“Might one ask why you had doubts?”
“Because Kellen Zant was a well-known ladies’ man, by all accounts an amazing charmer. Such a man would hold the door for the lady.”
“Changing times, Chief Vallely. Not always for the better, but changing times nevertheless. One believes in courtesy, but we live in an age when it has become rather passé.”
“True. But Kellen Zant grew up in a small Southern town, where manners matter more, and—anyway, I was skeptical. That was one detail. But two others, which at first I fully believed, were more important. First, the black woman with the British accent, and, second, the location—that is, Town Street. I think those details were improvised with great care, and entirely for my benefit. The black woman with the British accent was an especially clever touch, because it would play to my, ah, prejudices. I would naturally assume that Nate Knowland, being white, would not be able to distinguish easily a British accent from a Barbadian one. I was meant to think that the black woman walking with Professor Zant that night was Astrid Venable, the cousin of Lemaster Carlyle.”
“Might one ask why the inventor of the story would want you to think that?”
“I can imagine two reasons. Astrid Venable was, at the time, a senior aide to Senator Malcolm Whisted. If she was implicated, even by rumor, in Professor Zant’s death, that could hardly help the Senator’s presidential chances. Second, it places Zant’s death a little bit closer to the throne.”
“The throne?”
“By extension. If Astrid Venable’s implication in the murder could hurt the career of Senator Malcolm Whisted, it would surely devastate the career of Lemaster Carlyle.”
“Then what you are suggesting, Chief Vallely, is that whoever invented the story intended to harm one career or the other?”
“I think it’s possible, yes. So, naturally, I thought of Cameron Knowland, Nate’s father, and a big booster of the President. Perhaps Cameron, working through his son, took advantage of the murder to hurt the Senator.”
A moment while the two men pondered. Bruce’s eye fell on the chessboard, the armies, one black and one white, locked in eternal combat. Whenever one battle ended, you set up the pieces and started another. All at once he felt terribly tired.
“Fascinating notion, Chief Vallely. Trouble is, doesn’t quite square with the facts. Cameron Knowland was Lemaster’s biggest booster for the job, one. Stuck with him through the shaky early months, two. And, three, Chief Vallely, one happens to know that the two of them are friends of very long standing.”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary, I thought of that. And, besides, Astrid Venable denies absolutely that she was in Elm Harbor that night. She knew him, she saw him socially for a time, she spoke to him two days before, but did not see him that night. As it happens, she seems to be telling the truth, since she was at a forum on the media and politics that night at the University of Texas. You might have seen it on C-SPAN.” Bruce smiled. “And so I decided that the lie, assuming it was a lie, could not have been intended to bring down Lemaster Carlyle. Possibly Astrid Venable, possibly Malcolm Whisted, but not Lemaster Carlyle. And that leads me to the second of the two details I think were manufactured for my benefit.”
“And what detail is that, Chief Vallely?”
“The location. Town Street is just two blocks from Hilliman Tower, where Zant had his office, but it also forms the rear boundary of Kepler Quadrangle, the divinity school, where Julia Carlyle is a deputy dean. Julia Carlyle also happens to be Kellen Zant’s ex-lover, and he remained obsessed with her to the day he died, as I was bound to discover. I think whoever invented this story wanted me to consider the possibility that Kellen Zant was on Town Street because he had been at Kepler that night. Why doesn’t matter. I was meant to begin thinking of the two of them, Kellen Zant and Julia Carlyle, and speculating on the possibilities.”
“Really, Chief Vallely, this is becoming rather lurid.” Holding up his smooth white palms as if to prove his innocence. “To be sure, sexual freedom, wave of the future, and so forth. One happens to be rather libertarian. To each his own, me. But Julia Carlyle happens not to strike one as the sort of woman who—”
“I agree with you, Mr. Secretary. I agree. The point is, whoever manufactured the story wanted me to think along those lines.”
The pout was back. The secretary’s eyes ranged over the bookshelves. Perhaps the answer was there. “And do you seriously accuse me of being, as it were, the manufacturer?”
“No, Mr. Secretary. I don’t think you invented it. I think you passed it on. You needed an eyewitness you could coerce and I could browbeat, preferably one with a powerful father you could sic on me, to make me even more dogged once I imagined the rich alums didn’t want me on the trail.” When this brought no denial, Bruce plunged confidently on. “Then, having suggested the story in the first place, you could monitor my progress, and make sure, through your constant doubts, that I would continue to believe it to be the truth.”
“And how precisely would I have coerced young Knowland? Given that he does indeed possess, as you nicely put it, a powerful father.”
“Because of the powerful father. That’s my whole point.” Bruce stayed on the sofa with an effort. He wanted to be up and striding, but the secretary might take it wrong. “Nathaniel Knowland was a marginal student, far too busy having fun to take his classes seriously. At the same time, he was worried about disappointing his father. As his grades got worse, he worried more. I think you gave him some sort of reassurance. You made a deal to keep him in school. He takes the semester off, then comes back in the fall with a clean slate.”
“Which leads us back to where we began, Chief Vallely. Even if one grants for the sake of argument your quite extraordinary hypothesis, one would now need to imagine the existence of an individual possessing, you will excuse me, sufficient influence to recruit me to his nefarious plan, as well as an incentive to mislead you, both as to the involvement of Astrid Venable and to the possible relationship between Kellen Zant and Julia Carlyle.”
“That’s correct.” Now to the point. “I’m here tonight because I have to confirm, urgently, whether what I have said is true. I’m not at liberty to tell you why, but the game has turned dangerous. There are some new players. We have to dispel the lie once and for all, or…well, people could get hurt.”
Trevor Land’s eyes narrowed. He seemed to be calculating: this much advantage with this choice, that much with that choice. Campus politics shifted and swirled, but the secretary was a survivor. He had served four university presidents, two of whom had left involuntarily. He had never even stumbled.
“Very well, Chief Vallely,” he said at last. “Let us assume that I believe you. Have you such an individual in mind? An individual with the proper motives and the proper…connections?”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary, I do. And I believe you know exactly who I’m thinking of.”
Grinning now, more sardonic than amused. Plainly, Trevor Land had decided. “Why not tell me anyway?”
“Lemaster Carlyle.”
“Fascinating notion, Chief Vallely. And why, pray, would the president of the—”
Bruce’s cell phone rang.
He ignored it.
“That reminds me,” said the secretary. He was on his feet but waved Bruce to sit still. He took an envelope from his desk. “The phone records you asked for.” Handing them over. “And now, if you will excuse me, Chief Vallely, I believe this meeting is at an end. One must return to one’s dinner before it gets cold. Just keep up the good work, Chief. Keep along your present path.”
On his way back to the car, Bruce returned the call from his deputy, Turian.
A professor had been badly injured, she said, voice shaky. Another hit-and-run, at an office park in Langford, not far from the border with Tyler’s Landing.
“Who was it?”
“The chief of adolescent psychiatry at the medical school. A man named Brady, Vincent Brady.”
CHAPTER 55
IMP
ERFECT INFORMATION
(I)
“HOW’S VANESSA TAKING IT?” said Mary Mallard.
“I’m not entirely sure.” Julia stirred her coffee. They were sitting in the bagel shop on the corner of King and Hudson, where, as Mary had pointed out at the White House, Julia used to get together with Kellen for a quick bite. “She’s very…inward. She doesn’t let people know what she’s thinking. She has so many faces, so many layers, no matter how many you peel down, you’re never all the way to the core.”
“Maybe her core’s her own business. Maybe the world should keep out.”
“Maybe so.”
“Children need plenty of space,” said Mary, with the authority of a woman who has never raised one.
“Maybe.”
“And the police say it’s an accident?”
Julia nodded, more uneasy than ever. It was Tuesday. She had a luncheon meeting at Lombard Hall, which was why she and Mary were limited to coffee. She wanted to skip it. She had told Mary nothing about the Empyreals. “His secretary says his briefcase is missing, but the police seem to think he was robbed after he was hit.”
“A lot of hit-and-run accidents around the campus these days.” Mary drummed her fingers, squirmed around on the bench, and in several other ways signaled that she was ready for a cigarette. Outside, the sun beat brightly down but the temperature was in the teens, and the wind chill was worse. “Julia, look. You’re not in any danger. Your family’s not in any danger. If they wanted to get you, they’d have gotten you.” She let this sink in. “If Brady was an accident, hooray. If they wanted his briefcase, then they must have wanted something in his briefcase, and I’m willing to bet it was his files on Vanessa. They want to know what she told her psychiatrist, because they want to know what Kellen told her.”
“I don’t think Kellen told her anything. She didn’t know what he was working on.”
“They’re keeping their distance, Julia. They’re worried. Whoever really did it—whoever really killed Gina—is scared that it’s going to come out.” A quick smile, then the brisk look Julia had come to know so well. “But back to business.” She tapped the envelope. “I agree with Lemaster. This confession is awfully convenient.”
“I suppose.”
“Notice that it’s a photocopy?”
“So?”
“I’m wondering how many copies are around.” Drumming those fingers. “And why your mother had one lying around to give you.” Drumming, drumming. “It could be some kind of device to use when somebody gets too close to what’s really going on.” The fingers mercifully stopped. “The question is, how many people have copies? And why did your mother give you one?”
“That’s not one question, it’s two.”
Quite appropriately, the writer ignored this dig. But she walked right into the next one. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Most of the details of my life,” said Julia, with brio.
Mary did not even crack a smile. “Let me tell you something. I have another book project I could be working on. A very nice little exposé of lobbyists and slush funds on Capitol Hill.”
“Maybe that’s what you should do, then.”
“Seriously?”
“Lemmie thinks I should stop.”
“But you don’t.” She lifted the envelope. “You don’t fool me, Julia. You’re planning something nefarious and maybe illegal. I want in on it.”
“I’m going back into the archives.”
“Why?”
“In case the confession is a lie. Like you said, it’s awfully convenient.” She drummed her fingers. Now Mary had her doing it. “I only have a few diary pages. Not enough to pay for. Or kill for. There has to be more. I’m betting that’s what Kellen hid in the library.”
“When are you going?”
Julia shrugged.
Mary said, “You’ve figured out some of Kellen’s clues, haven’t you?”
Another shrug.
The writer was sanguine. “You don’t trust me yet, do you?”
“I don’t know when I’m going.” A pause. “But I don’t think I need your permission.”
“So—what are you saying? I’m a cheerleader again?”
“Rah-rah,” said Julia.
(II)
JULIA WAS HOME IN TIME to meet the school buses, Jeannie tumbling into the house with her usual perfect energy, Vanessa trudging upstairs as if she carried the weight of history on her narrow shoulders: over the weekend the anniversary of Gina’s death had passed unnoticed, and this morning over breakfast Vanessa had made a fuss about it. Jeremy Flew, still rearranging Lemaster’s study, had taken over the kitchen to make a special dinner, and Julia decided to let him.
Jeannie insisted on helping, and Julia decided to let her.
She waited until she heard Jeremy’s patient instruction and Jeannie’s insouciant giggling and then, with the two of them fully occupied, went up to Vanessa’s bedroom for a chat. Vanessa was lying flat on her back on the bed, eyes closed and earphones in place, silently weeping as she listened to her funeral dirges. Julia rolled the chair from the desk and sat, worried eyes on the recumbent figure. She could not imagine how it must feel to have your therapist injured and nearly killed. Gently, she tapped her daughter on the shoulder. Vanessa’s eyes flew open, the fearful, startled look frightening to see, until it melted into a smooth smile. She slipped off the earphones and sat up, pulling a book from somewhere, but Julia could see the tracks of the tears.
“I was just resting my eyes,” said Vanessa. “Homework.”
“Are you okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
A long few seconds passed.
“Honey?”
Nose in her book. “Hmmm?”
“May I ask you a question?”
“I think you just did.”
“Very funny.” Julia inched closer. “Listen, honey. Did Kellen ever mention to you…somebody he called the Black Lady?”
Vanessa turned a page and, quite leisurely, reached for her Perrier bottle. Swallowing seemed to take her a very long time. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about this stuff any more.”
Julia bit her lip. She was trespassing on foreign territory, and did not even know whose forces patrolled the border. “And I thought we decided that Veazie women aren’t interested in other people’s rules.” Pause. “Like Elphaba.”
“No.”
“Not like Elphaba?”
“No, Kellen never mentioned the Black Lady. Sorry, Moms.”
About to creep out of the room in disappointment, Julia caught the ghost of a smile on Vanessa’s winsome face, and realized that the teen had placed the ghost of an emphasis on Kellen’s name. She glanced over her shoulder but the door was still closed.
“What are you trying to tell me, honey?”
“That Kellen never mentioned the Black Lady.”
“Kellen never mentioned her.” She had it. “Somebody else did.”
Turning another page. “Uh-huh.”
Again she and her clever daughter had reached the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. She forced a gentle patience into her tone. “Who, honey? Who mentioned the Black Lady?”
“At Kellen’s funeral.”
“Kellen’s funeral,” Julia repeated, thinking, Mary Mallard, which would mean talking to Vanessa had only led her in a circle. A second later, she remembered that Mary and Vanessa had never been alone together at the funeral. “Somebody mentioned the Black Lady at Kellen’s funeral.” In her head she reviewed the players: Kellen’s ex-wife, Nadia; Kellen’s uncle Seth; the crowd at Seth’s house—
“Uh-huh. Remember how I hung out with the kids and they told me the old stories about Arkadelphia? You got mad when I told you the one about the Civil War? Well, they have this legend down there. They have these colleges, really pretty, we saw them, remember? Well, there’s this legend about one of them. There was a student whose boyfriend kind of dropped her for another chick.” She rolled her tongue around in her mouth, face m
omentarily rippling, as she thought, perhaps, of Casey, who had not called in a while. “And, anyway, the legend is that she threw herself off the bell tower, and her ghost has haunted the campus ever since.”
“And that’s the Black Lady?”
“Right. They call her the Black Lady of Arkadelphia.”
“Part of his past,” Julia whispered, mostly to herself, wondering how she could have missed something so obvious. Had one of his women actually succeeded in doing herself in? She would have to arrange an excuse to travel back to Arkadelphia, although how she would know what to look for—
“Oh, and, Moms?” Vanessa, still reading, had rolled onto her stomach, a signal of dismissal every bit as unmistakable as Lemaster’s habit of swiveling to face his computer. “There’s one other thing.”
“What’s that, honey?”
“The Black Lady? She’s white.”
(III)
SHE STOOD in the living room window, beside the Steinway, watching the nightly parade of headlights along Hunter’s Meadow Road, far more cars than could ever be justified by the still relatively small number of homes on the hill. She had always imagined that not a few carried curious townspeople wanting to see the grand house the black family had built, perhaps to gawk, perhaps to mock, perhaps simply to try to understand this strange new phenomenon of African-American wealth: because, as far as white America knew, nobody black ever had money or education before, say, affirmative action.
And maybe some of the cars were keeping an eye on her. Julia knew somebody was out there, watching and watching, waiting for her to come up with Kellen’s surplus, ready to snatch it from her hands and spirit it off to—well, to somebody else. She knew because Mary had told her, and because of what had happened in Paris, but she also knew because she could sense it, the way New Englanders can sense, in the sudden soft change in the direction of the winter wind, the faint whisper of clouds unseen because they are over the horizon, and the rising storm to follow, although the sky is crisp, gorgeous blue.
She was trying, with what resources she possessed, to work out a way around the surveillance that she sensed but never saw. Borrowing Smith’s little device, now safely in the glove box of the Escalade, was a part of her plan.
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