by T. E. Woods
“And I you, my dear. You’ve brought to fruition a magnificent vision. You’re making people quite proud.”
Sydney nodded her thanks and walked over to where Anita Saxon stood. Her sommelier was resplendent in a white satin tuxedo.
“You look like a woman who needs to sit down,” Anita commented.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re as pale as a ghost.” Anita’s accent made even the most casual observation sound profound. “Shall I bring you water?”
Sydney silently chastised herself for being rattled by the solo woman diner. I have to stop this. I have to stop looking for phantom parents at every turn.
“I’m fine, Anita.” She willed her voice to sound stronger than she felt. “Do me a favor. The couple at table seven. They’ve been married thirty-two years.”
“Ah! An anniversary. How lovely.”
“No. Not their anniversary. His wife starts chemotherapy on Monday. This is what he called their ‘last hurrah’ before she begins treatment.”
The festive look on Anita’s face immediately shifted to one of concern.
“Can you find out what they’ve ordered, please?” Sydney asked. “Pair it with the perfect wine. On me.”
“Of course. And please, Sydney, go sit somewhere for a moment, will you?”
“One last time, I’m fine.” Sydney walked toward the bar, forcing herself to avoid another look at the woman at table five.
As in the dining room, every seat in Hush Money’s bar was filled. In addition, at least half a dozen people stood, drinks in hand, talking in intense, low voices. Sydney wondered if they were all waiting for their dinner reservations or if her elegant bar, located directly across from the Capitol and small enough to command a certain elite status, might be emerging as the place for politicos to grab a drink and swap inside stories before heading to the next fundraiser or evening committee meeting. She stood to the side and watched three waitresses weave their way through the space, balancing cocktail glasses on small trays, while two bartenders in crisp white shirts filled drink orders with a seemingly choreographed grace.
Her stomach tightened when she got a good look at the group sitting in the far corner. Melanie White, Madison’s new mayor, was holding court. Four men and two women were clustered around her. Her three-man entourage stood behind her, checking their phones and trying to look important.
Turn around. Walk away.
Her mind turned again to the white flash drive she and Andrew had viewed the night before. The tape showing Melanie, unmistakable with her flaming red hair and distinctive voice, promising, demanding, colluding to do the unthinkable. Negotiating her prices. Sydney studied the faces of the people engaging the mayor in conversation. None were those of the two men recorded on the drive.
Of course not. The conversation they were having would never be held in a public place.
Her gaze stayed riveted on the mayor. So young. So sure of herself. Listening to those speaking to her with an imperial bearing. Giving the occasional brief nod. Dismissing, sometimes, with one wave of her hand.
Roger Millerman knew what you planned. He had the proof.
Andrew’s voice echoed in her memory. He’d warned her of the dangers of what they now knew. She was to do nothing—say nothing—until he could confer with colleagues as to how best to proceed.
Turn around. Walk away.
At that moment Melanie White looked up and caught Sydney’s gaze. For several seconds the two women held each other in a mutual stare. Melanie was calm yet studied. Sydney got the impression she was sizing her up, perhaps wondering if she was worth the time to acknowledge.
Sydney put a smile on her face and walked toward the group.
“Welcome, Mayor White. It’s so nice to see you again.”
Melanie looked back toward her trio of toadies. The nearest bent over and whispered in her ear.
“Ah, yes. Sydney,” the mayor said. “Everyone, this is Sydney Richardson. She owns this place.” Melanie returned her attention to Sydney. “And if my sources are correct, you’ve also opened up a cop bar. Did I hear correctly?”
If you know me well enough to know that, why the pompous show of your flunky reminding you of my name?
“The Ten-Ten,” Sydney replied. “It’s a neighborhood pub. But we’ve been lucky enough to have Madison’s first responders make it their hangout.”
“How fitting. You being a cop’s daughter and all.”
Why do you know so much about me?
“You never know when you’re going to need to call in law enforcement,” Sydney said.
Melanie cocked her head.
Careful. Don’t tip your hand.
“And we hope you and your type stick around, too,” Sydney continued.
“My type? What would my type be?”
Deplorable. Despicable. The kind of people who don’t give a damn about the law.
“Political, of course.” Don’t give it away. She can’t know we know. “We hoped our proximity to the statehouse might draw the legislative crowd. We’re thrilled that even the local government sees us as a suitable place to relax.”
A man spoke. “Well I, for one, will be back. It’s a great-looking joint and your bartenders aren’t afraid to pour.” His comment brought nervous laughter from everyone except the mayor. “Then we can really get some work done.”
“Spoken like the lobbyist you are, Adam,” Melanie White said without taking her eyes off Sydney.
“It’s true,” the man persisted. “Get a couple of stiff drinks into any elected official and you might finally hear some truth.”
Another round of anxious guffaws ensued. Sydney didn’t shy away from the mayor’s gaze.
“We didn’t call it Hush Money for nothing.”
The look on Melanie White’s face shifted from imperial boredom. “There’s no need to fret about that, Sydney. It’s my intention to run an absolutely transparent administration. Your bartenders can pour as strong a drink as they’d like. No one on my team has anything to hide.”
For whose benefit are you making that announcement?
“Is there something I can do for you, Sydney?” the mayor asked icily.
Sydney realized she was being dismissed.
“Just know you’re welcome here. I want this to be the place where you’ll always get the treatment you deserve.”
A look of questioning concern crossed the mayor’s lovely face.
“Enjoy your evening,” Sydney said. “Let us know if there’s anything you need.”
—
The mysterious woman at table five was gone by the time Sydney returned to the dining room. Anita told her the couple at table seven had been appreciative of the wine she’d sent over. And each time Sydney stepped into the kitchen, she noticed a distinct diminishment in the level of drama. She nearly stopped dead in her tracks when she overhead Chef Roland compliment the pastry chef on her lemon soufflé.
Around nine-thirty, with the last round of diners finishing their meal, she started down the hallway toward the Ten-Ten, only to turn around before entering the bar. She’d bet good money her mother was there. That would mean Horst now knew about Clay, which would bring questions she was in no mood to answer. Besides, it was difficult enough holding what she now knew about Brooks Janeworthy and Melanie White. She didn’t want to run the risk of proving Andrew right about her apparent inability to hold her tongue. She turned on her heel and headed back to her office. She checked her cellphone and found two texts, both from Andrew, asking to speak to her. She glanced at her watch, hoped it wasn’t too late to be calling the home of a pregnant woman, and dialed his number.
“Who have you spoken to about this?” Andrew wasted no time getting down to business.
“No one.” She was irritated by his assumption. “I did see our new mayor, however. She was here at Hush Money.”
“Did you speak to her?” The worry in his voice was obvious.
“Yes. Nothing of substance.”
“
Damn it, Sydney! We can’t risk her knowing anything. Not until we’re ready to act.”
“Relax. She had her entourage with her. I welcomed them to the restaurant. That’s all.”
Andrew was quiet for a moment. “Your tone of voice. Your mood. The look in your eye. You gave away nothing?”
“She seemed a bit guarded. But I’m sure it was nothing I said or did.”
His worry morphed into irritation. “You can’t be sure of that. Don’t speak to her again. Not until we know what’s next.”
“Did you make any headway?”
“I reached out to two people I know in the FBI. I spoke in broad strokes. No names. No specifics.”
“Did you link what we saw on the tape to the mayor’s murder?”
“No. The last thing we need right now is a planeload of agents swooping in to investigate Melanie White.”
“You think it’ll come to that?”
“Sydney, we have a tape of the president of the Common Council making a deal to sell her vote on a multimillion-dollar development project! Specific dollar amounts are agreed upon. Time lines discussed. We have her assuring them she can handle any push-back from the mayor. And to top it off, we have them promising to deliver the election to her when she runs against the mayor. I’ve been able to identify the two men in the recording. One’s Benjamin Roethken.”
“Who’s that?”
“He owns the company contracted to provide and maintain the voting machines for the entire city. What we have, Sydney, is Melanie White conspiring. Not only pay for play on the development contract. We have her agreeing to a plot to compromise the integrity of an election. That’s as bad as it gets.”
“Bad enough to get Roger Millerman killed?”
“Melanie White’s looking at decades in a federal prison. If she had any inkling Millerman might reveal what she was up to, what do you think she would have done to keep that from happening?”
“Phoebe did say Melanie wasted no time clearing out Roger’s office and moving herself in. Maybe Roger let her know about the tape. She could have been looking for it.”
“I want you to think about that. A person who’s killed once has just lowered their barrier to killing again. Remember that anytime your urge to be helpful threatens to get the better of you.”
“What about Janeworthy? Did you speak to anyone about him?”
“Don’t need to. As despicable as what Millerman and Janeworthy did is, no laws were broken. But that doesn’t mean he’s off the hook for Millerman’s murder. Janeworthy spends a lot of time and money sustaining his image. If the mayor was blackmailing him, it’s not beyond the pale to think Janeworthy would take lethal steps to eliminate the threat. And he’s already made the link between Windy and you. He’ll assume she’s told you what happened that day at the mayor’s home. What he doesn’t know is that we have the tape. If he were to find out, you’d be as great a threat to him as Millerman was.”
“So what do we do?”
“Nothing. I’ll follow up with my friends at the Bureau. I’ve got my trial team working on the best ways to introduce alternative theories of who might have killed the mayor. In the meantime, we let the police go right on thinking Windy’s their killer. She’s doing a good job laying low?”
“As far as I know, she comes to work, goes home, plays with Gabby.”
“Good. We have to keep her away from Janeworthy. There’s not much chance he’ll be dropping by Hush Money. Not after the scene you described when the two of them met on the street.”
“I agree.”
“It shouldn’t be too much longer. I’m pressing hard for a court date as soon as we can get on the judge’s docket. What are your plans?”
“For what?”
“For staying safe. For keeping this quiet.”
Sydney thought for a moment. It hadn’t occurred to her that she would need her own safety plan.
She recalled the night she had discovered her front door unlocked but shook the thought free. It was a memory lapse. No sense making something bigger of it.
“I live in a high-rise. There’s no listing of who occupies which unit, but I’ll let the concierge know not to let anyone up unless I’ve approved it.”
“Can you do that without tipping your hand?”
“I’ll say I have a disgruntled employee.”
“That’s good. I’m sorry it’s come to this, Sydney.”
“You sound like you think this is going to get worse before it gets better.”
“It’s going to be what it has to be. And sometimes that’s no good for anybody.”
Chapter 30
NOW
“So when’s the big meet-up?” Ronnie refilled Sydney’s wineglass before settling back on her sofa. “And can I be sitting in a corner eavesdropping?”
On impulse, Sydney had decided to call her best friend to make good on the raincheck. After the day she’d had, she had been delighted to learn Ronnie was available.
It was nearly midnight. Sydney knew she should head home, but Ronnie had built a small fire in her bungalow’s brick-and-slate fireplace, chasing the chill from a rainy summer night. It had been too long since she’d had an easy and undisturbed conversation with her best friend. She was in no hurry to end it.
“Mom was pretty adamant about it happening by the weekend. I don’t know what she thinks is so magical about the timing.”
Ronnie laughed. “Are you kidding me? Her thirty-five-year-old single daughter announces she’s met a guy. That alone would be enough for any mother to spring into action. Think, Sydney. How many times—say, in a given week—do you think Nancy Richardson wonders if she’ll ever bounce a grandchild on her knee?”
“Oh God! She tries so hard not to bring it up, but I can see it in her eyes. Back when I told her I wanted to build a couple of restaurants, I swear the first thing she did was look down at my belly. Like she could see, actually see, cobwebs accumulating in my empty uterus.”
“Then you understand why she might be eager to meet your new fella. She’s going to be sizing up his soccer dad potential.”
“No. You don’t think…”
“What business am I in? Do you think when the prospect of infertility rears its head that I only deal with anxious parents? It might surprise you how many calls I get from wannabe grandparents. Trust me. Nancy’s going to be envisioning him sitting at the Thanksgiving table spooning creamed sweet potatoes into some toddler’s face before you’ve even finished the introductions.”
Sydney took a sip of her wine. She sighed. “Sometimes I forget you’ve known my mother nearly as long as I have.”
“And it’s not just the make-me-a-grandma aspect that’s got her pushing this. You didn’t just meet a guy. You met a guy with an adult son. A musician. Who runs a bar. Listen closely, Syd. That sound you hear is your mother’s worry ratcheting up to panicville.”
“I don’t think of the Low Down as a bar. You sound like my mom.”
“I don’t care if Adele in all her holiness is headlining the Low Down. As far as your mother’s concerned, if people come, sit, and pay money to get a glass of something alcoholic delivered to them, it’s a bar. Your mother—any mother—wants you to marry a guy who’ll go to work after a seven-thirty breakfast, come home no later than five-thirty, and earn the kind of living that keeps her daughter in a five-bedroom house and her grandchildren in private school. Her warning bells are going off, that’s all.” Ronnie twirled an end of her short blond hair and raised her chin in defiance. “And since I haven’t met the man myself, you’re without your most powerful defense weapon. Maybe you need to introduce me to him first. I can give Nancy all the assurance she needs that you haven’t fallen for some guy who’s going to whisk you away, only to return you to her two years hence addicted to heroin and sporting a ‘tramps like us’ tattoo on your lower back.”
“I’ve got to talk to Clay. This has gotten bigger than a simple meet-and-greet.”
“Thirty-five. No children. Not one damn thing
involving you and a member of the opposite sex is simple to your mother anymore.”
“As always, you’re probably right.”
“No ‘probably’ about it. Trust me. I’m a genius. I’ve got the paperwork to prove it.”
Both women laughed with the kind of wine-fueled heartiness that compelled them each to automatically put their hands over their mouths and quiet themselves.
“Wait a minute,” Ronnie said. “This is my house, not a dorm room. We can chortle with gay abandon, make all the noise we want.”
Sydney leaned back, allowed her laughter to play out, and let her eyes feast on this wonderful gift of a woman who’d been standing beside her since kindergarten. The keeper of all her secrets. The holder of all her fears and dreams.
“Kind of hard to believe, isn’t it?” she asked. “How’d we get here? You a hotshot fertility OB-GYN. Me with two restaurants.”
Ronnie lifted her glass. “Two very successful restaurants.”
“We’ll see about that. But still, does it sometimes seem unreal, Ronnie? Don’t you wonder how we got this far this fast?”
“None of it was fast. I worked hard. Still do. You do, too.” She paused. “And you can get that self-damning look off your face. I know the money you got surprised with has gone a long way toward making Hush Money and Ten-Ten happen. But your success is yours. You made it happen. I gotta tell you, if someone handed me fifteen million dollars, I’m not so sure I’d be thinking about working. But you are.”
“Maybe so.”
“Own it, Syd. You may have gotten a bit of a leg up, but you’re your own woman. A good one, at that.”
Tell that to the parents who handed me off to a lawyer rather than raise me.
Sydney shoved the thought away. “Still, it all seems so grown up. There’s a whole lot of times I don’t feel like one.”
“Me, either. I swear, if you asked me real fast how old I was, I’d probably give you a knee-jerk reaction and say something like seventeen.”
“So what kind of miracle put us here?”
“No miracle. Just one day after another. Accepting what life hands us on any given day and deciding to do the next right thing. That’s how we got here.”
