“How did he have a key to your place?”
Marion let her hands drop heavily to the couch. “How did he have a key to my life? I don’t know! That was the thing. He knew things. It was just so creepy. He knew things about me and about my family. He knew that my relationship with Joy was strained. And then when I met with him, he told me that Joy was in some kind of trouble, but then he wouldn’t elaborate and he said I didn’t need to know the details. It was all a big lie. What he wanted was for me to spy on her.”
“To spy on her?”
“Not follow her around or anything like that. But, you know, I kept her schedule. I knew her appointments. Heck, I knew who fed her stupid cats when she was traveling. All that stuff. He wanted me to do whatever I could to keep tabs on what she was doing outside the office. He…”
She trailed off. Smallwood remained silent as she did her best to drill a look into him.
“Robert, you have to promise me. Please. None of this goes anywhere else. It’s completely crazy that I’m telling you at all.”
“You can trust me.”
“Joy was having an affair. I knew about it. As far as I’m aware, nobody else did. No one at the office, anyway.”
“And how did you know about it?”
Marion gave him a wan smile. “Well, the truth? I’d already sort of been spying on her myself. In my position it was so easy. With our phone system at work it’s a piece of cake to listen in on a call and not be detected. She and her boyfriend weren’t exactly smart about it, either. They thought they were being all top secret and everything. He even used a code name whenever he called. Glen Watkins. It was a little joke between the two of them. It’s Watkins Glen, New York, just switched around. That’s where they first hooked up.”
“You’re a good spy,” Smallwood said.
“Oh, I know I am. But so was this creep who called me. He already knew all about the affair. That’s what he really wanted from me, to keep him informed about anything I found out about the two of them. That name, for instance. Glen Watkins. He loved that. He said he wanted everything I could get. Especially wherever they were getting together.”
Smallwood swiveled giddily in his chair. He was feeling like a famous interviewer. “You told this man that Joy and her boyfriend were going out to Shelter Island.”
“You’ve got to believe me. Never in a million years did I think that anything I was passing on to him was going to get Joy killed.”
“But you just came right out and told him all this stuff.”
Marion cringed. “He was paying me a thousand dollars a week. I swear I didn’t know what he was up to. I know that’s no excuse.”
“Why haven’t you just told all this to the police, anyway?”
“I can’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” She gave him an imploring look. “Would you come sit here?”
Smallwood unfolded himself from the round chair and stepped over to the couch. The moment he sat down, she took his hand and entwined her fingers in his.
“This is what he said to me at Joy’s funeral. He left me a whole bunch of messages right after they found Joy, but I didn’t listen to any of them. He’s been harassing me ever since. He’s telling me that if I want to keep my father safe, I’d better keep my mouth shut.”
“Your father?”
“He lives in Bayshore. He hasn’t been well.”
“What’s this guy going to keep him safe from?”
Marion swallowed hard. The tears were coming. “He didn’t say. I guess he didn’t really have to, did he?”
Smallwood wanted to leave. The shadows of the late afternoon sun, the crying woman — it was all weighing on him. Marion had broken down completely and was drinking wine again. She had lapsed back into her stubbornness, but this time Smallwood was able to bring her back along pretty quickly.
“So, do you think this guy from the funeral is the one who killed my cousin?”
Marion shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. Honestly. The whole thing makes no sense to me. The police are saying there were two or three people out there that night. One of them certainly could have been this guy. I certainly wouldn’t put it past him.”
She leaned forward and picked up the envelope from the coffee table and deposited it onto Smallwood’s lap.
Smallwood asked, “So, what’s this?”
“It’s someone else who might have killed Joy. Though… it’s so hard to imagine.”
Smallwood picked up the envelope. “Glen Watkins?”
“Oh God. I so wish that was his real name.”
Smallwood unfastened the clasp on the envelope and pulled out an eight-by-ten photograph. Joy he recognized instantly, of course. Her beautiful face, her beautiful exuberant smile. The face of the man she was about to embrace was cordoned off by a grease-pencil square. Smallwood’s eyes grew wide.
“This is who she was sleeping with?”
Marion slipped her arm through Smallwood’s arm. She leaned over and pressed her cheek against his sleeve. She had managed to kick off her shoes, and she brought her feet up onto the couch and tucked them underneath her fanny. She nestled even closer to the large man.
But Smallwood was barely aware of her presence. His attention was gripped by the photograph in his lap. The handsome senator from New York beaming his marquee smile. A smile of a different sort — much less pretty — moved onto Smallwood’s face.
As the hearing broke for lunch, the senior senator from Colorado came up behind Andy and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Andy, can you swing by my office in about ten minutes? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
Mitchell Cutler’s fingers weren’t simply resting on Andy’s shoulder, there was a bit of a grip going on. Andy got the message.
“Sure, Mitch. Ten minutes.”
He was there in nine.
The outer office was empty, which Andy found peculiar. There was always at least one staffer manning the post. For a moment, the image of a surprise party entered Andy’s mind. But it wasn’t his birthday, and besides, why Mitchell Cutler’s office? Andy and the Colorado senator were not particularly tight. Their one co-sponsored bill had been a disaster, from conception to the final failure of not even being brought to the floor, and the experience had left a slight residue of chill in the otherwise politically formal relationship between the two senators.
The door to Cutler’s inner office was cracked open. Andy gave it a rap, and a voice called out from inside.
“Andy?”
The voice was not Mitchell Cutler’s. Andy pushed the door open farther. Seated behind the large walnut desk was a man in his early sixties. He was leaning back in the chair, lightly tapping the stem of a pair of bifocals against his chin. For most of his career he’d had a stubborn thicket of what a Reuters reporter had once famously called “Huck Finn hair,” but it had finally begun to lose some of its abundance over the past decade. It was now more of a sandy bristle, cropped short and punctuated with pale gray shoots. Although the face was seemingly serene, it was also showing definite signs of weariness.
Andy closed the door behind him. As he started into the room, the man at the desk tapped at his chin a few more times with the bifocals, then tossed them onto the desk.
“Have a seat, Andy.”
Andy did.
The older man studied him a moment, as if the senator from New York were some sort of unusual plant specimen. “I see the head is healing nicely.”
Andy ignored the comment. “I take it Mitchell is not a part of the meeting?”
“Cutler?” The man frowned. “God, no. I just wanted some privacy for the two of us. You understand.” He picked up the bifocals again, this time putting them on. As he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, he said, “I hear you’re the main attraction at the Earth Day rally tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘main.’ They’re shuttling me on and back off pretty early into it. All the sexy stuff comes late
r.”
The man produced a rectangle of newsprint from his pocket, which he unfolded daintily. His eyes skimmed the tops of his bifocals, remaining on Andy.
“I want you to know, Andy, that I do appreciate your having kept me in the dark on this thing. If I’m ever asked what you did and didn’t tell me, I won’t have to lie. If it ever comes to that. Which of course we both pray it won’t. But that was shrewd of you. In fact, the word is politic.”
Andy said nothing. He had already guessed in general terms what was being unfolded, and when the man at the desk laid the paper out on the blotter, smoothing it with his thick fingers, Andy saw that he was correct.
“You don’t need to confirm this for me. In fact, please don’t. I need to remain officially in the dark. But obviously I guessed it as soon as I heard the news the next day.”
Andy knew there was a point to all this, and he knew that nothing he might say was going to hasten its arrival. The man lowered the specs on his nose and looked down at the clipping.
“Masters and Weiss. She worked on your campaign?”
“That’s right,” Andy said. He found he was focusing inordinately on the man’s tie. Tiny blue clovers seeming to hover above bright mint green.
“Closely?”
“She ran it.”
The man winced. “Ouch. Not so good.”
Andy waited. An irrational image presented itself to him. A hand grenade emerging from his coat pocket. His pulling the pin, placing the grenade on top of the desk. Smiling grimly. Waving bye-bye.
The man at the desk referred to the newspaper article: “It says three men.”
“I know it does. Myself and the man who killed Joy. I have no idea who else they could be talking about.”
“You only saw one man?”
“That’s right. Just before he turned my lights out.”
The man folded the article back up as daintily as he had unfolded it. He returned it to his inside pocket, clicked the stems of his bifocals together, then poked the glasses into his breast pocket.
“Two questions, Andy. And for the life of me, I can’t imagine why you would choose to lie to me.”
“I didn’t kill her,” Andy said. It felt good simply to say it out loud.
“Good. As I’d assumed, of course. But you do understand, an SOS call in the middle of the night to have me come pluck you off Shelter Island, and then you arrive looking the way you did? A person has to wonder.”
“You saved my ass. For Christ’s sake. You know my gratitude is through the roof on this. I promise I won’t drag you any further into it.”
“You’re just lucky I was at the house.”
Andy gave the man a grim look. “I’m sure you understand it’s kind of a tricky night for me to assign anything like good luck to. But you’re right. It could have gone much worse.” He added, “For me, anyway.”
A small chuckle escaped the man. “Good Lord. You crawled onto the boat like a goddamned castaway. So, my second question. I’m sorry, it’s two more questions, not one. First, do you know this other man? The one who murdered Miss Resnick.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Good. That’s very good. So you have no idea why he murdered your friend.”
“He just came crashing in like King Kong.”
“King Kong loved the lady, remember? He was tender.”
“Fine. You know what I’m saying.”
“Of course I do. So… I guess this is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Did he recognize you?”
Andy hesitated. Of course he had examined that question already, countless times. On the face of it, he hadn’t thought the assailant had recognized him. It had been sufficiently dark in the bedroom. His only real exposure to the assailant had been brief, just as the iron pipe was coming down on him.
So he’d thought not. At least until just before the weekend, when the awkward intern from Buffalo had handed him her headset and played back his messages for him.
“I don’t know,” Andy said. “I think maybe he did.”
From the expression that came to the man’s face, it didn’t appear he’d been anticipating this response. He took a few seconds to let the information settle in, running his hand over his bristly hair. Petting a porcupine.
“Well, fuck,” he said at last. “If that doesn’t stink up the stew, I don’t know what does.”
“I’m keeping you out of the loop, though. I’m not telling you why I think he might know who I am.”
The man was frowning. “Have you been contacted?”
“I’m not telling you a thing. Your ship’s in rocky enough water as it is. If mine goes down, we don’t want you anywhere near it. You know zero about this. We’ve got to be pragmatic.”
The older man passed a sympathetic look across the desk, accompanied by a large sigh. He picked up the phone receiver and dialed a three-digit number. “All ready.”
He hung up the phone.
“Can’t talk anymore, Andy. I’ve got to go kiss the queen of Denmark.”
“It’s a bitter job,” Andy said.
“Could be my last queen.”
Andy sagged. “For Christ’s sake, Chris. What do I say to that?”
Both men stood. Chris Wyeth ran a hand down his ugly tie. Behind Andy, the door to the outer office opened an inch. “Do you think you’re ready to start kissing the queens, Andy?” Wyeth immediately held up a hand to silence the senator. “You know what? Don’t answer that. But you and I do have to talk, my friend.”
“What was this?”
“This?” Wyeth glanced about the office. “This never happened. I’m at Blair House as we speak, getting my kisser warmed up. I haven’t seen you in over a week, buddy boy.”
“Longer, Chris.”
Wyeth came around from behind the desk. “Right. Longer. Long time no see. Give Christine my love, will you?”
“That would mean you and I have talked.”
“Well, Andy. If we can’t trust our wives to keep a secret, who can we trust?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. The office door opened a few more inches as he approached, and then a few more as the vice president of the United States passed silently through it.
The last thing Christine needed was her mother’s opinion.
Christine had the cordless phone clipped to the pocket of her jeans and was wearing the headset so that she could remain mobile. She was kneeling on the floor of the sunporch amid an angular semicircle of newspaper pages. Her absurdly hearty spider plant, removed from its large pot, lay on its side on the newspapers. The dense cluster of packed soil and entwining crisscross roots looked menacing, the turgid roots having grown bound up and restrained in the pot and been forced to perform under such unnatural imposition.
Christine performed this surgery on the plant only every several years, and each time she did, she was convinced that her intervention was finally going to prove fatal to the plant. Discovering her mother at the other end of the line in the midst of the operation did not qualify as a reprieve from the task at hand. If anything, it felt more like a harbinger.
“You need to put your foot down, darling,” Lillian was saying. “Men are not the mind readers we’d like them to be. You have to spell it out for them, otherwise they’ll just assume that what they want is what you want. Think of your father, sweetie. Ambitious men are bullies. That just comes with the territory. Now, I know Andrew has his very sweet side; I’m not saying he doesn’t. Though of course you know my real opinion of that. Maybe the less said the better.”
Yes, Christine thought, squeezing the shears open and closed against nothing. Maybe the less said.
Lillian’s pause for breath was brief.
“You don’t have to live in that awful fishbowl. I know full well you don’t want to. I certainly don’t want my granddaughter playing hopscotch with her little Secret Service friends. Good Christ, what a horror. This is not a life we’re talking about here, Chrissie, it’s a freak show. Don’t take this the wrong way, but
you don’t have the temperament. You know I’m not attacking you when I say this. As far as I’m concerned, being unfit to be a politician’s wife is a sign of superb mental health.”
“Thank you for the diagnosis.”
Lillian continued. “You’re just not cut out for this. And frankly, your husband is blithely overlooking this fact. I’d say, conveniently overlooking it. This is what they do, Chrissie. Trust me.”
“You seem to be awfully good at mind reading.”
If Lillian was hearing the edginess in her daughter’s voice, she was ignoring it. “Well, yes I am, thank you. I do have an intuitive sense about these matters, Chrissie. That’s nothing to poke fun at. Even your father had to admit I was good at reading people.”
Eventually, Christine got Lillian off the phone. She pulled off the headset and tossed the phone onto the coffee table. She went at the huge fist of soil with her shears for several minutes, hacking off some half dozen or so roots, shaking loose dirt like black dandruff onto the newspapers. Finally she let the shears drop to the floor. She stared grimly over at the phone.
The most depressing aspect of their chat was that this time around Christine felt her mother had been pretty much on target. Being in agreement with her mother was always troubling to Christine, if only on principle. On this particular topic, it was all the more disconcerting. Integrating her own life and career with that of her husband’s had been a formidable challenge from the very outset. Michelle’s well-being and “normal childhood” had served these past seven and a half years as their shared focal point, the place to go whenever they felt the need to check up on themselves. Even so, Andy’s career carried a profound gravitational force, one that neither Christine’s parenting nor her photography counterbalanced. For the most part, Christine had come to terms with this. The bottom line was that Michelle was not a neurotic, spoiled, confused gorgon of a child. Not yet, anyway.
Senator Harrison’s drinking issue had reached the point of public dialogue over the weekend, so his potential as a replacement vice president was essentially kaput. According to all Christine was hearing, this left Michigan senator Jeff LaMott, former secretary of state John Bainbridge, and seven-year-old Michelle Foster’s daddy. Lillian was right on the money. Entering into this arena of politics would be a point of no return for Christine and Michelle. Secret Service shadows at every turn, the heightened press scrutiny, a husband infinitely more absorbed in matters he either could not or would not discuss with his wife. Less sharing. Less family time. All of the cautions, in fact, that had presented themselves to Christine back when Andy had proposed marriage to her. She wondered gloomily if perhaps she was doomed to continue approaching her life with her eyes wide shut. Not at all a heartening thought.
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