Chapter 14
Mugging for photographers, Scarlett Donovan put her arm around her husband and brought forth the same smile she had used to win the North Carolina Terpsichorean Ball at the age of eighteen. The debutant’s smile was magnificent but rarely was it genuine. What she had perfected almost twenty-five years ago had undergone a series of refinements and was now the equivalent of a silver bullet, a finely honed instrument she could use to excite, or beguile, or melt hearts with simple adjustments. It was the emotional equivalent of a broad-spectrum antibiotic. She always took a moment to consider her purpose before exposing her bleached white teeth. Her hand dropped and she patted her husband’s fanny the moment the photographers walked away. “That picture will look great in tomorrow’s paper, Jimmy.” She bordered an imaginary headline with her thumbs and pointer fingers. “I can see it now: Donovan Supports Cancer Kids.”
“I hope so. I can’t stand that runt Bichon. I hope he doesn’t hang all over me tonight. He has a way of making my skin crawl.”
“Just tell him to piss off, darling. He’s a mere state congressman and you’re going to be the next president of the United States.”
“That not withstanding, the man is still a pest.”
“A pest who invited you here this evening for photo ops of a lifetime. Every hoi polloi Long Island housewife will wet her panties when they see that you have a big heart to match those beautiful blue eyes and square jaw. Go make nice to some sick kids and make the voters swoon. Just make sure the photographers are lurking about when you do.”
He kissed her on the lips and smiled. “My dear, you are calculating to a fault.”
She tried to back away but couldn’t avoid him in time. “Why, you awful man, you smeared my lipstick.” She had her compact open in an instant, examining her makeup. She twisted the base, but the lipstick just barely extended above the top of the cylinder. “I’m running low,” she said as she reapplied her Lancôme Absolute Rouge. “This is the one I wear when I go down on you, darling.”
The southern belle and the East End millionaire were an odd pairing in every way but one; the old-money couple was ravenously power hungry. Their strategy was simple, devour everything that comes in your path.
He snorted. “I thought that was your blowjob red.”
“You’re so observant, but I’m not. Where are we tonight, anyway? We’re in Albany one night and Rye the next. I just can’t keep track, and all these Yankee towns look exactly alike.”
“Hauppauge. You didn’t see all the signs on the Long Island Expressway? You’ve been on Long Island often enough. Still drawing a blank?”
“I don’t pay attention to these things. Did we need our passports … visas … shots? I don’t recall going through immigration.”
“You truly are a cynical bitch.”
She blotted her fresh lipstick and said, “Guilty as charged,” before checking her face in the mirror one last time.
“I mean, they have a Hyatt here. It can’t be all bad.”
“They have Hyatt hotels in China, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to start eating my corn pone with chopsticks.”
“You really do live in another world, don’t you?”
She glanced around, examining the décor with disapproval. “Yes, and fortunately it’s not this one. Have you ever seen anything so cliché? Why, they might as well have built the place with a child’s Lego blocks. A five-year-old could’ve done a better job with the décor. Do they give a discount to teamsters?”
“This isn’t my first time here, not by a long shot. But you should know that.”
“Heaven forefend, Jimmy. Once is bad enough, but to suffer the indignity of this menagerie over and over again? Dear Lord, that’s absolutely barbaric. Had I known, I would’ve suggested you send your lapdog Mike Stevens in your place.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad, and it wasn’t always a Hyatt.”
“No? Don’t tell me. Was it a stockyard? I can envision a giant silo filled with grain and a yard filled with hogs.”
“You’re too much, Scarlett. Thank God you only share your most private prejudices with me. Actually, it was a resort called the Beacon Hill and it used to really jump. My father brought me here when he was still running the union. All the big names used to come here, Tony Bennett and Sammy Davis Jr. I think Dino even came here once. It was a big hangout for Long Island’s rich and influential.”
“Well then, what the hell happened to it?”
Something caught his eye before he could respond. “Oh no. Bichon’s coming this way,” he warned.
Toby Bichon had a narrow mustache and a horseshoe of hair atop his otherwise hairless head. His suits fit him terribly, and the one he now wore was no exception. His shoulders were weak and drooped at steep angles. Fashion designer Elsa Schiaparelli must certainly have had Bichon’s anatomical shortcomings in mind when she made shoulder pads popular in the 1930s. He was a mere morsel of a man who made up for his diminutive stature with a seemingly endless supply of determination and tenacity.
“Oh dear.” Scarlett braced herself when she noticed Bichon making his way toward them with an entourage of local reporters following closely behind him.
“He’s like gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe.”
“And he’s bringing the unwashed masses with him.” She glared at him. “Careful how you deal with the fourth estate, darling. Even a small-time reporter can have big-time influence. Better mind your Ps and Qs.”
“Yes, my love.” He straightened his necktie and framed a large smile. “How’s this?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth. “Am I showing enough teeth?”
“A bit too much, darling. You look like the homely coed ready to give it up at her first kegger.”
He snorted and closed his mouth a bit. “Better?”
“Perfect. Now pucker up and kiss Bichon’s itty-bitty ass.”
Bichon approached with the velocity of a wrecking ball, hand extended, eyes gleaming with determination. “Senator Donovan, an absolute pleasure. So good to see you again.” He shook hands with Donovan and then gave Scarlett a polite hug, careful not to make actual contact with her cheek when he kissed her hello. “Mrs. Donovan, you look ravishing as always.”
“Well, of course I do,” she said good-humoredly. “I don’t run five miles a day for my health.”
“No?” Bichon asked with a peaked eyebrow.
“No,” she replied with a subtle back and forth movement of her head.
“If it were anyone else but you, I’d disagree,” Bichon said with an amused grin on his face and then turned to Donovan. “Enjoying your trip home, Senator?”
The Donovan family owned a sprawling compound on East Hampton Beach, the largest residentially owned parcel in the town. Donovan’s father was originally a potato farmer, who bought every available acre of East Hampton property way back when it could be gotten for pennies an acre. At one time considered almost worthless, the value of their land had grown astronomically. The potato fields were now gone, and in their place were resorts, spas, and mansions. The family’s real estate holdings were worth hundreds of millions of dollars.
“This is where I grew up,” Donovan said in a humble voice. “I kissed the ground the moment we touched down on the runway.”
In our private jet, Scarlett mused. She gleamed over her husband’s contrived humility. Marvelous line of bullshit, darling—keep it coming.
“How are things in your district?” Donovan asked.
“Always challenging. I suppose you’ve heard all about the toxic dumping at Francisco Desicero Park.”
“Trust me, I’ve heard plenty, Congressman.” He waited for the reporters to join the conversation before continuing. “Congressman, if I live to be a hundred, I don’t think I’ll ever understand how any man or woman can put greed before Mother Nature and the well-being of his fellow man. What good is money if you can’t fill your lungs with fresh air? What good is water if we can’t use it to quench our thirst? But ambitious men and women w
ill always put their fellow neighbors at risk so that they can line their pockets, and the dumping at Francisco Desicero Park is a prime example of just how insensitive some can be regarding the welfare of others. We’ve legislated some of the toughest laws on the books to prevent atrocities just like this from happening, and still unscrupulous individuals risk financial penalties and prison every single day of the week. Being the planet’s policeman is a tough job, but someone has to do it, and I’m happy to own that responsibility. I’ll make sure that this matter is fully investigated and that the guilty are punished to the fullest extent of the law.”
Donovan was perhaps the best extemporaneous orator in contemporary politics. His diatribe was so impressive that the local reporters actually applauded.
Donovan raised his hand as a show of modesty. “Thank you, but unnecessary. I just said what needed to be said, not an ounce more, not an ounce less.”
One of the reporters leaned in with his microphone. “Senator Donovan, when will you officially declare your candidacy for the next presidential election?”
“When did this become a press conference?” Donovan bantered. “I’m here to pay some much-needed attention to some sick children, and I will allow politics no quarter this evening.” He looked past the reporters to where a tall teenage boy was pushing another teen in a wheelchair into the main dining room. He locked arms with his wife. “Come, darling, let’s share the love.” Turning back to the reporters, he said, “Now if you good folks of the press want something to write about, follow Congressman Bichon, my wife, and me into the dining room, and let’s give some good kids the acknowledgement they so richly deserve.”
The press followed the power trio like sheep from the lobby into the main dining room, where several tables had been set without a full complement of chairs so that children in wheelchairs could be rolled into place. Arm in arm with his wife, Donovan sauntered toward those tables, stopping occasionally to shake a hand or acknowledge a supporter. The two clean-cut teens he had seen minutes earlier were seated together at one of the tables. The boy sitting in a dining room chair had thick black hair. Donovan could see as he approached the lad that he was handsome and had piercing aqua eyes. The other boy wore a cap and it was somewhat obvious that he was bald. It wasn’t until he was almost upon them that he realized that the boys were twins. “Hello, boys,” he said, greeting them robustly. Coming up from behind them, he placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “I’m Senator Jim Donovan. I’m thrilled that you could join us this evening.”
Matt and Blake Corey looked over their shoulders. Matt, the boy with the dark hair, gasped while Blake gagged on his dinner roll.
“Easy now, boys. I just wanted to say hello—no reason to get excited. How are you doing tonight?”
“G-good,” Matt said.
“And you?” Donovan smiled at Blake and patted his shoulder.
Photographers and reporters lined up on the opposite side of the table, facing Donovan and the twins. The strobes on the photographers’ cameras flashed without stop.
“Fine, sir,” Blake replied.
“You two fine-looking men here to have a good time tonight?”
“Yes, sir,” Blake said.
Donovan asked their names and they responded in turn.
“We brought our appetites,” Matt added and then turned to his brother momentarily. His smile faded noticeably. “At least I did, sir.”
“Aw, cut out the sir business, would you, fellows? Call me Jim.” He kneeled so that he was eye level with Blake. “How are you feeling, son?”
“Pretty good today. Thanks for asking.”
Donovan lifted Blake’s cap with his finger and smiled as he glanced under it. “I see you’ve gone for that rugged Vin Diesel look.” He glanced at Matt. “I’m surprised your brother didn’t do likewise. I hear the smooth look is all the rage with the ladies these days.”
The boys grinned at his remark.
He turned to Scarlett. “What do you think, honey?” He ran his hand over his wavy shortly cropped hair. “Should I cut it all off?”
“Oh dear God, yes!” she said enthusiastically. “Bald is the new handsome.”
Even at her most modest, Scarlett Donovan’s sexuality could not be concealed.
Blake blushed, and Matt ogled her full cleavage. Scarlett was most certainly the politician’s wife every red-blooded American boy wanted to sleep with.
Donovan’s expression changed to one of concern. “What’s going on with you, Blake?”
A lump formed in Blake’s throat. He had lived with his disease and had no problem talking about it. Now, however, in front of a man of such authority, he found it difficult to divulge his disadvantage. “I … I have lymphoblastic leukemia, Senator.”
Donovan pinched his lips and frowned sadly because it was one of the more convincing tools in his arsenal. “I’m sorry to hear that, Blake. When did the doctors find it?”
“About two years ago. It went into remission for a while, but it came back earlier this year.”
“Ah, that stinks! But you look like a big strong lad, and I’m sure that with the help of God and your doctors you’ll be able to kick this thing’s butt once and for all.” He squeezed Blake’s shoulder. “You’ve got a linebacker’s build. Do you play football when you’re feeling strong?”
“Cornerback, sir. My brother’s a tight end.”
“High school football?”
“We’re Bruins, sir,” Matt boasted. “At Brentwood High School.”
“I’ll bet you look amazing in uniform,” Scarlett said with a hungry grin.
The reporters were snapping pictures when Donovan reached into his pocket and handed Blake his business card. “This is my direct office number, son. I know this story will have a happy ending, but I want you to be sure to contact me if I can be of any help.”
Blake’s throat tightened. “Thank you, sir.”
“My pleasure. You let me know when you’re back in the starting lineup. I want to see you and Matt in action.”
A subtle wink from Scarlett conveyed the message that he had accomplished his mission. A further instructional gesture told him not to oversell it.
At Donovan’s command, Scarlett and Bichon gathered around to provide the photographers with the shot everyone had been waiting for, the one that would appear on the morning front page.
Chapter 15
Carla no longer had her arms around her sons’ shoulders. They were now fastened together with duct tape, but the impressions her fingertips had made in their arms were so deep they’d be noticeable for days to come. She watched Wrga as he peered through the window from behind the curtain, looking for movement on the street. Her wrists and ankles ached where Wrga had taped them together. She had been forced to immobilize her two boys in the same way.
Brandon tried to rub his nose against his shoulder but was tied too tightly to scratch his itch.
“Be brave, honey,” she told him. “Try to sit still.”
Wrga’s head snapped in their direction. “What did I say?” He leveled the gun at Carla. “No goddamn talking.”
Carla glared at him but could do nothing more.
“Where the hell is your old man already?”
She replied indignantly, “How should I know?”
“I wasn’t really asking you, but I’ll tell you what—I’ll give him another fifteen minutes, and if he’s still a no-show, I’ll call him myself, and this time he can listen to you plead with him while you’re gagging on the barrel of my gun.”
Tears ran down her cheeks. “What do you want from us?” she asked beseechingly. “Leave us alone!”
“What do I want? From you, nothing. You’re a means to an end. So just sit there and keep quiet.”
Josh began to wail. “Mom, we’ve seen his face. He has to kill us now.”
Wrga walked toward him. “Don’t get hysterical, little boy. Your mother lets you watch too much television.” He ran the barrel of his automatic against Josh’s bare arm. “Yo
u wouldn’t tell anyone what I look like, now would you?”
Josh shook his head violently. “No. No. No way.”
Wrga grinned and pointed the gun in Brandon’s direction. “How about you?”
“Uh-uh,” Brandon quickly confirmed. “I won’t say anything.”
“Good, because if any one of you talks, you all have to die, including your father and grandfather. Everyone got the picture?”
The boys nodded nervously.
Carla glared at him with defiance. You coward, she wanted to say but kept the insult bottled up inside her.
Wrga checked his watch. “The old-timer’s got ten minutes to go before I switch to plan B.”
“What’s plan B?” Carla asked in a sober voice.
Without answering, Wrga walked back to the window and pushed aside the curtain. “Let’s go, old man,” he grumbled and then turned back to Carla with a cutting glance. “What’s he up to?” he demanded.
“What do you mean?”
“You two have some kind of secret code? Did you give him some kind of message?”
“No. No message. You think my father is James Bond and I’m Mata Hari? He’s my father, you moron,” she blurted resentfully. “Why don’t you get the hell out of here before someone gets hurt?”
“Oh, someone’s going to get hurt all right. You can count on it.” A picture flashed before him. He saw the three of them dead and bloody on the couch. It wasn’t an image he was happy with. The last thing he needed was the heat from the multiple homicide investigation of a housewife and her two young sons. He had collected an upfront fee for the job, but the real money was to be paid when the assignment was complete. Although he had enjoyed torturing Faciamano, it was the big payoff he was after. He walked to the door and opened it a crack so that he could peer out and see the street from a different angle. The steady whir of chopper blades was just barely audible in the distance. “What the hell?” He seared Carla with a hot gaze, closed the door, and then raced toward the kitchen.
The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers) Page 53