Fair Game

by Doreen Owens Malek

  Ashley shot Meg an exasperated glance.

  “Okay, okay, enough said. I think we’d better get out of here. You have a tour of Ardmore Elementary School scheduled for eleven a.m., right after the staff meeting.”

  Ashley groaned. “You didn’t tell me about that.”

  “I certainly did.”

  “An elementary school?”

  “Roger’s idea.” Roger Damico was the Senator’s press agent.

  “I don’t think I can handle it after this.”

  “You’ll handle it.”

  Dillon approached on Ashley’s left. “Ready to go?”

  Ashley glanced at her father.

  “He’s leaving too,” Dillon said. “None of them will go home until we do.”

  “That’s my cue,” Meg said. She put down her drink and left, going to stand with the Senator and his wife.

  “I’ll get your wrap and call for the car,” Dillon said to Ashley. She saw him signal to Martin as he passed, and the policeman began to drift unobtrusively in her direction.

  “Everything okay?” Ashley said to him when he arrived.

  “Seems to be,” he replied.

  “No subversives lurking in corners?”

  He examined her, suspecting sarcasm, not answering.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I guess that isn’t very funny, is it? I must be getting punchy. It’s been a long day.”

  “You’ll be home soon,” Martin observed neutrally.

  “Home? If you call a hotel home. I haven’t seen my apartment in Georgetown since January.”

  Dillon returned with her shawl and they made their way to the Marshalls to say good-night. Once they were outside, the crisp evening air began to revive Ashley, and she said to Martin, “I hope I didn’t sound like I was complaining back there, Lieutenant.”

  “No, ma’am, not at all,” he replied, avoiding her eyes.

  “Lieutenant, I promise that if you look at me you will not turn to stone,” she murmured in an aside as she passed him to take Dillon’s arm.

  Martin stopped, startled, and then walked on as if he hadn’t heard.

  Ashley got into the car. Dillon slid in beside her, and Martin climbed in with the driver. They waited until the Senator’s car pulled up behind them, and then both limos pulled away at once.

  It was after one in the morning when they got back to the hotel. The Senator and his daughter retired to their respective rooms, and the two cops were left alone.

  “Not so bad,” Capo said, yawning. “A snore, more than anything.”

  Martin lit a cigarette. “Did your car go on to take the wife back to Harrisburg?”

  Capo nodded.

  “Odd setup, don’t you think?”

  Capo shrugged. “Who knows, with this outfit? I’m just going to put in my time and go home, hope nothing happens to the Senator in the meanwhile.”

  “I think they try to keep the wife under wraps as much as possible. She’s a little light in the brains department.”

  “Yeah, well none of ‘em are Rhodes scholars, if you ask me. Who says you have to be smart to have money?”

  “Not I,” Martin answered softly.

  “And how do you know about the wife? You didn’t even talk to her, did you?”

  “No, but I can tell. The daughter is filling in for her. What I can’t understand is why. There appears to be no love lost between them.”

  “The kid’s doing it for her father; you said so yourself. What’s the difference, anyway?”

  Martin shrugged.

  Capo peered at him. “Did something happen tonight?”

  Martin shook his head.

  “Speak to me, Timmy. You’ve got that look.”

  “What look?”

  “The look that means something is on your mind. I can recognize it by now.”

  “It’s just...”

  “What?”

  “The Fair girl. She was different tonight, different from this afternoon, I mean. Tense, a bit edgy. Like the mask of perfection was slipping a little.”

  “Maybe she was nervous about the evening. It was a big deal for her father.”

  “I don’t think she’s too crazy about me, to tell you the truth,” Martin sighed.

  “So then you’re even. I wouldn’t worry about it. Hey, I’d better get next door, I’m out on my feet. See you in the morning.”

  “Yeah, good night,” Martin replied, exhaling a stream of smoke as Capo went through the connecting door to the Senator’s suite.

  Martin kicked off his shoes and loosened his tie, stretching out on the sitting room’s convertible couch without opening it. He switched off the light and lay staring at the ceiling, smoking methodically.

  He was too keyed up to sleep; the evening spent in the company of the glitterati had been unexpectedly stimulating. The relationships in the Fair clan alone would be enough to keep him from boredom. The daughter was the true enigma; she was giving up a year of her life to campaign for a father she treated with a deference that hardly seemed familial, and was keeping steady company with a man she didn’t love.

  It was none of his business, of course, and by summer he wouldn’t be seeing any of them again. But he’d had nothing to do all evening but study the girl and her behavior, and he couldn’t understand why she was with Dillon.

  Or maybe Martin was mistaken about her feelings. Perhaps he had a bourgeois idea of emotional involvements, informed by his experience with Maryann. In their courting days they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other. But then, they were younger, and entirely without aristocratic restraint.

  His father had liked Maryann, Martin remembered. His dad had been a precinct captain during the fifties and turbulent sixties, a close companion of Gerald Rourke. And his immigrant grandfather had walked a Mayfair beat in the twenties. Martin was third generation in a police family, and he didn’t pretend to grasp the vagaries of the idle rich.

  He lit a second Camel from the stub of the first one and inhaled deeply. His only previous experience with wealth was meeting the son of a Connecticut tobacco heir who had served in his unit in Vietnam. Martin was astonished to find the kid there in the first place, since the upper classes always managed to get college or medical deferments for their draft-age sons. But he later found out that the boy had volunteered to get back at his old man, and they became quite friendly, being the same age, eighteen, and equally terrified. But Jack had caught a sniper’s bullet during the Tet offensive, ending the friendship as well as his life. Martin had always remembered his stories of prep schools and skiing at Kitzbuehl and summer houses on Hobe Sound. Now that he found himself in the milieu he’d once heard described, he was remembering Jack, and the war, once again.

  He shook his head and sat up abruptly. It wasn’t a good idea to dwell on ‘Nam before retiring. It led to nightmares. And reminiscing about Maryann wasn’t much better.

  She had left him after two years of marriage, tired of sharing him with a schedule that included full-time police work and part-time college on the GI bill. But more than that, she was tired of living a life of constant tension, wondering whether she would ever see him again when he left for each shift.

  So now he was a big success, he thought ironically, stubbing out his second smoke. No wife, no kids, but rising steadily through the ranks like an inexorable force. And why not? He spent every waking minute either at work or preparing for it, not subject to the sort of family and personal considerations that “distracted” other men.

  He stood abruptly, yanking off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. What the hell. Nobody had a perfect life. You made your choices, your mistakes, and then you lived with them.

  He looked around for a pillow, realized that it was probably in a closet somewhere, and settled for folding his shirt under his head as he lay back down on the couch.

  But it was still a long time before he fell asleep.

  Ashley undressed by the light of her bedside lamp and put her jewelry in the wall safe behind the bed. Th
en she slipped into a robe and lay down on the bed, not bothering to remove the coverlet.

  The policeman was on her mind. She prided herself on her ability to read people, but he was sending out mixed signals. In the space of one day, Martin had succeeded in confusing her completely. At times she felt waves of hostility coming off him, and yet she had caught him watching her on several occasions that night with a look of such intensity that she had felt it, wrenchingly, in her gut.

  Why such dislike for someone he barely even knew? And was it dislike, or something more potent, some combination of feelings that she hesitated to identify even to herself?

  There was a real person beneath that iron facade; she felt it. But she also knew that trying to reach him would be like trying to break through a brick wall. And did she even want to get through? He was her bodyguard, after all, and he didn’t have to be fond of her in order to protect her.

  Ashley punched the pillow under her head and closed her eyes.

  * * * *

  Ransom drove through the night and arrived in Philadelphia the next morning. It didn’t take him long to locate the address he’d been given. It turned out to be a modern building designed so that all the units had a balcony overlooking a central pool and tennis complex, complete with sauna and gym. His apartment was on the third floor, furnished in neutrals with blond woods and glass, and the double closet in the bedroom contained a complete wardrobe in sizes selected to fit him.

  He went through the closet quickly: suits in dark blue and charcoal gray, a stack of dress shirts in white and cream and pale blue, cotton polos in a rainbow of soft, preppie shades, casual slacks and jeans. Fine. He would be striving for a successful but conservative image, and the threads had to fit the picture.

  He dropped to one knee. Shoes were lined up on the floor, with the tissue paper still intact: weejuns, dingo boots, topsiders, cordovan wingtips, dressy black loafers. The drawers contained socks and underwear, jogging clothes, and a windbreaker. There was even a tuxedo in a plastic bag, complete with boiled shirt and cummerbund. Everything he had requested. The only problem was that it all looked too new, but he could take care of that, run the clothes through the washer a couple of times, clean the suits, scuff the shoes. He would be leaving it all behind when the job was finished, but he wanted to be prepared at a moment’s notice for anything.

  He pursed his lips, turning around to look at the precisely decorated rooms. It looked like a dentist’s office, but no matter. He’d buy a few things, throw some junk around; he’d done it before and achieved the desired result.

  So far, so good. The clients seemed prepared to meet his terms. The little man with the big mouth had irritated him, but he was used to the type. They wanted the dirty deed done, but of course they were above doing it themselves. The intercessor was money, and that was all right with Ransom. He was prepared to take it, and he didn’t have any illusions about himself that he needed to preserve.

  He sat on the linen sofa and set the folders he’d been given on the glass coffee table, pulling the pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit up and began to read, going from one stack of papers to another as he smoked steadily, filling the marble ashtray with butts. Finally, after two hours, he sat back and folded his arms behind his head, staring at the hexagonal light fixture in the ceiling.

  His target had to be the Senator’s assistant, Margaret Drummond. The daughter might have been a possibility, but she was too obvious, too well protected, and she had a boyfriend. The Drummond woman would do. She was single and the right age, and she lived alone.

  He sat up and flipped through the material he had until he came to the specifics on Drummond, thirty-one, born in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, and known as “Meg.” She’d been with the Senator nine years, since her graduation from Penn State, moving up rapidly from campaign worker to her present position at his right hand. She was tight with the daughter and apparently was trusted implicitly by the Senator and his staff. She handled the Senator’s correspondence and appointments, which was ideal for Ransom’s purposes. Best of all, she was a dedicated career woman and not dating anyone steadily. That would make his entry into her life so much smoother.

  He studied the facsimile picture of Drummond at the top of the bio sheet. Dark hair, dark eyes, even features. Not bad. Of course, that was immaterial; it was his job to pursue her if she looked like the Medusa. But the fact that she was attractive would make it easier for her to believe he was interested.

  Ransom had no doubt that he would be able to use her. He was notoriously successful with women. He was handsome enough, in a quiet, undemonstrative way, but more than that, he was elusive. Women sensed a reserve beneath his quicksilver nature, a reserve that presented an irresistible challenge.

  They had no idea how great the challenge really was.

  He began to whistle as he went to the bathroom to shower.

  Chapter 3

  IN THE MORNING, Ashley was the first person seated in the conference room supplied by the hotel. She had her folder of notes in front of her and was sipping coffee when the door opened and the Senator and Meg came in, followed by Damico and several other advisers. Bringing up the rear was Scott Baker, the Senator’s chief of staff.

  “Good morning, sweetheart,” Fair said to Ashley. “Sleep well?”

  “Fine,” Ashley replied, not completely truthfully.

  Meg slipped into the chair next to her and whipped out a pocket tape recorder.

  “Miss Drummond is recording us again,” Fair said dryly. “I would advise you to use extreme discretion in your statements.”

  Meg grinned, and the others smiled tolerantly. Her compulsive tracking of their every word was a standing joke, but it contributed to her legendary competence, so no one really minded.

  “I guess I’ll begin,” Baker said as he sat across from Ashley. “I have the results of the latest Gallup and Harris polls. We’ll go over the numbers and then I’ll throw the floor open to discussion.”

  Baker read off his information, and his listeners contributed their ideas about how to improve Fair’s standing in the areas where his following was limited.

  “I think we have to schedule a tour of the Midwestern states for the late summer,” Ashley said firmly. “We haven’t been doing well there for a while, and the situation is obviously not improving.”

  “Another tour so fast on the heels of this one?” Baker said without relish.

  “It seems necessary,” Ashley replied. “We can do everything else possible, but there’s nothing like personal contact, letting the people see and hear Dad in person.”

  “What do you think, Joe?” Baker asked the Senator.

  “I think Ashley’s right,” Fair said.

  “The media are always hyping your charisma,” Damico added. “The voters can’t appreciate that from campaign rhetoric.”

  Fair nodded. “Okay. Meg and Ashley, you look into it, see what you can arrange.”

  Meg nodded, and Ashley made a note.

  “What’s next?” Fair asked.

  The meeting proceeded smoothly until Damico announced his concern over several conservative newspapers, also in the Midwest, that were treating the Senator rather shabbily.

  “Don’t we have any contacts in the area, any influence we could use?” Ashley asked when Roger paused in his monologue.

  “The editorial control is Republican,” Damico replied. “There’s not much we can do about that.”

  “Let’s buy some advertising,” Meg suggested. “They have to sell us the space if we have the price, no matter who owns the paper.”

  “What will that prove?” Damico asked. “That we can spend more money? We’re getting a bad rap for that already. I say we wait until the tour. That will have the impact we want.”

  “That will take too long to arrange,” Meg replied. “We should move now. The ads will expose the readership to another point of view before Joe gets out there. They’re being inundated with slanted information. Let’s get our side of the impor
tant issues aired even if we have to pay dearly for the privilege.”

  There was a silence as the assembly considered this idea.

  “Do it,” the Senator said suddenly. “It can’t hurt.”

  “It’s going to cost us,” Damico said. “That plus the tour will be a chunk of change.”

  “Find out how much,” Fair directed him. “Work up the figures and bring them to the next meeting.”

  Damico nodded, making a note on the pad in front of him.

  It was now Ashley’s turn to speak. She waited until her father looked up from his agenda.

  “Ash?” he said.

  Ashley stood and passed out Xeroxed copies of the fund-raising calendar she had prepared.

  “As you can see, Millvale is the key event during the next couple of months,” she said when everyone was reading the mimeographed sheet. “At a thousand dollars a plate, it’s our best effort so far. We also have commitments for two five-hundred-dollar-a-plate events, but one of those is shaky because I’m not sure we can get the hotel at a low enough rate to make the required profit, and the restaurant manager also wants a guarantee of eight hundred in attendance.”

  “Eight hundred?” Baker said, making a face.

  “I had hoped for a thousand,” Damico said.

  Meg began punching numbers into her calculator, refiguring the profit from the event.

  “I think we can get the bodies together,” Ashley went on, “but it will take some dickering to get the hotel down on the price. I’ll have it finalized by Wednesday, one way or the other.”

  “Ashley, this is very impressive,” Fair said admiringly, his eyes scanning the sheet before him.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ll be ready to discuss the final figures on this by the next meeting?”

  “Yes.”

  Meg raised her hand. “I hate to interrupt, but if Ashley doesn’t leave now she’s going to miss the school tour Roger has so thoughtfully arranged.”

  Roger glanced up from his reading.

  “And all the wonderful press coverage he’s lined up,” Meg added mischievously.

  Roger shot Meg a withering look.