Mr. and Mrs. Robert Finn. The odd couple, columnists called them: Bobby, the stout Irish charmer; Elsa, the slim Cambridge heiress. But there is one thing at least that they have in common, and that is Bobby's political career. Elsa is not the kind of heiress who donates her time and money to chic charities that save cute animals or teach the poor how to keep from procreating. She is nothing if not practical, and in Bobby she found what Harold had found in me: the means to the kind of power and influence and prestige that money can only partially buy.
I shook her hand first. "Mrs. Finn," I said. "Good to see you. You look wonderful, as usual." And she did; she had the regal presence that comes from old money; a presence that improves with age.
"Why, thank you, Senator. And how is your wife?"
"Terrific, thanks." Unlike Elsa, Liz wouldn't dream of coming to an event like this. I wondered if Bobby ever envied me. If I had a wife who didn't care enough, he had one who probably cared too much. A lot of people were surprised when he announced that he was going to run against me. He enjoyed being governor so much; why would he want to give it up? It didn't surprise me, though. Elsa wanted to go to Washington as much as Liz wanted to stay home in Hingham.
I turned to Bobby next. "Governor, we've got to stop meeting like this," I said. "There'll be rumors in the Herald."
He laughed. "I wowed them in there, Jim. It'll be a tough act to follow."
Finn may not be especially handsome or well bred or articulate, but you only had to spend a minute in his presence to know why he would have been a successful politician even without his wife's money. There is a vitality about him that ordinary politicians, like Cavanaugh, lack. It surrounds him even when he is silent. It is an aura; it is a magnet. It draws people to him. He is overweight, but he is graceful and energetic; he seems to be in motion even when he is sitting down. He is going bald, but he still has a military crew cut—a reminder of his days as a war hero. He is only a few years older than I am, but women think of him as the father they wish they had, while I am the lover they are a little afraid of.
"We had spies listening to your speech," I said to him. "They said your plan to let prison inmates hold down part-time jobs at convenience stores and all-night gas stations didn't go over too well."
Finn laughed as if I had just told the killer joke. "I bet they'll like it better than your proposal to institute the death penalty for double parking," he replied.
I smiled. "People have to be taught a lesson," I said.
"Maybe we'll have a chance to discuss our proposals in the big debate."
"Ah, yes, the debate. I'm looking forward to that—unless the Monsignor throws me in jail first."
"By the time I'm through with you," Finn said with a smile, "you'll wish you'd been arrested before the campaign even started."
"That sounds like a challenge, Bobby," I responded.
"Well, this ain't exactly a courtship, Jim."
"You're right about that. So you'll have to excuse me while I go blow your socks off, Governor."
"You're welcome to try, Senator."
We shook hands, I said good-bye to Elsa, and I headed up the escalator once again.
"You shouldn't talk to the opposition," Harold said, hardly for the first time. He didn't want me personalizing the race. My feelings toward Bobby Finn—good or bad—might interfere with the execution of our strategy. To the campaign Bobby Finn should exist not as a person but only as a bundle of perceptions in voters' minds, perceptions that it was our job to make as unfavorable as possible.
"Sorry," I said. "Were we obnoxious back there?"
"You were like a couple of teenage boys insulting each other in front of a girl. I could almost smell the testosterone."
"Well, your Porsche can beat his limo anytime. Let's challenge him to a race."
"Sure. Right after you give your speech in front of every cop in the state."
We talked to a few officials to make sure everything was in order. And then we hung around, waiting for the moment to arrive. Harold didn't have to tell me that I had to make a good speech. We needed the endorsement of every law enforcement organization we could find. None of them were likely to endorse Finn over me, but they might vote to stay neutral if he could put enough pressure on them or if I managed to screw up. So I couldn't screw up.
Someone signaled, and I made my entrance. The crowd jumped to their feet with a roar of recognition and approval. These were my people.
I stood at the lectern and let them roar for a while, and then gestured for silence. It was only as I opened my mouth that I decided to forget about the prepared speech and wing it. This is risky, and it sends Harold into cardiac arrest, but it's often a good strategy; people are more likely to pay attention when you speak directly to them. They enjoy the sense of drama when you throw aside the sheets of paper you brought with you and put your faith in your native eloquence. And I've done it often enough that I don't have to worry about running out of things to say.
I began with some standard generalities about the importance of law enforcement and the problems police officers face. I talked about what I've tried to do to help them in the past and what I proposed to do in the future. Straightforward stuff, but the crowd was with me. Abruptly I decided to talk about the murder.
"Last week, as I'm sure you all know, I discovered a murder victim, a young woman brutally stabbed to death in her own apartment. Now, I've been involved with the legal system for my entire adult life, but never so personally as this. And I felt the way everyone must feel when confronted with such a violent crime: There was a sense of outrage and also a sense of helplessness. I could only think of one thing to do, and that was to call nine-one-one. The police responded immediately and began doing what they're trained to do. And my sense of helplessness turned to gratitude. Gratitude for their professionalism. Gratitude for the concern they showed the victim. Gratitude, above all, because they were there, to do an unpleasant job that nevertheless civilized society demands be done.
"I have no grand insight to give you from my experience. You've been out there; you know what it's like. I have no idea when or if this young woman's murder will be solved, but I know that the people assigned to this case will work as hard as they possibly can to solve it. They may make mistakes; everyone does. But I just wanted to publicly express the gratitude I felt—and still feel—for the police I met that night and for all of you here in this room. My job is to make your job easier, and I intend to keep trying. Thank you very much."
Once again the crowd rose to their feet, cheering. They loved me; I loved them; we all loved each other. The cheering didn't stop. I waved and grinned and shook hands. The endorsement, I knew, would be laid at my feet, an offering from my adoring subjects.
* * *
"Not a bad idea," Harold murmured on the way home. As always, he was lavish with his praise.
"I didn't plan it," I said. "I just did it."
"As long as it works."
I was exhausted. Another month of eighteen-hour days. Of charges and countercharges. Of spots and press conferences and interviews and debates and debates about debates. Of worrying about Jackie Scanlon and Francis X. Cavanaugh and Marge Terry's secret. Of thinking about Amanda.
No, the thinking about Amanda would last much longer than a month.
"Do you still believe I murdered Amanda Taylor?" I asked Harold.
He glanced over at me. "I never said I believed you murdered her," he replied. "I simply asked you a question that night."
"You knew I was having an affair with her."
"It was pretty obvious."
"Did she interview you?"
"Oh, she was too smart to try and do that," Harold said. "Actually, when a couple of people in the campaign told me she'd been after them for interviews, I went to her and tried to get her to stop."
"When was this?"
"A few weeks ago."
"Why did you want her to stop?"
"Because I didn't trust her. Because I didn't trust you.
You were obviously infatuated with her. You were sitting around all summer mooning about her. And she was obviously hoping to use your infatuation to get some sort of scoop. So I told her it wouldn't work, that I'd make sure she didn't get anything worth writing about."
"What did she say to that?"
"She told me I didn't have to worry, she wasn't going to write about you. She said she'd fallen in love with you, and she was just trying to understand the man she loved. So that's why she was talking to people, pretending to interview them. Would you have believed that if you were me?"
Of course not. Still, it was the explanation I wanted to hear. "What did you say to her when she told you that?" I asked.
"Nothing, really. Why bother, if that was the best story she could come up with?"
"So when you heard Amanda was murdered, you figured: The schmuck found out she didn't love him, was just using him, and he killed her in a jealous rage."
This time he didn't answer.
"Your problem, Harold, is that you don't understand human passion," I said. "And you're frightened of what you don't understand."
"You're absolutely right," he replied. "I don't understand why someone would risk throwing away a career like yours over a dreary little affair with some blonde fifteen years younger than he is. And I haven't devoted ten years of my life to your career only to have you turn into another Gary Hart."
Ten years, I thought. And we weren't even friends, were perfectly willing, in fact, to suspect each other of murder.
If I were Cavanaugh, I could have worked up a perfectly respectable case against Harold, I figured. Motive? Get rid of the tramp who was threatening his candidate's—and therefore his own—career. Opportunity? He had been at the Friday afternoon staff meeting with the rest of us. We all had time to get to the Back Bay and kill her. Harold had even been the one who made sure the meeting ended on time; he said he had an appointment in the Back Bay he had to get to. Perhaps he was the mysterious stranger seen entering Amanda's building. He then confronts her one final time, demanding that she get out of my life, not knowing that she has already left my life. She gets angry at him. Perhaps she blames him for my attitude toward her. I had certainly talked enough to her about Harold and the way he had molded me into a politician. They quarrel, and then...
But the theory seemed less and less persuasive as I considered it. If Harold were going to commit a murder, he would have done a better job. He wouldn't have announced his intention of going to the Back Bay. He wouldn't have left a weird message on her computer. And he would have made absolutely sure I had an alibi. Why not wait until I was in Washington, for example?
It could have been a crime of passion, I supposed, but it was hard to imagine Harold in the grip of that kind of passion.
"Harold, who was your appointment with after the staff meeting last Friday?"
He glanced over at me. "I figured you'd bring that up sooner or later."
"Idle curiosity," I said.
"I suppose I'd better tell you," he replied. "It may come up. I went to see Mort Blumenthal."
I took a moment to think that one over. Mort Blumenthal is the publisher of Hub. A big contributor to conservative causes, although his conservatism didn't seem to affect the conventional liberal bias of his magazines. "What did you and Mort have to talk about?"
"Amanda Taylor. What else?"
This didn't sound good at all. "Go on," I said.
"From what I could figure out, it looked to me as if she wasn't necessarily trying to destroy you," Harold said. "She was just stuck where she was at Hub and hoping to use her relationship with you to get her big break. I thought I'd see if I could fix it so she got her break without writing something nasty about you. So I talked it over with Mort—without going into details—and he said he could probably give her an assistant editorship at one of his other magazines, you know, with the more or less implicit proviso that she lay off Jim O'Connor."
"Blumenthal would do something like that?" I asked. "I thought he was pretty hands-off with his magazines."
"You'd be surprised how fond Mort is of you," Harold said. "And he knows what it's like to be caught with his pants down. He thought the situation was pretty funny actually."
It wasn't funny now. The problem was obvious. I had made a big deal to the press about the book Amanda was writing and how the campaign was cooperating with her. If it got out that she was really writing a kiss-and-tell exposé, which my campaign manager was trying to quash, then I was going to look very bad, no matter what else the police came up with. "Have you talked to Mort since?" I asked.
Harold nodded. "The next day. He's not happy. He says he won't go to the police on his own, but he won't guarantee that he'll lie if they find out about our meeting and want to talk to him."
"Will they find out about the meeting?"
"I don't know. We didn't make any special effort to hide it. But I can't think of any reason why they'd necessarily be interested."
"Have they talked to you?"
"Yeah. It seemed pretty routine. Just checking out that what you said was true about the book."
"And you lied?"
"Of course."
I sighed.
"Sorry, Jim."
He wasn't apologizing for lying, that was for sure. It bothered him about going to Blumenthal. Had he made a mistake? Not given his understanding of the situation. But you never know everything in politics, so you have to be judged by your results. And these results were not good. "It's all right," I said. "I'll talk to him, try and keep him happy."
"That might be a good idea," Harold admitted.
I closed my eyes and leaned back in the seat. One more thing to worry about. I wished Harold would drive faster; I was exhausted. I wondered if Kevin had made any progress. "Why did you drive me today, Harold?" I asked. "There's a dozen people you could have gotten to take Kevin's place. Were you trying to recapture the spirit of the old days?"
"Don't be absurd." Harold was silent for a while before he spoke again. "I wanted to make sure you were okay, that's all," he murmured.
"And what's your expert opinion? Have I cracked? Can I still get the job done?"
"You could be worse."
"Bless you for those kind words."
We didn't speak again until Harold pulled into my driveway, and the long day was over. He turned to me and recited Sunday's schedule while I nodded numbly. When he was finished, I got out and watched him disappear into the night. Then I trudged inside and collapsed into a chair in my office, happy to be alone at last. I listened to the messages on my machine. Nothing from Everson. Nothing from Kevin.
Tomorrow, I thought, Jackie Scanlon. I was already afraid.
Chapter 15
Kevin made a remarkable recovery from his illness and was back on the job the next day. "I hired a private detective," he said as we drove to our first event. "His name is Sharpe—honest to God. I checked up on him, and the word is that he's very discreet. You've gotta be if you're in that line of work, I guess."
"What'll he do for us?"
"Standard stuff. Interview neighbors, relatives, people who knew her. Try to piece together her life, see if she had any secrets. See if he can come up with anything the police miss."
Swell, I thought. "It'll be hard for him to do that without the police finding out," I said.
"True, but they won't find out he's working for you, because Sharpe doesn't know it himself. He thinks I'm a free-lance journalist writing a book about the murder, and I've hired him to help out with the legwork."
"Kevin, what are you doing driving me around for a living? You oughta be, I don't know, president of a multinational corporation or something."
Kevin flushed with pride. "I like my job just fine, Senator."
* * *
The Sunday events went well enough, considering that my mind was far away. As usual I dropped Kevin off in the early evening, and I was alone.
I drove around the corner, stopped the car, and called my father. "It's m
e," I said. "Looks like I won't be able to make it tonight."
"No problem," he replied immediately. "I'll just read some more about you rotten lawyers."
He was disappointed, I knew. My visit had to be the highlight of his week. But he wasn't going to let on that he was disappointed; that would be a show of emotion and therefore unacceptable. "The campaign, you know," I felt obliged to explain. "I'm flat out."
"I understand. That Finn guy is starting to say some nasty things about you."
"Not as nasty as the things we're going to be saying about him. At least, I hope not. Did Danny get his car?"
"Oh, sure. Melissa, actually. She came over on Monday. He's been sick, I guess. I hope he doesn't lose his job."
"Don't worry about him, Dad. It doesn't help."
"You're right, you're right. I just wish he'd take better care of himself, that's all. He's got a family to think about. Anyway, a policeman came to talk to me the other day."
"Was he nice to you?"
"Oh, he was fine. His name was Mackey. He seems to like you."
"And you said nice things about me, right?"
"As nice as I said to Amanda Taylor."
"I appreciate it. Listen, Dad. Enjoy your Dickens. Have a bourbon for me. And forget about Danny."
"Okay. See you next week?"
"Count on it."
"All right, then."
I love you, Dad.
I love you too, son.
Oh, well. I suppressed the usual twinge of jealousy that he was more worried about Danny than he was about me. It was stupid; he always had reason to be more worried about Danny.
Until now. So the police had talked to my father and my campaign manager—but not to Danny. Clearly they were focusing on me, which I had expected, but they hadn't found my most vulnerable spot. Why not?
I couldn't figure it out. I started the car and headed for South Boston.
South Boston is its own little universe. I've lived in and around Boston all my life, I'm so Irish I bleed shamrocks, yet I still feel like an outsider whenever I go into the place. If you weren't born there, in one of the three-deckers or the grim brick projects or the grand old Victorian houses, you are always an outsider.
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