by Linda Barnes
He spoke in a monotone, without opening his eyes, giving an oral picture of a woman he’d hardly taken note of at the time, painting her clothes, her speech, her way of walking, until Hurley sarcastically asked if he didn’t want to throw in her name as long as he was at it.
But the woman’s face was an unfocused blur. The police artist’s sketch could have been any one of a hundred thousand women. And even as he spoke, Spraggue grew increasingly uneasy, aware of a twinge of doubt somewhere just beneath conscious thought. He picked at it, pulled at it, but the idea stayed in shadow, an itching scab just out of reach.
It gave him a bad night, and in the morning, he couldn’t remember his dreams.
FIFTEEN
Squinting against dazzling sunshine, Spraggue raced up the stone steps of the Senate office building. In spite of haste, split-second timing, and plain good luck, he was late for his 10:00 A.M. appointment with Senator Donagher.
It was Monday, the working actor’s Saturday and Sunday rolled into one. No performance tomorrow, that was what he’d remembered in the middle of the night; that thought had triggered his 4:00 A.M. phone call to his ever wakeful aunt, and that phone call had set gears spinning in relentless motion, wheels that had rotated him to Washington, D.C.
The morning had been bedlam.
Mary had returned his call before dawn; the phone’s shrill wail had jerked him into unwilling semiconsciousness. The urgent buzz of the front door sounded while he was still showering. His aunt had said she’d send a driver; he’d been surprised that she’d chosen Pierce. Drive, he certainly did. Spraggue shuddered at the memory of the frenzied race to the airport; he doubted any Boston cabbie could have beaten that twenty-two-minute rush-hour charge.
Then the airplane, the Spraggue Foundation Learjet, ready to lift off as soon as seatbelts were fastened on the black leather swivel loungechairs. Again surprise; Pierce was prepared to come along for the ride. Mary had sent not merely a chauffeur, but a spy. Even now, Pierce trailed a scant two steps behind him, with the appropriate room number neatly typed on a three-by-five card.
A woman opened the door when Pierce knocked, so quickly that she must have been standing right behind it, an attractive middle-aged woman who seemed to be doing her best to hide behind a drab shapeless suit and fade-into-the-background posture. Donagher was framed within a second, interior doorway, seated at an ornate desk, scanning a thick document, using one pointing finger to mark his place.
The woman began a practiced lament: The senator was extraordinarily busy and his time was strictly limited; she really had no idea how anyone had managed to wangle an appointment on such short notice, but it would be very discourteous if … She would have gone on had the resourceful Pierce not charmed her out of the room.
Dear Aunt Mary … She’d been pulling political strings so long she knew where all the loose ends were located, which one to tweak first for the desired effect. Like who to call if you needed to see your senator on a moment’s notice. Money talked in Massachusetts politics, a lot more clearly than a private detective’s expired plastic-coated photostat.
Donagher dog-eared the corner of the document, closed it with a bang, and emerged from behind the desk offering a handshake. He was wearing a pale blue shirt and the pants to a pin-striped three-piece suit. The vest hung off the corner of a rocking chair, wiping the marble floor. The suit jacket was crumpled on a brocade divan. After checking to make sure the heavy oak door to the hallway was firmly shut, he studied his wristwatch, and said, “So what’s all this about? How can I help you?”
“Questions.”
“About the upcoming campaign or about Collatos? I got some conflicting signals.”
Mary would have given them, using the lure of a campaign contribution to keep him on the hook. “About Collatos,” Spraggue said.
Donagher gestured Spraggue onto the divan, pointed at the tallest pile of documents on his cluttered desk. “See this? This is the draft of a report for the Subcommittee on Energy Research and Development. The pile next to it is for the Subcommittee on Advocacy and the Future of Small Business. The Committee on Foreign Relations has just taken a half-hour recess to study one of the most convoluted amendments to a simple proposal that I’ve ever had the pleasure of viewing. I ought to tell you I don’t have the time, but I won’t. Just keep it brief and direct … and, well, I guess it can’t be any more painful than it already is …”
“Three questions.”
“They could have been handled over the phone.”
“No, they couldn’t.”
“You’re the judge of that.” Donagher made an effort to relax. He lifted one foot and flexed it slowly. With his suit, he should have been wearing highly polished wing tips instead of soft slippers. Spraggue spotted the correct shoes under a corner of the desk, wondered if the senator’s toes were balloons of blisters from the marathon. “Go ahead,” the senator said.
“Okay. I assume you were with Collatos the night before the race.”
“He was with me. Wherever I went, he went. He stuck like glue after that day at the reservoir.”
“At twelve thirty, the night before the race, where were you?”
Donagher closed his eyes and blew out a deep breath. Tiny wrinkles stood out in his forehead like wavy river lines on an old map. “The night before the marathon is the spaghetti dinner. I decided not to go to the traditional blowout at the Prudential Center because of the crowds. I listened to the cops that far. If I’d listened to them and not run the race, Pete might …”
“There’s no point in playing that game,” Spraggue said, after a pause. “If, might, maybe …”
“I know, I just …” The senator’s right hand went to the back of his neck, massaged knotted muscles. “I decided to throw an alternative to the Pru’s spaghetti supper at my home, a small party. A few friends, a few runners. Some of the folks who’d been to the real feed came over later.”
“Who?”
“Why?” Donagher countered.
“Does it make a difference?”
“I didn’t invite anyone who had the remotest desire to kill me. And I don’t want people getting the idea that accepting an invitation to my house is the same as accepting an invitation to be grilled by the police.”
“You’re refusing to give me a list of names?”
“Until I know why you want them.”
“Well, then, try another question. Did you overhear Pete making a phone call at about twelve thirty the night before the marathon?”
Donagher considered, frowned, shook his head no. “Is that all you want to ask the people who were there that night?”
“Yes.”
“Important?”
“Probably not.”
“Well, most of them were gone by twelve thirty, but I’ll tell Murray to give you a list. I understand you, or rather, your aunt, requested a meeting with my campaign manager. May I ask why?”
Instead of answering Spraggue said, “I still have another question.”
“This’ll make three.” “I saw you come up Heartbreak Hill—”
Donagher pointed down at his painful feet. “I was almost gone. Thinking of quitting. The crowd kept me alive.”
“You were looking into the crowd for someone. Who?”
“I, uh, no … I don’t recall looking for anyone in particular.”
“I saw you.”
The senator gave a sheepish laugh. “What you saw was Senator Donagher peering around for the TV cameras. That, I admit. I wasn’t so far gone that I couldn’t recognize a good broadcast opportunity. It’s a sin of vanity. If I see a camera, I try to look as if I’m not going to fall down. I may even attempt a smile. At the top of Heartbreak, smiling is not easy.”
“I got the impression that you were looking for someone with a water flask.”
Donagher’s smile froze. “I can’t help the impression you got.”
“Most leading runners have people stationed along the route.”
“I am no longer a
leading runner. I did have a few friends waiting along the first half of the course. I do most of my drinking early in a race.”
“Relax.”
“I was not looking for that woman. I don’t know that woman. I—”
“You’re not listening. I never said you knew her. I said you took water from her because someone else wasn’t there.”
As he spoke, Spraggue stood and crossed the marble tiles over to the desk. He picked up a silver-framed photograph, blew dust off its face.
“These your kids?”
“Tommy—I should say Tom, he’s almost fifteen—and Joey. He’s still a baby. Ten.”
“They ever wait along the course for you? With water?”
“You’re wrong, that’s all I can say.”
“What about your wife? That would have made a good broadcast opportunity. Doesn’t she usually wait along the course with a water bottle?”
“Look, there’s no ‘usually’ about it; I haven’t run a marathon in six years. She may have given me water during an occasional race; I think she did. But that was years ago. This time she decided she’d rather see the race from the finish line.”
“Okay.”
“You’ve had your three questions. Is that all?”
“Enough. Thanks for your time.”
“Wait,” Donagher said. “I’d like to ask a question. I’ve answered three, certainly you can answer one. I’ve been meaning to ask it ever since this horrible business happened. Even before. Pete … Pete asked me to hire you, but … I didn’t think it was necessary. I didn’t take the threats seriously. But now … I’ve checked with the Boston Police and you seem to have a decent reputation, Will you work for me? Find out who killed Collatos? Who’s trying to kill me?”
“No.”
“No?” Donagher pulled his chair back and sank into it. His face collapsed along with his body, making him look his age.
“I’m sorry,” Spraggue said, “I’ve already got a client.”
SIXTEEN
“I can give you fifteen minutes at the absolute most,” Aunt Mary said sternly some four hours later, when he’d finally bulled his way past Pierce and two fierce secretaries.
Today her bright red shawl livened up a conservative well-cut gray suit. Her bedroom had been converted for the day into its office mode; the peach-colored alcove containing the peach-satin-covered bed was curtained off. The click of computer keyboards, the muffled beat of footsteps, the clang of telephones punctuated her conversation. She stared meaningfully at her chunky gold watch.
“You want me to begin when the second hand hits the twelve?” he inquired.
“Darling,” she said, indicating a desk filled to overflowing with papers, flickering computer terminal, a bank of telephones flashing angry red lights, “the market is in a bit of an uproar—”
“How long would it take you to lift fingerprints off a wineglass?”
She considered the question, eyes narrowed, pointed chin tilted to one side. “Crystal?”
“Yeah.”
“Whose?”
“Oh, forget it,” Spraggue said easily. “You probably don’t have the time.”
“By removing me from this desk at this time, you could conceivably lose fifty thousand dollars.”
“Or gain it. The stock market is a colossal crap shoot; you told me that yourself.”
“True.” She nodded at one of her assistants, a fortyish woman with graying hair and a wide smile. “Helen, if Consolidated hits twenty-six, sell short, ten thousand shares, and buy Xenon no higher than eighteen and a quarter. I have been lured from my duties by a major stockholder. Hold all calls.”
“That,” she said, as her nephew accompanied her down the stairs to the library, “was blackmail, pure and simple. You knew I couldn’t resist. Did you pick up this bit of crystal in Washington? Was it a profitable trip?”
“Possibly.”
“I hope you do indeed possess a mysterious glass with unknown fingerprints on it. Otherwise I shall brain you in the hallway with a hatstand and the police will never pin it on me.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it. Where’s your fingerprinting paraphernalia?”
She padded across the room and rang the bell on Davison Spraggue’s mahogany desk. “I haven’t the faintest. It’s been ages since I’ve even thought about it. Soon the man from Sotheby’s will be after me to auction it off as an antique, not that I would ever part with anything that provoked such pleasant memories. But Pierce will know.”
He did, which surprised Spraggue no more than it did Mary. Spraggue sometimes thought that if he asked Pierce for the red rubber ball he’d played with at age ten, the butler would instantly whip it out of a pocket. Pierce didn’t have the fingerprint kit on him, but he did a quick turn, left the room, and returned with it tucked under his arm in less than three minutes—unflustered, walking at his accustomed, dignified pace.
“Thank you,” Aunt Mary said. “I sometimes am overcome by the desire to ask you how you do that, whether you have a complete inventory of the house written down and stowed away somewhere. Item: one fingerprint kit; location: third shelf, north hall closet. Item: one faded teddy bear; location: second shelf, south guest-room closet. No,” she held up one hand as Pierce opened his mouth. “No, I really don’t want to know. I prefer to imagine.”
Pierce nodded and took his leave.
“He’s got it all memorized,” Spraggue said. “He doesn’t need a list.”
Parts of Aunt Mary’s fingerprinting kit would have given the collector pause. The original black bag, very like a doctor’s, had been issued to her during World War II, when she had served in the OSS. She’d kept it up to date by strategic additions, culminating in a frenzy of purchases when her nephew had first become a private eye. Just in case she was ever called on to help, she’d explained hopefully.
She spread yesterday afternoon’s edition of the Globe over the maroon leather blotter in the center of the desk.
“The glass, please,” she said.
“Coming up.” Spraggue retrieved a parcel wrapped in a pink napkin from beneath the folds of his overcoat and presented it to his aunt.
“And don’t get your prints all over it,” she added.
“Yes, Mum.”
“Sorry.”
“You should be. Here I’ve brought you a nice toy to play with and you insult me.”
“I only apologize once. While I play with the toy, you can tell me all about it.”
“All about what?”
“I perceive from the napery that the glass comes from one of my favorite establishments.”
“How discerning of you.”
“Knowing you were in Washington, knowing your fatal weakness for bouillabaisse, seeing a goblet wrapped in a distinctive pink linen napkin, the conclusion that you lunched at Le Provencal is unavoidable. Don’t even try to deny it.”
As she spoke, Mary laid out her tools: a jar of fine grayish powder, several delicate brushes, a few larger ones, glazed white paper, an insufflator, a camera with different lenses and a metal holding contraption to position it above the desk, tongs, magnifying lenses.
“I hope I’m not hunting senatorial fingerprints,” she said.
“No. And the staff at Le Provencal sends its collective love.” “They should have sent bouillabaisse. Go on.”
“After I saw Donagher, I took his campaign manager to lunch. I got him drunk and asked him who was out for his boss’ hide.”
“And?”
“He thinks it’s political.”
“Politicians think everything’s political.”
“This is how he put it: A lot of people hate Donagher’s politics, call him anything from a bleeding-heart liberal to a communist sympathizer, but the man’s opinions haven’t shifted lately—”
“The only thing that’s changed is that someone’s trying to kill him.”
“Right. So Eichenhorn, the campaign manager, ties it to the upcoming election. He says that now’s the time for the conser
vative political action committees to take Donagher out, because if Donagher wins sixty percent of the vote in Massachusetts, he’s going to be a presidential contender. And a popular one.”
“Do PACs hire assassins?”
“Well, Eichenhorn thinks the whole shebang was a screw-up, stage managed either by Bartolo with help from the mob or our own Governor Edwards with aid from same.”
“A screw-up?”
“Yeah. He thinks somebody just wanted Donagher to look bad, to drop out of the marathon without finishing. Eliminate Collatos’ death from the picture and what have we got? Donagher down on the ground, gasping. You saw the wire service photos: Donagher loaded into an ambulance; senator stuck in ice bath. Those photos sure didn’t make Donagher look like any presidential contender. If it hadn’t been for Pete’s death, nobody would have checked to see if Donagher had been poisoned, there wouldn’t have been any outpouring of sympathy for Donagher. People would have seen him as a failure, not a victim. End result: Somebody neutralizes all the favorable publicity Donagher gets from running the marathon.”
“Ah …” Mary said softly. “There’s a nice clear thumb, a man’s right thumb and three fairly good fingers. I hope it isn’t you, dear.”
“Pretty sure it isn’t.”
Mary pulled a stamp pad from the desk’s center top drawer. “All the same, would you mind? The right thumb should be sufficient.”
Spraggue grimaced, surrendered, rubbed ink on his thumb, pressed it against one of the sheets of glazed paper.
“Then this Eichenhorn doesn’t think you’re up against a killer?” Mary asked.
“He thinks some pol hired himself a dirty trickster, à la the Democrats’ infamous Dick Tuck.”
“Do you think his theory holds water?”
“I don’t know. I tried to sound him out on Donagher’s personal life, but he clammed up. According to him, Donagher’s a candidate for immediate sainthood.”
“So few saints in political life, these days,” Mary said.
