by Dick Lilly
“Nothing worse than usual.”
“Shit, Eric. Cut the agro. Keep me in the dark.” Harms shook his head in helpless frustration. It was like dealing with the kids. “One more thing. Danny, do you think you can help come up with a sketch of the driver you saw.”
“Yes and no, sir. I could go through the motions, but the guy had the same beard as Hanran and I don’t think I could do anything but give you a clone of the drawing you’ve already got.”
“Fair enough. Now get outta here, both of you.”
At the door, Falconer looked back:“Be great to know where they went, wouldn’t it?”
“Thanks, oh master of understatement. Sometimes you make my day, sometimes you wreck it – all in the same 20 minutes. Get out.”
Chapter 45, Pizza
Wednesday, July 2, 2 p.m.
“Michelle and the kid are having a good time, riding bikes on the waterfront trail in Myrtle Edwards Park and walking up to the Pike Place Market, being tourists, but Manuel is bored and Michelle is a little pissed. She took vacation days for this and says it’s no fun just sitting around waiting for whatever when they don’t even know why they’re here.” Theresa and Falconer were on the deck outside his office catching up over takeout pizza from one of the Ballard Avenue places.
“Riding bikes?”
“Yeah.”
“Lucky it’s not raining.”
“True. Right after they arrived yesterday a bike shop delivered two bikes for them, presumably from the benefactor. Arranged by Mundy, I’d guess.”
“Do you think they’re being watched?”
“Sorry, Eric. No way to tell.”
“Let’s hope not. Assuming the bad guys are confident no one knows . . .” Falconer let his thought trail off.
“I like Michelle and she trusts me. She finds me a great contrast to that secretive turd Mundy. Her words.”
“But you haven’t told her who we’re bringing by tonight?”
“No. I haven’t even told her anything’s happening. I didn’t want anything to slip out to Mundy in case he comes by, which he did once they’d arrived, yesterday after work. Didn’t stay long. This morning I followed her into the ladies after breakfast in the restaurant, gave her a bit of a pep talk. She needed it.”
“Theresa, you’re wonderful.” Falconer took a bite. Theresa waited for more. “Your relationship with Michelle has really made this work.”
“Thanks.” Matter-of-fact. Not effusive. Thinking: “What about my relationship with you? Am I wonderful to you?” Sometimes she thought the way they’d started out back at the paper, as mentor and pupil – or maybe it was as devotee to the great man, the Pulitzer Prize winner – had locked them into roles that were hard to escape. And, she had to admit, Falconer was just not an emotive kind of guy, more 19th than 21st century.
“OK, here’s how it’s supposed to work.”
“You’re talking with your mouth full.”
“Sorry. Anyway, the governor and Richard Collins are meeting me at seven for dinner at Shiro’s up on Second. At the latest, you need to be with Michelle and the boy in their room by 8:30, assuming it’s all clear. If Mundy or anyone else has shown up, we call it off and wait until he, she or it leaves. The Collinses are prepared to wait as long as it takes. This is maybe the biggest thing for them since the birth of their own kids.”
“Yeah, maybe. I know it’s hard to overstate. But think about Michelle. She’s been aching for her real mom – and dad – for her whole adult life. Manuel has never known grandparents. They’re the ones whose hearts will burst.” There were tears in her eyes.
“This is what makes you so wonderful, Theresa.” Falconer took her hand and after a moment let go. Theresa just looked at the remains of the pizza in the box. Eric looked at some gulls circling the bay. He broke the silence: “What’s the signal?”
“I call her cell. If it’s all clear she answers. If she sends it to voice mail twice, the bad guys are there or expected. All clear later, then she calls me back, I go to her room wait with her.”
“OK. I’m driving Mo and Richard to the Edgewater in the Audi so their arrival, we hope, won’t be noticed. They’re coming up to the room by themselves so I can stay in the lobby and watch for Mundy in case he surprises us. Thank you, Internet, for his picture so we know what he looks like. Danny will be wandering around, too.”
“I’m frightened, Eric. It will be so emotional. What if it just goes wrong, Michelle turns resentful? What if they don’t hit it off? Richard says ‘Nice meeting you, maybe you can visit us in Olympia some time?’ The guy can be kind of cold.”
“Yeah, that worries me too. But you’ll be there to help them through the rough spots, if any. I know you can do it.”
“Well, it is me and not you holding their hands.”
“I couldn’t do it, could I? Wouldn’t even be helpful, unable to say the right thing. I’d be in a corner with a drink in my hand.”
“No, you’d be staring out the window looking at the seagulls.”
“Yeah, OK, I would. Same thing. And I know you want more from me than that and I’m working on it.”
“Ahh. Here we are talking about ourselves, though maybe a little obliquely, when it’s really other people, our clients, if you will, for whom everything is at stake.”
“We’re helping, I think.”
Theresa reached for her ringing cell phone. Falconer moved away to see if there was any warm coffee left from the morning. What there was he put in the microwave.
“Yes!”
Falconer turned around to see Theresa, fist in the air, grinning. “Yes! We’re good to go. Mundy just called Michelle and told her he’s taking them to lunch at the top of the Space Needle tomorrow and on Friday – the Fourth –they should dress for a picnic and be ready at 10. We’re clear for tonight!”
“And on the Fourth,” added Falconer. “I think we know what picnic they’re talking about. They – and whoever they are I think we’re about to find out – they brought Michelle and Manuel up here to confront Governor Collins with the unwanted child of her unwed youth. Almost certainly they’re planning to do it at the Republican Party Fourth of July picnic on Vashon Island.”
“Nice touch. On the spot that’ll kill off a few of the bigger conservative donors.”
“That seems to be just what the governor’s enemies want. But unless Sonny McCracken’s behind it – and I really doubt that, I’ve known him since you and I were reporters and he’s not a dirty tricks kind of guy – I can’t make any political sense of this. I think it’s personal, a vendetta of some kind to ruin her career. Add the lowlifes dropping heavy drugs on a party her son’s at and the trouble at the prison. The guys who started it were paid to cause trouble. Paid! Paid to start a fight in prison! Or their relatives on the outside were paid. We know that. And two of the poor sons-a-bitches got themselves killed.”
“God, Eric, doesn’t that make whoever set than in motion some kind of accessory in their deaths, responsible in some way?”
“I don’t really know but that’s a question we can raise in Falconerblog. It looks like there are some really nasty parts to this story. For now, though, all these things make Governor Collins look bad and somebody’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it all happen.”
“Same guy who hired Mundy?”
“Be fun to prove it,” said Falconer. “But the druggie who played a leading role claimed he didn’t know who hired him. Besides, he’s dead. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
Chapter 46 Picnic
Friday July 4, 10 a.m.
Falconer, Danny and Theresa drove to the Fauntleroy ferry terminal early to make sure they caught a boat to Vashon before 10:30, the earliest a car leaving the Edgewater at 10 with Michelle and Manuel could make it to the dock in southwest Seattle. The line of cars waiting was problem enough. One ferry sailed without them and they were among the last dozen cars on the next boat, which didn’t leave until 10:20. Once aboard, they found the boat crowded with more wa
lk-on passengers than usual, most sporting all kinds of red, white and blue gear, straw hats and ties, sundresses on the women. Charter buses would deliver them from the dock to the Republican picnic.
Looking back from the passenger deck as the ferry sailed, Danny was pretty sure he spotted a bright metallic Rolls Royce nearing the ticketing shed as the line of waiting cars on Fauntleroy Way moved forward toward the holding lanes on the dock.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Falconer said, almost to himself, musing. “That’s two strikes. Victor Wallingford was a classmate of Maureen Finch’s at Whitman and Mundy’s firm does work for Wallingford Evergreen – though we don’t know if he works on the account.”
Theresa laughed. “Don’t jump the gun on this, Eric. The man’s a big Republican donor sure to be at this picnic every year, bending ears and twisting arms to make sure the legislators know what he wants.”
“Too bad. Now he doesn’t have Carl Barclay to help him out.”
“Yeah, but what about us?” asked Danny. “We’re not Republicans. You’re known around town as a D, Eric. How are we going to get in?”
“It’s a big property. We’re going to park on a side road and climb the fence behind the orchard where they can’t see us.”
Theresa and Danny looked at Falconer in horror. “What?” they chorused. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Yep,” Falconer smiled. “That would be our usual enterprising investigative journalists way, but I’ve got a better plan.”
“Be nice if you told us.” Same old Falconer, Theresa thought, cutting through the seriousness with some oblique humor.
“Come on. I kinda like the idea. Let’s do it.” The secretive invasion option appealed to Danny, ex-Army Rangers but he, too, was kidding.
Falconer decided not to joke about helmets and guns and crawling through the mud on their bellies to capture the beer kegs.
“You’ll both be shocked and disappointed at the simplicity of this plan.”
“Go ahead and shock us, then,” said Theresa.
It was clearing and sunny and on the aft passenger deck they were out of the wind. Like most Seattle residents riding the ferries, looking out at the city – green hills framing a forest of office towers – was always a boost to the spirit.
“We’re on the attendees list as guests of the governor,” said Falconer. His colleagues just shook their heads in exasperation.
Once they reached the farm, owned by a Republican former governor from the 1980s and site of the party’s Fourth of July picnic for almost 30 years, they were directed into a parking lot by a flag waving Uncle Sam complete with top hat, white goatee and blue tailcoat over which, apparently aware he would be standing in the middle of the road most of the time, he wore a reflective safety vest.
“These guys way overdo it,” said Theresa. I’ll bet they’re all wearing American flag underwear.”
“Probably,” said Falconer. “It’s the same at the Dems Labor Day picnic.”
Parked, they walked through the dusty lot to the reception tent, filled out their stick-on name tags – first names only, Falconer whispered, a little anonymity might help – and were given the obligatory two free drink tickets good for beer or wine.
Facing a gauntlet of microbrew kegs on the left, Walla Walla and Yakima Valley wines on the right, they split up, beer for the boys, wine for Theresa. Drinks in hand, they drifted toward the bandstand across a couple acres of perfectly kept lawn in front of the house – white, two-story, massive columns across the front. Looks like the style once found on plantations, Falconer thought irritably. Couldn’t they leave that alone and build Northwest rustic: massive timbers, weathered shingles? That would fit better. From the bandstand, upbeat bluegrass filled the air, lightening his mood a bit.
As they passed groups of people chatting, Falconer recognized a number of the politicos and elected officials from his days with the paper and even a few he knew from stories he’d done on Falconerblog, but he avoided eye contact as much as possible. Last thing he wanted was to be drawn into a bunch of ‘why are you here?’ conversations. Off to the side of the rows of white wooden folding chairs in front of the stage were tables with red, white and blue umbrellas for shade. Not all taken. For anyone wanting to circulate and meet colleagues, they were the wrong place to be, but just right for anyone who wanted to watch the crowd and stay unnoticed. Falconer, Theresa and Danny found an empty table and sat down to wait.
It was not long. “Here he comes.” Danny spotted him first.
Victor Wallingford, closely trailed by Todd Mundy and Michelle Adams holding her son’s hand, was making his way through the crowd, shaking hands and waving to friends as he went.
“Looks like I won that bet,” said Falconer.
“Not a bet, but a pretty good guess,” offered Danny.
Theresa went right to the questions: “Why’s he doing this? What’s he trying to prove? He’s making a spectacle of that poor woman, exploiting her.”
“Not outside his normal and accustomed M.O. from what you hear around town,” said Falconer. “Look at poor hangdog Mundy bringing up the rear. He doesn’t want to be here either. Doesn’t look like he’s exactly loving this.”
As they moved slowly toward the V.I.P. seats, the same white folding chairs but with flag-patterned cushions, Wallingford introduced Michelle to some of the Republican office holders and major financial backers. Even from where Falconer, Danny and Theresa were sitting a hundred feet away, they could see shocked expressions after the greetings and handshakes. A trail of whispers followed Wallingford’s group.
“Eric, he’s giving them the whole long-lost bastard daughter story, isn’t he?” Theresa’s anger filled her words. She knew this would happen. Whoever brought Michelle from San Diego was going to do something like this, but it was unbearably hard to watch.
“At least the elevator pitch version,” said Danny. “The catchy version.”
Was Michelle crying? They couldn’t tell. Most of the time her back was to them. Some of the women crouched down to say something to Manuel, maybe a comforting word? Theresa couldn’t imagine what that would be.
The murmur of whispers rose to a buzz in the growing crowd following Wallingford toward the table at the edge of the V.I.P. area where the governor and Richard Collins and their son, Will, and daughter, Kelly, were sitting.
The three from Falconerblog stood up. Theresa wished she could stand on a chair to see better but she was afraid the flimsy thing would dump her on the ground.
At just the moment when she could see Michelle among the crowd surrounding Victor Wallingford, Maureen Collins stood and ran to her daughter, hugging her hard. “Darling, I’m so glad you could come. I didn’t think you were going to make it!” It was the embrace and line – delivered well louder than needed – they’d agreed on the night the governor and her daughter met, once they’d turned to practicalities after a couple hours – not long enough – of getting to know one another, hearing Michelle’s story, Michelle happy but trying to convey some of the hurt of her abandonment. Now, they held each other at arms’ length, a long look into each other’s eyes, both now – again – truly teary. Richard Collins knelt and gave Manuel a grandfatherly hug.
“Mr. Wallingford was kind enough to pay for our plane tickets.” This line, too, from Michelle, was purposefully loud so as many as possible around them could hear. “What a great surprise. Come and join us dear.”
Governor Collins beamed a smile at Victor Wallingford, frozen in place since Collins’ mother-daughter embrace, and tight-lipped with controlled fury. “Thank you so much, Victor. Come and join us, too. You’ve played a big part in this surprise.”
With eyes narrowed, barely controlling his frustration and hatred, Wallingford responded, rasping and mean, “No, thank you, Governor Collins. The surprise is all mine, as I think you know. I’ve done all I can for today.”
Wallingford paused to look around, assessing his audience, then snapped: “I’m sure you can find a constituent
to drive Ms. Adams and Manuel back to their hotel when it’s time. Perhaps Falconer over there, though I’m surprised to see him among Republicans.”
“Are you sure you won’t stay? I’m going to make an announcement about Michelle to the whole group.”
“As you can imagine, I’m curious about how you’ll explain her appearance after all these years but I can wait for tonight’s news shows,” Wallingford smirked. He turned away, shaking off people who tried to question him as he followed Mundy, already plowing through the crowd as he made his escape toward the parking lot. It wouldn’t be an escape from Wallingford’s wrath, though. Mundy knew he’d be blamed for the screw-up. How did they know?
The buzz of scandal rippled outward from the group around the governor. How bad would it be? Could the governor continue her campaign or even govern?
As the bluegrass band wrapped up with “Cabin on the Hill” Maureen Collins started toward the stage. Saying, “I’ve got to do this, Richard,” as she pulled away from her husband. Collins climbed onto the stage and got to the mike even before the M.C. There were pockets of applause even before she spoke. A good sign, she thought, unless they’re the ones who haven’t heard yet. She took a deep breath.
“Good afternoon, friends. Let me be the first to welcome all of you to this year’s King County Republicans’ Fourth of July Picnic.” There was a little more applause. “I want to start by bringing you up to date on some wonderful news about my family.” Collins paused for a long time before beginning.