by Sydney Bauer
Nora had spoken to Joe who told her he would be at ball practice at Billing’s Field with his eldest son Joe Junior until 7pm, and David was more than welcome to meet them there. And so just after six, having explained to Sara he was meeting Joe for a catch up, David dragged his gym gear out of his office cupboard and ran across town to West Roxbury. His brain was numb, his body loaded with nervous energy and he knew the run would clear his head.
By the time he rounded Bellevue, with Billing’s in his sights, the drudgery of a long day seemed to have lifted from his shoulders. He had decided he was over-reacting and this did not have to be such a big deal after all. He would tell Joe about Karin, about her request and belief in her husband’s innocence, and then his slate would be clean. What Joe did with the information after that, would be totally up to him.
He was late, and for a moment he was worried he’d missed Joe altogether. But then he saw him walking Joe Junior to the car and ran across the ball park trying to catch them before they headed the two blocks south to their large and comfortable West Roxbury home.
‘Hey,’ he called, catching them up.
‘Hey, Mr Cavanaugh,’ said Joe Junior.
‘It’s David, remember.’
‘Sure.’
‘So how was practice?’ asked David.
‘Great, we played against our older division and won by three runs,’ said Joe Junior, tossing his ball into the air.
‘All right,’ said David, snatching the ball from above the twelve-year-old’s head, before tossing it back to him. David then gave Joe Junior a high five and looked up at his dad. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘You look like shit.’
‘Dad, you said “shit”,’ said Joe Junior.
‘Yeah, Dad,’ said David, ruffling the younger Mannix’s head of thick dark brown hair. ‘And it’s good to see you too.’
‘I’m about to drop Joe at a friend’s place – and Marie has taken the other three boys to her sister’s for dinner. If you’re up for it, I’ll cook us some meat on the backyard barbecue. Nothing fancy of course, just steaks, salad, bread, beer.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Okay, hop in. And don’t squash the volcano.’
‘Volcano?’
‘Gabriel’s science project.’
‘Right. Is it full of hot air like his dad?’ David smiled at Joe Junior, who obviously thought this was very funny.
‘Hey,’ said Mannix. ‘You two wanna get to dinner in one piece I suggest you give it a rest.’
‘No problem, gas man,’ said Joe Junior, launching into another round of giggles.
‘Just no unnecessary eruptions on the way home,’ said David, looking back at his young co-conspirator.
The Mannix house was a four-bedroom Colonial in a leafy part of West Roxbury known as Bellevue Hill. It had all the charm of a period home – the original whitewashed wood shingles, sea blue painted shutters, gumwood floors, crown mouldings and wood beam ceilings, with all the comforts of a place packed with kids and loaded with activity. The house smelled of a mixture of freshly cooked bread, recently used cleaning fluid and late blooming jacaranda which grew in copious amounts beyond the back porch. It was full but uncluttered, neat but comfortable, and blessed with a sense of calmness despite the constant bustle which took place within its four walls almost twenty-four hours a day.
‘Beer?’ asked Mannix.
‘Thanks,’ said David, letting out a sigh and downing the cold bottle of Bud without even taking a breath.
‘Bad day?’
‘You could say that.’
‘The Bridge Club guy?’
‘The Bridge Club guy.’
‘Wanna talk about it?’
‘Not really.’
‘Okay.’
David grabbed two more beers and they moved out to the large backyard, Joe picking up two bikes and one football on his way to the home-made barbecue which sat perched in the far left hand corner under a low-hanging jacaranda branch. David took a seat on one of the weathered wooden chairs which surrounded a similarly weathered wooden table and watched Mannix as he fired up the barbecue.
They sat for a while, talking about nothing in particular, listening to the rhythm of the twilight crickets, drinking their beers and enjoying the cool evening breeze. Joe cooked some sausages and lean beef steaks, served up a green salad with Spanish onion and tomato and they washed it all down with more cold beers.
‘So what’s up?’ said Mannix at last. ‘When Nora called I got the feeling it was urgent. Now I know I’m a personable guy but . . .’
David knew it was now or never. And he also knew there was no point in beating around the bush. And so he told him, straight up.
‘She asked me to represent him.’
‘What?’
‘Karin. She asked me to represent her husband. I saw her – on Saturday. She turned up at the rugby. She has sacked the first guy, the one who screwed up the arraignment, and now she wants me to be his new attorney. Says I am the only man who can save him. Says he is innocent. Says he is being framed.’
‘Jesus,’ said Mannix, not believing what he was hearing. ‘So what did you say?’
‘Nothing. I didn’t say anything. I just got up and left. I mean, I haven’t spoken to Karin in over ten years, not since she . . .’ David paused, taking a long pull on his beer before signalling Joe for another.
‘When she left me, all those years ago, it took me a long time to see things straight again. And now I have Sara and she is, well, you know how she is. We’re moving in together. Did I tell you that? Fourth of July weekend. We are packing her stuff and moving it in with mine and I can’t, I won’t jeopardise that for anything.
‘The only reason I am telling you this is because of what you said to me that day on the Harbour. You trusted me with your instincts and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least tell you what she said.’ David downed half of his beer before going on. ‘And so now you know, and my conscience is clear and maybe, just maybe, we can all move on.’
Joe nodded, the crickets creaked on and the sun finally sank below the far western wall. They sat there for a long time, listening to the sounds of the neighbourhood: a mother down the block calling her kids in for the night, the dog next door howling at the moon, the faint sounds of traffic on Centre Street. Finally Mannix broke the silence.
‘David, I’ve got a story to tell you and I don’t want you to interrupt until I’m done. Then I’m gonna tell you what I’m about to do. All I’m asking right now is that you listen – and then, well, the rest is up to you.’
And so Mannix began, telling him everything he had learned in LA – about Croker and Nancy and her murdered husband and son, about the Doyle family’s witness protection status and Nancy’s story of the mysterious Gospel Four. He told him about Robert Doyle’s prediction of the Vice President’s death, about Nancy’s certainty that the FBI were involved, about McKay’s theory on the thirty quarters, and their overall conclusion that Stuart Montgomery was being framed for a crime he did not commit.
And then he sat there in silence, swatting mosquitoes from his arms and watching his friend open another beer and finish it.
‘What do you want from me, Joe?’ said David, already hating himself for asking the question.
‘I need a lawyer to delay Nancy Doyle’s case.’
‘And . . .’
‘And . . .’ Mannix swung his feet up over the bench so that he was now facing his friend, eye to eye. ‘The thing is, David, I don’t know who I can trust. McKay and Leigh are decent cops but I’m worried that just by helping me with this, that I am jeopardising their careers. After all, we are just three Boston homicide locals with a theory that says some heavy duty Federal agents conspired to kill the Vice President. Call me naïve but my guess is that ain’t gonna make us very popular.
‘I told you the other day that I need a witness – someone on the outside who can legitimise everything we find. But to be honest, that was a lie – or at least a
gross understatement. The truth is I need someone stupid enough to put their career – maybe even their life – on the line for what we may be about to discover. I need someone who can help me work all this out, someone who knows how to tell the difference between the truth and a lie and the implications of both. I need someone who is willing to go the full mile without getting cold feet, without turning back, someone crazy enough to challenge some of the most powerful people in this country. But most of all I need a friend, to tell me when to stop if enough becomes enough, or more importantly to push on, when all else seems lost.’
Joe downed his Bud and opened another before going on.
‘Beyond that, I feel sick at the idea that I am sitting here, selfishly trying to drag you into all of this. And I will totally understand it if you tell me to go jump. What is it they say? “With friends like me you don’t need enemies”, and the enemies I’m about to make are, well, let’s just say there are no guarantees.’
David shook his head, knowing the sluggish feeling of this simple movement was due to the fast consumption of alcohol – and the weight of responsibility his friend had just proposed. He reached for another beer and opened it quickly, hoping the amber fluid would make him numb to what he had just heard – and oblivious to what he would have to decide.
‘So where would you start?’ he said at last.
‘At the Fairmont,’ said Mannix. ‘I want to go back to the beginning. Live and breathe the events of that night. Find out what was so important about that Bible and maybe in the process discover exactly how this whole thing went down.’
They drank some more before David got the courage to ask the most important question of all.
‘He’s innocent, isn’t he?’ said David, looking down, swilling the beer around in its bottle as if the answers lay in the frothy amber brew.
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘And you need me on this?’ David looked up again.
Joe said nothing, just gave him the slightest of nods.
‘Want me to make up a bed on the back porch?’ asked Joe at last. ‘I’ll wake you early, drop you home. You need to think about this, David. This is a big ask and I’ll understand if you . . .’
David was at a loss. He knew he needed time – and a clearer head – to consider what Joe had proposed. But in the end, he also knew that if Joe was in danger he could never let him face whatever he needed to face alone.
‘They serve a decent breakfast at the Fairmont?’
‘I think so,’ said Mannix. ‘You sure about this?’
David shrugged. ‘What have I got to lose except everything?’
‘I’m sorry, man,’ said Mannix at last.
‘Yeah. So am I.’
30
Pieter Capon was a tall, slim man with ash blond hair and porcelain skin. He met them in the Fairmont’s richly decorated lobby, the light of the crystal chandeliers bouncing firstly off the top of his shiny silver head and then off the front of his perfectly polished shoes, which seemed to glide over the ornate European rugs leaving no impression whatsoever.
Mannix shook his hand first, followed by David who, despite the worst hangover he had had in months, made a promise to himself to take in every word during this morning’s tour and interviews. He may not be happy with the predicament he found himself in, but that didn’t mean he would do things by halves – in fact, if this ‘case’ was as big as Mannix thought, he knew they would live – or die – by the details.
‘Thanks for meeting with us, Mr Capon,’ said Mannix.
‘The pleasure is all mine,’ said Capon with just the faintest trace of a French accent. ‘As I told Assistant Director in Charge Ramirez, anything we can do to help. We were honoured to have Vice President Bradshaw as our guest and then, obviously, horrified at the unforeseeable events that took place on that evening. I have sent my own personal condolences to Mrs Bradshaw and her family, and as I said, if there is anything else we can do.’
Capon smiled and David noted a genuineness all too rare in general managers and CEOs who have had their businesses shoved into the spotlight by unfortunate events. He got the feeling this Capon was the real deal, and was surprised to find him so willing to cooperate, especially considering the FBI must have put him through the wringer and back again.
‘If it’s okay with you, Mr Capon, we’d like to see the Presidential Suite again,’ said Mannix, ‘that is, if it’s still unoccupied.’
‘No, no. It’s free. We’ve had requests, of course, but I made the decision to withdraw the room from circulation until we felt a suitable time had passed.’
‘You’ve had requests?’ asked David.
‘Oh yes.’
‘Isn’t that kinda, I mean, I thought if anything you’d have trouble trying to . . .’
‘I understand, Mr Cavanaugh,’ said Capon. ‘But you may be surprised to know that our requests for that room have tripled in recent weeks.’
‘Unbelievable,’ said David.
‘Quite,’ said Capon, leaning into David to share this quiet confidence. ‘Unsettling but true. But let’s not get sidetracked. I know you are busy so why don’t I get Ramon to take you upstairs while I call Maeve. Maeve Barlow was the night housemaid on duty on the evening of 30 April and when you called this morning, I arranged for her to come in early just in case you wanted to speak with her.’
‘That’s very helpful,’ said David.
‘Not at all. Just follow Ramon and we shall be there directly. I’ll organise some morning tea while I’m at it.’
‘Impressive,’ said David as they followed the impeccably dressed concierge named Ramon towards the elevators.
‘Some days you just get lucky,’ said Mannix.
Concierge Ramon Cortez unlocked the door of the Presidential Suite and stood back with a slight bow, allowing the two men to enter the room. Immediately David and Mannix felt the power of the room’s elegance and size, a sensation David guessed, by the look on his detective friend’s face, had been lost on him the last time he was here.
‘Looks different minus the thirty law enforcement officials jockeying for position around the body of the late Tom Bradshaw,’ whispered Joe as if reading his mind.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said David.
The Presidential Suite, also known as the ‘John Hancock Suite’ after the American revolutionary who was first to sign the Declaration of Independence, was large, ornate and elegantly decorated with antique furnishings and locally executed art works in a neo-classic French style. Everything about it said power and opulence including the Waterford crystal chandeliers, marble bathrooms, plush pile carpets and richly coloured furnishings which stood as their own individual masterpieces in a room which, despite its grandeur, still managed an ambience of tranquillity and comfort.
‘This is . . .’ began David, taking it all in.
‘It is impressive, isn’t it,’ said Ramon. ‘You can certainly understand why every American President since William Taft has stayed at the hotel at one time or another – and most of them in this very room.’
‘Taft?’ said Mannix. ‘He was what, the twenty-fifth President from . . .’
‘The twenty-seventh actually,’ said Cortez. ‘From 1909 to 1913. President Taft stayed at the Fairmont the year that it opened, in 1912. The Hotel was constructed on the original site of the Museum of Fine Arts. It was designed by Henry Janeway Hardenbergh, the same architect who designed the Plaza in New York.’
‘It’s funny,’ said David. ‘I know I’ve never been in this room before, but it feels kind of familiar.’
‘Have you seen the Tom Cruise movie The Firm, Mr Cavanaugh?’ asked Ramon.
‘What lawyer hasn’t?’ smiled David.
Ramon smiled. ‘Then that’s it. The lobby of the hotel was featured in the film and the suite reconstructed on set.’
‘I’m glad you are impressed, Mr Cavanaugh,’ said Capon who had just entered the room with a small, pretty dark-haired girl who he introduced as Maeve Barlow. ‘I just wis
h we could all be here under more pleasant circumstances,’ he smiled and signalled for them to take a seat. ‘In any case, the refreshments are on their way and Maeve and I are at your service. Please tell us, gentlemen, what is it that you need to know?’
During Joe’s hurried but thorough briefing on their way to the hotel, he had warned David they would be working in a vacuum which had to remain separate from investigations being carried out by the FBI. And David knew this would make things extremely difficult, especially since they intended to speak to the same people being questioned by Ramirez and King. There was no foolproof way of making sure their ‘renegade’ inquiries would not get back to the FBI, but they would have to do everything they could to keep their activities secret, at least until they had time to work out exactly what was going on and, more importantly, who was involved.
That being the case, they had decided to start with Maeve Barlow. They planned to ask her a few questions before thanking her and allowing her to leave. Mannix said he thought it unlikely the young girl could be of much help considering her role was simply to complete the evening ‘turn-down’ service which took place some time prior to the Vice President’s death. But they agreed she knew this suite back to front and would be one of the few amongst them who would notice the odd thing ‘out of place’.
Capon, however, was another matter. Mannix told David he remembered seeing the impeccably dressed General Manager just outside the Presidential Suite not long after the Vice President’s death. And while Joe said he was sure Capon would have been blocked from entering the room full of law enforcement officials, David suggested a pair of civilian eyes, especially ones of his position and intelligence, could have captured some obscure observation or detail missed or dismissed by the ‘suits’ more concerned with following protocol and dealing with the crisis at hand.
Joe began by thanking Maeve Barlow for coming in early and putting her at ease with some small talk on the fine state of housekeeping at the Fairmont compared to the chaos of the Mannix household.