Flashpoint

by Ed Gorman

‘All right, you’ve convinced me Hammell’s a good cop. But what if his son goes crazy some night and really tries to hurt you?’

  ‘That’s why I got my carry permit. He’ll be sorry.’

  We were in her private office. More historical photographs on the wall, an area with two bookcases filled with bulging legal tomes. And a desk as empty as George W. Bush’s brain. The large window behind the desk overlooked a lovely asphalt parking lot where two men were unloading a furniture truck and eyeing the building next door – a medical supply house, according to the sign.

  ‘Ben called me about fifteen minutes ago. He’d like you and I to go out to Senator Logan’s place. He said he needs our support.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say but he sounded pretty upset.’

  ‘This just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Losing faith?’

  ‘Not faith,’ I said. ‘Time. I don’t believe Robert killed Tracy Cabot. But one other name keeps coming to mind as a possibility. The guy who set all this in motion.’

  ‘You mean Howard Ruskin?’

  ‘Yes.’ Then I told her about Ruskin’s lady friend trying to contact me.

  ‘Why would she call you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe she’s afraid of him now.’

  ‘Of him?’

  ‘I guess. Maybe he went crazy after he killed Tracy and he’s coming unglued. Even for him, though, killing somebody is really a stretch.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she just run away?’

  Her phone buzzed. She picked up. ‘I won’t be available the rest of the day. Please apologize for me and see if we can reschedule.’ After hanging up, she said, ‘It’s easy to forget there’s a world out there that isn’t all tied up with Senator Logan’s problem.’

  ‘What time are we supposed to be there?’

  ‘Half an hour ago.’

  ‘You want to ride with me?’

  ‘Sure. Your Jeep looks pretty cool.’

  I smiled. ‘How old did you say you were?’

  When Mrs Weiderman opened the door I saw how much Robert’s troubles had damaged her usual indomitable spirit. The harsh circles under the eyes, the gray color of the face itself and the flat sound of the voice. ‘They’re all in the living room. It’s a terrible day.’

  As she stood back to let us pass I saw that Jane took the woman’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Mrs Weiderman nodded in gratitude. She would usually lead us into the house but this time she disappeared somewhere behind us as we walked toward the living room.

  And there they were. The colors of fall – trees, grass, small piles of leaves – were a seasonal portrait in the enormous window behind the grand piano. But the humans were the same zombie gray as Mrs Weiderman. Even brother James was restrained, sitting slouched in one of the comfortable armchairs with his eyes downcast and – for once – saying absolutely nothing. Of course, in his case it might be more to do with his hangover than Robert’s dilemma.

  Elise and Maddy sat almost exactly as they had yesterday. Both were dressed in sweaters and jeans. Ben and Robert stood next to the dry bar. Robert had a drink in his hand. Ben was too smart for that.

  They gaped at us as if they didn’t quite know who we were. No doubt they’d been going through some kind of psychodrama and were still trapped in its spider webs.

  Finally Ben said, ‘You can try and talk sense to him, Dev. I’m worn out.’ Rarely did you hear Ben Zuckerman this frustrated.

  Then the others awoke from their pod-people daze.

  Maddy said, ‘Daddy. Listen to Ben.’

  James said, ‘You’re letting the media get to you, Robert.’

  Elise said, ‘Please listen to them, Robert.’

  By now I knew what Robert wanted to do. Or thought he wanted to do. Or threatened to do.

  ‘The worst thing you could do right now, Robert,’ I said, ‘is resign.’

  ‘Damned right,’ Ben said, finding his passion again. ‘Dev’s saying just what I did. Resignation now is as good as admitting you killed that woman.’

  ‘I hate to agree with Dev,’ James said, ‘but listen to him, Robert.’

  Robert wore a blue crew-neck sweater, jeans and a pair of tan moccasin slippers, no socks. When he raised the clear glass to his mouth I could see that he’d poured himself a mind-number. Not a good sign at this time of day.

  He lurched away from the dry bar and walked quickly to the center of the room. Maybe we’d been summoned here for a recital and he was going to play his viola now.

  ‘I’m here with the two women I love most in the world and with my brother and my other friends. I can’t tell you what this means to me.’

  The stilted language indicated he’d slipped into pol mode. He was going to give us a speech. I wondered if he’d had some kind of mental collapse. Or maybe when all politicians see the end is near they automatically start to declaim.

  ‘And for all the tribulation we’re experiencing, friendship is what matters most and—’

  ‘Damn it, Robert. Did you tell these people you’re planning to resign?’

  His face showed not anger but pain. There was a hint of tears in his voice now. ‘I was thanking my friends – and I include you in that, Dev – thanking them and—’

  But he stopped. Dropped his head. Stood unmoving. Then a sob. And the glass slipped from his hand.

  Maddy rushed across the room to him. ‘Oh, Daddy, Daddy.’

  We all watched silently as she led him like a child to an empty chair. The way she led her mother – also like a child – upstairs last night. She seated him with grave delicacy, as if he might shatter. Then he did what Elise had done yesterday. He laid his head back and closed his eyes.

  I went over and picked up the glass and carried it to the dry bar. Ben still stood there. His grimace told me that he was as scared as I was. Our candidate was coming apart and we needed him to make a live statement in front of reporters.

  Ben said, ‘Dev and Jane and I will be in the study, Elise.’

  All Elise did was nod; she kept her eyes on the chair with Maddy and Robert.

  The study was sunny and smelled of furniture polish. The Persian rugs, the large antique desk with elaborate scrollwork and the walls of books invited an introspective mood, but we had no time for introspection.

  Two brown leather armchairs faced a brown leather couch in front of a small brick fireplace. An elderly gray tomcat sat on the mantel watching us with cosmic indifference. Ben and Jane took the couch. I took one of the chairs.

  The first thing I had to do was tell them both about the call from Ruskin’s woman.

  ‘Any sense that this might be some kind of trap, Dev?’

  ‘It’s crossed my mind. But my receptionist said she sounded desperate.’

  ‘What if she doesn’t call back?’

  ‘Then she got scared off and backed out.’

  ‘Leaving us nowhere.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘But I have a feeling she’ll call me.’

  ‘I sure hope so.’

  ‘Now I need to tell you about the man from the US Attorney’s office.’

  Ben liked the fact that Hawkins had a good track record with the US Attorney’s office and had worked in security for private enterprise as well. Despite being a liberal on most issues, Ben, like me and many others, understood that if you succeeded in business there was a good chance you knew what you were doing.

  ‘Sounds like you really checked him out,’ Ben said.

  ‘On Google. Didn’t Cosmo Kramer on the old Seinfeld show say something about it being true if it’s on the Internet?’

  Ben had a laugh like a bark; Jane’s was a half-giggle.

  ‘Well, if a guy named Cosmo is satisfied then so am I,’ Ben said.

  The gag relaxed us briefly.

  Ben put his arm along the top of the couch. ‘When I woke up this morning I was thinking that today I’d start to get everything under control. So the first thing I
hear is about this kitchen worker who saw Robert and the Cabot woman arguing in the parking lot. I wanted to call a news conference and have Robert speak this afternoon but that’s out of the question now. I’ll have to do it alone but that’ll be suspicious.’ Ben was cracking his knuckles. The sound was sharp in the library-like room. ‘Left field. Totally unexpected. This is the kind of stuff that can kill you. The kitchen worker makes you wonder who else is out there.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what he was hiding from us,’ Jane said. ‘That he saw Tracy Cabot more than he let on.’

  ‘Did you get anywhere with him telling you everything?’ I asked Ben.

  ‘His story is still the same – he didn’t kill her and that’s all that matters. A part of me wants to dump his ass. I won’t, of course, but when you’ve got a client who won’t help you—’ He didn’t have to finish his thought. ‘I need to get back to the hotel and set up a press conference for later this afternoon. The media is killing us.’

  He was on his feet, a prowling animal. To Jane, he said, ‘Have you heard anything from your friend in the police department?’

  ‘Nothing new.’

  He prowled some more then turned back and said, ‘Dev, have you thought about telling Detective Hammell about the call you got from Ruskin’s lady friend or whoever the hell she is?’

  ‘Crossed my mind but I doubt it would do much good at this point. He’s focused on Robert and I can’t say I blame him.’

  Ben’s smile was grim. ‘You didn’t have to say that, did you?’

  On our way back to the city Jane was quiet. Her fine, small hands were crossed on her lap and with her window partly open her hair was mussed most sweetly. I thought about going to bed with her, of course, but I was also interested in her as a cohort. I sensed a melancholy in her that was not unlike my own.

  The kiss on the cheek surprised me and I appreciated the hell out of it. Sweet flesh, perfume, breath and intention. ‘I hope I see you tonight. We deserve a good dinner.’

  ‘You’re on. I’ll call you after a while.’

  I watched her walk into her building. Been a while since I’d connected this way and I liked the feeling. In the past, one-night stands had been able to assuage my loneliness, but as I got older loneliness became preferable to a succession of strange, cold beds.

  Twenty minutes later I walked into my hotel room. Three calls waiting on the hotel phone, all from Chicago reporters I knew were here now and hoping for favors. I didn’t return any of the calls.

  As much as I didn’t want to, I turned on the big plasma screen, grabbed a diet Pepsi from the refrigerator and sat down to watch the boys and girls of cable news – just as I’d told Tom Neil I wouldn’t – finish off the career of Senator Robert Logan.

  Our network wasn’t much better than the right-wing one. A couple of our senators managed to look embarrassed to say even a few supportive words about Robert, even though they were his long-time friends. They were up for re-election, too. And the so-called liberal journalists were saying there was no chance that Robert could win now, however this turned out. Thanks, guys.

  Of course, the Empire News channel was unmatched in its virulence. As always they seemed to be parodying themselves with their innuendo, piety and outright lies. This particular panel contained a Southern minister to whom the others had ceded all moral authority. When he suggested that our party was one of ‘atheists and whoremongers’ they nodded in solemn television agreement despite the fact that their side was about eighty percent ahead of us in sex scandals.

  But my favorite was a robotic blonde woman whose flesh seemed as lacquered as her hair and whose pitiless gaze would cause a Harlem pimp to wet himself in terror. ‘I’m probably getting ahead of myself a little here but it does look as if Senator Logan is guilty of something. So I’d like to know if anybody on this panel knows if this is the first time in American history that a sitting senator might be found guilty of first-degree murder and possibly be executed?’

  ‘That’s a very interesting question, Poppy,’ God’s man at the table responded.

  ‘Extremely interesting,’ said a beefy pontificator. ‘And his party would always be remembered for having a killer sitting in the Senate.’

  I turned it off and went to work on my laptop. I checked out the internals on the various races my firm was involved in. There wasn’t much change from yesterday, except for the race where we’d had so much trouble with white working-class men. In American politics that was the greatest of all mysteries. Our party had always championed their various causes and needs yet they voted against us. It’s difficult to respect people who respect people who consider them little more than vermin.

  My cell phone burred.

  ‘Afternoon, Dev. This is Michael Hawkins. You have a few minutes to talk?’

  ‘Sure. What’s going on?’

  ‘I managed to get hold of Ruskin’s sister in Cheyenne. At first she told me to talk to her lawyer but I finally managed to convince her that her brother could be in serious trouble and we need to talk to him. I told her about Tracy Cabot being murdered but she already knew about it. I pushed her on that and she admitted that Ruskin had called her last night. She said that he was scared and that that was not like him; that he usually laughed things off. She said that he said, “I’m in over my head this time; I don’t know what to do.” There are a couple ways to interpret that.’

  ‘That she wasn’t supposed to die and he didn’t have anything to do with her death or—’

  ‘Or that he killed her.’

  ‘You leaning one way or another on it?’

  ‘I’ve been an investigator of one sort or another for a long time and I’ve learned that every time I make a wild guess it’s wrong. So I keep my guesses to myself.’

  ‘She didn’t know where he was calling from?’

  ‘If she did I couldn’t get it from her.’

  ‘I’ve got something, too.’ Then I told him about the call from Ruskin’s lover.

  ‘You’re thinking it’s for real?’

  ‘Now that you’ve told me what his sister said – about him being so desperate and everything – yeah, I think it’s for real. He’s in panic mode and scaring the hell out of her – she may be thinking about bailing out.’

  ‘No offense, Dev. But why would she turn to you?’

  ‘No idea.’ Then, ‘Hey, Ben Zuckerman’s on TV. I need to watch this, Michael.’

  ‘I’ll catch a little of it myself. I’ll be in touch later.’

  ‘Great.’

  FOURTEEN

  The suit was a solid blue today. Gray button-down shirt. Dark blue tie. The narrowed eyes showed the stress. If the reporters had been hurling stones instead of questions, Ben would have been dead by now. He held up a hand for silence and did not take it down until most of the questions had stopped. ‘This will be a brief one, ladies and gentlemen.’

  Some of the reporters started shouting questions again; Ben’s hand didn’t do much good this time. Other reporters shouted back to their peers, ‘Shut up!’

  Ben stood in front of the police station this morning. Bright sunlight played off the front windows; a worker in jeans and a Bears sweatshirt had just stopped mowing the lawn so Ben could speak. ‘I’ve just finished meeting with Detective Hammell. Despite all the nonsense on TV and the Internet, Senator Logan has not been charged with anything. He is free to go about his business.’

  ‘Can he leave the city?’ a woman reporter shouted.

  ‘That didn’t come up in my discussion with the detective, who was very cooperative and friendly, I should note. But the senator came home to rest between sessions. This is where he enjoys being and this is where he’ll stay for two more weeks. He has no plans to leave whatsoever.’

  More questions but Ben said, ‘I mentioned that this would be brief. I want to stick to a few facts and not add to all the frenzy the press has created over this unfortunate situation. So let me get to my second point. The senator will make a live statement very soon.’ He smiled
. ‘I suppose a few of you are interested in that.’

  A Saturday afternoon football cheer went up. Ben was good with reporters and they liked him even though he took shots at them.

  ‘So until then, my friends …’

  The scramble. Approximately fifty people began squawking questions at him as he turned from the microphones and began his exit up the steps of the police station behind him.

  I clicked the set dark. The same hand I’d used on the remote now hovered over my cell. Then I got to work.

  ‘Wasn’t Mr Zuckerman wonderful today?’ Mrs Weiderman said after I’d identified myself.

  ‘He certainly was.’

  ‘He made me feel much better. This is just so ridiculous. The senator involved in anything like this.’

  ‘I agree. But we’ve got to face it. And that’s why I’m calling. I need to talk to the senator as soon as I can.’

  ‘Well, he’s playing tennis right now.’

  ‘That’s a good sign.’

  ‘It takes his mind off things. Even if James always beats him. It’s the only thing that James is better at than his older brother.’

  ‘And Robert doesn’t mind?’

  ‘No. He told me one time that it’s good for James’ frame of mind to have something he’s better at than Robert. The senator is a very good man.’

  ‘He is; he really is.’

  ‘That’s why this is all so stupid.’

  ‘I’m coming out there right now. How long have they been playing?’

  ‘Oh, I’d say maybe an hour. They usually play for ninety minutes or so.’

  ‘Great. I’ll see you soon.’

  A fawn crossing the road with its mother was the only hindrance to me setting a speed record on my way to the Logan estate. Whenever I see an animal this delicate and this lovely I wonder why you’d want to kill it. I’ve never understood the thrill that comes from death. For me it’s easier to understand the thrill of killing another human being. There’s often psychosis and madness involved and those elements make the act rewarding for the killer. But killing an innocent animal? The one time I’d been forced to kill in army intelligence I hadn’t felt any thrill at all. Just a kind of disgust with the dead man for forcing me to kill him and disgust with myself for not having figured out a way to take him in without taking his life.