by Mimi Johnson
“I know.” He frowned, unfamiliar with having to struggle for the right words. “It nearly rips the heart out of my chest every time I look at it.” For a moment he was silent, and she thought perhaps that was all he was going to say, but then she heard a gruff “And I look at it all the time.”
She breathed deeply, concentrating hard on a black coat, hanging by just one arm from the rack, the bottom of it drooping to the floor, crushed and covered with footprints where careless revelers had stepped.
“I’m glad, Tess,” he went on softly, “that you’re doing work you love. Westphal’s right,” he sighed, and she could feel how much the concession cost him. “You are an artist. I saw it. I honestly always saw it. But I wanted you with me on the job, so I didn't encourage it. I’m sorry for that.”
It was the purest moment of honesty they’d ever shared, standing in a crowded ballroom, surrounded by hundreds of people, not touching, not even looking at each other. And for a heartbeat, they were closer than they’d ever been.
Then he cleared his throat. “Well, I’d better get after this Cooper thing. I can’t believe I let that little Taylor girl lull me. I must be getting old.” She winced at the sound he made, a mockery of his normal, cynical laugh. Then she held her breath, bracing to see him walk away. Reaching out, he barely brushed her hand with his and did just that, moving quickly past her.
As Jack Westphal took the elevator to his room, he thought about the conversation he’d just had. He’d caught Swede's eye just outside the ballroom, over the heads of several Republican Party leaders. Jack held up his notebook, eyebrows raised, and Swede inclined his head toward a set of heavy metal doors. When he dashed through them a few minutes later, Jack was right beside him.
“Walk with me. I need to get right to the airport. What’s up, Jackie?” Swede set a brisk pace down the long hallway, his mother, Betty and several staff members trailing behind. Jack noticed that Carly Taylor was with them, and knew that Sam had been left hanging. “We’ve got to get to D.C. in time for Cooper’s endorsement announcement to make the early evening news.” He stopped suddenly, as a thought struck him. “Hey, grab Tess and come along.” He grinned. “We barely talked last night. Let’s catch up during the flight. You’ll enjoy covering the announcement, and I bet Tess still knows some fantastic places to eat.”
Jack shook his head. “I need to get back. There’re other stories back home, and Tom can’t do everything himself, especially with Laramie trying to help. Besides, we’ve got non-refundable tickets.”
Swede nodded and stopped at the door leading out to the underground parking. “Too bad. It would have been great, having you along. So, what do you need?”
Jack lowered his voice. “In your speech just now, you mentioned that your dad never left the country except for Vietnam.”
“Yeah?” Swede looked blank.
Jack frowned. “Don’t you remember why he missed your first inaugural?”
“My first …” Swede’s voice trailed off, and then Jack saw a look of dawning come to him. “Oh my God, that’s when he, he took that trip to Sweden, wasn’t it?”
Jack nodded. “Right. A sick relative or something? I was never really clear on it. He left so suddenly no one even knew about it until after he’d gone. He missed you being sworn in, he missed the parties, everything, remember?”
“Jesus, Jackie, you’re right. When the speech writers came up with that bit about him only going overseas to serve his country, I just didn’t think about that trip.” Swede flushed, looking a little stunned. “I can’t believe I let that get by me. Man, keep it under your hat, will you? I don’t want to get off message to explain such a stupid mistake to a thousand reporters.” Jack didn’t answer, noting the edge of anxiety in Swede’s voice as he went on. “Let’s just hope no one else checks it out.”
“Governor, the cars are waiting,” Swede’s burly personal aide growled the words, and Swede glanced at the door, squeezing Jack’s shoulder.
“Christ, thanks for the heads-up. You sure I can’t convince you to come on the staff?” Jack shook his head, and Swede added, “If I’d only had you eyeball that speech, it would never have happened.” He started out the door, tossing back over his shoulder, “I’ll try to touch base with you from somewhere on the road. We’re rolling.” He laughed, and Jack smiled automatically as the group hurried away.
Now as the crowded elevator made slow progress, stopping at nearly every floor, Jack mulled the exchange. He wouldn’t write anything about the mistake. It wasn’t really that newsworthy. But the oddness of Swede’s reaction to it, the strangeness of his not catching it in the first place, caused an uneasy pinpoint of uncertainty deep in his chest.
When he came through the door to their room, he saw Tess turn from the windows where she’d apparently been standing, looking out. “That didn’t take long.” Her voice was normal enough, but there was a drawn look to her face.
He shrugged. “It turned out to be nothing.” He tossed his jacket and notebook onto the bed. "Swede suggested we come along with him to D.C. I couldn’t eat those return tickets, but it’s too bad you missed a first-class trip back to your old haunts. It might have been fun, having you show me around.”
She came to him, and tucked her head against his starched, crisp white shirt. “No, I’m tired. I’m ready to go home.”
“You OK?” He touched her dimpled chin, raising her face up to see it clearly.
“Sure. I just get a little antsy when I leave my work for very long.” He smiled. “But first, I have to post the pictures I took this morning to the Journal. You know what a hard-ass the editor there is.”
He nodded. “You’d better hustle up. We need to leave for the airport in about an hour. I’ll start packing.”
She turned to the desk and the laptop on it as he pulled out a suitcase. Next to the TV, he found the roll of Smarties she’d apparently taken from her pocket. With a quick flick, he tossed them into the trash.
Chapter 26
Sam Waterman was stuck in the rental car return, waiting with a number of other people to turn in their vehicles and catch their flights. Impatiently, he pulled out his phone, which, for a change, was charged, and checked in with the newsroom. Going over with Sarah how Carly Taylor had given him the slip, he tried to keep his temper while she whined about the Cooper announcement.
“Jesus, Sam, we’re way behind on this. It’s the kind of breaking news Politifix is made of. Looking over the wires, I’d say that Taylor handed out some kind of press release right before Erickson’s speech. How’d you miss it?”
“I don’t know,” Sam wondered if his distraction with Tess had taken his edge. “But I get the uncomfortable feeling I’m being deliberately shut out.”
“Oh, I don’t like the sound of that. Maybe we should pull you and get Bundy on him. What did you do to piss Erickson off?”
“I wrote a profile Dodson loved, that’s what I did. If Erickson’s feeling threatened, the stupidest thing we can do is pull me off. They can’t shut me out forever.”
“They can damn well try. I’m going to have to run this past Johnson.”
“Is he around?” Sam knew things usually went his way if he got to Steve first. “Let me talk to him, and I’ll explain.” He heard her sigh, but she must have been busy, because she didn’t argue.
When Johnson came on the line, Sam ran the concern past him as quickly as possible, even while he struggled to get his wheeled bag through the revolving doors. “Sarah’s threatening to switch Evie to him, but I think that’s a mistake. If I make him nervous, that’s reason enough to keep me on his tail.”
“Probably,” Johnson agreed. “But if they keep us out in the cold too long, we may have to look at it again. You still have some leads to check out?”
“Sure. I've got a tip about some shit with his campaign contributions.”
“Good,” Johnson said and added, “Sam, something else has come up.”
“Yeah?” Sam hung back from the security line.
“The U.S. attorney in the southern district of Iowa confirmed today that he’s opening an investigation into that HIPAA issue with the autopsy report.”
“Ah fuck,” Sam let go of his bag handle to rub his eyes.
"It gets better. Tami Fuller is all over it. You want a quote?"
"Not particularly," Sam's headache was getting worse with each word.
But Johnson quoted anyway. "It's about time that the media, and this Waggerman character in particular, learned they are not above the law. I support this investigation out of respect for my opponent and his family. This kind of outrageous intrusion by the lame-stream media cannot and will not be borne."
Sam sighed over the slaughtering of his name and said, “Want me to tweet her a link to the fucking First Amendment?"
“Jesus, no! Just let the harpy howl. Don't even acknowledge her. It’s going to take the investigation some time to get rolling. Only you, me and Dodson know the source’s name?”
“Unless the source is blabbing, which is mighty unlikely.”
“OK then. Keep your ear to the ground, but try to keep a low profile on this. Don't talk to anyone about it. Maybe they’ll find the leak on their own. Or maybe they’ll just dither until it doesn’t matter any more."
“Let’s hope so,” Sam ended the call, and took his place on line, wondering when things would start going his way.
Tyson McDonald didn’t get many calls from newspeople. Most of his work came from big clients, major insurance companies looking for an investigator who could save them some significant money, or the occasional defense attorney digging for a chink in a prosecutor's case. But he’d met the guy and liked him, and it wouldn’t take much of his time. Pulling a notebook toward him, he said into his phone, “Look, this is such a simple thing, it's easier for me to run it down for you than to explain how to do it. I wouldn't even bother to bill you, I'll have it so quick.""
There was a slight hesitation on the other end, but then the deep voice said, "I'd really appreciate it, if you're sure it's no trouble."
"No worries. You got a date of birth?” Tyson scribbled it down, asking, “I don’t suppose you’ve got his social?”
“Not on me, but I can call you tomorrow with it.”
“Then it’ll be a piece of cake. I can probably get it in one quick phone call and give you a yes or no before you leave your office tomorrow afternoon. Give me that number.” Tyson wrote that down too. "OK, I'll be in touch. Next time you're in Des Moines, you owe me a beer."
"You got it." It was said with a laugh.
"And keep me in mind if something major comes up.”
“I’ll do that.” Jack Westphal spoke as he watched his wife weave around the concourse full of people and wheeled bags without spilling a drip of coffee. They'd arrived in Chicago early, and their plane for Des Moines wouldn’t board for another hour. “Right now, all I need to know is if a passport was ever issued for the guy.” He’d met McDonald at an Iowa Newspaper Association seminar when Ty had done a presentation on investigation techniques.
“Carl S. Erickson, got it,” Tyson assured him. “Call me with that social, and I’ll have it in no time.”
Jack pressed end-call. He could get the social security number from the probate records at the courthouse. He smiled as Tess came up.
“Everything OK at home?” she asked.
He nodded, taking one of the cups. “I’m anxious to get back to work too.”
It was late, but Swede Erickson was still wrapping up the day’s business in his hotel suite at the Willard in D.C. He’d watched the 11 o’clock news and was pleased with the footage of Cooper’s endorsement, and the political analysis that had followed. If he could just keep the momentum rolling, he stood a fair chance of mopping right over Morton and wrapping up the nomination quickly. Fuller, he was pleased to see, was baying like a hound over the announcement of the investigation into Waterman's HIPAA violation, just as planned. He smiled.
As he clicked off the television in the sitting room, his secretary sent in his last appointment of the day, one he always saved for the quietest, most private hour.
The small, older man had worked exclusively for Swede Erickson since his first gubernatorial campaign. He came into the room, pushing his glasses up his long, narrow nose, looking more like Mr. Magoo than a private investigator. Maybe that was why he was so good at what he did. Swede asked, “What do you have for me, Max?”
They discussed Frederick Morton for a long time. There was a smelly real estate deal that would make some good fodder to pass on to the press, and Max was still tracking down a rumor that Morton’s oldest son had been in a few scrapes in his fraternity days at Yale.
“But none of it’s the silver bullet I’d like to find,” Erickson sighed.
“Well, there’s one other thing I’m just getting started on. I’ve seen some indicators that Morton might be using some committee staff members to advance his campaign. That’ll be hard to nail down, but I’ve got a few people on it. Someone we’re watching, the majority counsel on Finance, just happens to be the ex-wife ... ” he hesitated, and then corrected himself, “well, she’ll soon be the ex-wife of that Waterman guy.”
“Really?” Erickson looked up with interest.
“Not only that, she’s sleeping with Morton’s campaign manager.”
“Carlin?” Swede grinned. “Well, at least her taste’s improved. Keep an eye on that. We might be able to use it. You got anything else on Waterman?” He grimaced, as if the name tasted bad.
Max pulled a thin manila folder from his case. “He’s just your usual hack. Spends most of his time working these days. Was something of a serial philanderer, but then, a lot of reporters are. And it appears he’s kept his pants up lately. But like I said, the wife's filed for divorce. You still need to see this,” he nodded to the folder. “There’s one name that’ll catch your eye.”
Swede flipped it open, scanning quickly. Then he sat forward, his eyes going wide. “Jesus, are you sure about this?”
Max nodded smiling, amused at being able to surprise his boss. “It was pretty common knowledge a few years back.”
“Damn,” Swede looked bemused. “I would never have pegged her as the type to boff a married man. Christ, I can’t believe they had the balls to show up at Terrace Hill together. Is it still going on?” His mouth pulled down into a frown.
Max shook his head. “No evidence of that. I saw him talking to her right after your speech this morning, but she didn’t even give him five minutes. Every source said she broke it off quite awhile ago.”
“Good,” Erickson said. “I’d hate for the kid to have to deal with it.”
“Maybe she already told Jack about it.”
Swede shook his head, remembering how Jack had told him Tess discouraged the interview with Waterman. Obviously she hadn’t wanted the two of them around each other. And it would explain Waterman’s unaccountable interest in Jack when they’d talked at Terrace Hill after Tess had left the room. “Jack wouldn’t have put up with her working with Waterman if he knew. So let’s keep this between you and me. If it’s over, I doubt it’s any use to us. It would only hurt Jack if it got around. The folks back home gossip enough about him and Tess as it is. But see what else you can find out about the Morton thing and Waterman’s ex. And press hard to turn up the heat on Scott Watson.” He was the U.S. attorney in southern Iowa. “I want that investigation picking up steam.”
The next morning, Swede Erickson gathered his notes for the day’s campaigning. He picked up the portfolio on Sam Waterman and started to toss it toward a pile of shredding for his secretary to deal with. But with a second glance he stopped, and tucked it into one of his traveling cases.
That afternoon, Sam Waterman quickly finished a request to the Iowa State Campaign Disclosure Commission for the data containing detailed listings of all contributors to Erickson’s two gubernatorial races. He knew he could check the listings for the presidential campaign with the Federal Electio
n Commission online. Then he grabbed his coat and rushed out to make the first meeting with his divorce attorney.
That evening, Jack Westphal stared into his laptop screen at a story from the Washington Tribune Magazine’s archive.
By Samuel J. Waterman
When I shut my eyes and think about it, I can picture how Wally Pinser used to look, when both ends of his mouth rose into a silly grin as he attempted to flirt with a pretty girl. Because of his youthful looks the day we met him, the photographer and I called him Opie. We still do.
There has been five surgeries, two nerve grafts, day after day of physical therapy and too many stitches to count. But Wally's mouth droops now, and most likely it always will. It is especially noticeable when he smiles. But it doesn't stop the guy from flashing a grin. "Hey, I'm alive." His speaking voice is almost back to normal, now that his jaw is no longer wired and his front teeth are capped. "It's a miracle that I'm here to smile at all. So I'm damn-well going to do it."
Wally never mentions the pain he's lived through, and with, although doctors say it's considerable. But he does get a kick out of providing every gory detail of the procedures he's endured to reconstruct his face. There is only one thing that causes the left side, the good side, of his mouth to drop down to the level of the right. "I can’t fly anymore. I lost the sight in my right eye, so I have no depth perception. I have to let that go."
Flying was Wally's passion. And he was a hell of a pilot. When a single engine Cessna lost power one rain-drenched afternoon, Wally set down over a ton of falling machinery on a stretch of flooded highway with a skill a Navy pilot would envy. I know because I was sitting right behind him. I owe him my life.
It was my body that slammed into his pilot seat, ramming his head into the control panel. He broke his jaw, his teeth, his cheek, and his nose. The impact opened a three-inch gash from his blown right eye socket all the way down to the remains of his chin. Sopping at his shattered face with a ridiculously inadequate handkerchief is a memory that rises again and again in my nightmares.