by Ann McMan
His pacing continued.
This is ridiculous.
He grabbed his jacket and headed for the church. If he was going to be awake all night, he could at least spend the time in prayer.
◊ ◊ ◊
Ping called Evan a few minutes after Julia left for work. Evan had just returned from retrieving the papers she’d left in her car overnight. She wasn’t looking forward to the errand ahead of her . . . not at all.
“Great timing,” Evan said, when she picked up her phone. “I just sat down at my desk.”
“Yeah? Well lucky you. I’ve been at mine most of the night.”
“Great will be your reward, Ping. I appreciate the hustle.”
“You might not when you hear my report.”
“Okay.” Evan sat back in her chair and picked up her mug of bad coffee. “Let’s have it.”
“I’ll make it short and sweet. First, the Citizens for Integrity in Government PAC has nine primary donors, and all of them are members of the Galileo Club. There are one or two outliers, but the majority of the big money the PAC commits to support its marquee issues comes from the same group of men.”
“Any names we know?” Evan asked.
“Oh, yeah. This list reads like a Who’s Who In the Harvard Tie Club. Let’s see.” Ping shuffled papers. “I’ll give you the high notes. We’ve got our art-loving friend, Mr. Lippincott. Followed by Bishop Frederick R. Szymanski, Former Ambassador Louis K. Girard, Alderman Stephen P. Jonas, Former District Attorney Richard P. Hardison, and—wait for it—The Honorable Judge J. Meyer Cawley.”
“So Cawley is paying the freight on PR campaigns to support his own candidacy?”
“So it seems,” Ping said. “I’m guessing that fact alone violates about twenty campaign finance laws?”
“It might if he actually were a candidate running for public office. That’s not the case, here.”
“Too bad. Still,” Ping mused, “his little PAC promotes a lot of partisan agendas I think the Democrats in the Senate would like to know about.”
“True,” Evan said. “So? Are there any other PAC members whose names I might recognize?”
“Maybe.”
“Ping . . .”
“All right, already. One other—a Mr. J. Lewis Donne.”
“Yeah,” Evan said. “I figured as much.”
“Well brace yourself then, because his name shows up a lot—and not in any good ways.”
“Okay. I was just about to start combing through the trust papers we copied last night.”
“I can save you the trouble,” Ping said. “I’m pretty sure there are scans of all the hard copies you found saved to file.”
“You reviewed it all?”
“Yeah. And I felt like I needed a shower when I finished.”
Oh, Jesus. “It’s that bad?”
“It is,” Ping answered. “I won’t lie to you. Do you need a minute to prepare, or should I just summarize it all for you?”
A minute to prepare? A lifetime of preparation wouldn’t be enough time.
“No,” Evan said. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Go ahead.”
“Okay. It turns out that the same mess of scumbags who run the PAC created a second pet project. About twenty years ago, they started up a nonprofit philanthropic committee. As far as I can tell, it’s really a cover for some kind of private slush fund they all make regular deposits to—and at pretty big levels of support. We ain’t talkin’ pocket change here, either. I found records for the fund—ledgers of payouts it made over the years. A lot of the money went to some colleges as scholarship aid for students. They also gave a shit ton to fund some area athletic programs—and a lot of that cash went straight to St. Rita’s—and I suppose we can thank the bishop for that. But it got stranger.”
“What do you mean?” Evan asked.
“The further back I went, the more I started seeing payments to individuals—cash payments. There were enough of them that I created a database to look for commonalities. I wanted to be able to crosscut the data in a couple of ways. Names. Dates. How payments were categorized. Dollar amounts. Organizations’ names, if relevant. That kind of thing. Oh, and by the way: all of the recipients were men, even in cases where the payments went to parents.”
“Parents?”
“Yeah. Some of the cash was paid directly to parents of these kids—at least in the few cases I could verify. I don’t think it’s any accident that those payments were always a lot heftier than the other ones.”
Jesus Christ. People took payoffs to keep silent about what had happened to their kids?
Evan’s head was swimming. “How were you able to verify any of this?”
“It wasn’t real scientific—and it would never hold up in court. But I went to The Google. And I cross-checked names on Facebook, LinkedIn and some other social media outlets. Most of these guys listed schools they attended in their user profiles. Some even had photos posted from their childhood years—family pictures, school reunions, siblings. Sports teams. And,” Ping added, “guess what else a bunch of them had in common?”
“St. Rita’s?”
“You got it. Your boy Joey Mazzetta was on the all-star list. He got what appeared to be regular payments—not from the committee, but from one of its members through a private trust.”
Evan’s antenna went up at that revelation—especially if it linked Joey directly to Cawley. It might also provide a motive for Joey’s murder taking place on the same night he’d showed up drunk at the Galileo Club.
“Was it Cawley?” she asked Ping.
“No.”
Well . . . there went that smoking gun.
“Who was it, then?” Evan asked.
“One of the other men,” Ping said vaguely.
Evan knew Ping was sandbagging. There could only be one reason for it.
“Who was it?” she asked again.
Evan could hear Ping exhale before she answered. “You know who it was.”
Dear god . . .
“Tell me anyway,” Evan insisted. She needed to hear Ping say the name.
“It was Julia’s father.” Ping gave Evan a few seconds to absorb what she’d said before continuing. “Tell me what you want me to do with this.”
“I have no fucking clue.”
“Listen,” Ping said. “I don’t have to include this in my report. Remember what I said to you last night.”
“No. No . . . It’ll all come out anyway. I’ll . . .” Evan searched for the right words. There weren’t any. Not for this. “I’ll figure something out.”
“Are you gonna be okay?”
Would she be?
“I honestly don’t know.” Evan thought about Julia. “Probably not.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Evan and Julia had already arranged to meet at Julia’s townhouse before leaving for their dinner reservation at the Galileo Club. Julia didn’t keep any clothing suitable for a venue like this at Evan’s house, so it made sense to connect in town.
These arrangements led Evan to express concern about the dress code for the occasion.
“What the hell am I supposed to wear?” she lamented.
“Something,” Julia offered.
“Something?” Evan quoted. “Could you maybe narrow that down a skosh?”
Julia was plainly amused by Evan’s wardrobe dilemma.
“Just select something that isn’t buffalo plaid or flannel and you’ll be fine.”
“Very funny.” Evan sulked. “I’m clueless about this kind of shit.”
“Oh, come on,” Julia teased. “You must have some garments that are dressier than your customary outfits.”
“I have ‘customary’ outfits?”
“I’d say so,” Julia offered. “Your style is generally on the casual side.”
“The casual side of what?” Evan asked. “Compared to you, I look like I shop at the Salvation Army.” She took a few seconds to consider her remark. “Hell,” she amended, “compared to you, half the damn po
pulation looks like it shops there, too.”
“Honey? Will you please relax? It’s not that complicated. Just wear dark slacks and a nice shirt.”
“Shoes?” Evan said the word like it was an accusation.
“Shoes would be preferable,” Julia suggested.
“Yeah. Okay. Yuck it up.” Evan sighed. “Oh, well. I suppose they won’t throw me out if I’m there as your guest.”
“I’d say that’s a reasonable expectation,” Julia observed.
“I guess you could always tell them I’m your driver.”
“I could. But I think I’d prefer to tell them nothing. They won’t care about who you are, so we shouldn’t spend any more time worrying about explanations we don’t owe them.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
As it turned out, Evan did have one outfit that halfway qualified as dressy. She’d actually forgotten about it, but when she was at home, fretting about getting ready, Stevie hauled it out of her closet.
“Why don’t you wear this?” Stevie held up the tailored Hugo Boss suit Evan had worn to student convocation at Emma Willard last year.
“I can’t wear that,” Evan said. “Are you nuts?”
“Why not?” Stevie looked it over. “It’s badass and you look totally hot in it.”
“Hot?”
Stevie shrugged. “That’s what half my classmates said.”
“It’s a suit, Stevie. I’ll look like a guy.”
“And the problem with that would be? Come on, Mama Uno. Gender fluidity is the shit right now.”
“Oh, is it? Do tell . . .”
“You know what I mean.” Stevie walked over and held the garments up in front of Evan. “See? This looks so great on you. And it’s totally girly because it isn’t, you know?”
“Are you speaking another language?” Evan asked. But she had to hand it to her daughter. The thing did look pretty good on her. It had cuffed trousers and a matching, loose-fitting jacket with peak lapels. It was light brown, and she wore it with a self-tying silk blouse she’d found in a darker shade of the same color.
“Okay. I guess it’s my best option,” Evan conceded. “Got any shoes I can borrow?” It was a godsend that she and Stevie wore the same size. “Nothing too girly!” she bellowed. Stevie was already on her way to her room to ransack her own closet.
Evan was already undressed when Stevie returned with a pair of low-heeled dress Oxfords and some kind of belt that looked like the business end of a bullwhip. Evan took the shoes from her.
“No pumps?” she asked.
Stevie shook her head with energy. “You’re not authorized to wear those, Mama Uno. You’d come home in a body cast.”
“Very funny.” She put on the shoes and was pleased at how comfortable they felt. “What is that thing?” Evan pointed at the belt.
Stevie handed it to her. “It’s a skinny belt.”
“For?”
“Duh. The pants.”
“I don’t need a belt to hold up these pants.” Evan took it from her. “Besides, this thing couldn’t hold up a sheet of Kleenex.”
“Mom? Just humor me, here. This is a fashion thing. It’s not about functionality.”
“Yeah. Okay. Whatever.” Evan started to dress.
“Why are you so nervous about this?” Stevie perched on the end of Evan’s bed. “You’ve been out with Julia before.”
“Yeah? Not on a night like this.”
“Hmmmm . . .”
Evan eyed her with suspicion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Stevie shrugged. “Just wondering if maybe you’re planning something special tonight.”
“Like?”
“You tell me. A proposal, maybe?”
Evan had been in the process of threading the “skinny belt” through the loops on her trousers. She stopped in mid-thread and stared at Stevie with an open mouth.
“Well?” Stevie shrugged. “It could happen.”
“Yeah,” Evan stated. “It totally could happen. But it won’t be tonight.”
“Okay. Then why are you so freaked out?”
“Maybe because I have some other things on my mind. And none of them have anything to do with dinner. Okay, nosy?”
“Sheesh, Mom. Take a chill pill.” Stevie watched her in silence for a moment. “Want me to get you a little something to take the edge off?”
“Excuse me?”
Stevie quickly held up a hand. “Forget I mentioned it.”
Evan nodded. “Good idea.” She held out the two ends of the tie on her blouse. “You wanna help me with this thing?”
“Sure.” Stevie hopped up and walked over to face her. “We need to leave one end a lot longer, so it really looks like a man’s tie.”
“Of course, we do.”
“That’s perfect.” Stevie stepped back to admire her work. “Okay. Now put on the jacket.”
Evan shrugged it on. Stevie promptly stood the collar up so the lapels would flare out.
“Let me guess . . . you want me to look like Fonzie?”
“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Stevie asked. “Now you gotta roll up the sleeves.”
“Forget it.”
“Mom . . .”
“No. I’m not rolling up the sleeves. I hate that shit.”
“Mom. You have to roll them up. Otherwise, you’ll look like a dork.”
Evan took a few seconds to consider Stevie’s warning.
“Trust me? Please?” Stevie pulled out the big guns. “Julia would tell you the same thing.”
In the end, Stevie won all of her arguments and Evan showed up at Julia’s townhouse equipped with a hard-earned, Gen Z seal of approval. If Julia’s wide-eyed reaction when she opened her townhouse door and got her first look at Evan’s outfit was any indication, Stevie had made the right choice.
But that was nothing compared to Evan’s reaction to what Julia was wearing.
Julia was stunning in a simple but entirely elegant mid-length, sleeveless black sheath dress. It had angled shoulders and was open from the neckline to well below the waist, and fastened with loops and covered buttons.
At least, some of the front was fastened. Julia had left a tantalizing number of the fasteners open.
“Holy shit . . .” Evan was mesmerized. All she wanted to do was stand there and count tiny buttons.
Julia pulled her inside and closed the door. “You look beautiful,” she said.
Evan thought her eyes looked happy and a little sad, all at the same time.
“Is that a good thing?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah.” Julia nodded. “Why do you keep staring at my . . . décolletage?”
“Because it’s gorgeous, just like the rest of you.”
Julia took Evan by the hand and led her toward the living room. “Let’s sit for a minute before we go. I need to talk with you about something.”
“That sounds ominous.”
Evan followed her. They sat down on the sofa and faced each other.
“What is it?” Evan asked. She was growing alarmed by Julia’s demeanor. “You look terrified.”
“I, um . . . I made an unannounced visit to my father’s estate attorney today.”
“Oh?” Evan tried to quell a rush of panic. She had a feeling she knew what Julia was about to share with her, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t anything good.
“After our conversation on Saturday morning, I made the decision to look into my father’s estate. Just to see if there were any specific mentions of the club or any bequests from his trust that might shed some light on his relationships with Judge Cawley and the bishop. I realized that his attorney had always been pretty careful not to share any details with me—especially about the trust. I wanted to find out why that might be the case.”
Evan was reluctant to pose her next question, because she knew what Julia’s answer would be.
“Did he explain his reasoning to you?”
“No.” Julia explained. “Because I went up to their offi
ces so early, and without an appointment, he wasn’t available. I’m afraid I behaved pretty shamefully with the poor junior associate who got tasked with ‘handling’ me.”
“What do you mean?”
Julia met her eyes. “You might say I used a charm offensive. As soon as he entered the room, it became clear to me that he was intimidated. So, I used that to rattle him as much as possible.”
“Were you wearing this outfit?” Evan asked.
Julia looked confused. “No. Why?”
Evan tried to smile. “Because they’d probably have had to scrape him off the floor.”
Julia took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “Promise you’ll keep saying things like that to me? I need to hear them right now. I need to believe them right now.”
“I promise.” Evan tugged her closer and kissed her on the forehead. “Honey, what happened?”
“He got me the paperwork I asked for and left me alone so I could go through it. Evan . . .” Julia closed her eyes. “It was horrible. The things I saw. The bequests. The payments he’d made through the years. To colleges. To schools—parochial schools. Including St. Rita’s. And many other disbursements to men . . . young men. Some of them in cash. Others funneled through a tax-exempt committee at his club.” She held Evan’s hand tighter. “Even then, I tried to rationalize it all—tried to imagine that I’d find a perfectly reasonable explanation. I had to let go of that fantasy when I saw Joey Mazzetta’s name in the record.”
It was Evan’s turn to close her eyes. She didn’t want to see the pain on Julia’s face.
“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry . . .”
“Don’t be,” Julia said forcefully. “I needed to know. We needed to know.” She took a deep breath. “Now we do.”
“I won’t use this,” Evan told her. “It doesn’t have anything to do with Cawley.”
“How can you say that?” Julia was incredulous. “It might have everything to do with him.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Not yet.”
“Honey . . .”
Julia absently checked her watch. “I need to tell you something else before we go.”
“Okay.” Evan didn’t waste time trying to imagine what it might be. “Tell me.”
“I booked a flight to Paris.”
