Dev Conrad - 03 - Blindside

by Ed Gorman

  Mrs Hawthorne was a bulky woman of maybe fifty, dressed in an expensive and flattering gray tweed suit. She had her smile all ready for me by the time she reached us.

  ‘Hello there,’ she said to me. To the girl she said: ‘How may I help you, Melanie?’

  I wondered if she’d ever been a flight attendant. Her words had that syrupy, grating falsity.

  Melanie nodded to me the way she would to a pile of dung. ‘He doesn’t want to sign our pledge card. The one about being an American.’

  Mrs Hawthorne made the flight attendant schmooze even more syrupy. I could imagine what she was really thinking: Everything’s fine. You’re embarrassing me and headquarters, Melanie. How many fucking times do I have to tell you NOT EVERYBODY HAS TO SIGN THE FUCKING CARD?

  What she said, of course, was, ‘Melanie. Now we’ve talked about this,’ smiling at me as she spoke. ‘Signing the card is optional. Some people don’t like to sign anything.’

  ‘Anybody who won’t sign this card isn’t a real American. Mr Burkhart said that himself.’

  Let me get my hands around your throat, you little bitch, Mrs Hawthorne had to be thinking. Her face was tight now and her eyes blazed. She was probably going to reassign the ardent Melanie to making sure that all the fax machines and printers had plenty of paper.

  ‘Well, he didn’t put it exactly like that, Melanie. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you go and see if Phil needs any help with the mail?’

  ‘I don’t like Phil. He never pays attention when we stand for the national anthem.’

  Mrs Hawthorne and I would never become fast friends but at the moment I felt sorry for her. Every campaign of either stripe has volunteers who can’t be controlled. Windows get smashed at headquarters; door-to-door canvassing gets turned into arguments with citizens who made the mistake of opening the door; workers say stupid things in TV interviews. There are ops who encourage this. More of them on the other side by far but we have a few of our own. Mrs Hawthorne struck me as a pro at what she was doing. I admired her craft if not her candidate.

  ‘I’ll talk to Phil about that. Now why don’t you go help him, all right?’

  Melanie pointed to me. ‘Be careful, Mrs Hawthorne. I think he’s a reporter trying to sneak in here.’ She stormed off.

  ‘I’m sorry about all this, Mr—’

  ‘Ketchum. Michael Ketchum.’

  ‘I’m sorry about this, Mr Ketchum. Once in a while our volunteers get a little too enthusiastic. Melanie has a tendency to go overboard.’ She raised a hand upon which had been bestowed a wedding ring that would easily pay for a year’s tuition at an Ivy League college. She indicated with a sweep of her hand how busy and industrious everybody was. And they were. I counted seventeen people working the phones, reminding people of why they should vote Burkhart and making sure that they planned to vote. And offering rides if needed. This was the ground war and it had damned well better be good. This one looked all too good. ‘Did you want some information on Mr Burkhart?’ The flight attendant smile. She was heavyset but the pleasant face had kept its charm. ‘Some people still haven’t made up their minds. So they stop in to pick up brochures. They take them home and study them with their spouses. We believe that if you put us alongside our opponent we’ll look very good. Mr Burkhart was never a playboy, thank goodness.’

  The little dig. It’s almost impossible to resist. You’re in a war. You’ve convinced yourself that the person you’re running against takes calls from Satan at least four times a week. The mere mention of his or her name unhinges you and your knife appears in your hand. This is all internal. In public you need to present yourself as rational and professional.

  ‘I was wondering if I could speak with Mrs Burkhart.’

  The narrowed eyes, the second-thought reassessment. She had to be thinking that maybe Melanie was correct after all. Maybe I was a reporter trying to sneak past the guards to try to humiliate Mrs Burkhart in an interview.

  ‘Do you know Mrs Burkhart?’

  ‘Not really. But she was taking some photographs and I wondered if I could get some copies of them.’

  ‘Some photographs? I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  She appeared in the rear of the factory-like room. Even from a distance she was as imperious as a Hollywood goddess.

  ‘Mrs Burkhart!’ I called and started moving fast up the center of the aisle.

  ‘Please, Mr Ketchum. You shouldn’t—’

  But I was pounding up the aisle in long strides. Mrs Burkhart was paying no attention. She hadn’t heard me call her name above the din.

  When I reached her, she was just about to walk through the door she’d just come out of. ‘Mrs Burkhart! Mrs Burkhart!’

  She turned. She was a gorgeous, golden animal kept gorgeous by an army of men and women whose job was to help her defy age and fashion. Her face had the wisdom of carnality in it, that immortal knowingness of how to please and control men. Even the brown eyes, no doubt courtesy of contacts, had a golden glow to them. Those eyes assaulted you. Today she wore an emerald suit of silky material that swept the long, lean lines of her body with a true majesty. In addition to sexuality she also radiated strength and health. I wondered if she’d try to beat the shit out of me. I was sure she had it in her to try.

  ‘Is there something I can do for you?’ She had to be careful. I was a peon but maybe I was a connected peon and maybe my connection wouldn’t appreciate her pissing on me. Of course she couldn’t quite keep the disdain from her tone.

  I got close to her and said, ‘I saw you taking pictures of James Waters. I’d like to know why you were doing that.’

  She touched her hand to her handsome bosom. Before she could speak, Mrs Hawthorne, breathless, arrived.

  ‘I tried to stop him, Mrs Burkhart. But he got ahead of me.’

  Mrs Burkhart’s eyes scathed the well-fed body of her employee and said, ‘I suppose you did your best, Mrs Hawthorne. You should get into that exercise class I keep telling you about. I go three times a week and I don’t even need it.’

  Mrs Hawthorne’s eyes showed real pain. Humiliation, I guessed. This was the second time I’d been forced to feel sorry for her and I didn’t even like her.

  ‘So it’s all right if he stays?’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure I can handle this, Mrs Hawthorne. Thank you so much for your usual help, though.’

  Mrs Hawthorne, whipped, looked at me then lowered her head, turned around, and headed back to the front.

  ‘Maybe slapping her would’ve been kinder than what you did.’

  The golden eyes shimmered with royal anger. ‘I don’t know who you are but I already don’t like you. We’ll go outside to talk and don’t say another word till we get there.’

  She led the way to a side door and to the chill, gray day. Her perfume was so seductive I felt a need to touch that Cleopatra flesh of hers. Though her hair didn’t look overly lacquered, the blonde perfection of the chignon was not ruffled by the wind.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Just somebody who saw you snapping Waters’ picture.’

  ‘And you knew Waters?’

  ‘Slightly. Not very well.’

  She managed to get a long cigarette going and took a deep diva-like drag on it. She dispersed it with those rich, erotic lips. ‘All right, you saw me taking his picture. And that’s supposed to mean what exactly?’

  ‘That’s what I’m curious about. Why you’d be taking photos of Waters, especially since somebody killed him later that night.’

  If any of this was intimidating her, she managed to disguise it with her irritated glances and tone.

  We listened to the red and gold and brown leaves skitter like forlorn little creatures across the asphalt of the parking lot. Finally I said, ‘I haven’t gone to the police. Not yet.’

  ‘I want to see some ID.’ The salon seductress suddenly sounded like a cop.

  ‘If I show you, you’ll know who I am.’

  ‘Oh, right, I suppose you’
re somebody famous.’

  ‘My name is Dev Conrad. I work for Jeff Ward.’

  ‘You bastard!’ Her cigarette went flying as she lunged for me, shoving me back into the rear of a parked car.

  She wasn’t as strong as I’d thought. ‘I need to figure out if you were just doing some campaign dirty tricks or if you have something to do with Jim Waters’ murder. Since you’re unwilling to help me, maybe your husband can bring me up to date on all this.’

  ‘Leave my husband alone. He’s got enough problems.’

  Odd thing for somebody to say. Her candidate had come from behind to lead us by three points. I wondered what she was talking about.

  She smiled. She had lovely teeth and a deceitful smile. It said aw, shucks and I didn’t believe any of it. ‘You caught me.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘I was taking photos of Waters because I was going to send one of our girls to ‘accidentally’ meet him in a bar and get him drunk and see if he’d tell her anything.’

  ‘A spy operation.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  It was bullshit. Given her fantastic presence I resented her for not being better at the game. ‘Pretty clever.’

  ‘So you see it’s no big deal. I hope that satisfies you.’

  It didn’t, but she was going to stick to her silly story no matter what I said. Detective Fogarty and I could agree on one thing anyway. Something was going on here and so far none of us had a clue except me. I had that DVD. I knew what I’d seen but so far the only clue I had to its meaning was Jeff Ward’s admission that he was being blackmailed.

  ‘That was the easy part, Mrs Burkhart.’

  ‘What’re you talking about?’

  ‘You’re lying and we both know it. I’m guessing you’re involved in something pretty bad – and you’re too scared to think straight.’

  I have to admit that her scornful laugh sounded pretty damned confident. ‘Do I look scared? Do I sound scared? The only reason I was leery of you when you started chasing me inside was because I didn’t know who you were. There’re a lot of freaks who hang around political campaigns. I thought you might be one of them.’

  The triumph in her voice – the princess of the realm to the commoner – only increased when the side door opened and a woman called out, ‘Mrs Burkhart. We need you inside.’

  Her smirk was one of jubilation. ‘I’ll be right there.’ Then: ‘I need to go inside and I’d advise against trying to stop me. I’d hate to call the police and tell them that somebody from the Ward campaign was accosting me.’

  ‘This isn’t over.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on that. My husband is a very powerful man.’

  The woman held the door open for her. Waiting.

  ‘Tell her you need a few more minutes out here.’

  ‘I will not.’

  I slipped my cell phone from my jacket pocket. ‘You don’t have to call the police. I will. I’m going to take this cell phone and call Detective Fogarty at the police station. She’ll be very interested when I mention that you were taking photos of Jim Waters the day he died. You’ll have to do a lot better with your story than you did with me.’

  She gritted her teeth. ‘I’m so sick of threats.’

  One more word to add to my Burkhart vocabulary. Problems, threats.

  ‘I’m also sick of men. Men fuck up everything.’

  Somehow I didn’t think she was speaking in the feminist sense. She’d probably run up against a man or men who wouldn’t let her have her narcissistic way. She was an expensive toy for men who could afford her.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on, Mrs Burkhart?’

  ‘Just wait a minute.’

  ‘For what? This is getting us nowhere.’

  ‘I need some time.’

  ‘That’s up to you, Mrs Burkhart. I thought maybe I could help you out a little. That’s why I stopped by. But I can see you don’t want any help, do you?’

  She had a harsh Gucci laugh. ‘How can you say that with a straight face? My God – you stopped by to help me out a little. You stopped by because you want to get my husband in trouble.’

  ‘If that’s the way you choose to look at it, Mrs Burkhart, that’s up to you. Now please get out of my way. I’ve got things to do.’

  She clutched my sport coat. She wasn’t restraining me as much as she was pleading with me. I doubted she played the supplicant very often.

  ‘Give me until tonight before you do anything, including the police. I have to make some decisions. I’ll give you my cell number. Then we can talk.’

  She dug in her purse and extracted a business card. ‘Turn around.’

  This was the Mrs Burkhart I’d come to know and love. Barking orders. As she scribbled her cell number on the card she had pressed to my back she kept up a stream of whispered curses. I had the feeling they were aimed as much at herself as at me.

  ‘There. You can turn around again.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Highness.’

  ‘You know, I really don’t like you.’

  I took the card. ‘You wouldn’t be surprised if I said the feeling is mutual, would you?’

  But she was done with me. ‘I expect you to keep your word.’

  I hadn’t given my word but she was so used to getting her way she just assumed I’d pledged undying loyalty to her throne.

  By the time I’d backed out and started for the street, she was rushing through the side door and into the maelstrom of the campaign.

  THIRTEEN

  I bought a grilled cheese sandwich and a Caesar salad and a beer in the hotel café and took them up to my room. I worked while I ate. In addition to interviews the DVD held names of people and places. I needed to verify that these actually existed. In the age of photoshopping you had to check and recheck everything.

  The first two names checked out. I found them in the white pages online.

  I finished my food. I still had half my beer. I worked on the bottle as I punched in phone numbers. Three rings, four rings.

  ‘Hello.’ Female. Wary.

  ‘Mrs Hayes?’

  Silence.

  ‘Mrs Hayes?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘My name is Dev Conrad. You don’t know me, but I’d like to set up an appointment to see you.’

  Long pause. ‘Those days are behind me. Now leave me alone.’

  She slammed the phone with a fury that told me how much she wanted to forget her past and resented – despised – anybody who’d bring it up.

  The second number I dialed yielded only an automatic message voice, one of those robots who will someday be our masters. The robot wouldn’t even part with the name of who owned this particular phone number. I left no message.

  I called Ward headquarters and asked for Lucy.

  ‘I was getting worried about you. We hadn’t heard anything from you. Jimmy’s murder has really freaked me out. And I haven’t said “freaked me out” since college.’ I could feel her smile over the phone, a fresh, appealing young woman who just happened to be smart as hell.

  ‘I’m fine. Just busy. I wanted to ask you about your newspaper contacts. Do you know anybody friendly on the Winthrop Times?’

  ‘I do, as a matter of fact. Why?’

  ‘I’m doing a background check on something. I just need to talk to somebody from the area who won’t mind answering some questions.’

  ‘This sounds mysterious.’

  ‘Not really. I’m trying to check on some brochures that are circulating down there claiming that Jeff’s family managed to get two DUI charges expunged from police records in Winthrop.’

  ‘Wow. When did this come up?’

  It came up as I spoke the words. Sometimes my facility with lies amused me; other times it depressed me. After a few too many drinks I liked to think of myself as a noble knight fighting an honorable war. After a certain amount of liquor you can rationalize any number of sins.

  ‘Somebody in my home office picked it up from one of our ops and
then they phoned me with it. But please don’t share this with anybody on the staff, all right? No need to worry about it until I can verify it. So far nobody’s actually seen one of these brochures.’

  Urban legends prosper in campaigns on both sides. Did somebody accuse my opponent of being a horse-fucking, grave-robbing child murderer? Gosh, I just can’t imagine how a story like that got started (after your minions had been whispering it for weeks).

  ‘That’s so ridiculous. If that was true we would have heard about it a long time ago.’

  ‘We’re in a tight race and running out of time. Anything goes now.’

  ‘Oh, I met that Detective Fogarty. She was just here. She’s pretty cool. She said she talked to you.’

  I had to give Fogarty her relentlessness. This was the sort of case that would get a detective noticed in the press.

  ‘Well, I’ll be there in a while, Lucy. Now how about the name of that reporter in Winthrop?’

  ‘Oh, sure.’

  She told me. I entered name and phone and e-mail into my Mac laptop. ‘I appreciate it, Lucy.’

  Nan Talbot was in a meeting but was expected back in fifteen minutes or so. Would I like to call back then?

  In twenty minutes I called again. I used Lucy’s name more often than I probably needed to, but given the kind of questions I was about to ask she needed to trust me. And every time I used it, Nan Talbot said something flattering. ‘She’s one of the few political press people I like. Very straightforward. A lot of them are just flacks. They don’t do anything but brag about their candidate and if you ask them anything serious about an issue they can’t give you a coherent answer. Lucy can do it all – and talk and write and really walk you through any issue you have questions about.’

  ‘Well, she said you might be able to help me.’

  ‘I’ll sure try but I have to warn you that I need to leave on a story in about fifteen minutes.’

  ‘I keep thinking of the right way to bring this up—’

  ‘Boy, this should be good—’

  ‘I need to know about a house of ill repute you had in Winthrop about five years ago.’