She flopped down in Deacon’s guest chair and rocked nervously back and forth. Her brother sat in front of his computer, and his fingers flew.
‘Hey,’ she said.
‘Hey, good job today. You got the recorder?’
Peach reached into her pocket and handed him the Sony voice recorder that she’d used with Walter Fleming and Brent Reed.
‘I’ll run it through Dragon and get it back to you,’ Deacon said.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I talked to Caprice. She said to keep the lid on the news. She thinks if the story about the Governor breaks too early, it’ll force him to deny it and stay in the race.’
‘Duh.’
‘You going back to the convention tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, probably. I don’t have anything else to do.’
Deacon stopped working and stared at his sister. ‘Look, why don’t you knock off for the day? Go home. Forget about the weekend. Someone else can cover it.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Did you eat?’
‘I had half a salad.’
‘You need to eat.’
‘Whatever,’ Peach said. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘I know you’re upset.’
‘I’m not upset. I’m nothing. That’s what bugs me, you know? I don’t feel a thing, and I don’t know what to do about it.’
‘I told you, go home,’ Deacon said. ‘Get some sleep. Or go work out. Go for a run.’
‘Maybe,’ she said again. ‘You going home soon?’
‘Later. I want to hit the gym.’
Deacon worked out every day. It was the only way to get past the stress of politics. He was skinny and strong, but he had a soft-edged face with unruly red hair and bedroom-blue eyes. He was a dead ringer for their father. Same long nose with a little hook. Same dreamy smile. He rarely shaved, giving him a stubbly strawberry beard. Women really went for Deacon. At the gym, girls homed in on him as if there were some kind of pheromone in his sweat. He never got serious about anyone, though. The two of them were all about work.
They’d lived together since Lyle was killed. Back then, Lyle had been their surrogate father. She and Deacon hadn’t really been close during those years, because Deacon was an angry kid after their parents died. Angry at them. Angry at Lyle. Angry at the world. To Deacon, who was six years older, Peach was an annoying little girl, and he was a teenager with better things to do. That changed after Labor Day. At age eighteen, with money they inherited from Lyle, he bought a little house in Tampa, and Peach moved in with him. Caprice hired him to work at the new foundation. When Peach turned eighteen four years ago, she joined the foundation, too.
‘Go on,’ Deacon repeated. ‘I’ll see you at home. Make some tater tots or something.’
‘Yeah, okay. See you later.’
Peach pushed herself out of the chair and navigated the maze to her own cubicle. The desk was uncluttered, and the monitor was dusty. There wasn’t even a calendar on the cubicle wall. She had three photographs pinned up with thumbtacks. One was of Lyle next to his new Mercedes, in August of that last summer, looking fussy and proud. The other was of Deacon, two years back, on a Sunday outing to Honeymoon Island on the Gulf. Sunglasses, no shirt, tanned and fit. The last picture showed a man not much older than herself, with a pork pie hat, a handlebar mustache like a cartoon train robber, and a mock scowl for the camera. He was tall and beanpole skinny, with arms folded across his scrawny chest. He wore baggy jeans and a T-shirt showing The Scream.
Justin.
She got up and went to the next cubicle and sat down in his chair. There was nothing in the small space to remind her of him anymore. They’d taken everything away. The computer was new. The drawers were empty. They’d even removed the poster of Mozart on the wall and the kitten calendar she’d given him for Christmas. All that was left was his voice in her head.
Justin on Florida. It’s the cockroach capital of America. And there are lots of bugs, too.
Justin on money. My parents have money, and they’re the unhappiest people you’ll ever meet. They keep sending me money, because they want me to be unhappy, too.
Justin on poetry. The greatest poem ever is Blake’s ‘The Tyger.’
Justin on sex. Nothing screws up love faster than sex. So if we never have sex, we’ll always be in love.
They never had sex.
‘Hello?’
Peach looked up when a voice interrupted her memories. A Hispanic woman in her mid-thirties stood in the opening of the cubicle. She held a cup of coffee in her hand and wore black glasses that looked straight out of Clark Kent and the 1950s.
‘Who are you?’ Peach asked.
The woman didn’t have time to answer, because someone else appeared behind her and nudged her into the background the way an actor occupies center stage. The frown on Peach’s face deepened.
‘Oh, Peach, there are you,’ Ogden Bush announced. ‘Congratulations, I heard about your coup with Walter and Brent today.’
‘You did?’
Bush smiled. He had the arrogant smile of a wolf living among chickens. ‘I hear about everything. That’s my job.’
His job was to direct opposition research for Diane’s campaign. Target the Republicans. Target the Democrats. Plant media stories. Craft negative ads. He’d spent two months inside the building since Diane formally announced her candidacy. The activities of the political foundation had been unofficially swallowed up by the activities of the campaign, and they were squeezed together in the same space. Bush had hired his own staff who worked side-by-side with Peach, Deacon, and the other foundation employees. The political operative had his hand in everything now.
Peach didn’t like him, but she didn’t like many people. We are alone, Peach. Alone and on our own. Justin.
Ogden Bush had no allegiance to Diane or the foundation. He was a hired hand who followed the money. Ten years before, he’d been on the opposite side of the fence, working for the liberal Democrat against Birch Fairmont. Now he was on Diane’s side, because she was the one paying the bills. Bush was clever and tough, but Peach didn’t trust people who went where the wind blew.
He wasn’t tall for a man, barely five-foot-nine, and he’d just turned forty. He had ebony skin. A generous-sized ruby ring adorned one finger. His coal eyes had the sharpness of a hawk that missed nothing, but he also had a way of looking through her, not at her, as if she were no more than prey. He kept a thin, neat mustache on his upper lip and a trimmed chin curtain along the pointed line of his face. His black hair was shaved short, with smudges of gray above both ears. He wore suits a size too small to emphasize his sleek, toned body. The suits were expensive and fashionable, because he wanted everyone to know how successful he was.
‘People only pay attention to you if they know you can do something to them,’ he’d told Peach when they first met. ‘Good or bad, it doesn’t matter.’
Bush squeezed the shoulder of the woman in the cubicle doorway. ‘This is my newest researcher, Annalie Martine. Take her with you to the convention tomorrow. I’d like her in on the humint side of things.’
‘I work alone,’ Peach said.
‘Take her with you,’ Bush repeated, ignoring her protest. ‘She’ll be a quick study. She’s got great references.’
Peach said nothing. She hated being paired with strangers. Bush knew it, but he didn’t care.
‘I figured Brent Reed’s mouth would trip him up sooner or later,’ Bush went on, his voice honey-smooth. ‘What about Walter Fleming? Did he say anything of interest?’
‘He talked about you,’ Peach said.
‘Oh?’
‘He was concerned about you figuring out what he was doing. I think he’s got a spy somewhere inside the campaign.’
‘Well, that would be Walter’s style,’ Bush said. ‘Don’t worry, he’s a crafty goat, but I know how he operates. Anyway, show Annalie the ropes, okay? I’m counting on you, Peach.’
Bush disappeared as his phone began to
ring, and the musky cloud of his cologne went with him. Annalie gave Peach an apologetic smile. She looked uncomfortable. ‘Sorry to drop in on you like this.’
Peach shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
‘Um.’
‘What?’ Peach asked, but then she realized she was sitting in Justin’s chair and that Justin’s chair now belonged to this new woman. This stranger. ‘Sorry,’ she said, getting up.
‘No problem.’
Annalie didn’t sit down. They stood in the cramped space together, barely two feet apart, eye to eye. They were the same height. Peach was skinny, but Annalie had curves under her black T-shirt and jeans. She would have looked younger and hotter if she’d lost the glasses and untied her black hair from the severe bun that was pulled back behind her head. She was pretty, with mellow golden skin and smoky eyes, but she wasn’t trying to be attractive.
‘I know it’s hard when new people get dropped on you,’ Annalie said. ‘I’m lucky to be here. I need the job.’
‘Ogden said you had hotshot references,’ Peach said.
‘Well, my father works for a big foundation donor.’
‘You ever done oppo work before?’ Peach asked.
‘Sort of. I worked for a woman who did private detective work in Jacksonville. You know, cheating hubbies and stuff.’
‘On the street or in the office?’
‘A little of both.’
‘You must have guts to take this job,’ Peach said. ‘You’re not afraid that it’s cursed or something?’
Annalie cocked her head. ‘Cursed? I don’t get it.’
‘Ogden didn’t tell you about the guy you’re replacing?’
‘No, he just said a position opened up on the research team. I figured the last guy quit or was fired or something.’
‘He didn’t quit,’ Peach said. ‘He didn’t get fired. Justin was murdered two weeks ago.’
4
The sun sank into the Gulf waters, and Cab expected it to sizzle like an egg hitting a hot frying pan. The Florida sunsets never got old. The strips of clouds turned as pink as cut roses, and the sandbars took on rainbow colors. He cast his eyes down from the twentieth floor toward the white sand of Clearwater Beach. Swimmers and shell-hunters stood up to their ankles in the hot water, silhouetted by the sun. Around them, umbrellas dotted the beach like drips of bright paint.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Lala Mosqueda’s number. The call went to voicemail, the way it always did lately. He’d left several messages. She hadn’t returned them.
‘Wawa?’ said his mother. Tarla stood in the doorway between the sliding glass doors, still in the dress she’d worn to Diane’s party.
‘That stopped being funny a long time ago,’ Cab said.
‘I’m sorry, you’re right.’ His mother joined him on the balcony, leaning her bare elbows on the railing. The warm breeze off the water rustled her hair. ‘So what does she call me? The Hollywood witch?’
‘It rhymes with that,’ Cab said.
‘Well, good for her,’ Tarla said, smiling. She added, as if she were checking on whether he wanted his coffee black: ‘Are you in love with her, or is it just the sex?’
‘Next subject.’
‘Oh come on, darling.’
‘I wasn’t born with the love gene,’ Cab told her, which was a lie. He’d been wildly in love with Vivian Frost in Barcelona. ‘However, I’m also not into meaningless cheap flings.’
‘I detect a little bit of an accusation in that statement.’
‘Maybe you do.’
In his lifetime, he couldn’t remember his mother seriously involved with anyone. She’d drifted from affair to affair, and she’d broken up more than one marriage. He loved his mother, but there were days when he didn’t always like her. She was beautiful, and she was a loner, and he blamed her sometimes for making him the way he was.
In other words, he was a lot like her.
‘I’m not trying to split the two of you up,’ Tarla said. ‘If you want to make it work with Lala, make it work. However, let’s be honest, darling. I saw you with Caprice Dean this evening. There were sparks flying.’
‘She’s attractive. That’s all it is.’
‘Is that a sin? I’ve known Caprice for years. She’s pretty, smart, serious, and she’s going places. If Diane wasn’t running this year, Caprice probably would, and as young as she is, I think she’d win. That’s the kind of woman you belong with, Cab.’
‘I really don’t need romantic advice from you, Mother,’ he said. ‘Did you know Caprice wanted me to do investigative work for her when you asked me to come up this weekend?’
‘She may have mentioned it,’ Tarla said.
‘So you lured me here under false pretenses.’
‘Would you have come otherwise? Besides, this way I get to see you. I didn’t leave London for the cultural life of Clearwater. The seafood is wonderful, and the boys on the beach are cute, but otherwise, it’s a bit of a wasteland. I’m here because of you, Cab. Unless you’d prefer I go away.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Cab replied. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
He wondered if that was completely true. They’d always had a close but co-dependent relationship, and sometimes he rebelled against it. Growing up, he had travelled with Tarla to movie sets all over the world, and although he had met famous people and stayed in amazing places, he felt homeless, as if he had no roots. Tarla was also intensely private, shutting him out from parts of her life, including the truth about his father. He’d learned to do the same. When he had a chance to leave, he did. At eighteen, he went to UCLA, graduated in three years, and to his mother’s shock, he chose law enforcement when he could have chosen acting. She’d been prepared to find roles and open doors for him, but he didn’t want the Hollywood life.
Now she was retired. Now they were together again, after nearly twenty years in different corners of the world. It was like starting over.
He turned and went inside. The condominium was ice-cold compared to the summer heat. He hadn’t been to Tarla’s place in several weeks, and she’d been decorating in the interim. The sprawling apartment looked like her. Cool. Modern. Expensive. It wasn’t a place where you would sit down and put your feet up.
Tarla joined him from the balcony. She went to the bar and poured herself a glass of wine, and she held up the bottle with an inquiring glance. He shook his head. She drank more than he remembered.
‘So why is Diane running for governor?’ Cab asked. ‘You always told me she didn’t want to get her hands dirty. She wanted to work behind the scenes.’
Tarla shrugged. ‘I’m not sure her heart is in it, but she saw an opportunity and couldn’t say no. The Governor has been wounded by the kickback scandal involving his chief of staff. Ramona Cortes, the Republican, is another scary right-winger.’
‘Ramona’s not really so scary,’ Cab said mildly.
Tarla’s eyebrows arched toward heaven. ‘You’ve met her?’
‘She’s one of Lala’s cousins,’ he said. ‘One of about two hundred or so.’
‘Charming. Well, Diane was getting pressure from foundation donors to get in the race to block her. They’re afraid if Ramona becomes governor, she might decide to nuke Oklahoma.’
Cab smiled. ‘Extremes are in the eye of the beholder. Do you really believe in the virginal purity of the Common Way Party?’
‘Me? I’m a wild-eyed, woolly tree-hugger, you know that. A Democrat’s Democrat. But Diane is my best friend, and she’d make a good governor. I believe that.’
Cab said nothing.
‘I know you don’t like her,’ Tarla added, ‘although I don’t know why.’
‘That’s not true.’
His mother sat down next to him on a sofa that was black and umber, with striped hexagonal pillows. ‘You’ve ducked every occasion where she and I were together. You didn’t even come to Drew’s funeral, though I basically ordered you to be there.’
‘That was nine years ago, and I was busy with
a murder investigation in Newport. I sent flowers.’
‘Yes, how thoughtful,’ Tarla snapped. ‘Drew shot himself, for God’s sake. Diane was hysterical. She tracked down that awful drug dealer in a bar and had to be physically restrained from attacking him.’
‘I remember,’ Cab said.
‘I’m just saying, Diane has lived a life that’s far more difficult than you or I have ever had to deal with. You don’t have a clue of what she’s gone through, Cab. She’s a good person, and I want to support her in any way I can. If you can help, I wish you would.’
‘I told Caprice I would look into it,’ Cab said.
‘You did?’
‘I did.’
Tarla drank her wine and flushed a little with embarrassment. ‘Oh. Well, good. Thank you.’
‘I already have an appointment with Chuck Warren in the morning.’
‘The fascist?’
Cab smiled. ‘Not all Republicans are fascists.’
‘Warren is.’
‘Well, he was the Republican candidate for the Congressional seat ten years ago. After Birch was killed, he got tarred for being too cozy with right-wing extremists. I’d like to see what he says about what happened back then.’
‘You really think he’ll tell you the truth?’ Tarla asked.
‘No, but lies are more interesting. I usually learn more from lies than I do from the truth.’
‘You live in a strange world, Cab.’
‘No stranger than yours,’ he said.
‘True.’ His mother smiled, but then her face darkened. ‘Do you think Diane is in any danger?’
‘I don’t know. Threats to political candidates are dime-a-dozen, but this one is pretty specific.’
‘Caprice thinks whoever killed Birch may be focused on Diane,’ Tarla said.
‘What do you think?’
‘Me? I have no idea. How would I know?’
‘You were there,’ Cab said.
Tarla stood up and refilled her wine at the bar. ‘I don’t think you should waste your time on the past. Ten years is a long time ago. I doubt there’s any connection.’
Season of Fear Page 5