Perfectly Good Crime

by Dete Meserve

  While the house was completely ostentatious, the fundraiser itself reeked of sophisticated wealth. This was not the kind of event where grand old ladies showed up dripping in diamonds and dragging fur coats. The men dressed in tailored suits, and except for the luxury watches on their wrists, they were mostly indistinguishable from each other. The women wore designer dresses with one or two pieces of classic, but never showy, jewelry.

  My dad was standing with two couples in their late fifties, and even from a distance, I knew he had already launched into fundraising mode. He is one of the best at raising money. So much so that NPR once dubbed him a “fundraising rock star.” He’s got the gift of small talk, a sincere laugh that puts people at ease, and a chummy patter that sounds off-the-cuff and personal, even though he doesn’t often stray from the script. My dad and most senators spend shocking amounts of time raising money, thinking about money, and planning to raise money. In the House, the candidate with the most money wins nine times out of ten. In the Senate, it’s eight out of ten.

  Most of that fundraising doesn’t take place in high-end venues like this castle but at unglamorous settings that ring the Capitol like The Capital Grille, Bullfeathers, and Monocle. But it’s not all drudgery. In the past year, my dad has attended four hundred fundraising events, including golf tournaments, birthday celebrations, concerts, and even a pheasant-hunting trip.

  All afternoon, I tried to get into a conversation with Stephen Bening but he eluded me. He was clearly in his element here and flitted from one group to another, seemingly without a break. At one point I thought I’d caught his eye, but he looked past me as though he didn’t recognize me.

  All I needed was thirty seconds to make my case. I’d polished my pitch and even rehearsed it several times on the drive over. “This isn’t about invading your privacy,” I’d say. “This is about letting viewers understand what it feels like to be robbed. And it’s an opportunity to help catch the thieves, because someone watching probably knows something about these heists.”

  It didn’t look like I’d get thirty seconds with him so I headed out of the ballroom and slipped into an open door across the hallway. When I saw what was inside the room, I exhaled sharply. This home library was a four-thousand-square-foot round rotunda with skylights at the top of its thirty-foot ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases that curved with the walls of the library housed thousands of books.

  The room smelled of old books, a mustiness with a hint of vanilla. I loved that smell and thought it only existed in old, dusty public libraries, but somehow Stephen had captured that scent in his home library. Maybe money can buy anything.

  I walked the perimeter of the room, running my fingers along the spines of some of the books, soaking in the magnitude. It would take ten lifetimes to read all of them.

  He had at least a dozen shelves of business and investing books and an impressive collection of children’s classics—books about Robin Hood, Joan of Arc, King Arthur. And one entire shelf was devoted to identical copies of a book titled Business Hacks: Secrets to Changing the World Through Business. The author was Stephen Bening.

  I flipped past chapters titled “Disruption: Changing the Rules in the Marketplace” and “From Minnows to Sharks: The New Competitors” to the back cover with a photo of a beardless Stephen Bening along with a brief biography.

  Stephen Bening, CEO of SalesInsight, was named Business Person of the Year by Fortune magazine, Best CEO in the World by Barron’s, and Best CEO in America by Forbes. He received the Innovation Award from The Economist.

  I glanced at the trophy-stocked shelf above it. The centerpiece was a large, ornately filigreed silver cup trophy mounted on a wooden base. A plaque on the base read 1996 university of southern california.

  “Quite a behemoth, isn’t it?” A man’s voice startled me.

  I whirled around and found myself face-to-face with Stephen Bening.

  “I’m Kate Bradley,” I said. “Hale’s daughter. We met at Matt Wexler’s last week.”

  I extended my hand. Once he recognized me, his frown faded but he didn’t shake my hand.

  “National Debate Tournament.” He nodded toward the trophy. “I was captain of the team the year we won it. It’s the only time USC ever claimed that victory.” He sat on the edge of the mahogany desk. “But you didn’t come in here to look at an old trophy and stacks of books. Is the party that bad?”

  “Your party is great,” I said. “But as you can imagine, I’ve been to many of these events and after a while they get—”

  “Predictable. I agree and I’m the host.”

  “Apologies for escaping in here.”

  “Not a problem.” He gestured toward the book in my hand. “I see you’ve found my book.”

  With his book in my hands, I knew I looked a busybody reporter snooping around his private library. “Secrets to Changing the World Through Business,” I said, trying to cover my embarrassment. “That’s a tall order for a book.”

  “Read it and see for yourself. Everyone thinks the tech industry is about creating gadgets and apps, but if we do our jobs right, we can change the world.” He glanced at his watch, a treasure I recognized now as a Hublot Big Bang: $110,000. “Maybe we should get back to the ballroom, or your father will be unhappy at both of us for deserting him.”

  I followed him toward the door and felt the blood pushing hard in my veins as I tried to figure out a way to get him to talk about the heist.

  “Stephen,” I said. “My father will give me a lecture for what I’m about to ask, so don’t blame him. But I have to—”

  “Ask about the burglary. It only took you two minutes. Not bad.” He turned to face me. I couldn’t tell if he was irritated or amused.

  “Do you actually think some police officers are behind it?” I asked, setting aside my rehearsed pitch. “Or was that just cocktail chatter?”

  “One hundred percent not cocktail chatter. They completed an entire investigation and yet never shared any information with me. Police claim they have no evidence, but that’s impossible. How could there be absolutely no evidence, no clues of any kind?”

  “They may have found some. A source of mine says they’ve found the Hidden Mickey.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “A Hidden Mickey?”

  “Evidence powerful enough to potentially unlock the case. It’s not usually shared with the media because it could compromise the investigation. I don’t know what it is, but it may explain why they’re not saying anything to you.”

  He thought about it for a moment. “I’m willing to bet the Hidden Mickey, as you call it, points to members of our illustrious police force. That’s why I’ve hired a private investigator to look into police conspiracy.”

  “Police conspiracy. Would you be willing to talk with me on camera about that? It’s an opportunity to—”

  “The answer is no,” he said swiftly. “And it’s not because I have anything against you or reporters in general. I see how this story is developing in the media and it’s all about how the rich have far too much money. You can see why I don’t want to be a part of it.”

  I couldn’t let him get away with no. “Then let’s change the story. What if we focused the interview on your investigation into police involvement in the heists?”

  “Still a no.” He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a business card. “Call me if you learn anything more from your police source.”

  “I never said my source was a police officer.”

  “It’s obvious that he is, though.”

  “Stephen?” A thirtysomething blonde in a floor-length sapphire dress called out from the doorway. Her hair was swept up in a jeweled comb and her ruffled-hem dress was impeccable, as if she had just stepped off the runway during Fashion Week in Paris. “Everyone’s wondering where you are.”

  “Margot, this is Kate Bradley, Senator Bradley’s daughter.” He turned to me. “Stay in touch. Keep me posted about what you learn from your s
ource and if you play your cards right, maybe I’ll change my mind about an interview.”

  The party was in full swing when I returned to the ballroom. Dozens of people were dancing, swaying to a jazzy arrangement the orchestra and band were playing at full volume. The conversations had become louder too, more boisterous and punctuated by peals of laughter. Now that the younger set of wealthy donors in their thirties and forties had arrived, the room was filled nearly to capacity. There seemed to be waiters everywhere. Dressed in black pants and crisp white shirts, some carried trays of appetizers and other delicacies, but most were offering an endless parade of signature mixed drinks, rare wines, champagnes, and even vodka and tequila shots.

  Over the din, I heard my phone ping in my purse. I pulled it out and a playful smile emoji flashed across the screen.

  “Who’s this?” I typed.

  “Eric.”

  I stepped into a corner of the ballroom to reply. “You okay?”

  “New phone. Old one lost in hurricane.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “You look beautiful tonight.”

  I smoothed my black dress and smiled, broader now, wishing he hadn’t lost his cell phone for six days. I was enjoying flirting with him even from thousands of miles away.

  Another text swooped across the screen. “Like your smile too.”

  I looked up for a moment, confused by his texts.

  That’s when I saw him, standing near the orchestra, next to a group of older men who, despite the dance music, were engrossed in conversation. Our eyes met across the room. He was dressed in a jet black suit, his wavy hair only slightly tamed. Most guys who looked like he did were keenly aware of their good looks and let you know it, but Eric seemed oblivious, unaware of the effect he had on me or anyone else in the room.

  I could barely breathe from the thrill and surprise of seeing him. I wound my way through the crowded room, and when I reached him, he drew me into his arms.

  “Do you know how much I’ve missed you?” he whispered.

  “No,” I said, meeting his gaze.

  “You don’t?” His smile reached his eyes. “Then let me remind you.”

  My pulse skipped a beat as he pulled me into a kiss that was as hot as it was brief. “Does that give you any hint?”

  “Hmm, not enough.” I leaned my head on his shoulder in a failed attempt to slow my breathing. “How did you find me here?”

  “When you weren’t home, I called the newsroom and your producer, Hannah, told me where you were. I couldn’t wait until you came home so I came here myself.”

  I saw the extreme fatigue in his face and his red-rimmed eyes, but he was working hard not to show it.

  “And they let you in? Everyone else here paid ten thousand dollars for the privilege.”

  “Your dad vouched for me.”

  “My dad? Was he in on this?”

  He shook his head. “Not until I showed up a few minutes ago. I took a gamble and told security I was his guest and he came to the door to let me in. He warned me, though, that you don’t like surprises.”

  “Usually I don’t. But this surprise is good. Very good.”

  “Dance?” he asked.

  I’d never danced with Eric before—in fact, I hadn’t danced with anyone since my cousin’s wedding back when I was in college—so I wasn’t exactly sure what to do at first. But then we eased into a rhythm together, a slow dance while everyone else, fueled by all the free-flowing liquor, was letting loose.

  As we danced, I was both amazed and terrified by the strength of my feelings. I had never met anyone who made me feel the way he did. I needed him. It was a new feeling and not entirely a comfortable one. Desire I could handle. Well, maybe. But longing to be with him—being consumed with being with him—was shutting off the thinking parts of my brain.

  The song ended and a waiter came by carrying a tray of sparkling champagne flutes. We both grabbed one, then Eric took my hand in his and we snaked through the crowd, out of the ballroom, and past the library. “Where are we going?” I asked as we started down a winding staircase, away from the party.

  He stopped on the stair below me and looked up at me, his face lit only by the fleur-de-lis wall sconces in the stairwell. “How often do we get to be in a place like this? Let’s go explore.”

  I stopped. “What if we get caught?”

  “Who’s going to fault two lovers sneaking out under the moonlight?”

  I liked the way he said “lovers,” but that wasn’t enough to push away the gnawing feeling that we shouldn’t go any farther. “My father will kill me for bailing on his party.” Okay, not kill me. But I knew exactly what he would say: “A senator’s daughter does not wander around a donor’s estate.”

  He smiled at me. “You’ll cross police tape to cover a train derailment, but you won’t sneak outside at a fundraising event?”

  He was right. How bad could it be to take a peek outside? We followed the staircase to the ground level, then walked down two long hallways until we found an arched wooden door that looked like it might lead outside.

  Eric pushed the door open and we found ourselves on a lush, expansive lawn in the back of the estate. The door closed behind us, and the laughter and music from the party fell away. The only sound was a lone cricket chirping slowly in the distance.

  The scent of mint and night jasmine rode on a light breeze as we stood there for a long moment, letting our eyes adjust to the evening light. A second cricket joined to form a small chorus.

  A full moon already hung high in the sky, casting its cool beams on a garden of white roses on the side of the house. Night fell slowly and the sky behind the mountains in the distance was aglow with the last orange and pink hues of the day.

  He took my hand and we headed across a lawn that felt like a carpet beneath my feet. The night, the garden, everything around us was transfigured by the luminous glow of moonlight. A quiet hush enveloped us as we slipped into a forest of mature fruit trees.

  “Have you ever been anyplace like this before?” Eric whispered.

  I shook my head. I had been in many paradises before on fundraising jaunts with my father. I hadn’t ever stolen away from a party, so I can’t say exactly what the estates were like beyond the ballrooms and expansive lawns, but none had been quite as breathtaking as this one. But it wasn’t the grandeur of the estate that was stealing my breath away. It was being with Eric again. I don’t believe in destiny, but I had the profound feeling that I was supposed to be here with him, that I was exactly where I belonged.

  We stopped beneath an orange tree in full bloom. Around us a circuit of fireflies rose like sparks, lighting the trees with their glowing specks. Fireflies are rare in Los Angeles—but here they were, as though the orchard had become some kind of enchanted wonderland.

  I reached out to catch one and missed, but Eric managed to catch a couple in his cupped hands. I peeked through his fingers, mesmerized.

  “It’s like capturing a tiny star in your hands,” I whispered.

  He flung open his hands, setting them free into the swirling droves of twinkling fireflies. He leaned in to kiss me and I tasted the champagne on his lips.

  The squawk of a walkie-talkie interrupted our kiss. Peeking through the leaves of the tree, we spotted a security guard a few yards away, walking the perimeter of the orchard.

  Eric took my hand again, and then we began running in the narrow grassy rows between the trees, deeper into the orchard and away from the guard. We started laughing, like silly kids who had just pulled an enormous prank. In the tender light he smiled at me, and then he was no longer the captain of a search and rescue team but a kid on a nighttime adventure. With me. We ducked beneath low branches heavy with fruit and skirted around small puddles in the dirt, giddy with excitement, our faces flushed.

  We stopped when we came upon a small cabin surrounded by a thick grove of olive trees. Its gray clapboards were scraped and weathered, as th
ough it had been around for a hundred years or more. It was clearly out of place on the immaculate estate. I cupped my hands and peered through the window to the right of the sagging front door, but a dark shade on the inside blocked my view.

  “What’re you doing?” Eric asked, catching his breath.

  “Reporter’s habit,” I whispered.

  “Come here you,” Eric whispered, drawing me away from the cabin. He pulled me close beneath the silvery leaves of a tall tree with a fat, gnarled trunk. “We didn’t come all the way out here so you could play Nancy Drew.”

  I smiled and couldn’t stop, even if I had wanted to. “What did we come out here for?”

  He opened his hands and displayed a handful of green olives he had pulled from the tree above him. “To pick olives, of course.”

  My eyes met his and then the night took on a magical quality. In the half-light of that evening, the wind whispered through the trees, jostling their leaves, floating their fragrant blooms like fairy dust around us. I wanted the moment, the rush of it, to go on forever.

  “How long has it been since you slept?” I whispered.

  He brushed a lock of hair from my face. “Nineteen, maybe twenty hours.”

  But from the way he pressed his body against mine and planted a slow, deep kiss on my lips, I knew he wasn’t going to catch up on any sleep that night.

  Chapter Six

  I felt a glow of excitement as I headed into the newsroom the next morning. Eric was home. His dress shirt had hidden a deep gash he’d suffered when debris slashed at his neck during the high-winds rescue in the river. But otherwise he had returned unharmed. He was exhausted but safe, still asleep in my bed. Unless an emergency cropped up, he was going to spend the morning catching up on much-needed sleep.

  I was hoping for a slow news day so I could slip out early, but that wasn’t to be. When I arrived in the assignment meeting, Russ Hartman was pitching a story about an app that allowed users to take a photo of a key with a smartphone and get a duplicate of the key in the mail a week later.