Shadow Image

by Martin J. Smith

  “I like your brass, Ms. Kennedy,” he said. His hair glinted like polished silver.

  “Sorry for dropping by without notice. I was out this—”

  Underhill waved her off. “No, no. I’m talking about Myron Levin’s little sneak attack the other morning. Liked the way you handled that. Very professional. Very savvy.”

  The man, elected twice by landslides, was remembered not only for setting the state’s standard for personal charisma, but for his skillful manipulation of the media. This was high praise indeed.

  “Never let them see you sweat,” she said.

  “Seriously, very nice job. I just wanted you to know how much we appreciate your work with us so far.”

  Brenna closed the car door and pressed a button on her key chain. The Legend’s door locks snapped shut.

  “I think it’ll be safe here,” he said, then winked.

  She suddenly felt stupid. The Underhill estate was an electronic fortress in the middle of one of the world’s safest communities. There weren’t many places in the world where locking your car door seemed downright paranoid, but this was one. “Habit,” she said.

  Underhill stepped aside to let her pass, motioning her toward the front door. “Now, to what good fortune do we owe this visit of yours?”

  Brenna turned back toward Vincent Underhill, catching him with his eyes on her butt. He looked up without apparent remorse. “Loose ends,” she said.

  “Oh?” Underhill seemed to weigh the comment for hidden meaning. “Such as?”

  “I need information so we don’t get blindsided, and I’m having trouble getting it.”

  “Oh, my.”

  He walked toward the house. Brenna fell in beside him. “There’s a statement, on the record, and it’s going to come back and bite us if we’re not careful. Something you know Dagnolo or the Rosemond people are going to use if they can. They don’t need much to float a rumor in public, something they think will do at least some damage. Unless we can shoot it down before it flies, it could become a problem this close to an election.”

  Underhill opened the front door and held it open. Brenna stepped into the rustic foyer. The house seemed bigger and more comfortable each time she walked in.

  “Frankly, I’m having a hell of a time getting what I need from your people,” she said. “Phil Raskin. Mr. Staggers.”

  “The life-insurance paperwork,” he said. “Phil mentioned that. He hasn’t pulled that for you yet?”

  “He promised it, but I haven’t been able to get hold of him.”

  Underhill shook his head. “He’s traveling with Ford, you know, crisscrossing the state, one last big push. Allentown, Bethlehem, and Easton yesterday. State College, Lewistown, and Altoona today, overnighting in Johnstown.” He sighed. “Some things about politics I don’t miss at all.”

  “I’ve been trying to get in touch with Enrique Chembergo all week as well. Mr. Staggers keeps saying—”

  “You’ve got an interest in public service, Ms. Kennedy, from what I understand.” He looked around conspiratorially, then whispered: “I have highly placed sources in the Seventh Ward.”

  Brenna studied his face. Was this a good thing, or a bad thing? Should she be happy her ambitions already were humming along the Democratic Party grapevine, or appalled that word of them traveled so far so fast? “I’m exploring some possibilities,” she said.

  “City council.”

  She felt herself flush. So much for her private conversation with the ward chairman earlier in the week.

  “I’ve made you uncomfortable,” Underhill said. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, no. I expressed an interest, and I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that word got around. I’m a big girl.”

  Underhill smiled. “Good news travels fast.”

  He led her down the hall and into a stunning library across the hall from his study, into the rich scent of leather and old books. She set her briefcase next to an antique liquor cart loaded with crystal decanters, then sank into the cushioned embrace of a solid-oak mission chair.

  “Are you set on the council?” he asked.

  “How do you mean?”

  The former governor poured two fingers of something dark and potent into a cut-crystal glass. He held the decanter up, offering to pour her one as well. Brenna shook her head. “Listening to pothole complaints and whining ward heelers gets pretty old after awhile,” he said. “Ever considered public service at a higher level?”

  Maybe she should have taken that drink. “By ‘higher level,’ ” she said cautiously, “you mean with the city?”

  “The state,” Underhill said. “Harrisburg.”

  Brenna met his gaze and held it. He seemed straightforward and sincere. “I’d like working on public policy at that level.”

  “It’s where people with vision can make a difference,” he said. “You can have a real impact there, make changes that improve people’s lives. That appeals to you, does it?”

  She nodded. “Of course. But I’m willing to start local.”

  Underhill sipped and smiled. “You’re playing by the rules, Ms. Kennedy. Rules are for small thinkers. Don’t be afraid to rise to the level at which you can be most effective.”

  “That’s quite a compliment, governor. Thank you.”

  Underhill swirled the amber liquid and tipped the glass into his mouth, swallowing with a rasp. “My son is building his transition team, Ms. Kennedy. He’s going to need people with your kind of energy, your kind of brass. Is that the sort of thing you might be interested in?”

  He said it so suddenly, so directly, she wasn’t sure she heard him right. “In Harrisburg?”

  “Senior staff, and right now it’s wide open. Don’t get me wrong, Ms. Kennedy, I’m not trying to run my son’s show here. I’ve just been there. I know what Ford’ll be up against. He’s going to need someone who knows the players in this end of the state, knows the media, understands politics. I can’t speak for him, of course, but we’ve talked generally about your skills. He’s very impressed.”

  “Public policy on that level—” Brenna struggled for words.

  “Impact, Ms. Kennedy,” he said. “Impact. But I know it’s never a simple choice. You have children, I know, and you’re, ah, attached? It’s Jim, isn’t it?”

  She nodded, trying to remember how much information about herself she’d divulged during their previous meeting. She didn’t remember their conversations ever straying that far into her personal life.

  “So the thought of uprooting is probably pretty unsettling.” He winked. “Can’t say I blame you. Might make for a few interesting dinnertime conversations, though. Like I said, I’ve been there. But think about it generally, then maybe you and Ford can talk specifics after the election.”

  Brenna stared. The man had just unearthed ambitions she had only begun to admit to herself. He’d somehow peeked into her soul, chosen one of her unspoken dreams, and presented it to her as a gift.

  “Senior staff,” she managed, thinking about Jim, the new house, Taylor’s dread of the unfamiliar.

  “Ford’s going to make things happen. I think you’d be a great addition.”

  Brenna waited, wondering if Underhill’s vague offer might get more explicit the longer she kept her mouth shut. But he said nothing. “Something to think about, for sure,” she said finally.

  Underhill checked the gleaming Rolex on his wrist. “Now, I’ve promised my wife I’d get all my busy work done while she’s at Harmony today. If I’m going to keep that promise, Ms. Kennedy, I need to get moving. Did you have something else?”

  Brenna felt her brain engage. “Mr. Chembergo,” she said, “the gardener. I still need to talk to him about what he heard and saw out t
here on the deck the day your wife fell.”

  Underhill forced a smile.

  “So far Mr. Staggers hasn’t been able to put me in touch with him,” she said. “Since he lives on the property, I stopped out to get that resolved. He made that statement to the investigators, remember, and we need to be ready for whatever Dagnolo throws at us.”

  Underhill slowly lifted the crystal stopper from the cocktail cart and replaced it in the neck of the decanter. “Anticipating,” he said. “I like that. You can never be too ready when you’re dealing with a thug like J. D. Dagnolo.”

  “Exactly.”

  Underhill picked up the handset of his sleek black desk phone and punched in two numbers. “The library,” was all he said before hanging up. Seconds later, Staggers followed his polite knock through the door. He greeted Brenna with a nod.

  “Ms. Kennedy, I believe you’ve met Mr. Staggers,” Underhill said. “He’s much more on top of the household staff changes than I am, so he’s probably the person you need to be speaking with about Mr.—” His eyes shifted to Staggers.

  “Chembergo,” Staggers volunteered.

  “Changes?” Brenna said.

  Underhill made a great show of checking his watch again, then moved toward the study door. “If I don’t get upstairs, I’m liable to end up getting the Florence Underhill Glare. You never want to be on the receiving end of that. It’ll melt the elastic in your socks.” He turned to Staggers. “You won’t mind filling Ms. Kennedy in?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What changes?” Brenna said, but Underhill was already out the door in a flash of silver hair and the silent glide of Italian leather on carpet. She wheeled on the security man. “What changes?”

  “An unanticipated transition in the household staff,” he said. “It happens.”

  “The Chembergos?”

  Staggers nodded.

  Brenna dropped any pretense of civility. “I still need to talk to him.”

  “Be my guest.” Staggers smiled, just enough to infuriate her. “Hope your passport’s up to date.”

  “Meaning? Where is he?”

  Staggers twisted his pinkie ring, then examined his fingernails. He checked his wristwatch. “Guatemala City about now, I expect.”

  The answer was as unexpected as it was implausible. Brenna opened her mouth, but all that came out was, “Where?”

  “The sprawling capital city of the war-torn Republic of Guatemala, bordered on the east by the Caribbean, the west by the Pacific Ocean and—”

  “Cut the geography lesson.”

  “Impressive, no? I took this Conversational Knowledge of World Affairs seminar a couple of years ago. Picked up a lot of stuff like that. Ask me about Syria. I know Syria cold.”

  Brenna picked up her briefcase and opened the study door.

  “Okay, okay,” Staggers said. “The peculiars is what you want.”

  “Particulars,” she corrected, setting the briefcase back down.

  “Whatever.”

  She waited, arms crossed, one foot telegraphing her impatience.

  “INS,” he said. “Out of the blue. Wham! Suddenly they’re real interested in Enrique and Selena’s paperwork.” He shook his head. “Political campaigns are nasty, nasty.”

  “So they weren’t legal?”

  Staggers nodded. “Who knew? These people trade green cards like baseball cards. The Underhills just assumed they were paying the taxes, and when they found out we had a couple of outlaws on our hands, well, you know Ford would have gotten tarred with that sooner or later. Forget it was his parents, not him, who hired them.”

  Brenna brushed a stray hair away from her face.

  “They didn’t want it becoming an issue, so they let the INS take them,” Staggers said. “Not that the Underhills even thought about defending these people, you know. They were definitely illegitimate.”

  Brenna studied the man, looking for cracks in his sincerity. “So they’re gone already?”

  “Immigration people don’t mess around,” he said, nodding. “Damned misfortunate, too. You know good help’s hard to find.”

  Chapter 19

  What bothered her most, Brenna decided, was not that the Chembergos had disappeared, but rather the smarmy way Staggers had told her they were gone. She’d felt an edge there, the unspoken superiority of a man with a secret. What she’d seen in him before was a sort of goofy charm; what she saw now was a man who was gloating.

  As they left the library on the way to her car, she noticed Vincent Underhill at his desk in the study, talking on the telephone. She hung back, waiting for Staggers to move ahead into the grand prairie of the house’s foyer, then sidestepped through the study door. She smiled when the startled former governor looked up. He smiled back and motioned her to a wing chair across from his desk as he nodded his assent to whoever was on the line. She was sitting down by the time Staggers caught on.

  “Something else you need from the governor?” he whispered, stepping between her and Underhill, moving his arms as if he were trying to scoop her out of the room. “I’d be happy to ask him, if you have any other questions.”

  She shook her head, noticing before it became obvious that she had a vise grip on the chair’s arm. She wasn’t moving, wasn’t about to let the house dick hustle her out the door without a few more answers. “Some things need to stay between an attorney and her client, Mr. Staggers.” She winked. “Thank you, though.”

  “He’s pretty busy. See?”

  “Aren’t we all?” she whispered. “Where does the time go? I won’t take but a minute. Promise.”

  “I just think you’d be more comfortable waiting out—”

  Vincent Underhill excused himself from his conversation and softly replaced the handset of his desk phone, his face apparently untroubled by the intrusion. Staggers whirled and shrugged in the same motion, but Underhill waved him away. He left obediently. If Brenna had to guess from the former governor’s expression, Underhill had the look of a man wondering if he was being seduced.

  “Ms. Kennedy,” he said, suddenly on his feet. “How wonderful you’re still with us.” He looked at his watch. “Just checking here and, yes! It’s time for another drink.” He walked to the liquor cart and hoisted a crystal decanter identical to the one in the library. “Brandy?”

  “I’ve got a full afternoon, I’m afraid. Thanks, though.”

  “Small one?”

  “Thanks, but no.”

  He sighed, measured the liquid gold into a snifter, then toasted her. “Unemployment has its privileges. Now what can I do for you?”

  “It’s about the Chembergos,” she said.

  Blank stare. “Enrique and Selena!” he said after a moment. “Of course.” Underhill shook his head. “Damned good people. Been with us at least two years. Quiet. Clean. She was so good with Floss.”

  “But when did these INS questions come up?”

  He whirled the brandy, sniffed, and sipped. “What’s today? Two days ago maybe?”

  “And they’ve already been deported?”

  He laughed. “When did a federal agency ever move that fast, Ms. Kennedy? No, once we ascertained the validity of the allegations, we acted on our own in helping them comply with the law.”

  “You sent them back to Guatemala?”

  “It’s a statewide election, Ms. Kennedy, and you know how these things can get twisted. We’re not taking any chances. Of course, we’re not unfeeling. There was a reasonable severance.”

  Brenna leaned forward. The man couldn’t be that stupid.

  “Devil’s advocate,” she said. “May I?”

  “Please.”

  “Okay. I’m a publicity-ma
d D.A. with a grudge. Ten days before a statewide election, I have reason to investigate a suspicious accident, an attempted suicide, maybe even a possible attempted homicide, at the home of the leading candidate, of whom I’m not particularly fond. My case hinges on a witness who claims the victim wasn’t alone at the time she was injured. You with me?”

  Underhill nodded.

  “Now, right before the election, the witness disappears. I check it out, and sure enough, the witness is long gone, out of the country, along with his wife, who was very close to the victim. And they’ve got a fat wad of cash, your cash, in their pockets.”

  Underhill set the glass down on the edge of his desk. “But we had to respond appropriately,” he said. “Legitimate questions were raised.”

  “By whom? The INS?”

  Underhill sat down in a chair across from her, studied her over his steepled fingers. “Come now, Ms. Kennedy. In the heat of a campaign, reality becomes whatever fits into an attack ad or a last-minute mailer. People we know at INS told us what Dagnolo’s people were up to. Do you know what they were doing? Feeding everything they had, such as it was, to the Rosemond campaign. We know this. They didn’t need proof. If they’d timed it right, simply raising the question about our little immigration problem would have been enough to smear Ford as an over-privileged lawbreaker. But in this case, they got lucky. There was a hole in this couple’s paperwork. They weren’t about to let that slide. We know that much. So as soon as we knew there was a problem, we acted.”

  Brenna sat forward. “I’m the nosy D.A., remember? I’m looking at more than an election, I’m trying to bump this whole thing up to an attempted homicide charge, and I’m looking for someone in your family to pin it on. Frankly, I see you trying to solve an entirely different problem here.”

  Underhill pinched the end of his nose between his upthrust index fingers. “You think it looks like a payoff by someone with something to hide.”