doubt a government salary is worth the risk.”
“Do you really think that?”
Allan looked at her and his face changed; there was a ripple in his expression, a curious blend of foreboding and relief. It was gone as quickly as it had come.
“That a government salary isn’t worth it? Definitely.” The joke fell flat so he walked on. “Sorry and no, I don’t think this will happen again. I know for a fact this was a unique situation, Lauren. Now, go.”
He gave her a little push and she gladly disappeared into the dimly lit library. Grieving was exhausting, and Lauren leaned against the library wall trying to find the reserves of strength she knew must be there so that she could continue with her task.
From the chair at the far end of the library, Eli Warner watched Lauren. He was reminded of pictures he’d seen of weeping women in third-world countries. This one didn’t weep, but no photographer could have shown grief to be more personal or the griever more beautiful.
Knowing she would be embarrassed to find her private moment not so private, he tried to bury himself in the wings of the high-backed chair. But Lauren was a woman used to being alone and attuned to disturbances in the equilibrium of isolation. Her head came up, her square jaw set and those light eyes of hers became sharp as she peered through the dim light. Knowing he was found out, he got up.
“Hi.” Eli said.
“Hello.” She pushed her head back against the wall and eyed him warily.
“I tried to see you after the service.”
“It’s been pretty crazy.”
Eli stuck his hands in his pocket. He approached with caution, sensing her wariness. “I can see that. Wilson had a lot of friends. I hope he thought of me as one.”
“I’m sure he did. It was nice of you to come, Eli.” Lauren glanced through the door. “I better get back.”
He was quick with a hand on her arm. She looked at the hand, then at him and that hand went up in a universal sign of peace.
“Sorry.” He stepped away and was about to put it down to a funeral thing or a girl thing, but he had a feeling this was a Lauren-hates-Eli thing and that he couldn’t let go. “You know, Lauren, I have this funny feeling that something happened between the night Wilson died and this very minute. Not that I mind if there’s a good reason, but hey, if there is a good reason, I’d really like to know what it is. I apologize almost as well as I listen.”
“Let’s just say that I was mistaken about you. I knew about bureau agents. I broke a promise to myself to stay away from bureau agents. I should have known you’d do your job just like all the rest of them and I think that pretty much sums it up.”
Lauren took her first step. Eli dropped his head and raised his arm across the doorway, blocking her exit before he looked up at her again.
“No, no. Not quite yet, lady. You don’t say things like that and walk away. I don’t care what day it is.”
“I appreciate the time you spent with me the night Wilson died. I don’t know what I would have done without you to talk to.”
“But...”
“But I talked to a few other people since then, and I think you had a great deal to do with the fact that Wilson was despondent and that his frame of mind somehow led to his death. When I went back over the last few days of his life, you were right there, all over him, one of the last people to see him the night before he just dropped out of sight. Barbara said when you left you looked so grim. The judge didn’t say more than goodnight when she left. That night he left her a note to cancel all his appointments and that’s it. No guards on Wilson the night he was killed. Didn’t you promise me he would be guarded? I don’t know what you talked about or what
you did, but Eli, I know in my gut whatever you did, or said, started the dominoes falling.”
Eli dropped his arm. She could walk away but from the looks of her she would explode before that happened. Eli had no sympathy.
“First, as you well know, I couldn’t order anyone anywhere. I logged the letter, I spoke to Mark, I was assured there would be a detail on him. Maybe it would have made you happy if I worked a twenty-four-hour day; investigate in the on hours, guard Judge Caufeld in the off.”
Lauren shook her head and her hands. She seemed to vibrate with the desire not to hear anything more.
“I don’t want to have this conversation.”
“Well, I want to talk about this. You’re making some suggestions here that don’t make me feel too nifty. I may not have a clue what you’re talking about, but I do have my pride.”
“Damn don’t you just,” she said coldly. “You’re so proud of what you do, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” Eli said easily, but there was no caprice in his attitude. “I do it well.”
“So well that you drove Wilson away from the one thing he loved. What did you say to him that night, Eli? What miserable little thing did you blow out of proportion so that he felt his life was over? Allan told me he wouldn’t answer the phone even when he called. Wilson wouldn’t even return the calls from the president’s appointment secretary.” Lauren seethed. Disappointment in Eli, sadness at her loss of Wilson, desire that this man say something to make it all right roiled inside her. “Oh, never mind. Don’t bother saying anything. I’m so sick of the FBI and the lies they tell and the despair they cause.”
Lauren blinked fast. Tears were coming and she wasn’t going to cry in front of Eli ever again.
The Mentor Page 19