At that Houser started laughing. “Ms. Maldonado, Daniel Gaines would never have been able to buy my company without his father-in-law.”
She frowned. “Why is that?”
“Because the governor put up the money!” Houser laughed again. “Look, I sold them Headwaters for a hundred million dollars. This was a leveraged buyout, so they financed a great deal of the necessary capital. Two thirds. But they needed to come up with one third in cash, roughly thirty-four million. Do you know how much Daniel Gaines put up?”
“No.”
“Four million!” Surprise was evident in Houser’s voice, even after all this time. “And I found out later that even that he had to finance.”
She was scribbling furiously. “Are you saying that Web Hudson put up thirty million dollars of his own money and Daniel Gaines put up four million he had to borrow?”
“That’s correct. And the governor gave Gaines quite a sweet deal even on top of that.”
“How so?”
“It was in how they divvied up ownership of the company. Heads up, Gaines’ four million translated to an equity stake of a little less than twelve percent. But he ended up with twenty-five percent, thanks to the governor. Granted, it was Gaines who paved the way for the transaction, but nevertheless I was very surprised by the governor’s generosity.”
Houser fell silent. Alicia’s pen flew across her legal pad. So Daniel Gaines put up almost none of his own money and ended up owning twenty-five percent of Headwaters Resources? She wished she had a father-in-law like that. “Mr. Houser,” she said a few seconds later, “how do you account for it?”
The old man emitted a drawn-out sigh. Through the phone line Alicia imagined him deep in thought, choosing words, trying to explain. Finally he spoke. “Ms. Maldonado, I believe it comes down to simple human emotion. The governor didn’t have a son. I believe Daniel Gaines took the place of the boy he never had.” He paused. “I lost my own son. I can understand the feeling. But frankly, what saddens me is that I’m not convinced Gaines appreciated what the governor did for him. He didn’t exhibit the gratitude that personally I would have liked to see.”
Alicia ended the call soon after. Left in her mind was a highly unflattering picture of Daniel Gaines.
*
Milo sat in a stiff-backed Federal chair, a reporter’s notebook in his hand, his knees inches away from the shapely legs of one Molly Bracewell. Mac was posed just behind Milo’s right shoulder, his broadcast camera mounted on a tripod and pointed directly at Ms. Bracewell’s perfectly made-up face and stylishly short blond hair. Tran buzzed around setting up lighting. Their own gear was much more likely to create a positive effect than her office’s overhead fluorescents.
“I appreciate your taking the time to allow me to interview you this morning,” he told her. How true that was.
“My pleasure.” She smiled.
He guessed she spoke the truth, too. For Ms. Bracewell was giving him a look Milo recognized only too well. In this case, he was grateful that he’d morphed into the new, monkish Milo. For if he were still the old, rakish Milo, he might have been tempted to get to know her a little better, if only to ascertain exactly where she hadn’t had plastic surgery.
For Molly Bracewell was a “done” woman. All America had witnessed the transformation. It wasn’t quite as dramatic as the metamorphosis Linda Tripp, Monica Lewinsky’s fair-weather friend, had undergone, but it was impressive. Shortly after she masterminded the winning campaign of Nevada’s current governor, she went under one of Beverly Hills’ most skilled knives and emerged a new woman. True, the rejuvenated Molly Bracewell wasn’t a natural beauty, but surgery had transformed her from moderately attractive to damned good-looking. She had an easy femininity about her as well, and was exceedingly well-groomed.
“What is your official position with Governor Steele’s campaign?” Milo asked.
“I function as the strategist.” She rose to allow Tran to string a lavalier microphone up her sleek, teal-colored jacket. “Brandon and I worked together before, you know, when he ran for mayor of San Diego.”
“Of course.” And of course Steele had won.
Molly Bracewell had let no moss grow beneath her stilettos. Milo’s sources told him that Gaines couldn’t have been dead more than forty-eight hours before she lined up her next gig. And that was with the incumbent governor, Gaines’ most serious competition. She’d kept mum on her new job until a seemly two weeks passed, but then made sure Steele held a splashy news conference to announce that he’d brought her on board. Different parties, rival candidates, opposing platforms meant nothing to her. All she cared about was riding a horse that would win. Milo both admired her ambition and found its nakedness off-putting.
She resumed her seat, her mike wired. “So Newsline had been planning to profile Daniel?”
“It was under discussion before he was killed, yes.”
She arched her brow. “But you still want to do the story?”
“It’s no longer a profile of Daniel Gaines but a broader look at the governor’s races in the western states.”
Tran interrupted. “I need to check volume levels. Ms. Bracewell, would you please count to ten?”
Tran fussed with the knobs on his audio box until he was satisfied with the result, then put Milo through the same exercise. There was some strain between correspondent and crew since the showdown at WBS headquarters, but Milo trusted that with time and exemplary behavior on his part, that would pass.
Molly Bracewell pulled out a compact to do one last pre-taping check of her already flawless face, then looked past the metallic sphere to meet Milo’s eyes. “I hope you’ll come back to Sacramento to interview Brandon.” She smiled.
“I would love the opportunity.” Milo smiled back. He was walking a thin line here—exercising professional charm without raising other, more personal expectations—but knew he’d be much more likely to get what he wanted out of Molly Bracewell if she were predisposed toward him. That would be true both when the camera was running and when it had stopped. Now was not the time to rob her of any illusions.
Mac spoke up, the soft whir of his camera audible in the silent office. “We’ve got speed.”
Milo nodded. “Let’s get started.”
An hour later Milo regarded Molly Bracewell across the booth they’d secured at Il Fornaio restaurant, a few blocks from Steele’s campaign headquarters near the state capitol building. The restaurant was housed in a grand, high-ceilinged space, and attractively outfitted with tufted chocolate-brown banquettes and big Italian ceramic pots holding gargantuan sprays of exotic flowers. Yet his companion was no less impressive than the decor.
Molly Bracewell had proven herself a fabulous interview. She was better than most of her candidates at generating perfect sound bites. Ask her a hard question and she concocted a response that managed to sound both believable and sincere, all while keeping her cool as the lens zoomed in on her features.
They were past the first course and into their entrees. Pasta with Maine lobster and brandy sauce for her; garlic sauteed prawns and roasted potatoes for him. Pellegrino for both, this being lunch and a workday.
Milo judged that by now, Molly Bracewell was sufficiently comfortable with him to delve into the tawdrier gossip. “So,” he said, “tell me what it was really like to work with Daniel Gaines.”
She arched her tweezed brow. “Off the record?”
“Of course.”
“Even off the record,” she said, a teasing glint in her eye, which clearly had been enhanced with an aqua-tinted contact lens, “I’m reluctant to tell you what I really think. It’s terrible form to malign the dead.”
“Was he that bad?”
“Oh”—she made a dismissive wave of her hand—“he was hopeless. If he weren’t Web Hudson’s son-in-law, he wouldn’t have had a chance in hell of getting elected dog-catcher.”
Milo sipped his Pellegrino. “What was his problem?”
She began ticking off on her
manicured fingers. “A, he wasn’t that smart. B, he thought he was. C, he was bad at taking direction. And D, he had absolutely no discipline.”
“Why did you work for him then?”
“Because he was going to win.” She leaned across the white linen, her manner conspiratorial. “He had movie-star looks, connections to die for, no pun intended, and an enormous amount of money backing him up.” She fell back against the banquette. “I never have that much to work with.”
Molly Bracewell was silent for a moment, dabbing the white linen napkin at the edges of her very pink lips, then spoke again. “Of course, those connections were a double-edged sword.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well.” She leaned forward again. “His wife was a disaster. She was a total wild card. We were constantly worried she’d derail Daniel somehow.” Then her features contorted and she slammed backward into the banquette, hiding her face under her right hand. “Oh, my God, Milo, I am so sorry. I forgot you two were involved once.”
Apparently Ms. Bracewell was a tabloid reader. Well, she did need to keep her finger on the pulse of the nation. “That was a long time ago,” he said mildly.
She peeked at him coyly from under her hand. “No hard feelings?”
He spread his hands as if in innocence, then laughed. “I’d love to hear more.”
“Hm.” She lowered her hand and shrugged. Molly Bracewell clearly enjoyed the gossip game, which at that moment was good news for Milo. “Well, I would say that Joan Gaines had a loose grip on reality. I remember Daniel telling me that she’d asked him if he married her only because she was Web Hudson’s daughter.” She shook her head. “He laughed and laughed, then said to me, ‘What other reason could I have had?’ I felt sorry for her that day, which believe me was a rare sensation.”
Milo, too, felt a pang for Joan, but it was fleeting. At this point he was more inclined to wonder whether that painful exchange had given Joan a motive for murder. He eyed Molly Bracewell, who clearly was primed to share confidences. “Were you and Daniel close?” he asked.
She laughed. “Do you mean were we having an affair?”
Blunt little vixen, wasn’t she? “Not to put too fine a point on it.”
“No, we weren’t, though he was certainly more than willing.”
“And you?”
She leaned forward. “Milo, if I slept with every”—she paused—“politician who asked me, I’d never get out of bed.”
Again she smiled. Milo smiled back, though he found it an odd and uncomfortable sensation. The old Milo invariably fulfilled this sort of promise; the new one would back off.
He topped off her Pellegrino from their shared bottle. “What about his father-in-law? What did you think of him?”
“Oh, he was marvelous. Brilliant. Totally out of Daniel’s league. But I have to tell you”—and her voice took on a note of genuine surprise—“he had a blind spot where Daniel was concerned.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Do you know he named Daniel trustee of his living trust?”
“You’re kidding.” Milo frowned. “I would’ve thought he would have named his wife.”
“He should have.” Molly Bracewell shook her head. “Because I got the distinct impression that Daniel went wild with that money. I know he did something with the trust that really pissed Joan off. They had an enormous argument. She even moved into a hotel for a few days.”
“Do you know what it was about?”
“I wish I did.”
“When was it?”
Molly Bracewell narrowed her eyes. “I did specify off the record, Milo.”
“I realize that, Molly. Don’ t worry.” He gave her his most convincing smile. “I’m just curious.” This time he did the leaning forward. “Didn’t you want to know what it was about?”
“Of course I did.” She kept her gaze level. “But Daniel died before I could pry it out of him.”
Milo caught his breath. “So this happened—”
“Not long before he was murdered.” She paused. “About two weeks before.”
They were silent for a time, eyeing each other. The lunchtime crowd buzzed around them, claiming tables, exiting tables, eating, laughing, chatting. Oblivious to the life-and-death questions that hovered like a shadow over the third booth by the east window.
It was Molly Bracewell who spoke first. “I thought the same thing that you are, for about thirty seconds. But it’s got to be Treebeard. The evidence against him is overwhelming. You know, his lawyer came to see me.”
“Jerome Brown?”
“Nice guy. But he’s clutching at straws.” She laughed. “He was trying to find out if I was pissed at Daniel. Me! Why would I want Daniel dead? I was planning to ride that horse all the way to the White House.”
Milo kept his tone mild. “Since there’s all that DNA evidence against Treebeard, maybe Brown is thinking Treebeard might have been framed.”
“Well, maybe he was. But you have to be smart to set somebody up for murder.” Molly Bracewell raised her index finger in the air. “And knowing Joan Gaines the way I do? That woman is not capable of pulling something like this off.” She shook her head in a vigorous motion that brooked no argument. “If Treebeard didn’t do it, I applaud whoever set him up. They were brilliant. And believe me, that doesn’t describe Joan Gaines.”
Milo nodded. He wouldn’t think so, either. But so much lately was different from what it had appeared to be.
*
Joan paced the cream-colored carpet of her master bedroom, very surprised at the e-mails she’d been reading on Daniel’s desktop computer. They actually made her think more highly of him. Who would have thought Daniel was clever enough to devise a way to give Headwaters a cash infusion that required only some surreptitious tree cutting? A bit of work on the side that several Humboldt County lumbermen apparently were quite willing to perform? Then a quiet shipment or two overseas, the details of which Daniel had already ironed out?
Yet here was this clever plan, “all teed up” as Daniel liked to say. True, it was risky. It was dangerous. But it had one characteristic Joan believed true of the best schemes and the most convincing lies: supreme boldness.
Ideas began to percolate in her head as she gazed about her master bedroom. She was back in her home again, thanks to her mother forcing her out of the Lodge. If only her father had named her trustee after Daniel! Then she would have much more control over her financial fate. At least this bedroom was a joy. She’d allowed Daniel to have the first floor done in the contemporary style he so admired—all metal and glass, the only colors neutral taupes, grays, and whites—but her taste reigned supreme in the bedrooms, where she’d gone wild with Italian Provincial furnishings and yellow, blue, and green Florentine prints. At the moment she was clashing wildly, dressed in her red silk peignoir, but she was sick to death of wearing black.
She shivered and drew the thin fabric closer around her body. It was disconcerting how she felt Daniel all around her in this house. They had never been together at the Lodge; there it was almost as if he had never existed. But here ... She could imagine him at any moment emerging from the master bathroom, his powerful body wrapped in a white towel, his pectoral muscles flexing as he towel dried his thick blond hair. Or she could hear him striding across the oak hardwood of the first floor, talking loudly into the cordless phone, conducting a meeting with campaign aides grouped in the living room. In the last weeks of his life, this house had been a cauldron of activity. Now it was silent. And empty.
Outside the bay window, the sun was gone from the sky, though a residual orange glow rose from the surface of the Pacific. The usual assortment of joggers, gawkers, and dog walkers made their way along Scenic’s curving path, high on the bluff.
Joan forced herself to walk out of the master bedroom and back down the long corridor to Daniel’s home office. Again she sat down in front of his computer, set up just as it had been when he was alive. It gave her the creeps. Piles of campaig
n stationery were still stacked on the desk, the “Gaines for Governor!” letterhead cheering at her in red, white, and blue. This afternoon was the first time since he’d died that she’d bothered to boot up the computer. Some mix of boredom and curiosity had prompted her to probe what secrets it might contain. And led her to ... this.
The basics were simple. She’d learned them from Daniel. The Forest Service prohibited logging companies from cutting trees more than thirty inches in diameter—the so-called ancient trees—to protect the irreplaceable old-growth forest. The loggers didn’t like that because it meant that the biggest and most valuable trees were off limits. Tensions ran high on both sides because so few of those trees were even left. But everyone understood the regulations, and flouting them meant both stiff penalties and a public outcry, neither of which wanna-be politician Daniel Gaines would tolerate.
What Joan hadn’t known was that however valuable those trees were in the U.S., they were worth scads more in Asia. She laughed out loud. There were a few suggestive emails from a Mr. Fukugawa in Tokyo to prove it. Of course, she had to read between the lines, because this Fukugawa fellow was smart enough not to spell everything out. Thank God! Otherwise the cops might have gotten a whiff of what was about to begin.
And Daniel had figured out how to spin it if he ever got caught. He would claim either that the trees were dead or that he was conducting “fire-risk reduction,” which gave him leeway to chop them. And make a killing! Hundreds of thousands of dollars per tree. After the lumbermen got their take, that certainly would have helped Headwaters’ bottom line.
Daniel must have been seriously worried about the red ink, she thought, because this was a risky proposition. He’d always made a big show of claiming that Headwaters was environmentally responsible. But what if one of the lumbermen squealed? Or got greedy and said he would squeal if he didn’t get more money?
Joan looked up from the computer, overcome by a rare wave of admiration for her husband. This was a ballsy scheme. It saddened her to think he had concocted it without breathing a word to her. True, he never talked to her about the business, which she always resented. After all, she almost had her MBA! Her eyes teared with renewed anger. They might have been a team, like her parents, if only Daniel had let her in.
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