House of Secrets - v4

by Richard Hawke

  The heavens opened up even more. The crazy beating of the rain on the canopy was like machine-gun fire. So was Robert Smallwood’s heartbeat.

  The general movement toward the cars was swift. The priest came under the canopy and began his condolences to the family. Cousin Jeffrey had a hand on Smallwood’s arm and was babbling something incoherent about Smallwood’s parents, both of whom had been dead for years and were buried just several feet away, beneath a black marble angel. Smallwood was not even sure what he said to Jeffrey; he knew only that he freed his arm brusquely and trotted across the spongy grass toward the roadway. Miss Eyeglasses was just getting into a blue Mazda. Smallwood hurried over to her. The unknowing of what he was doing was exhilarating.

  Reaching the car, he grabbed hold of the door frame just as the woman was about to pull the driver’s side door closed. The rain was plastering Smallwood’s thin hair to his head in silly bangs.

  “Wait!” he yelled. His heart was still going crazy. He felt a surge of power. “What did that man want? I saw him. What did he want with you?”

  The woman tugged at the door. “Let go!”

  But Smallwood’s strength was triple the woman’s. She couldn’t budge the door. “I’m Joy’s cousin,” Smallwood blurted. “I don’t like some asshole bursting in on her funeral like that.”

  The woman pleaded. “I have to go. Please. I—”

  Somehow she managed to jerk the door from Smallwood’s grip, and it slammed shut. Smallwood watched through the window as she jabbed the key blindly at the ignition. It wasn’t going in. Her hand was shaking too much, and her urgency was only lousing up her ability to hit the slot. She jabbed at the ignition several times and then, fully frustrated, threw the key at the dashboard and collapsed against the steering wheel, her arms crossing daintily to give her head a soft place to land.

  Fascinating.

  On Tuesday, President Hyland faced reporters to talk about the European Union’s new carbon emissions reduction timetable and a controversial inclusion in the program’s legislation of a number of punitive actions proposed for E.U. industries whose tie-ins with noncomplying U.S.-owned entities would be taken into account in the overall carbon calculations.

  Nobody in the press briefing room gave a rat’s ass. Carbon emissions? Please. The vice president’s head was nearing the chopping block; noxious gases could wait. The pencils were sharpened and the keyboards were ready to hum.

  “Mr. President. Do you think it’s wise at such an early stage in your presidency to risk losing the trust of the people who put you into office?”

  The president answered, “Would it be wise? Of course it wouldn’t be wise; it would be stupid.” Hyland squinted briefly in the direction of the ceiling. “May I ask you a question, Jerry? Are you calling the president stupid?”

  He got his laugh and moved on to the next question. It was a reworking of the previous one. Hyland was sufficiently skilled in offering many words to say practically nothing, and for the next thirty minutes of the press conference this is largely what he did. On the continually rebounding topic of Vice President Wyeth, Hyland voiced concerns about “the hearsay” and “the speculation” flying about. He declared, several times, that he had yet to be presented with any credible information that any of the allegations against his VP were true.

  “If the American people want their president to start making major decisions about the running of the administration based on the prattling of blogs and rumors and, can we say, a little too much breathlessness in some corners of the media, I’m afraid they’re going to be disappointed. But I don’t happen to think this is what they want.”

  He continued, saying that he would maintain full support for any member of his staff and his administration until such time as that person was shown to have conducted himself in a manner inconsistent with either the law of the land or the ethical standards set by the president from day one in office. Hypothesizing, he said, was a waste of precious time.

  “I am not being paid by the American people to spend my time playing what if. There is plenty of must do to be done.”

  A perfect exit line, as he and his chief of staff had determined prior to the press conference.

  “Thank you.”

  The reporters barked questions at the president as he left the briefing room, but they remained unaddressed. As he headed back to the Oval Office, casting a rueful eye at a portrait along the hallway of Andrew Jackson’s dainty little thug’s face, Hyland said to his chief of staff, “I don’t like this sort of holding maneuver, Ron. We advance nothing but the clock. They’ll probably grant me that one, but we can’t go playing Wiffle ball with them like that again. I want to know, damn it. When does Chris Wyeth stand naked before me? I need to speak with the man. The last thing I can afford to do is to start playing Wiffle ball with myself.”

  “No, sir. I agree. Wyeth has got to account for himself.”

  “Vice President Wyeth, Ron.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The pair had reached the president’s outer office. From her desk, Hyland’s personal secretary gave him a tsk-tsk. “De ceci, de cela, va une petite manière.”

  Hyland paused, amused. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning they won’t be writing any songs about that press conference, sir.”

  Hyland entered the Oval Office and strode across the presidential seal. Casting his eye out the window, he swung neatly around the large desk and into his chair.

  “Ron, tell the vice president we’re having pecan pie tonight.”

  The chief of staff was still many steps behind his boss. “Sir?”

  “Pecan pie. Chris Wyeth gets physically aroused in the presence of pecan pie. What’s wrong, Ron, weren’t you on the campaign?”

  The chief of staff searched his boss’s placid face. “Mr. President, am I missing something?”

  Hyland smiled slyly. “I’d like to have a talk with Vice President Wyeth, Ron. Tonight. Face-to-face. Is he back yet from wherever the hell he’s been hiding?”

  “He is, sir. He returned to the capital this morning. I’ll contact his office immediately.”

  The chief of staff took a step toward the door, then stopped. “Oh. Wait. The vice president plays tennis on Tuesday nights with Senator Foster. It’s a standing date.”

  Hyland was shaking his head even before his aide had finished his sentence. “Andy Foster? No. Absolutely not. Break the date, Ron. I don’t care if you have to get Roger Federer to stand in for him, one thing Chris Wyeth does not do is play tennis with Senator Foster tonight. You tell Foster’s people, keep their man clean and keep him away from Chris Wyeth.”

  Hyland loosened his tie and leaned back in his chair. This was when he wished he still smoked. For certain it was too early in the day for a drink.

  “If the vice president is toxic, I don’t want him infecting anyone we may be wanting to call on.”

  “Senator Foster?”

  Hyland stared off into the middle distance for a moment. When he snapped out of it, he held up a hand showing four fingers.

  “LaMott, Harrison, Bainbridge, and Foster. Are they all vetted?”

  “Marginally. Some more than others.”

  “Well, let’s kick into high gear, then. You cancel the senator’s love match and crank up the vetting on all four of them. Let’s clear out those closets now, for God’s sake. Obviously we want to do a better job this time.”

  “Sir, nothing of substance has been presented on the vice president.”

  “Ron, a bad scent is substance. Even if all this noise about Wyeth proves to be garbage, we should have picked up the fact that questions like this could even be raised. Arrange for the vice president to be in this office at eight o’clock tonight. Keep it quiet, of course. Keep it off my schedule.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the chief of staff neared the door, President Hyland added one more order.

  “And Ron? If you’re feeling brave, tell Mr. Wyeth that the president is not in the mood for Wif
fle ball. That little press conference we just had makes me want to vomit.”

  “Dimitri, I look like… a monster!”

  Irena Bulakov stood shivering at the bathroom sink. A transparent blue plastic smock held closed in front with large white snaps covered her bare shoulders. Dimitri was seated on the closed toilet lid. He ran his hands over his stubbled jaw as he considered his wife.

  “You do not look like a monster. When you see a blond woman on the street do you call her a monster?”

  “This is not blond, Dimitri. This is white.”

  Dimitri snorted. “Marilyn Monroe has this color hair.”

  Irena looked at herself again in the mirror. She could not believe the creature that was staring back at her. “Dimitri. I am not Marilyn Monroe. Look at me! I have a white animal on my head!”

  “You are being hyster—”

  “I am not! I want my old hair back!”

  The tears were beginning. Dimitri ignored them. He rose unsteadily from the toilet. “Well, you cannot have it. This is what you look like now. Here. Wear these.”

  He pulled a pair of cherry-red sunglasses from his shirt pocket and handed them to his wife. Irena pouted as she took them from him and put them on. Dimitri gestured at her.

  “See? Look and see.”

  Irena turned to the mirror. Okay, so it was a little better. With her eyes hidden, the bleached blonde in the mirror was not necessarily Irena Bulakov looking ridiculous, just some bad blonde in loud sunglasses. But she was still upset that Dimitri had made her do this.

  “You want so no one will recognize me, but you make me so everyone will stare. That is stupid, Dimitri. It—”

  The slap knocked the sunglasses off her face. They clattered on the tile floor.

  “Who is stupid?” Dimitri raised both his hands in the air, but he did not strike her again. “I am making plans so you and me have one million dollars to our names, and who is stupid?”

  Irena raised her face slowly. The pink sting of her husband’s hand lit up her left cheek. Dimitri was glaring at her with his dull, unintelligent eyes.

  “I am stupid,” Irena said coldly. She bent down to retrieve the sunglasses and put them back on.

  The man uncoiled.

  “I don’t mean to hurt you,” Dimitri said thickly. “But you are not hearing me, Irena. This is a good idea, this disguise. Titov has many friends. You know this. But no one will recognize you now. Now you do not need to be locked up in here all day. You can take walks. You can bring back food for us.”

  Tears appeared from behind the cherry-red sunglasses. “I am not hungry. I don’t want to eat. I want to go home.”

  Dimitri’s last phone conversation with Titov had been the day before. Initially, Titov had played at consenting to Dimitri’s scheme.

  “Okay, Dimitri, I am listening,” Titov had told him. “Here is what we will do. You will tell me who is this important man you have on your computer file. I read the papers, Dimitri. I know that this woman was killed. So you tell me who is this man and why you think he will give us so much money as you say. You want more money than the two thousand I was paying you? You want to renegotiate? Okay, Dimitri. You can have it. You will give me this file, and I will pay you more money. And if either my client or this man will do what you claim he will do to get it, if they will pay all this money, then you and I will split that. Just like you want.”

  Dimitri had balked. He wanted money up front from Titov. Without going face-to-face. “I will tell you nothing until I have fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Fifty thousand dollars?” Titov had sounded almost amused. “I will hand you a fat envelope. Will that make you happy?”

  “No. You will mail the money to where I tell you to.”

  Aleksey Titov was not a man who took orders. He had tried to control the seething tone rising in his voice. Tried but failed.

  “You are wrong,” he said coldly. “I will not do this. I will put nails in my own father’s eyes before I do something so stupid, Dimitri. What I… what I will do is, I will find you and I will find your wife and I will be happy to split open both your skulls and serve your brains to my wife’s cat! Do you understand, Dimitri? You are not smart enough to hide from me! I was doing you a favor when I gave you this job. I was helping you out because I pitied you, and you repay with the double cross? This means one thing only. This means you do not want to live. For that you are an idiot, Dimitri. You are a dead idiot.”

  That same night, vandals had trashed Paddles. The tables had been broken with axes. In the tavern, all of the liquor bottles lined up behind the bar had been smashed. Orange spray paint had gone wild all over the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. On the bulletin board in the cramped office that Dimitri shared with his brother and his part-time manager, a citrus knife from the bar had been used to pierce a photograph of Dimitri and Irena. The knife had been left behind, stuck into Dimitri’s forehead.

  Dimitri had learned all this in a phone call from his part-time manager, who was now his former part-time manager. After Dimitri had hung up, he had said to Irena, “Aleksey Titov is not so smart as he thinks. Now I need this money more than ever.”

  He had phoned Leonard, who was home now from the hospital, to tell his brother not to worry. The conversation had soured quickly, and Dimitri had ended it abruptly.

  “Everyone is thinking small,” he lamented. “I am outside this box now.”

  “You look like a rock singer,” Dimitri said to Irena after she had removed the plastic smock and pulled on a sweater. Irena had played around with her hair a little bit, pulling some of it back and tying it up with a rubber band, letting the rest drop like dog ears. She came over to where Dimitri was sitting on the edge of the bed, inserting his blue flash drive into the back of his computer. She sat down next to him and pushed the sunglasses up onto her head. Dimitri put a hand on her skinny leg and squeezed.

  “Listen to me,” he said. “If Aleksey does not want to hear me, this is his problem. We can become rich without him.” He tapped the empty screen. “The man in here, he is going to make us rich. I am not going to show him to you, Irena. You are not to know, you understand? In this way, you are of no use to Titov or to anyone else. I am keeping you safe. This is smart. But I am telling you. This man? If we want his left ball and his big toe, we can have it. He will pay us for this file, Irena. Trust me. Anything we ask for, he will have to give it to us. I know this.”

  He squeezed her leg again.

  “A man must pay for his mistakes, Irena. We are going to make this man pay. You will see how smart your husband is. Everyone will see.”

  And he squeezed again. A little higher.

  Ever since the beginning of the year, stopping off at the Boho Bakery on Bleecker Street on the way to Michelle’s school in the morning had become a ritual. Spurred by the suggestion of her homeroom teacher that the students come up with a New Year’s resolution, Michelle had declared her intention to eat one miniature cupcake a day for every school day, starting in January. Her goal, she had declared, was to eat a million cupcakes. A nice big round insane number. Christine was aware that in allowing her daughter this sugar indulgence she propelled herself instantly onto the list of Incredibly Irresponsible Parents, but she was willing to take the hit.

  “I have my caffeine, the kid has her sugar. Fair’s fair.”

  Over the past months, Christine and Michelle had become friendly with the bakery’s employees. Occasionally, a new face would appear. A newbie, or as Michelle referred to them, a “New Bear.” Michelle’s most recent New Bear was a genial man in his late twenties. The seven-year-old had a not-so-secret crush on him. He was actor-handsome, with hazel eyes and thick black hair that curled out from beneath his baker’s cap. Outside the bakery, in his real life, he was a sculptor. Large, muscular pieces. Mainly bronze and steel. Recently, his work had been included in a gallery showcase that Michelle had pleaded with her mother to take her to. Christine had considered it, but the time had slipped away. Once she learne
d what he did outside the bakery, Christine enjoyed observing the almost feminine delicacy with which the man employed his strong hands on the fragile pastries. For several weeks, a plan had been formulating in her head about doing a shoot of the sculptor slash bakery chef. In particular, a study of his hands at work on the pastries and then, in contrast, at his studio, contending with his far less pliable materials. The concept held potential, but she hadn’t yet firmed up her thoughts enough to float the idea to him. He seemed the type who would be amenable.

  The sculptor was waiting on a customer when Christine and Michelle came through the door on Wednesday morning. Michelle dawdled, waiting until her New Bear was free before stepping up to the counter. The sculptor threw Christine a knowing smile as he launched into full flirt mode with the little girl.

  “Well, look who it is. Miss One-of-a-Million. Good morning, cupcake. How are you today?”

  Michelle’s face lit up like the rising sun. The man’s charms brought out a rare bashfulness.

  “So what will it be today?” he went on. “Let me guess.”

  “You know!” Michelle burst out.

  The sculptor snared a paper tissue from the box on the counter. He looked again at Christine. “Do you have any idea how old we’re going to be by the time this is finished?”

  “Yeah. I think the dinosaurs will be back.”

  The sculptor laughed. “The dinosaurs, huh? What goes around comes around?”

  Christine shrugged. “Beats the idea of complete and utter extinction.”