“Next time he's blowing me a kiss, I'll keep that thought foremost on my mind—that, and the gun in my top drawer.”
“Brooke Stanford,” I said, changing the loaded subject.
“Sit tight, Lynch, she'll be here any minute. I want to talk to you first.” He'd successfully lit his cigarette, gotten his signature crystal ashtray positioned for optimum ash collection, and then settled himself behind his massive desk that looked to be just about the right size to use as my coffin. He leaned over it and stared at me with beady brown eyes set into his permanent pug-scowl. Vince could hold you hypnotized and speechless for several minutes when he assumed that stance, because you knew something momentous—at least in Vince's mind—was coming up. And though waiting wasn't my forte, I have to admit, I was so emotionally dead tired after the marathon Boardman weekend that even a sit-down with Vince seemed like a vacation under the palms. Just when I thought I was comfortable with Chucky Sewell in our never-going-anywhere relationship, the handsome Senator Boardman from Connecticut had somehow nabbed my hardened heart. Hell, I didn't want kids, and frankly I loved living alone. So apart from the occasional lonely holiday when the girls had families to go to, I was pretty much content and resigned to the fact that Chucky and I would go on forever, or until one of us died, or the wife did, whichever came first. Of course, thinking of dead wives brought me right back to Scott Boardman and that pug-face of Vince's staring at me a few feet away. “What do you want, Vince?”
“First off, you lost a high-profile murder case. I won't beat you up now because I got bigger fish to fillet with you, but don't let it happen again or you'll be prosecuting parking tickets for a year.” He leaned back in his overstuffed leather desk chair. “Now, what have I been hearing about an excited utterance of Boardman's while he was enjoying some of your—let's say—boudoir talents?”
Vince looked nauseous, as if just picturing me naked was making his cigarette stale and bitter. Before I could come to my own defense, he stamped it out half smoked and hit his intercom button. “Where the hell's my coffee?”
“Andy's not supposed to be getting you coffee,” I said. “I know your old receptionist did it, but she volunteered her waitressing services. Andy's different—”
“No joke he's different.” Again Vince hit intercom, but this time I heard Beth's voice pick up. “Beth honey,” he said, “will you get me a coffee? My receptionist has his period today.”
Poor Beth. Her final days as a paralegal had turned her into Vince's gal Friday. September couldn't come soon enough for her.
“Look, Vince,” I said. “I didn't fuck Boardman the night of the murders, if that's what you're asking. Not that I wouldn't have, but there's something about a weeping man that ruins the moment.”
He pounded a fist on his desk. “That's the only part I want to hear about, Lynch. The crying part. The fucking other part you can keep to yourself.”
“He told me he thought he might have done it—”
“Thought he might have done it?”
“He's got this drinking problem. And then he took some pills… The combination made him black out or something. That's what he said anyway. But I'm the only one who heard it, so—”
“So we can't very well put you up on a stand to testify to it, can we, AAG Lynch?” He bolted up from his desk and walked to his wailing wall—the window of his office that gave him a view of nothing more than a dirty gray Providence morning. “A confession and we can't use it! Why is it you girls always put me in these binds? Why don't the guys ever get into this kind of trouble? I'll tell you why, this equality shit is ruining our entire system. Women belong at home or teaching kids their ABC's, because if you let broads use the rest of the alphabet they start spelling trouble with it. And with the four of you, I got way too many troubles in this place. And now? Now I got Miss Andy out there. I had to get a guy who isn't really a guy!”
Through Vince's cannonball of a voice, I heard soft knocking at his office door. He either didn't hear it or he was too arrogant to let it disrupt his female-as-worthless speech. Beth pushed the door open an inch at a time and breathed a brief sigh of relief when she saw me first. Vince jerked around from his window view and started screaming at the intruder, assuming, I assumed, that it was Andy. “Get the hell out of my office!”
Beth's shaking hand splattered steaming coffee on her legs as she let out a puppy-like whimper. I got up to rescue her. “Beth, buck up, or passing the bar isn't going to be your only obstacle to becoming a prosecutor in this office.”
She ground her pretty peach-hued jaw and handed me the coffee, turning and walking out Vince's door-leaving it open—without ever having coming through it.
I placed the ill-fated coffee on Vince's desk. “I wouldn't testify to what Boardman said anyway. I didn't believe him when he said it, and I don't believe it now. I think he's innocent—”
“And that's the other thing with you girls. You're a bunch of bleeding hearts. But you, Lynch, I thought you were different. But you're an emotional wet rag just like the rest of them. Just another female.”
“I resent that, Vince. I am not a female—”
“Well, that settles that, then,” Brooke said from Vince's open doorway. “I won the bet.”
Vince's shoulders dropped a few inches and I thought I saw his eyes widen the merest tad as if the sun just popped out from a cloud. I stood up to my high-heeled six-foot-two height. With one of my snappy comebacks, I could have chopped her to her knees, but I knew when to indulge in a catfight and when the hefty weight of my senior AAG badge would be the quicker route to demolition.
“Close the door behind you and sit down, Miss Stanford,” I said soothingly as if I were singing her a lullaby. “Mr. Piganno would like a chat with you.”
She swung her hair to the side and looked at Vince for a quick query of my authority to order her around. He gave her his answer by nodding at the chair next to me. She dutifully sat. I let Vince go first for the preliminary attack. I'd wait to take over myself if Vince disappointed me by becoming prey to her obvious feminine wiles.
Like a scripted role she was playing, she shimmied her butt into the chair, then smoothed her tight straight skirt over her legs, crossing them modestly but leaving just enough exposed thigh to throw Vince into a leisurely downshift. He sat, cleared his throat, and began.
“You were at the police station giving a statement that puts this office in somewhat of a compromising position with respect to the prosecution of the case against Senator Scott Boardman. Would you mind sharing with Miss Lynch and me exactly what you said to them?”
Vince was sounding real professional—and sweet. He didn't usually talk in whole sentences complete with nouns, verbs, and “fuck”-less adjectives, at least not that I'd heard.
“The police told me,” she said, “well, Chief Sewell asked me… not to give my statement to anyone just yet. Something about protecting the integrity of the investigation. He said the police would provide my statement to whomever is assigned the case here.”
Vince remained atypically quiet. He lowered his head. When he spoke again, his voice was textured of smooth velvet, a surprisingly fine fabric in Vince's otherwise crudely fashioned wardrobe of words. “Miss Stanford, you're new here, so let me try to explain simply the problem this office is having with your position—”
“I'm not stupid, Mr. Piganno. You can use big words or legal terms, and I'm sure I'll understand.”
He looked up at her and began to tap his silver cigarette lighter on his desk in a slow tropical beat. Had it been me sitting there before him, or any one of the girls, he would have growled his next words and gritted his teeth like a dog ready to pounce. I was afraid to hiccup the slightest intrusion, fairly certain Vince would hop over his desk and strangle me.
“I want to help you with all this,” he said, “against my better judgment—because a tougher man would just fire you—”
“Vince?” I said.
He pointed at me, silencing me. I sat back, s
till assured that Vince was holding the big guns armed and ready. But Brooke apparently wasn't worried, perhaps because she had connections higher up the administrative ladder.
Or maybe because at that moment Brooke knew something that I didn't.
“And since this office may be prosecuting Mr. Boardman for murder,” he continued, “I think we need to know if he has an alibi for his whereabouts on Friday afternoon and evening. And since you apparently are his alibi, perhaps you'd like to tell us what you intend to say to a grand jury.”
Perhaps?
Vince stared at her as if they shared a secret. Brooke smiled back.
I was getting tired of this overture. When was the fat man going to sing?
“Vince,” I said, “can we get to the finale here? I've got work to do.”
“Good idea, Lynch,” he said. “Brooke and I can do this without you. Why don't you go back to work.”
I was boiling. In the six years I'd known the Pig, he'd never once fallen for pretty thighs and cherry red lips, and this little Brooke twerp, sitting in the hot seat, wasn't breaking a sweat.
“Vince, wake up and smell the perfume. I'm not going to sit here and listen to these lies. Either she talks straight or I bend her Barbie nose out of joint.”
She turned to me but spoke to Vince, “Is she going to hit me?”
Vince looked at me, and I at him. He was calm, even though, against some of the best odds on record, we were losing the battle with her. Didn't he see it? I was ready to step in and step on her, but the truth is I still thought Vince knew what he was doing. Vince may have had the mouth of a clumsy street kid made good, but he knew how to cross against the light without getting hit, he knew all the shortcuts in town, and I figured he knew how to beat Brooke by keeping his fists in his pockets.
But for a twenty-eight-year-old novice to Vince's wise-guy persona, Brooke was holding surprisingly strong.
“Well, Miss Stanford,” Vince crooned, “for now you'll take a leave of absence. I'd like you to have representation. An ex-AAG, Jeff Kendall. I can give him a call for you. He can guide you through this. Because after this office is finished with Scott Boardman, there's going to be fallout—and I don't want it to hit you.”
“Why would I need an attorney, Mr. Piganno? I didn't kill Mrs. Boardman. As a matter of fact I'm not sure you're on solid legal ground by firing me. I think if you consulted an attorney—”
I bolted up. “You twit! Get the hell out of here.”
“Shannon,” Vince warned. “Leave her alone.”
Brooke slowly rose and straightened her skirt over those lovely firm legs, at the ankles of which I noticed an expensive pair of Chanel pumps with just the tiniest discreet double-C logo on the heels. Running her hands over her thighs, she said, “I don't know what Scott did on that boat. I only know I was with him on the drive from Connecticut. I stayed in the car. What happened after he went on that boat…” She tilted her head at Vince. “Chief Sewell said you will get my written statement and I shouldn't say anything about an ongoing investigation. I'm sorry.”
“He didn't mean don't talk to us,” I said. “And just to clarify your employment situation, you aren't fired. I believe Mr. Piganno said ‘leave of absence,’ which would be appropriate for any one of us who was inadvertently involved in a case this office is prosecuting. It's a matter of course. Consider it a temporary vacation.” I smiled.
“Then you should be taking a temporary vacation too, Miss Lynch,” she said. “Because you're as involved with Scott as I am.”
As she reached the threshold, I added, “If we find that this alibi statement of yours is in any way inaccurate, neither Scott Boardman nor the president of the United States will be able to get your prison sentence for perjury commuted.”
I thought I saw a flash of light in her eyes as if she were calculating damage, but it was nothing more than Vince's phone. All his hold lights were blinking.
He hit the intercom button and I heard Marianna's voice. “Is Shannon still with you?”
“What do you want her for?”
“I've got Chief Sewell's office on hold for her.”
Vince ended the call and stood. “Go pick it up in your office,” he said to me. “I'll escort Miss Stanford out.” He straightened his tie and walked around the front of his desk. “Are there some things you need from your office? Let's go get them…”
I gagged my way out his door.
CHEERIO
I MARCHED TO MY OFFICE, TRYING TO BURN OFF some steam and actually looking forward to Chucky's chipper voice. He was always good for a good laugh—and talking me down from a high building when my sniper's gun was loaded and aimed.
“Lynch?” the voice said. “O'Rourke here.”
Shit. Just what I needed—an irritating call from itchy Detective O'Rourke, a cop who could get lost on his own beat.
“Not today, O'Rourke. I'm cleaning my gun. Call someone else with whatever it is you're selling.”
“Oh yeah? Well, maybe I'll call your boss and see if he wants to take my call because you're just not in the mood.”
“Don't threaten me, you plague-infested fruit fly or I'll come over there for practice shots. Better yet, I'll torture you so bad you'll be begging me to pull the trigger—”
“All right, all right, calm down, will ya? The chief told me to call. Says he has something he needs to discuss with you ASAP. But maybe you should come in the side door. Incognito. Sunglasses and baseball cap. Comprende?”
“I comprende all right. What's the problem? The chief needs a real man over there, so he called me?”
“Hey, I'm just trying to protect your ass,” O'Rourke said. “Prance through the front door if you want and right into the chief's office. No skin off my nose.”
I hung up with O'Rourke, not bothering to analyze his suggestion for cloak-and-dagger secrecy, and headed out for another brisk walk across town in the viscous air of a sweltering August. At least the metallic smell of blood and body fluids still clogging my nostrils from my recent morgue visit would be snuffed out by exhaust fumes and freshly poured tar.
WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A WAVE TO THE DESK COP, I strutted boldly into the station and straight through to the elevators. The doors slid open to Chucky's floor and he was just rounding a corner when I hissed at him, “Chucky, I hope this isn't about Scott Boardman.”
He corralled me into a corner where about a zillion and two assorted criminals and their cop escorts glared at us like they were initiates of an elite social club and Chuck and I were a pair of ousted members.
“Mother of Christ,” Chuck said, “will you keep your voice down? I must be crazy getting messed up with you in here.”
I stuck my face into his twinkling baby blues. “Listen, Chuck, I'm getting myself in enough of my own trouble with this investigation. You've already screwed my heart into the ground, don't burn my job bridges too.”
The man actually looked surprised. Like what, this was news to him? Imagine me having a heart and then imagine him capable of breaking it.
He lowered his head. “Walk quietly to my office, where we can have a civil conversation without the whole force knowing our business.”
“Frankly, I don't care who knows, because I'm not married, Chuck. The adultery charge is hanging over your head, not mine.”
Chucky had stopped trying to reason with me. Smart man. He physically reminded me that even though my mouth may have been bigger than his, my strength was genetically limited by meager muscle mass. He gripped me firmly by the forearm and escorted me to his office like I was a Saudi Arabian female who'd left home without her burka.
“Now sit down and shut up for a minute,” he said pushing me through his door and slamming it shut.
“Can I smoke—”
“No!”
Chucky hated cigarettes, which is why his skin was still so flawlessly young for a man in his forties whose only grooming effort was a monthly haircut at Frank's Barber Shop for which he paid an obscenely minimal amount—something sub
stantially less than the cost of a four-shot Venti Latte at Starbucks. Of course, as I always used to tell him, he had such a voluminous head of hair he could have shared it with ten bald guys and still had some left over to braid. Maybe it was his morning bowl of all-grain Cheerios and daily jogs, but Chucky was the poster boy for poster boys.
He pulled his chair up close to me, so despite his earlier gorilla posturing I knew this was going to be his stumbling macho version of a Hallmark moment. I slapped his hand away as he tried to take mine, and then, as I expected, he went directly into his you-know-you're-the-love-of-my-life-but monologue. The same soliloquy I'd heard enough times that I could recite it by heart. (If I only had a heart.)
“What do you want, Chuck?”
“Jake Weller is an old friend of mine.”
Jake Weller? I'd never heard this part of our love story before. What did Jake Weller have to do with our adulterous and deteriorating ex-love life?
“He's Boardman's PR guy. And Jake's singing a slightly different tune than Boardman on this.”
That's when Chucky's angle hit me. A clever variation on the love theme: Chucky was trying to turn me against Scott Boardman by proving to me that Boardman was lying and assigning him a minor character flaw that in this case led inexorably to the murder of two women.
I let a smile spread slowly on my lips but said nothing, making Chuck work a little harder for what he was trying to achieve—namely breaking the spell between Scott Boardman and me.
Chucky, intent on burying Boardman, dug his own grave a few feet deeper. “So you see, Shannon, Jake Weller is saying that Boardman called him that same night and told him that he thought he killed the wife and her friend but he doesn't remember it. That same bullshit story he gave you.”
As far as my tone-deaf ears were concerned, Jake Weller's tune and Boardman's song were in the same key. I was still waiting for Chuck's sour note.
He stood and walked behind his desk, staring at me, waiting for me to respond: fall into his arms and thank him for saving me from the black-heart Boardman, or, in the alternative, throw my chair at him and storm out. But again I remained mute and with the slightest tilt of my head let Chuck resume shoveling dirt in his own grave.
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