“Education?” I didn’t even know who that person was.
“The ship is sinking and there’s not enough lifeboats.”
“Is it going down that fast?” I asked.
“Eileen McCloskey, the education secretary, is making her move to challenge him. She would make an interesting candidate if she can be controlled. She’s certainly trying to sink him now, so we could consider her an ally. And she won’t be the last.”
What pleasant people. Had power corrupted them, or had they been nasty from birth?
“So, who owns Malden, the lieutenant governor?”
“Forrester. Your father brokered the deal between him and Bright.”
“So if . . . I mean, when he becomes governor, Forrester is in control.”
“No. Henry Malden is a nonentity. He presides over the state senate and funnels information to Forrester, but he has no political skills. Forrester wanted an informant and Bright wanted a lieutenant who would never be a rival. As governor, Malden will be completely lost.”
“Then who will be in charge?”
As if I’d needed to ask Fred Spellman such a question. “Whoever is strongest,” he said.
“Anything else?”
“I have been advising several of your executive managers on how they are to respond to subpoenas.”
“We’re cooperating.”
“Yes, yes,” Fred said. “But the lines must be kept clear.”
“Whatever. We’ll tough it out. Do you have any suggestions for this evening?”
“Grainger may have something constructive to suggest concerning the current crisis. But mainly you’re both just looking. Remember, you’ve wrecked his main project. He may be holding a grudge. He’s going to abandon ship sometime, but his timing may depend on you.”
“I agree with what you said this morning,” I said. “I’d like him at least neutral. As long as he stays on the governor’s staff, he can use the governor against me.”
“Exactly. So convince him his future is better as your friend. Give him a small hint and see how he responds.”
Friend. The word grated somewhat, in the context of our conversation and setting. It implied trust, and decency—certainly the wrong word.
“What else might he do to fight back?” I was really just thinking aloud. We’d been through everything.
“I haven’t thought of anything else. He may indicate something tonight.”
On that note, we waited. Noisy, jumbled minutes were passing outside our booth. A television played over the bar, music, talking, lights splattering the room, but we were no part of it. We were the dark and silence that the life of the room broke through and sank back under.
At almost midnight the black deepened as Grainger slid in next to me. I hadn’t seen him come into the room. I shifted around into the back corner.
“Busy day,” he said. “I can’t stay long.”
That bordered on the moronic, but there wasn’t any better way to begin. The man’s alleged genius certainly wasn’t in conversation. I tried to think of something equally obvious to say.
“Bright’s career is over,” I said. “I had no choice.”
“Maybe.”
“What should I have done?” I wanted to see how personally he was taking it.
“It doesn’t matter. The governor doesn’t have many choices, either.”
It was hard to tell if that was a statement or a threat. His voice was expressionless, and his face would have been if I could have seen it.
“I made a business decision, to clean house,” I said. “There were too many risks the old way, including Bright as a business partner.” I leaned toward him. “Slamming me with a murder scandal didn’t add to the working relationship.”
“You shouldn’t react too hastily.” He sounded weary and carefully patient.
“Last month you said I took too long to make decisions.”
“That was a different situation. You’ve done a lot of damage, and it could have been avoided.” It was the first time I’d heard him speak with any inflection to his words, and it was condescension. “It’s going to take a lot of effort to repair.” Poor Clinton, having to clean up my mess.
Fred rumbled to life. “Don’t use that tone. You are speaking to adults here, not that toddler you baby-sit. The governor is finished, and you know it. The issue here is to manage the endgame.”
“I’m not conceding that,” Grainger said.
“You should,” I said. “I don’t want to have to do any more damage.” “What else will you do?” Grainger asked.
“That depends on you,” I countered. “What will you do?”
“Your cabinet is self-destructing,” Fred added. “The police are just getting started. It would be pointless to prolong this. You know you can’t win.”
“The governor is paying me to prolong this.”
“How much is he paying you?”
That was enough for Clinton Grainger to understand the real reason for the meeting. Even in the dark, I could feel his unblinking eyes on me. “I’m not a mercenary, Mr. Boyer.”
“I don’t think he’ll be paying you much longer,” I said. “I’m patient.”
“It hasn’t seemed that way.”
“I do what I have to do.” And I’d said what I had to say. “And I appreciate that you were willing to talk with me. We’ll see what happens next.”
“I’m not interested.”
“That’s up to you. I really am patient, and I won’t have to wait long.”
“You keep assuming that.” He stood. “You may be surprised.”
“You know it’s over,” I said.
“Not yet. I can cause damage, too.”
“Nothing can save Bright.”
“Mr. Boyer, be careful about throwing stones. You have more glass in your own house than you think.” He paused, but I didn’t take his bait. “Don’t call me again.”
“I won’t unless I have to,” I said.
With that, he slipped back out from the enemy lines into no-man’s-land and was gone. We waited a few minutes to let him get away clear, in case anyone was watching.
Fred and I stood at the curb by Fred’s car. “Apparently the governor will launch some attack tomorrow,” he said.
“What was he talking about?”
“We’ll find out. He acted as if it would be substantial.”
“I’ll be at home. Call me if anything happens.”
I pointed at the car parked ahead of Fred’s on the street. “Isn’t that Grainger’s car? It has a governor’s mansion parking sticker.”
Fred scowled. “He’s meeting someone else.”
“He might just be getting food.”
“No, he’s discussing our meeting. I don’t like it. He has more ammunition.”
I shrugged. “It can’t be that bad. Call me anytime.”
25
Fred did call anytime. It was less than five hours later when Rosita knocked on my bedroom door and I groped through the dark in my pajamas, trying to find my office in that huge new house.
“Jason,” Fred said, indignant enough for both of us. “Turn on your television. Clinton Grainger is dead.”
It hadn’t even been five days since the last time someone had said that. Just with a different name.
But Fred didn’t dissolve into sobbing. He kept talking. “He was gunned down outside the hotel last night, beside his car.”
At least I wouldn’t have anything to do with this funeral. I switched through the network morning shows. Katie and I had compromised; there was a television in the breakfast room, but it was small.
At first it was only on the local news breaks, but then the New York anchors picked it up. No one hesitated to lump everything together.
“A third murder in Governor Harry Bright’s corruption case last night,” one face said to a national audience.
“Possibly the greatest scandal in recent American history,” another claimed.
I called Stan Morton. “I’m not do
ing an interview today.”
“Huh?” he said. “I don’t even know what day it is. You lose track when you don’t sleep. Did you kill Clinton Grainger?”
“Who’s saying that?”
“Just say yes or no.”
“No.”
“Good. But you’d say that anyway.”
“This is not why I called.”
“The interview. Tomorrow?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Eric must have spent the night, because he wandered in a while later, wearing the work clothes Katie had bought for me, his hair a mess. He stared at the screen and his blurred eyes got big.
“I’ve heard of him. They talked about Clinton Grainger in the newspaper yesterday.”
I played innocent. “Governor Bright is going to miss him.”
Eric nodded. “Yeah. Clinton Grainger is Harry Bright’s chief of staff and main political adviser. He’s been the mastermind behind his whole career.”
I turned from the television to look at my brother.
“What?” he said. “You told me to read the newspapers.”
“Is that what the papers said?”
“Well, sort of. You could figure it out. Did you know him?”
“I met him a couple times.”
“This might . . . Do you . . . Do you think it could be the same person who killed Angela?”
The whole huge cloud had at least one little silver lining—that Eric had something besides cars to figure out. “Um . . . the thought had crossed my mind.”
“Wow. This is big. Do you think it made it into the newspaper?”
“I bet it was too late. And Rule Number 92—don’t believe everything you read in the newspaper.”
“But you said to read it. You own it anyway.”
“That’s why Rule 92 is so important.”
At seven thirty, the governor appeared to make a statement. He was badly shaken, stumbling over his words, his face ashen and his hands trembling.
“This morning I lost a close adviser and a good friend. Clinton had been with me through thick and thin. I often counted on him for wise counsel, especially these last few days.We will all miss him, and I more than anyone.” Even if he’d invited them, none of the reporters would have dared to ask any questions. For the moment he’d score a lot of sympathy points with his voters, but the image of the blank eyes and dead expression would surely haunt him forever.
But many questions—Rhetorical News Anchor Questions— were asked of the viewers. “Will Harry Bright survive this latest blow? Is this murder related to the deaths of Melvin and Angela Boyer? What will the authorities find at the bottom of this affair?” And all the questions were answered with all the standard variations of the Rhetorical News Anchor Answer.
“Only time will tell.”
When Katie arrived for breakfast, I told her I’d be busy being rich and important for the day, and to not wait up.
“This is not a good habit,” she said. “You need sleep.”
“At least I’ve got a reason to be alive.”
“Rosita is planning a nice dinner.”
It is important to keep priorities. “Okay. I’ll try real hard to be here.”
I got to Fred’s office at eight forty. He had not come down from his indignancy plateau, but the first thing he said as I faced him across his desk was completely lucid.
“Be very careful. The meeting with Grainger last night could blow up in our faces.”
“I thought of that,” I said. “Motive and opportunity. But we can’t hide it.”
“It isn’t just that you will be a target for the murder investigation. We will also be vulnerable politically if it becomes public knowledge that we were negotiating with him. Unless . . . we could use that to our advantage.” He shook his head. There were too many angles for even Fred to work out. He settled into simple fulmination. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Everything is in shambles. Anything could happen right now. Who knows what might happen? Anything. Any single thing.”
“You’re feeling insecure, Fred. You should get therapy.”
“I don’t have time.”
I let him rant for a while. He was a poker shark who’d been dropped in a bridge tournament—it was a new game, he didn’t understand the rules, and he didn’t like it. Right now he was approaching hysterics, and somebody needed to slap him.
Fred’s secretary opened the door. “Mr. Boyer? Pamela called. She wanted to remind you that Detective Wilcox would be by at nine.”
That was the slap. “The police detective?” he said.
“I arranged it yesterday. I wanted to act cooperative.”
“Of course.” He was thinking coherently again. “This will be risky, but I see no other choice. It will be best to get it over with quickly.”
“Would you care to join us?”
“I think I had better.”
Being in an elevator that was trying to lift Fred Spellman to the top of a forty-two-story building also seemed risky, but I saw no other choice. We entered that little room, its door closed on us, and with a mighty effort it began its labor.
“Do you realize the gravity of the situation?” Fred asked.
That was exactly what I was thinking about, except that Fred meant Wilcox.
“Yes,” I said. “This murderer is for real, and so is the investigation. I don’t want to lose control.”
“No one is in control.”
We’d made it halfway. Fred was thinking very hard, and he turned suddenly to face me.
“Do you have an alibi for last night?”
“What?”
“What did you do after we separated?”
“I went home.”
“Last Saturday night, when Angela was shot. Where were you then?”
“On my boat.”
“With your wife?”
“Alone.”
“Don’t answer any questions he asks.”
We made it to the top, and I’d forgotten my worry about whether we would. “I’ll have to answer sometime.”
“Then just be very careful. Speak slowly so I can stop you if necessary.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that that doesn’t matter?” The elevator door opened.
“It does matter,” I said. “Not to the police, but it does matter.”
“Whatever.”
We crossed the lobby and opened the door to Pamela’s office.
Detective Wilcox rose to greet us, we all smiled, and I was reminded again how much I detested him. Or maybe just his mustache. He had a hard enough job, chasing criminals through political minefields. Why make it harder on himself, when a razor would slay that thing in two minutes?
“Please come in,” I said, and we filed into the throne room.
“Thank you for coming,” I said when we were all comfortable. “I guess you’re very busy today.”
“Yes, Mr. Boyer, I am,” he said. “But frankly, this meeting is right at the top of my list.” He looked like maybe he’d been sleeping as much as Stan Morton.
“It’s pretty high on my list, too.” I took a breath and began my official statement. “The last time we met, I was of the opinion that the investigation of Melvin Boyer’s death was politically motivated. I still think it was. Now, however, I accept that he was murdered. I want to cooperate with your investigation. I still don’t trust you, though. Your top boss is Harry Bright, and he’d like to murder me.”
Wilcox took a deep breath. “First, Mr. Boyer, let me assure you that the state police are completely independent.”
“And I completely believe you.”
“And we are only interested in solving these murders. That is my only purpose.”
“Then my purpose is to make sure you solve them correctly, because I think the governor has other purposes.”
He gave that up. “Anyway, sir, I would like to ask you some questions.”
“I think I’d like to ask questions firs
t,” I said. “Are you treating all three of these murders as one case?”
“Uh, well, we don’t comment on investigations.”
I shook my head. “You’ll have to do much better than that, Mr. Wilcox. I said I’d cooperate, but I don’t need to do it for free.”
“I understand,” he said. “We’re keeping our options open. Personally, I think it’s clear the three cases are related.”
“Do you have any suspects?”
“No one specific yet. But we have a list of obvious names.”
“Who’s on it?”
“Mr. Boyer, I can’t tell you that.”
“You said they’re obvious.”
“It’s obvious who benefited from the deaths.”
I’d done pretty well from them—that was obvious. “Melvin had a lot of enemies.”
“Yes, he did,” Wilcox said. “But that wouldn’t carry over to Angela Boyer, or to Clinton Grainger.”
“Detective Wilcox.” Fred didn’t want us to forget he was there. “Is Jason Boyer your main suspect?”
“We don’t have a main suspect.”
“Jason Boyer, Katie Boyer, Eric Boyer,” Fred listed. “Is there anyone else obvious?”
Wilcox shrugged. “I’ll just say those are the three names on the list that are underlined.”
“Katie and Eric don’t even know who Clinton Grainger is,” I said. I’d just throw myself on that grenade. Eric recognized Grainger’s name, but that didn’t count.
“We’re just getting started with Grainger’s murder,”Wilcox said. “I don’t even have forensics from the scene yet.”
“Next question,” I said. “Who broke into my office?”
Wilcox reacted just enough to convince me he knew. “I haven’t seen any report on that. When did it happen?”
“Friday or Saturday, three weeks ago. I didn’t file a report. Since the police did it, why waste the time? They got Melvin’s office, too.”
“I don’t know anything about that, Mr. Boyer.”
“It sounds like the police department needs to work on internal communications. Never mind. What would you like to ask me?”
“Um, back to our list. Do you have any additional names for it?”
“No.”
He paused and looked down at his notebook. “How well did you know Clinton Grainger?” It was time to get personal.
The Heir Page 18