For the sake of argument, Jake let another voice in his head respond, but when he heard what it said, he wished he’d gagged it: You’ve always measured yourself against Porter, and whenever Porter had something you wanted, you managed to steal it. Girlfriends in college. Clerkships in law school. Cases as a young lawyer starting out. You pushed Porter to find things he knew you wouldn’t want: Suzanne, politics, Las Vegas. That’s why Porter kept Kelly a secret. She had the power to free him from a life he didn’t really want. Because somewhere in his subconscious brain, Porter knew you would have wanted Kelly.
Shit. Now he was sounding paranoid even to himself. Porter had loved politics and had loved Suzanne, once. As for Vegas, well, you had to live somewhere.
Jake smoothed his hand over the paper and stared at the picture as if he could make Kelly talk, make her tell him her whereabouts, her likes, her dislikes. She’d told Porter about her past. Immediately Jake felt a slug of depression ooze up from his solar plexus and settle wetly on his heart. Porter had loved this woman—Jake knew this for certain somehow—in spite of everything. In spite of her past, the kind that had produced two kids by the time she was twenty. In spite of her line of work, as a seductress who had perfected the art of arousing dicks. If Porter hadn’t loved her, he never would have risked so much for her—his political career, his marriage, his children. The slug pressed down more heavily. He thought of Kelly’s portrait hanging, anonymously to the rest of the world but brazenly visible, in Porter’s office. Kelly and Porter had the kind of love Jake had never even come close to and, he was slowly coming to realize, never would.
Jake brought his glass to his lips and tried to pour the rest of the water down his throat without swallowing. He got about two-thirds of it in before it trickled out the corners of his mouth. He closed his lips and let the liquid pool under his tongue. Kelly had loved Porter. Son of a bitch. Jake recognized the crazy reality: how much he now wanted Kelly to love him, too.
CHAPTER 9
EXCEPT FOR THE STEEP HILLS AND THE OCCASIONAL funeral cortege snaking through the grounds, Forest Lawn Cemetery in Los Angeles could have been a golf course. Vast, lush lawns rolled up and down inclines and across flat expanses. Groves of eucalyptus trees slouched along the perimeter, dangling leaves and scent. The still air was shushed by the 134, the freeway sweeping along the base of the property toward Griffith Park. A fountain in the center of a giant lake at the entrance continually shot a plume of water thirty feet in the air. The few buildings were mock-Gothic, as if a Yale undergrad had won a competition to design them. The graves themselves were virtually invisible, almost an afterthought, marked by small bronze plaques laid flat in the grass.
Jake stood under a white tent beside the open grave. His left arm enveloped Suzanne Garrett, who wept silently into his chest. Jake’s right hand rested on the dark head of Ian, Porter’s nine-year-old son. Porter’s daughter, fourteen-year-old Anna, stood behind her brother and held tightly to Jake’s forearm, resting her temple against his bicep, her blonde hair flowing down the back of his arm. Her look of disbelief was mirrored in the faces of the other mourners; distilled on hers, however, it resculpted her adolescent beauty into a portrait of hardened adulthood.
A gospel choir in purple robes covered the silence with their voices. The singers—a multiracial group of children ranging in age from six to sixteen—swayed with the beat and hummed reverently behind the soloist who was belting out “Amazing Grace.”
Hundreds of mourners made up a crowd as ethnically diverse as the choir. Suzanne’s family and Porter’s closest political friends were represented, as well as allies, supporters, donors, and believers. Porter had had an appeal that cut across gender, race, and age. Jake noticed one silver-haired woman, richly dressed in black crepe, moving her toe to the music, although she was off the beat. In the row behind her, a woman bounced a baby in her arms. In the distance, Jake spied a cluster of media vultures, their telescopic lenses trying to capture every tear in the eyes of the immaculately dressed and groomed politicians who were all sunk deep in the act of mourning.
The song finished and the choir shuffled into chairs reserved for them. The priest stepped forward, intoned a few words, and then nodded to Jake. Jake led Porter’s family forward, and each tossed a single white rose onto the coffin. The long silence was punctuated by sniffs and the tentative sound of noses being discreetly blown in public. The singers’ robes rustled in the breeze while the mourners performed an unchoreographed dance with their hands—dabbing eyes with handkerchiefs, burying whole faces in palms, brushing hair out of eyes and off foreheads. At last Jake led the family back under the tent and helped them into their chairs. The priest gestured, and four workers began filling the grave with dirt.
With the ceremony over, some of the crowd began walking toward their cars, but most hung around in small groups, hugging each other and talking softly. A few loud voices rang out. A line formed under the tent beside Suzanne, who grasped each hand and air-kissed each cheek that was offered her. Jake stood at her side and murmured that she could get into the car anytime she wanted to, but she replied that she intended to greet every guest and acknowledge the support. As he had many times during the two decades he had known her, Jake marveled at her stoicism, her admirable public face that concealed so much—until he noticed her assistant, Cassie, leading a small posse of reporters and photographers up the hill to the gravesite. He watched Suzanne angle her body in their direction, keeping her eyes earnestly on her well-wishers.
She’s campaigning, thought Jake, disgusted and amazed by her gall. But it all made sense. Porter had been neck and neck with Theodore Henckle, his rival in the Senate campaign. With Suzanne’s connection to the governor and the Democratic National Committee, she could easily be appointed to Porter’s seat in the House. But if she could keep the public’s support, she actually stood a chance of winning the Senate seat herself. It had been done before. And the Senate meant real political power.
Jake smiled woodenly as the mourners trooped by and tried to keep his exhaustion out of his face. His mind was clicking through what he had learned since yesterday. After seeing Alana Sutter at the Dragon Bar, he had flown to Los Angeles. On the plane, he’d called Allan Rich, who managed the art of Sidney Randolph Maurer, and arranged to visit Maurer’s studio on his way into town from the airport.
Seconds after Jake had rung the doorbell, the heavy door had been opened by a short, bald man with a big round belly and a familiar face. Allan Rich was a fantastic talker, so in addition to hearing everything there was to know about Sidney Randolph Maurer and his career, Jake soon learned his host had been a character actor in the 1950s but, after being blacklisted, had become an art dealer. The peak of his career had been discovering and promoting the famous artist. As he showed Jake around Maurer’s studio, Rich told him story after story about the celebrities who used to come there to pose. Finally Jake was able to ask about Kelly. He described the portrait of Kelly’s face. Rich said he remembered a man paying a lot of money for Maurer to take a picture of his young wife.
“She was the most beautiful young woman I’d seen in a long time. She had danger in her eyes. Sidney loved that. Although he doesn’t usually do private commissions, he made an exception in her case. It was also an exceptional amount of money. The young woman called a while ago, maybe a year or so, and asked if there was a negative and could I make her another print. She was so pleasant, but she also seemed so sad. Something about her made me feel I had to help her.”
“Do you remember her name?” asked Jake.
Rich replied without hesitation. “St. Clair. Natalie St. Clair.”
Jake had been surprised. Just like that, so easily, he had the link between Natalie St. Clair and Kelly Jensen. But there were other factors: Kelly had a husband? Kelly changed her name? Everything he had seen so far had led him to believe she was a single mom.
Jake was deep in thought when he suddenly heard a voice from behind his shoulder that zoomed him back to the pr
esent—the funeral.
“Damn shame, damn loss.”
Randy Carlen came up behind Jake and clapped him on the back with his left hand while sliding his other hand down to rest on Suzanne’s lower back. It was an oddly intimate pose, territorial and comforting at the same time. Jake was surprised. He didn’t know that Carlen and Suzanne had ever even met each other.
Jake stood there awkwardly with Carlen squeezed between Suzanne and him. The smell of cigars wafted up from Carlen’s clothes. Suzanne didn’t seem to mind.
A woman approached. “My deepest condolences,” she quavered in the British-sounding diction of the moneyed classes of another era. “Porter was a wonderful man. His mother and I were friends in Washington. I watched him grow up.”
Suzanne accepted the woman’s hand. It was the silver-haired woman Jake had noticed moving awkwardly to the music during the service. Behind her blue-tinted sunglasses, her eyes were swollen and red. A wide-brimmed black hat shaded one side of her face.
“Did you come all the way from Washington?” asked Suzanne politely.
“I live here now,” the woman replied in her thin voice. “But your husband touched my heart; he was a very special person. I followed his career closely. He would have made a great senator.”
“Thank you for your kind words.” Suzanne smiled, her gaze already shifting to the next mourner in line.
Carlen muttered his refrain, “Damn shame,” and shook the older woman’s hand.
“Thank you for coming,” murmured Jake. The woman’s hand in her black glove felt like a bag of sticks.
“I’m Lydia Haines,” she creaked. “Are you family, too?”
Jake cleared his throat. “Jake Brooks. A close friend.”
“Well, we all need those.”
The woman smiled tightly. She didn’t look well. She seemed pale and pained, and Jake noticed her pink lipstick had been applied with a shaky hand.
All heads turned in the direction of a black Mercedes limousine whooshing up the hill and stopping with a crunch of tires. The driver’s door opened, and a huge man in a dark suit got out. He loped around to the passenger door and held it open. Another man, tall and lean, emerged.
“Who’s that?” Jake murmured to Carlen.
“Todd Gillis.”
“Really?” Jake was intrigued. He’d heard of the investment banker and his donations to Porter’s campaign. He’d also heard of his arrogance and flash. Jake watched as Gillis approached a group of businessmen, trailed by his hulking bodyguard. Around six-foot-three, with salt-and-pepper hair, Gillis wore a handsomely cut charcoal gray suit. He seemed to be between forty-five and fifty, and he exuded power and control.
“Nice of him to come to the ceremony,” Jake muttered dismissively.
“No, you have the wrong idea,” answered Carlen. “The guy’s a real altruist. The kids singing here today? They’re from a group home—what used to be called an orphanage.”
“I know what a group home is,” Jake growled impatiently.
“Gillis owns this one. His charity runs it. Two hundred kids, staff, psychologists, teachers. Gillis is paying for it all.” Carlen looked sheepish. “It makes me feel bad about what I do with all my money.” He brightened. “But then I get over it. Hey, whoa—”
Lydia Haines had doubled over. She appeared to be choking. Jake leaped to her side and bent over to look at her face. She held a handkerchief over her nose and mouth.
“Can you talk?” urged Jake.
Lydia Haines waved him off.
“Can you talk?” repeated Jake more forcefully. He moved closer, preparing to perform the Heimlich maneuver if necessary.
“Yes,” she croaked. “Please, I’m fine.” She coughed some more, still doubled over. “Old age is not for sissies.”
“Do you need help?” asked Jake, worried. It wasn’t a hot day, so it couldn’t be heatstroke. Perhaps standing in line so long had weakened her. “Let me walk you to your car.”
“Thank you,” whispered the woman. Jake supported her elbow with one hand and wrapped the other around her waist, guiding her gently down the hill. Her high-heeled pumps sank into the lawn with every step. As they approached the road, Jake saw a taxi waiting.
“This is my cab. Thank you for your chivalry.” Lydia Haines glanced up at Jake, still holding the handkerchief to her mouth. He helped her into the backseat.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked. “I can get you a bottle of water.”
She waved him off again. “You’ve been too kind already. Let’s go, please, driver.”
Jake shut the door firmly, still worried. He saw the old lady sinking down in her seat as the cab drove away. By the time it was almost out of sight, he couldn’t even see the top of her head.
Jake turned back to the tent. There were still a half dozen people waiting to greet Suzanne. Carlen had left her side and now stood with a group of men that included Todd Gillis. Jake watched Gillis for a moment, a kingmaker among kingmakers.
What Carlen had been telling him about group homes wasn’t news to Jake. He’d had enough experience as a criminal defender to know a thing or two about them. He didn’t doubt Gillis’s altruism, but he also knew it wasn’t only his money going into the home. For every child ranked at level 11 (very difficult), Gillis—or his foundation—would receive $10,000 to $11,000 per month from the state and federal governments. Most group homes housed such high-ranking kids. Still, it took a certain kind of person to choose to get involved with that kind of charity, and Jake had to admit a grudging respect for what Gillis did.
Jake felt a sudden stab of guilt about his mixed feelings. Porter had never begrudged charity and made giving to others look easy. Jake thought about how Porter had behaved on the campaign trail, clasping hands in his trademark double-handed bear grasp. A born leader, Porter had been unusually skilled at making each person he greeted feel like the only one in the room. Watching him work a room had been a lesson in human dignity. His friend’s strong features and rangy presence gave him an all-American appeal. His self-deprecating sense of humor and talent for delivering pithy sound bites had been helping him poll well with both Democrats and Republicans, no mean feat in the polarized political arena. The DNC had been falling all over itself preparing for his presidential bid in four years.
Now, to Jake’s amazement, he stood at his friend’s grave, watching everyone—those who were overcome by jealousy and had secretly hated him, and those who had loved him—trying to be on their best behavior. The businessmen standing with Carlen chuckled softly. Carlen leaned forward into the group and said something. As the men laughed, Carlen whispered to the man next to him.
Suddenly Jake felt a movement at his side.
“You lost me a rather substantial bet.”
Jake turned. Todd Gillis stood beside him.
“I’m sorry to say I bet against you—a spur-of-the-moment whim. You can be sure I won’t do that again. It set me back around a million.”
In the millisecond before responding, Jake considered his reaction, and every muscle in his face awaited his command. He decided on reserve. One eyebrow lifted. His mouth curled.
“The Pantelli case?” prompted Gillis, not at all put off by Jake’s demeanor.
“I’m afraid I can’t take the credit,” answered Jake. “The jury decided the verdict based on the evidence presented.”
“Todd Gillis.” Gillis held out his hand.
Jake shook it. “Jake Brooks.”
Each man held the grip a second longer than usual.
Gillis grinned. “Tell me something. Was she innocent? The Platinum Widow?”
It seemed to Jake as though the case had been decided years ago, although it had been just a few weeks. Jake had managed to clear the good name of Jeanette Pantelli, the notorious Platinum Widow, saving her from conviction for the murder of her husband, Chubby Pantelli, despite testimony from a hit man claiming that Jeanette had hired him to pull the trigger. Jake had hammered the jury, the television cameras,
and Jeanette herself with the message of her innocence—so much so, even she’d ended up believing it. He’d tracked down expert witnesses and dismantled the testimony of prosecution witnesses. The trial had lasted three months. The jury had deliberated for sixteen days, but at last they’d found her not guilty.
In the post-trial publicity, Jake had kept on message: Mrs. Pantelli was not guilty and the justice system had prevailed. Yet privately, Jake couldn’t take all the credit for the victory: The jury consultants had been top-notch. The ruling left the widow the sole owner of a dozen lucrative establishments in Las Vegas and Atlantic City, as well as clubs and restaurant chains around the country and even a theme park outside Pittsburgh.
Jake considered Gillis now. His eyes had a playful quality to them, echoed in the lines around his mouth, which looked teasing or amused, depending on your point of view. Everything else about Gillis was polished and sharp. More than he cared to admit, Jake wanted to hate this guy. Still, there was something appealing in Gillis’s bluntness.
“Everyone’s innocent until proven guilty.”
Gillis grinned. “So they say.” He softened his voice. “You were a friend of the congressman.”
“I knew him a long time. You?”
“I liked what I saw. Straight shooter. Fair. Heart in the right place, for politics anyway.”
Gillis’s bodyguard shuffled up and whispered something to his boss.
“It’s been a pleasure to meet you,” declared Gillis abruptly, patting the back of Jake’s jacket. “Yes, a pleasure,” he repeated. “Let’s do it again.” Gillis moved quickly down the hill.
Jake realized he needed to get back to Suzanne.
“I’m just about finished here,” she whispered when he took his place next to her. Jake led her down to her limousine. As he helped her into the backseat, she bumped her head on the doorframe. She gritted her teeth together until Jake had gotten in the other side and pulled the door shut. Then, like a three-year-old, she burst into tears.
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