by Rob Byrnes
But this latest image had gotten into the wrong hands, which changed the dynamic. And he was no longer just “a guy”; he was a congressional candidate. Suddenly, it was no longer an indiscretion he could nonchalantly walk away from. Now everyone wanted to make a big deal about it.
Especially his wife.
When they’d married two years earlier, he suspected it was a mistake. She didn’t seem to share his values, and although his first instinct was now proving correct, it was far too late to do anything about it. Yes, they’d had fun when they were dating, but Penelope was hardly a tigress in bed. She was a cuddler, and needy, and clingy, and, well…serious. In short, she was the embodiment of everything he’d walked away from since the fling with Arabetta.
But suddenly he was engaged, and a few short months later he was married. And now they were stuck with each other.
And he barely understood how any of that had happened. Just that it was his father’s fault. His father’s and Mother Concannon’s.
Their parents had been friends since Catherine was elected to replace her husband following his massive heart attack during an impassioned speech on trade policy with New Zealand. Newley Concannon had obviously been the only person in Washington to feel passionate about trade with New Zealand. Ever.
Their desks were next to each other on the House floor, and eventually they became inseparable whenever Congress was in session. Some of the more gossip-oriented members and staffers thought the widow and widower might even be in a relationship, but nothing could have been further from the truth. They respected each other and liked each other’s company, but that was as far as things went or ever would go.
Since their son and daughter—the last of the Peebles and Concannon lineages, respectively—were roughly the same age, the Representatives took some of the same energy they used to serve a combined total of more than one million Americans and funneled it into matchmaking. No one but them saw it as a natural fit—Penelope was a few years older and serious-minded; Austin was aimless and a little too confident for his own good—but no one else had a vote on the matter. Representative Concannon (D-NY) and Representative Peebles (D-PA) had made the decision, voted on it, and signed it into law.
In fact, the decision was not made cavalierly. Catherine Cooper Concannon thought Penelope needed to loosen up, and Neil L. Peebles III thought Austin needed some grounding. By pairing them up, the parents hoped that each child’s strengths would help balance the other child’s weaknesses.
Left to themselves, the romance would have quickly faded. Austin and Penelope liked each other enough, just not passionately enough to marry. But forces beyond their control propelled them forward, and the decision was out of their hands.
After the wedding, the newlyweds moved into the Concannon home on Park Avenue. Penelope went off to earn a lot more than a living, and Catherine took the time to slowly groom Austin to be her successor at some point in the indefinite future. She quickly learned he had no aptitude for substantive public policy, but couldn’t think of a reason why that should hinder him. She’d been in Washington long enough to know that no one had ever been held back in the House of Representatives for being a policy lightweight.
Which was how Austin Peebles became a fixture in the Concannon family and Manhattan. If Penelope was career-driven, emotionally distant, and increasingly passionless, at least he had a nice place to live, great clubs to visit, and a clear career path whenever his mother-in-law decided to pack it in and retire.
He also had his indomitable self-confidence.
And his camera phone.
When he was locked into his apartment on East Eighty-first Street, Kevin Wunder made three calls.
The first was to Catherine Cooper Concannon, who was relieved to know he’d found some people who could make their problem go away and urged him to do so at once. He reassured her he was on it.
The next was to the campaign treasurer. She’d have to know an invoice would be forthcoming from Jamie Brock’s sham company.
That the campaign treasurer’s name was Penelope Concannon Peebles—daughter of Catherine, wife of Austin—didn’t especially bother him. Quite the contrary, given present circumstances. If he was destined to be frustrated, it was nice to have company.
“Let him rot,” said Penelope when Wunder explained about the invoice. “My husband got himself into this mess, and he should get himself out.”
“I understand how upset you must be—”
“No!” Even though he couldn’t see her, he knew Penelope’s stylish blond hair was being thrown around furiously. “You can’t possibly understand. And now you want to pay a group of criminals twenty thousand dollars to save his ass?”
He chose his words judiciously. Penelope was upset at that moment, but she’d probably soften over time. It wouldn’t do him any good to say something in this phone call that could come back to haunt him a few days, or months, or even years down the road.
“This is your mother’s idea.” He said it reverently, as if an idea conceived by Catherine Cooper Concannon could only be brilliant.
“My mother has an inexplicable old-lady crush on that horny little twerp.”
For her benefit, he acted as if she hadn’t said a word, even as he memorized each syllable. “You know how important the family name is to her. It may not seem like it right now, but this is her way to protect you, not Austin.”
There were few moments of silence finally shattered by Penelope’s strangled “Argh!” Muffled primal scream behind her, she calmly said, “Okay, fine, I’ll do what I have to do. But I’m still not talking to him!”
“Who could blame you?”
Wunder ended the call and then dialed a third number. A third woman.
The most important woman he’d speak to that evening.
Chapter Five
“Good morning, and welcome to Sunday Roundtable. I’m your host—Morton Miller the Third—and joining me to review and debate the week’s hot topics are…”
Miller ticked them off:
“Former City Councilman Garrett Drew.” The half-asleep older man leaning away from the desk on Miller’s far right managed to raise an eyebrow in recognition of his name. He’d once been an energetic public official…and John V. Lindsay had once been mayor.
“Marilyn Belkin, executive director of the Northeast Policy Center on Economic Freedom.” The prim woman next to the half-asleep former councilman forced her mouth into something resembling a cartoonist’s squiggle. From her discomfort, the casual viewer would never suspect that under the cover of Internet anonymity, she was a far-right pit bull who’d been banned from scores of websites.
“Father Louis Appanello, president of Americans Against Evolution.” On the host’s far left, the young priest winked inappropriately at the camera and flashed movie-star teeth. He wasn’t known as Father Hollywood for nothing.
“And finally, to my left, prominent community activist and blogger June Forteene.”
When the camera found June Forteene, she stared directly at it, as if it were an enemy. Her face, framed by long black hair, bore an expression that was no friendlier. It was a face her mother used to say would be so pretty if she’d only take a Xanax and chill the fuck out. Which were often her mother’s exact words as she popped her second Xanax.
Morton Miller III, a staple on this television station since early in the second Eisenhower Administration, pulled at the knot in his expensive tie, cleared his throat, and brushed away the thought of how much he disliked every single one of his guests and had for at least the past decade. Finally he scrunched his mouth in an approximation of a smile that made the squiggle on Marilyn Belkin’s face look positively glowing.
“Thank you to the members of our panel for being here this morning. I’d like to start off our discussion by asking for your thoughts on one of the biggest and most controversial news stories of the week—”
“The Times Square Mosque.”
The host frowned slightly and looked at his gu
ests to see who’d interrupted him. His eyes settled on June Forteene.
“Actually,” he said, his ordinarily smooth baritone edged with more than a hint of disdain, “I was referring to the city’s new plans for bike lanes on the Long Island Expressway.”
June Forteene didn’t care about his disdain. Her Daily Affirmation was “Bulldoze ahead.” She turned to face him, her hair unmoving and dark eyes staring him down. “With all due respect, Morton”—the emphasis she put on his first name suggested everything but the due respect he figured he deserved from this whippersnapper—“the most important news story facing this city is the Times Square Mosque.”
Miller’s already tenuous smile faltered, but he rallied it back to his lips. “According to polls, this mosque—which, I should add, is being built on Eleventh Avenue and Fifty-fourth Street, several long blocks west from Times Square, and several more blocks north—has substantial community support, whereas the bike lanes—”
“The Times Square Mosque is an affront to all New Yorkers.” The segment producer, not used to people interrupting Morton Miller, was late in cueing the camera operator, so they only caught her as she finished. “A finger in the eye of decency.”
Former Councilman Garrett Drew stirred a bit. “I’d like to talk about the bike lanes.”
June offered up an icy smile and shook her head so slowly it couldn’t have been more apparent she was mocking him if she’d announced it. “Of course you would. The power structure in this city—from the mayor on down—would love nothing more than to distract New Yorkers from contemplating the danger posed by the Times Square Mosque.”
Miller tried to take back the conversation, swiveling toward former councilman Drew. “The bike lane proposal has been quite controversial—”
“You want controversy, Morton?” The host sighed and reluctantly swiveled back. “Think of how controversial it’ll be when eight million New Yorkers are forced to live under Sharia law.”
He closed his eyes for a brief moment and decided to fire the person who booked Sunday Roundtable guests the minute the cameras were off. “I don’t think—”
“That,” she continued, thumping one lacquered nail against the desk, “is the problem. No one in power is thinking.”
Morton Miller III turned to the panelists on his right. “Does anyone else have thoughts on the bike lanes? To me, it seems dangerous to install bike lanes on the Long Island Expressway. Does anyone agree?”
Uncomfortably, Father Appanello piped up from his seat on the far left, even though Miller wasn’t looking at him. “Well…it does. Yes, it does seem like a very dangerous situation. Bicyclists, fast-moving motor vehicles—”
“More dangerous than Sharia law?” The priest, physically cut off from the other, slightly less aggressive panelists, was at June’s mercy. “Are you prepared to be stoned for your beliefs, Father?”
He began sweating. “Well…uh…I think the Muslims also oppose the teaching of evolution, so we have a commonality of…”
“That’s not what I mean!”
A tic had developed under Morton Miller III’s left eye. He glanced at Mrs. Belkin, who sat next to him and seemed to want to disappear. “Any thoughts on this subject before we change topics?”
“No.” She was scared. This wasn’t the Internet. Later that day she’d boot up her computer and take up June’s cause under several of her screen names, but she’d never be so crass and unladylike to do it on camera.
“Good.”
“I want to talk about bike lanes,” said former councilman Drew before June Forteene leaned forward into the desk, turned her head in his direction, and shut him down with a piercing stare.
Morton Miller III sighed. “Okay, now that we’ve covered the Eleventh Avenue Mosque—”
“The Times Square Mosque.”
“—and the bike lane proposal, let’s move on to a new topic. Last June, voters across the city selected candidates for congress in primary elections, and a few interesting races are shaping up. Councilman Drew, as the only member of our panel with experience in elected office, do you have any thoughts?”
Drew managed to open his eyes, although they started to slowly droop back to that half-closed position as he spoke. “Yes, I do. As usual, most of the incumbents running for reelection will be back on the ballot. But there are a handful of interesting new faces this year.”
“Such as?”
“I’m sort of impressed by young Austin Peebles, who’s campaigning to replace his mother-in-law—Catherine Cooper Concannon—on Manhattan’s East Side. As you know, Morton”—the host didn’t mind the familiarity from him; they were practically contemporaries—”the Concannon and Peebles names have been prominent in national politics for decades, and Austin Peebles now has an opportunity to make his own imprint on Washington. He’s very young, of course, but he also seems smart and enthusiastic. He has the potential to go places.”
June piped up. “Morton.”
He ignored her and kept his attention on the former councilman. “Interesting. But couldn’t he also be considered to be too inexperienced?”
Garrett Drew again managed to raise his eyelids and chortled. “Weren’t we all young once, Morton? One can legitimately think Austin Peebles is too young—I don’t happen to share that view—but no one can say he doesn’t come from a long legacy of—”
“Austin Peebles isn’t going anywhere!”
Recognizing June Forteene’s voice—they all recognized it by now, and would probably hear it in their sleep—the host and other panelists sighed and tried to find something interesting to look at on the floor.
“And legacy shmegacy!” she added, bulldozing ahead.
Ten seconds of silence followed before Miller finally lifted his head, and only then because such a long interlude of silence made for very bad television and an even worse radio simulcast. “Okay, why not?”
She allowed herself a smug smile, which didn’t make her nearly as pretty as her mother’s second Xanax would have, but was an improvement.
“I can’t tell you. Not yet. Let’s just say you should watch my blog for a bombshell that will be coming in the next few days.”
Morton Miller III hoped this woman was making the most of her appearance on Sunday Roundtable, because she wouldn’t be coming back to his show.
Well…not unless she brought viewers. He made a mental note to check the show’s ratings before making any final decisions.
Sitting together on a couch that had seen better decades in their apartment in Jackson Heights, Grant looked away from Sunday Roundtable on the big-screen television they’d recently picked up from Costco for a steal. Literally.
“So that’s the one, huh?”
Chase nodded. “Yep. And she’s about to spill the goods on Peebles, so if we want to make our twenty thousand—”
Grant corrected him. “Sixteen thousand. Remember Jamie’s cut.”
“Right. Sixteen thousand. Anyway, we’d better get to work.”
They stared at the TV for a few minutes longer, watching as June turned what should have been a panel discussion into a monologue.
“So what’s the deal with this mosque?” Grant finally asked. “She’s sure worked up about it.”
“Sure is. She’s either really pissed that it’s being built, or she’s using it for attention. Or maybe both.”
“From what I’ve seen of her, I’ll put a grand on attention. Wanna take the bet?”
“Hell no.”
Grant found the remote under a cushion and clicked off the TV, fading June to black as she went into another rant and the rest of the panel looked uncomfortably at the floor. There was blessed silence for a few minutes after June Forteene disappeared from their living room, but soon Grant got back to business.
“Here’s what I’m thinking. We drug her.”
Chase squirmed. “Drug her? I don’t know—”
“It should be harmless enough. Somehow put something in her drink, wait for her to pass out, and ransac
k her office. Get what we need and get out.”
“Maybe.” Chase was unconvinced. “It’s just that…”
“What?”
“Well, we’ve never drugged anyone before. We don’t want to kill her or anything.”
“If it shuts her up—”
“Grant!” Then, realizing it was probably a joke, Chase said, “I really think we need to come up with a different plan.”
“I might know someone who can help.” Grant stood and reached for a jacket hanging over the arm of a chair before Chase could do much more than sputter vague objections. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
Sure enough, less than an hour later, Grant returned home. He produced a baggie from his jacket pocket and held it out for Chase to examine. A chalky powder coated the inside of the plastic.
“What’s that?”
“Guy I know says this should do the trick.”
Chase stared skeptically at the baggie. “And not kill her?”
“Nah. It’ll just put her under for a few hours. That should give us plenty of time to take care of business and clean out her apartment before she comes to.”
Chase began pacing, weighing the consequences in his head and not liking the way the scale kept tipping. “I’m still not comfortable with this.”
“This guy says nothing can go wrong. She’ll sleep like a baby. Probably never even realize she’s been drugged when she wakes up.” He looked at the baggie. “That’s what the guy says, at least.”
They continued their conversation at a slightly higher volume when Grant walked into the kitchen.
“I dunno,” said Chase, still pacing the living room. “Maybe we should just call Wunder and turn down the job.”
Grant seemed to be ignoring him. “Any clean coffee cups?”