Flesh and Blood

by James Neal Harvey

“Pretty much, yes.”

  “And you didn’t mind doing those things?”

  She stiffened. “As I said, I always felt it was a privilege to do anything he needed done.”

  “Yes, of course. When you were working in here, where were you sitting?”

  She gestured. “Over there, in one of those chairs in front of the desk. The one on the right. When the senator became ill, I didn’t realize what was happening. I heard Jessica cry out, and when I looked up, he was slumped over the table. He seemed to be clutching his throat, or his upper chest. His face was very red. I knew right away he was in trouble and that it was bad.” She bit her lower lip and looked up at the ceiling for a moment.

  “I realize this is hard for you,” Ben said. “But please go on.”

  She shuddered, and then took a tissue out of the sleeve of her sweater and dabbed her eyes. “I went over to him and put my hand on his shoulder, tried to talk to him. I was asking him what was wrong. At first, I thought he might be choking or something.”

  “What was Miss Silk doing at that point?”

  “I don’t remember, exactly. I think she stood up and was bending over him, too. We were both pretty shaken. Then he just sort of slid out of his chair and fell down onto the floor.”

  “Was he conscious?”

  “No, not that I could tell. His eyes were half-closed and his face looked as if he was in pain.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we tried to get him some air. We took off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. But I could see that he wasn’t breathing, and I was close to panic. We both were. I always thought I was good in an emergency, but seeing him like that really got to me. I tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but he didn’t respond to that, either. I also tried to find a pulse, but I couldn’t. Then I thought about trying cardiac compression, but I was afraid I might be doing the wrong thing, that I might make him worse.”

  “The police report said there was a pillow under his head and his shoes were off.”

  “Jessica got the pillow from the sofa out in the hallway. We wanted to make him more comfortable.”

  “And the shoes?”

  “He must have kicked them off himself when he was sitting at the table. He often did that when he could relax.”

  “Okay, what happened next?”

  “When we couldn’t get any response, I finally ran to the phone and called security. One of them came up here, but he couldn’t get a reaction, either.”

  “Was that Montrock?”

  “Yes. Then I called nine-one-one—and after that, the family.”

  “Who did you speak to there?”

  “One of the maids answered and I asked for Mrs. Cunningham. When she came on, I said the senator was ill. Then Clay, his son, got on the phone. After that, he and Ingrid came over right away. Ingrid is the senator’s daughter. One of them—I think it was Clay—said it looked as if his father had had a heart attack. Ingrid went back to tell the others what had happened.”

  “Did any of them come over after that?”

  “No.”

  “When did the police arrive?”

  “A few minutes later. There were two officers. And then two people from the ambulance crew came and they all worked on him. They gave him oxygen, but that didn’t have any effect, either. Finally, Dr. Phelps got here and examined him. He said he was very sorry … but …” Merritt covered her face with her hands.

  Ben looked away again. He let her cry for a few moments and then she got herself together once more, blowing her nose and forcing herself to sit up straight.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Perfectly all right. Take your time.”

  She gave her nose another swipe with the tissue. “After that, the ambulance crew put him on a stretcher and took him out.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “To the Manhattan Medical Center. Dr. Phelps said he’d go there, too. Then Clay went back to the house. He asked me to go with him and I did.”

  “What about Jessica Silk?”

  “She left here at the same time. I don’t know where she went. Home, I suppose.”

  “You haven’t spoken to her since?”

  “No.”

  “And what happened when you went to the house?”

  “The whole family was there, Mrs. Cunningham and the husbands and wives. We were all in the library, trying to console one another. Everybody was in a state of shock, of course.”

  “I’m sure you were.”

  “And then the phone calls started. Reporters—can you believe it? I don’t know how they got the news so fast.”

  Ben did. The media monitored the police frequencies around the clock. The address would have tipped them off, and then the cops probably had escorted the ambulance to the hospital. Reporters had no doubt gone there, as well.

  “I don’t know how they got the number, either,” Merritt went on. “It’s not listed, of course, but there they were on the phone, demanding to talk to Mrs. Cunningham.”

  “Did she take any of the calls?”

  “Certainly not. She told the maids she wouldn’t speak to anyone but Dr. Phelps, if he called.”

  “And did he?”

  “I don’t know. I left the house and went back up to my apartment.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Around one. I made myself a drink and went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I just sort of dozed until six and then I got up.”

  “Have you spoken to any of the reporters?”

  “No. Except to tell them there would be no statement other than the one that had come from the family. I knew there was one, because Clay took care of it. He called someone from the public-relations agency while I was at the house last night. And then this morning, I turned on the TV and I was horrified. I don’t know how they got Jessica’s name, but they did. They were trying to make it all sound as if she and the senator were lovers. It’s just absolutely appalling.”

  “How about the family—have you spoken to them today?”

  “Just to Clay, on the telephone. He said the funeral will be on Friday.”

  Ben glanced through his notes and then shut his notebook and returned it to his pocket. “Thank you very much,” he said. “I appreciate your help with this. And again, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, Lieutenant. I hope this will put a stop to the hateful dirt they’ve been spreading.”

  He rose to his feet and put on his raincoat. “Knowing the media, it probably won’t. But if nothing more on it turns up, the story will just go away by itself.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “If you need to reach me for any reason, please call me at the Manhattan district attorney’s office. I may not be there, but I’ll be checking in. Okay?”

  “Yes, of course. Let me show you out.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to use a telephone, please. I want to call the family, stop in and see them.”

  Her eyes widened. “I don’t think they’ll be very happy about that.”

  “I know, but it’s necessary.”

  She shrugged and indicated a telephone on the senator’s desk. “Press the first button. It’s a direct line to the house.”

  7

  A maid answered the call. Tolliver told her who he was and asked to speak to Mrs. Cunningham. When she came on, he apologized for disturbing her and requested permission to pay a brief visit. She sounded understandably reluctant but said he could have a few minutes. He told her he’d be there shortly.

  Ben then went back down to the first floor, where he questioned Evan Montrock, the head of security. Montrock’s account of what had taken place the night before matched Ardis Merritt’s.

  “There was nothing anybody could do,” the security man said. “I knew he was dead the minute I looked at him, but I didn’t want to say so. I think the others did, too, the police and the ambulance crew. When we were working on him, it was really just going through the motions to make everybody feel better.�
� He shook his head. “Such a great man.”

  “I called the family,” Ben said. “I want to stop in and see them.”

  “Sure, come with me.” Montrock led the way to the door that opened into the Cunningham mansion. He knocked and a butler answered. The security man left them and Ben followed the butler along a hallway to the library, where the family was gathered.

  The room was large, with lofty windows and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. There were several groupings of furniture, where men and women sat talking. An ornate fireplace was at the far end, with another portrait hanging above it, this one of a woman in an old-fashioned high-necked gown. A fire was blazing on the hearth.

  Ben was met at the door by a younger version of the senator. It was amazing how much the males in the family resembled one another. This guy had the same square jaw, the same bushy brows. He was tall and robust, dressed casually in a tweed jacket. “I’m Clay Cunningham,” he said.

  Ben displayed his shield and ID. “Lieutenant Tolliver. I’m sorry to put you through this, but, as I said on the phone, the police department has ordered me to conduct an investigation into the circumstances surrounding your father’s death.”

  Cunningham spoke quietly, but his tone of voice and dour countenance left no doubt as to what he thought of the visit. “Lieutenant, this is ridiculous. My father is dead, and we’re all shattered by the loss. What more could you people possibly want to know?”

  Good question, Ben thought. “Can you please tell me what happened last night?”

  Cunningham took a deep breath and then resignedly gave him a quick rundown of the previous evening’s events, starting with the frantic call that had come from Ardis Merritt at about 9:40 P.M. His version also corresponded to Merritt’s, picking up with what he and his sister had found when they went to the senator’s office. The two women who had been with his father were very distraught, Cunningham said, and he knew almost at once that the senator had suffered a heart attack, probably fatal. He was sure the security man knew it, as well.

  Shortly after that, the police and an emergency ambulance crew had arrived. The crew worked on the stricken man, but to no avail. Then Dr. Phelps came and confirmed their fears.

  “Who called the doctor?” Ben asked.

  “I did. As soon as I saw what had happened, I called him at his home. He lives not far away, at Park and Seventy-second. He got there about fifteen or twenty minutes later. He said that Dad had died immediately and that no one could have saved him.”

  “How was your father’s health, would you say, up until then?”

  “By and large, I’d say it was good. Although I’d been a little worried about him, to tell you the truth. He worked too hard, refused to slow down. And he also had a few bad habits. Smoked cigars and was fond of wine and brandy.” He smiled faintly. “I think it never occurred to him that he was no longer a young man.”

  “I see. Was there anything in particular that was bothering him, do you know? Anything that would have put unusual strain on him?”

  Cunningham pursed his lips. “No, nothing out of the ordinary—at least nothing any of us knew about.”

  “How about your personal relationships with him?”

  “Excellent. He was totally supportive, very proud of all of us. At dinner last night, he remarked how pleased he was that we were doing so well. Living up to the Cunningham tradition, as he put it.”

  Tolliver listened carefully. When Cunningham finished, Ben thanked him, again wondering why he was going through all this. He said he wanted to pay his respects to the other members of the family and that as soon as he’d done so, he’d leave.

  Cunningham didn’t seem overjoyed by the request, but he complied. When he led Tolliver over to where the others were sitting, Ben was surprised to see that, contrary to what he’d expected, they didn’t appear that upset. They were chatting amiably and a maid was moving among them serving drinks. Not an Irish wake, exactly, but not a group of sorrowful mourners, either.

  Cunningham introduced Tolliver to each of them and Ben mumbled condolences while filing impressions in his memory.

  The widow struck him as pleasant but bland. Her name was Claire and she seemed some years older than the senator’s children, perhaps in her early sixties. She was well groomed, wearing a simple dark dress that set off her silver hair. From her manner, you’d think this was just an ordinary get-together of the clan.

  Clay’s own wife was a surprise; Ben recognized her as the actress Laura Bentley, whose face he’d often seen in old movies on the tube. Her hair was chestnut, her eyes light blue, and the combination was striking. She favored Ben with a nod, then resumed her conversation with Claire. Apparently they were talking about the upcoming season in Palm Beach.

  Ingrid, the senator’s daughter by his first marriage, didn’t look like a Cunningham at all. Her features were much more refined, under a smoothly styled sweep of sandy hair. She was wearing a string of pearls over her red cashmere sweater, drinking a Bloody Mary as she listened to what the other women were saying about plans for the winter in Florida.

  The other man in the group was Kurt Kramer, Ingrid’s husband. Younger than the others, his close-cropped blond hair confirmed the Teutonic origins Ben had been told about. But you’d never know it from his accent; if anything, his precise speech sounded faintly British.

  After the introductions and Tolliver’s perfunctory expressions of sympathy, the members of the group ignored him, picking up the threads of their earlier conversations.

  “Excuse me,” Ben said.

  The room grew quiet as the faces turned toward him, registering curiosity. What did this nosy cop want now?

  “I’m sorry I had to intrude,” he said. “I’m sure you realize this is all to prevent anyone from besmirching Senator Cunningham’s fine character and his outstanding record as a political and social leader. If any of you has anything to add or anything you want to say to me, you can reach me through the Manhattan district attorney’s office. Please forgive the interruption. And again, my deepest sympathy to all of you.”

  He turned and walked back to the door, accompanied by Clay Cunningham. The silence continued until Clay opened the door, then the family members went on chatting once more. Clay led him down the hall to the front entrance and wished him a good day. As Ben left the house, he felt a sense of relief to be getting out of there.

  You ought to be a politician yourself, he thought. Anybody who could come up with a bullshit speech like that had the gift.

  But at least he was doing this the right way, carrying out the mission. He closed the door behind him and was immediately set upon by the media vultures, who’d continued to camp out on the sidewalk.

  8

  If anything, there seemed to be more reporters here now than there had been earlier. As soon as Ben stepped out the door, they all began yelling at once.

  He raised his hands for quiet. “I have nothing to tell you that you don’t already know,” he said. “Senator Cunningham was being interviewed for a magazine article when he became ill and died of a heart attack. He was a great man and we’ll miss him.”

  All his little announcement did was prompt another barrage of questions, but Ben ignored them. He made his way through the crowd and walked quickly down the sidewalk, toward where he’d left his car on Fifth Avenue.

  One more stop, he thought, and that would be it. He’d locate Jessica Silk and interview her, and that would about wrap it up. Although he might talk to Cunningham’s doctor as well, just to be sure everything was nailed down. When that was done, he’d write up his report and turn it over to Oppenheimer, after which he could get back to running his squad.

  When he reached his car, he got out his keys and unlocked the door.

  “Lieutenant?”

  He turned, and there was Miss Influenza, the TV reporter Shelley Drake. For a moment, he was tempted to tell her to get lost, but then he remembered the admonition the district attorney had voiced about treating members of the media courteousl
y.

  “Yes?”

  She grabbed his arm, which apparently was her customary technique. Although at least this time she didn’t have a cameraman in tow. She leaned close, her voice low. “Can I talk to you, just for a minute? Off the record? I can tell you some things I think you’d find interesting.”

  “About what?”

  “About Senator Cunningham. Could we sit here in your car?”

  He exhaled and opened the door. “Yeah, okay. Get in.”

  She scurried around to the passenger side. Ben climbed in behind the wheel, already thinking about how to get rid of her.

  Up close, Drake appeared much the same as she did on TV; if anything, her features seemed even more attractive. The expression on her face was also familiar. It looked as if she’d spent hours practicing sincerity in front of a mirror. Her eyes were a deep shade of blue, however, which Ben hadn’t noticed before, a color that went well with her long honey blond hair. She had on a trench coat, which he supposed she thought reinforced the image of a hard-driving reporter.

  “Okay,” he said, “what is it?”

  “I don’t know how much you know about the senator’s personal life.”

  “All I need to, I suppose.”

  “Including his penchant for having an affair with any female he could get his hands on? Surely you’ve heard about that.”

  “I’ve heard rumors, but as far as I know, that’s all they were.”

  “And have you also heard he was a sex freak who got his kicks abusing girls?”

  “What?”

  “Preferably young ones, but any other kind would do.”

  He stared at her.

  “It’s true,” Drake said. “And I think Jessica Silk knew it, too. I also think what she was writing wasn’t just a puff piece about his illustrious career.”

  “What was it, then?”

  “A story that would have been worth a million bucks, maybe more. I have a hunch she talked the old man into doing the article, using herself as bait. But instead of writing what he thought, she was laying out the details of his weird sex habits.”

  “Where is all this coming from—you have proof?”