She nodded. She could hear the surge of the crowd and shouts in the distance.
“All right, then.” The weight on her back lifted as the man who had hovered over her straightened, and she struggled to her knees. The two of them pulled her up.
“Quickly, now.” The officers pulled her up and urged her toward the main door. A few photographers ran alongside and snapped pictures. Inside, a dozen people huddled against the walls, staring at her. Policemen surrounded her—plainclothesmen of the EPU, uniformed state troopers, and Capitol Security—but still she felt exposed. Anyone could have walked into the building before the press conference. She looked ahead, searching for things out of place, for people who didn’t belong.
Six officers squeezed into the elevator with her. The rest headed for the stairs. So far, the emergency plan functioned just as they’d laid it out to her a few weeks earlier.
“You’re bleeding, ma’am,” said one of the female detectives.
Jillian pulled off her gloves and touched her right cheek gingerly, then drew her hand away and looked at it. Her fingertips were stained with blood.
“I don’t think it’s serious.”
“We’ll have your doctor come look at it immediately,” the tall detective on her other side said.
When they emerged on the floor above, Colonel Smith waited by the elevator, panting.
“Governor Goff! I’m so sorry.” He took her elbow and guided her swiftly through the outer office and into the inner sanctum. Her private office. She’d only been in it a few times, during the last governor’s term. Half a dozen EPU members and four uniformed troopers followed and took up positions at every door and window. Several more were ordered to stand guard in the outer office. The main door closed, and Smith locked it.
“Have a seat, ma’am. We’ll get you out of here as quickly as possible, but not until we’ve secured the area.”
“I understand.” Jillian’s chest tightened as she walked toward the huge walnut desk. At least her calf-length skirt and wool coat covered her trembling knees. She sank into the padded leather chair behind the desk and lowered her head into her hands. She winced as she touched her cheek again.
Smith held out a clean white handkerchief. “I’m sorry, Governor. That looks superficial, but we’ve called for your physician. She’ll be here momentarily.”
Jillian raised her chin. “I’m fine, Colonel. Just find out who did this.”
*****
Detective Dave Hutchins hurried to the Executive Protection Unit’s afternoon briefing. The first attempt on a sitting Maine governor’s life in many years promised to keep the unit busy.
“Were you there this morning?” Detective Penny Thurlow asked, as he slid into a chair beside her.
“No,” Dave said, “but I’ve seen it on TV at least ten times.”
Penny nodded. “Me, too. An assassination attempt on inauguration day. Unheard of.”
Lieutenant Wilson, their immediate boss, briefed the officers. Heads turned as Colonel Gideon Smith, head of the Maine State Police, entered and took a seat near the door. Wilson wound down his spiel and nodded at Smith. “And now I’ll let the colonel take the floor.”
The officers sat up straighter as Smith walked to the lectern. “Men—and women—” He nodded deferentially to Penny and Stephanie Drake, the two female detectives in the unit. “I want to commend you and your colleagues for your exemplary performance today. Thanks to this unit, the governor of Maine is safe and sound at the Blaine House and will begin her official duties on schedule. It’s up to you to keep the governor and her family safe, and to find out who made the attempt on her life. I don’t need to tell you that this investigation is priority one for your unit. Any resources within my reach are at your disposal. Carry on.”
The colonel turned on his heel and left the room. Dave glanced over at Penny. “Bet he wishes he was still doing field work, not pushing paper.”
She nodded. “I’m on duty at the governor’s office tomorrow. Can’t wait.”
Lieutenant Wilson resumed his place behind the lectern and opened a folder. “Assignments have been juggled a little due to this incident. We don’t know yet who fired at the governor this morning. That means we’ve got to dig deeper into her past than any of her political opponents did during the last year, and that’s pretty deep. We’ll also reconstruct the shooting. We’re reasonably sure this wasn’t a sniping. The bullet came from the level of the crowd.”
Dave leaned forward to listen. Where would he fit into the aftermath?
“The Inaugural Ball has been canceled.” A murmur spread across the room, and Wilson held up one hand. “I know. It’s unprecedented, but the governor’s advisors were adamant. She should not go out in public until the situation is under control. So those who drew duty for that event will have different assignments for tonight.”
He named the officers who were currently on duty at the governor’s mansion and assigned a new shift to relieve them. “The governor says she has no enemies, but obviously someone out there wants to hurt her. The officers personally guarding Governor Goff will stagger their hours, to preserve continuity. We don’t want to leave any leeway for someone who’s looking for a chance to get at the governor. We’re also increasing manpower to guard her until further notice, so expect some overtime. We’ll draw on state troopers for extra guards around the Blaine House as long as we feel it’s warranted.”
Dave drew duty investigating the shooting—his strong suit. In a way, he envied the officers who would guard Jillian Goff. Not only did she carry herself with an air of sophisticated charm—class, Dave thought—but her file said she was intelligent and a gifted attorney. Penny was right: she had grit. Since her husband’s death, she’d thrown herself into the legislative process. He had to admire that.
He left the duty room, eager to get on with his assignment: interviewing Jillian’s partners at the Waterville law firm where she had practiced before the election. Half a dozen other detectives would conduct interviews elsewhere, and their collective findings would give them a picture of the governor’s relationships with the people closest to her.
The half-hour drive gave him time to think about the shooting. None of the officers on duty that morning had seen the gunman—the shooter had melted into the crowd.
How could it be that no one had seen the weapon or noticed the person who fired it? He clenched his hands on the steering wheel of his pickup. Easy. Every eye was on the glamorous new governor. The shooter had done the deed—not well, or he would have hit Jillian—but he did it and then stood his ground as part of the appalled audience. When the people panicked and fell back, away from the Capitol’s public entrance, the person who wielded the gun went with them, acting as shocked as they all felt, as innocent as the next person. And got away.
Dave regretted not being there. They should have caught the perpetrator. But they couldn’t stop the whole audience. Several hundred people had gathered to hear the new governor’s first words to her constituents. Housewives, students, state employees. . .Still, shouldn’t the officers have been able to pick out the one who came there to kill?
The shooter must have eased toward the fringe of the crowd. As soon as the ranks broke, he walked away, to a vehicle parked on a side street, or maybe down on State Street. Not in the Capitol complex parking lots, and not in the state employees’ garage half a block up the street. Officers had secured those areas quickly and taken names and license plate numbers of everyone who left after the shooting. The massive job had taken hours, and a lot of people were unhappy about the delays.
Dave pulled into the parking lot at the office of Dandridge, Scribner, Harris & Goff. He parked his truck between a Lexus and an MG. The partners were expecting him. They introduced themselves and took him into a conference room with a long, polished table.
“Terrible thing,” said Martin Dandridge, the gray-haired senior partner. He offered Dave coffee, which he declined.
Margaret Harris, golden-haired and tanned
, smiled at him, but the smile wavered. “When will the police know who did this?”
“We’re doing everything we can.” Dave studied her face. “I understand the governor’s late husband, Brendon Goff, was also a member of this firm.”
“Yes.” Ms. Harris’s mouth skewed into a grimace. “It was awful when Brendon died. He and Jillian met in law school. After a few years working with public prosecutors, they applied here together, and we brought them into the firm at the same time. Brilliant young couple.”
“They were with us for five years or so before Brendon decided to run for the Maine Senate,” Dandridge said. He shook his head. “Such a pity. If I’d known he was going to get himself killed, I’d have advised him to give up skiing. But he loved it. And you never know, do you? You just never know.”
The other partners murmured their assent.
Dave cleared his throat. “So, after Mr. Goff’s accident, Jillian stepped into his seat in the Senate and then won re-election.”
“Correct,” said Dandridge. “And now our shining junior partner is governor of Maine. I can hardly believe it.”
The third partner, Jon Scribner, leaned forward. “We took this morning off to go to Augusta and see her sworn in.”
“So you were all there?” Dave looked around at the three of them.
Margaret nodded. “We closed the office for the day. We only came in this afternoon because you called and asked to meet with us. Poor Jillian.” She shook her head. “I tried to call her a couple of hours ago, but they wouldn’t put my call through.”
“The governor is under very close guard,” Dave said.
“Well, that’s good, I suppose.”
Dave eyed them keenly. All had been at the scene of the shooting. All knew Jillian well. How well? Well enough to want her dead?
Chapter 2
Jillian ate dinner in the family dining room with only her mother and her personal assistant, Naomi Plante, joining her at the table. The guards outnumbered the diners, which she found disconcerting. Her mother, however, chattered on uninhibited as the staff served their meal: broccoli salad, roast beef, and stuffed baked potatoes, followed by Maine blueberry cobbler.
Jillian realized she would have to get used to being waited on. She’d lived alone since Brendon died, eating a majority of her meals out of the microwave, so the hovering domestic staff put her a little on edge. Once the meal was over, she could retire to her private rooms with her mother, away from the watchful eyes. But even then, the security guards and staff would be only steps away.
She had hardly eaten all day, and she found the food delicious. Menu planning was one of the duties she had decided to delegate to her assistant. Sometime soon she’d have to talk to Naomi about meals, but right now, other thoughts occupied her.
Her mother might think she could distract her by talking about the décor, the food, and the next week’s schedule, but Jillian’s mind kept skipping back to the shooting. Who wanted to kill her? Every time she recalled the morning’s events, her bewilderment morphed into anger. She took a deep breath and focused on her mother’s next comment.
“It’s such a pity they canceled your ball.”
“Oh, I know,” Naomi said quickly. “You bought such a beautiful dress, Mrs. Clark.” She turned to Jillian. “And your gown! Where will you ever wear it?”
Jillian shrugged. “There’ll be another event. I think it’s better this way.” She chuckled. “I never was much of a dancer, anyway.”
“Oh, but I love to dance,” Naomi protested.
Jillian did feel a bit of regret for her mother’s sake and Naomi’s. Both had talked about the ball for weeks. Naomi bought her gown the day after he election, as soon as the ball was a sure thing. So much for the sure thing. It would have been the most prestigious event of Naomi’s life to this point, Jillian realized. Her mother’s desolation, however, seemed more a cover for her anxiety about Jillian’s welfare.
“Well, I’m glad they’re looking after you,” Vera said. “If that means no ball for you, then I guess we just stay home and turn into pumpkins. But it’s such a waste. So many people booked rooms in town and bought special clothes. And all that food!”
“That’s true,” Jillian said. “I wish I could do something about that. I suggested a brief appearance, but the police said getting me there for a few minutes would be as risky as a full evening out, and the organizers felt they should cancel it outright.”
Her mother’s shoulders drooped. “I do hope they can keep you safe, Jillian.”
“They’re trained for that, Mom.”
They lingered over dessert and coffee without mentioning her narrow escape again. The lead officer on duty entered the dining room and approached her.
“Ma’am, detective David Hutchins is here. He’s one of the chief investigators of the shooting incident. Would you like to see him now?”
“Certainly.” Jillian pushed back her chair. “Show him into my private office upstairs, please.” She wondered if that were the proper place for an interview with a police officer. Maybe she should take him into one of the public rooms across the hall—the sunroom or James G. Blaine’s old study, for instance. But the windows in those rooms fronted on Capitol Street.
Even inside the well-guarded house, she felt vulnerable. This morning’s incident had shaken her more than she’d admitted to anyone.
“Jillian,” her mother called.
She looked back. “I won’t be long, Mom. You and Naomi relax and make yourselves at home.” She smiled at the irony of that. She was slowly absorbing the reality of living in this fabulous house. The honor almost overwhelmed her. But would she ever feel truly at home here? “I’ll find you upstairs in a few minutes. Maybe the. . .family living room?”
The layout was still strange, and she had much to learn. She followed the hallway to the private stairs near the back of the house.
Finally, I’m alone for three seconds.
She heard muted steps behind her and shot a glance over her shoulder.
No, I’m not. One of the plainclothes officers of the EPU was only a couple of paces behind her.
At the top of the stairs, she caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired man entering her office. Another officer took up a post to one side of the doorway.
“Detective Hutchins is waiting for you, ma’am. We’ll be right here if you need anything.”
She tried to glance unobtrusively at his nametag. A. Browne.
“Thank you, Andrew.” She hesitated and decided to be up front. She hadn’t mastered all the staff’s names yet, but they were in this for four years. “It is Andrew, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled and nodded as though she were a precocious child.
“Thank you.” She ducked inside the office and closed the door behind her. For an instant, she lingered with her hand on the knob, facing the door. Still not alone, though she’d left the two officers outside. She’d known privacy would elude her after the inauguration, but she hadn’t imagined how claustrophobic she would feel. She pulled in a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and turned.
“Good evening, Governor. I’m sorry to disturb you. Lieutenant Wilson asked me to update you before it got too late in the evening. I understand you have guests, and I won’t keep you long.”
She stood still, trying to assimilate her impressions. The smile seemed genuine, at the same time both wistful and charming. Something about it reminded her of Brendon, though the detective looked nothing like her late husband. Taller, a little sturdier. Less studious looking. More outdoorsy.
How long had she been staring? She stepped forward, extending her hand. “I’m delighted to meet you, Detective. . .” His warm fingers closed on her hand. She halted and looked in vain for a nametag. “I’m sorry, but your name slips my mind. I haven’t James G. Blaine’s talent for recalling them, I’m afraid. It didn’t come with the house, though he was famous for it.”
He chuckled and released her hand. “Dave Hutchins. I’m pleased to
be part of the unit looking out for you, ma’am.”
“Oh, please. Let’s not be ‘ma’am’ and ‘sir.’ I’ve had about all the formality I can stand for one day.” She avoided the desk and sat down in one of the comfortable leather chairs before it, indicating with a wave of the hand that he should take the other.
He sat, and his long legs folded with athletic grace. His suit wasn’t expensive, but he wore it well. He cocked his head slightly to one side, studying her. “Well, then, if you don’t mind, please call me Dave.”
She smiled. “Terrific. And you may call me—”
“Governor,” he said gravely.
Not what she’d hoped for, but did she really expect the officers to call her Jillian? Of course not. It wasn’t proper protocol. If she weren’t so tired, she never would have entertained the idea. As much as she hated to admit it, she must still be getting over the shock of the shooting. She put her hand up to her cheek. The small bandage below the corner of her right eye was her combat ribbon. She’d survived Day One.
“Are you all right?” Dave sat forward, his brow creased and his eyes sober. “Maybe I should come back tomorrow.”
“No, I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt, really.” She managed a small smile. “I’m tired, I admit, and I suppose my head aches a little. The doctor said I should retire early, but not at 7:30. I’d like to know how the investigation is going.”
“We’re just starting, but we covered a lot of ground today. Our officers questioned witnesses, and we searched the area where the press conference was held.”
“Did you find anything?”
“The initial investigators did find a slug at the crime scene. It’s somewhat distorted because it hit the stonework on the Statehouse, but it could have been worse. It was a copper-jacketed bullet, probably from a nine-millimeter handgun. The bullet’s in bad shape, but our ballistics team will do what they can.”
Just Cause Page 22
