by Bill Eidson
“Go straight?”
The old man laughed. “Not in his frigging genes to do that. Came back from Stanford all pumped up with these ideas about himself. I’d guess he wants to mix his talent for hurting people with bigger returns. Real estate, construction, all sorts of stuff.” Deegan shook his head. “That financial stuff always threw me, I was better at dealing with the simple shit, people shooting each other.” Deegan brightened, and looked at the money in Ben’s hand. “One thing I can tell you is to watch your ass if he knows it’s you. He’s a real good hater, comes to it naturally. He decides you’re pissing in his soup, he’ll come right after you.”
“Bad news, huh?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s part of the new generation, all right. He never got picked up for it, but there were rumors around before his uncle hustled him off to college that he went in on one of those home invasion things. Sort of shit that the Jamaicans do, but Irish kids are supposed to know better. Blew into Derrick Coughlin’s home, killed him, beat the wife, killed her, and then was moving on to the kids when one of them saw the sense of telling McGuire where Mommy and Daddy hid a big suitcase that they were never supposed to touch. It was the cash from an armored car heist.’’
“He was never charged?”
“The two guys rumored to have gone in with him, Donny and John Gendron, they never got to testify,” Deegan said. “McGuire didn’t even get arrested, far as I know. Right after, his uncle got him out to California. The story goes that Patrick Clooney used to have a full head of black hair until his nephew became a teenager. It’s strange, I seen the two of them together myself: Clooney is kinda disgusted by some of the things his nephew does, but he still takes care of him.”
Ben cocked an eyebrow. “Does that include buying off someone on the force?”
“You haven’t got enough money in your bank account for me to talk about that.”
“Do you know Calabro or Brace? Are they clean?”
Deegan hesitated, then said, “I know them and I think you heard me the first time. As for McGuire, all you’ve really got to take away from our little drink here is that if he loses his temper with you, get the hell out of town. Him and his uncle clean up good.” He winked. “Seems Donny and John’s car blew up with them in it.”
Ben slid the twenty over.
CHAPTER 12
“THAT’S ALL YOU’VE GOT?” KURT SAID, LOOKING THROUGH THE prints. “So what?”
Ben laid his palms up. Inwardly, he seethed. “I know you’d like to see a few shots of him wiring up bombs. So would I. But he’s not doing it.”
Kurt rubbed his face, looking sour. He looked over at Sarah, whose face was unreadable. “And what’s this I hear that Ben interviewed a source without you, Sarah?”
“We’ll work it out,” she said.
Ben sighed. “It was a matter of me doing it alone or wasting another day.” He explained about Deegan’s drinking.
Kurt shook his head. “Let’s keep our strengths in front of us here. Ben, you’re the photographer. Sarah’s the reporter. We’ve already had one disaster with Peter trying to take on your work. Don’t repeat his mistake. And Sarah, check out a pager. Now tell us what you learned, Ben.”
He went through it with them, and both of them sat forward when they heard about the Gendron brothers. “Blew up, huh?” Kurt said. “Let’s see if we can get photos of those two and follow this up, Sarah.” Kurt pursed his lips. “What was your read, Ben? Was Deegan suggesting that Boston Police were letting it slide with McGuire?”
“I couldn’t get a straight answer.”
“That’s what we pay Sarah for,” Kurt said.
Ben glanced at her and he saw he had his work cut out there, too.
I don’t need this shit, he thought. He said, “If we’re done here, I’d just as soon get out and keep following McGuire.”
“We’re done when I say we’re done,” Kurt said. He held his gaze on Ben for a moment, before shifting his attention to Sarah. “I want you to be extremely careful with what you share with the cops. And, Ben, I want you to connect with Lucien. It looks like he might have that interview with Senator Cheever this afternoon. We’re looking pretty thin for this issue and I’ll have to lead with the prison ladies if you’ve got nothing else for me. You think you can contain yourself to taking pictures?”
“I’m getting pretty good at containing myself,” Ben said.
Kurt smiled. “Lucky for me. Then you and Sarah should work out your problems. Find out what McGuire wants, find out what he’s doing, find out what Peter could have dug up that McGuire wanted to hide. Sarah, are you up for interviewing him?”
“We don’t have anything solid on him. It would be a fishing expedition.”
“So go fish.” Kurt said. “Get me a story.” He pressed the intercom and told Lisa he was ready for his next meeting.
“Guess it must have seemed pretty funny when I asked you to lend a hand,” Sarah said, minutes later in the hallway.
Ben followed her into her office. “Get over it. I called you, you didn’t answer. Leave your cell phone on if you want me to involve you every time I have a brainstorm. Where were you anyway?”
“Personal business,” she snapped.
Ben leaned onto her desk and said, “Listen, Sarah. I know that you’re hurting. But for me it’s also personal business that my best friend got killed. And it’s personal business that I can’t see my children until we figure out if I’m on someone’s hit list for God knows what reason. Have you got that?”
“Have you got that I don’t give a shit? There wasn’t enough left of him for me to even say good-bye, never mind show Cindy that her daddy was gone. She still doesn’t believe it, and, frankly, neither do I.”
“Then where were you yesterday, if you’re so damn anxious?”
“Church,” she said, shortly. She glanced at Ben and said, “Don’t look at me so carefully, I’m not some sort of zealot. Cindy wanted some way, some formal way of going to talk to her dad. She didn’t want to go to the cemetery, that scared her. So I turned off the phone and took her to church.”
“Did it help?”
Sarah rubbed her eyes. “I think so. She cried, but she seemed calmer later. I felt a little better, too. Afterwards, I interviewed a former teacher who can take care of Cindy in my apartment. Cindy seemed to like her and I needed to get it settled.”
“Did you?”
“I did. So I’m fully in business. Call me with interview ideas. Call me with contacts.” Sarah put her hand out. “Just call me.”
Ben shook her hand. “Got it.”
On the cab ride to the senator’s town house, Ben noticed Lucien was wiping his mouth, but a faint sheen of sweat kept reappearing on his upper lip.
“Nervous?” Ben asked as they started up the stairs.
“Wouldn’t you be?” Lucien looked at the beautiful redbrick building before them, and back at the lush beauty of the Boston Gardens. “This is old Boston, this is one of the most powerful guys in the country, and I’ve got to ask him what he thinks about our pictures of him playing with some chick. I get something out of him, then I’ve got a story that’ll make my career. I screw it up, I get an enemy who can shut me down.”
Lucien stopped at the top of the stairs and looked at Ben, apparently looking for a different perspective. A way to make everything OK.
Ben thought of Father Caldwell, standing at that press conference with the flashes popping repeatedly, freezing the sweat on his brow for posterity. Ben said, “Cheever has more to fear from you than you do from him.”
Lucien raked his fingers through his hair as Ben pushed the doorbell to Cheever’s town house. “Does he know that?”
A receptionist let them in and walked them up through the town house to a small waiting area on the second floor. She offered them coffee and after they declined, she went back to work on her computer. Cheever kept them waiting for about fifteen minutes, and then came out saying, “Gentlemen, thank you for your patience. Come on in.”
The senator chatted briskly with Lucien as he escorted them into his office. “It’s lucky you caught me in town,” he said. “Just keeping track of my schedule is a huge task in and of itself.”
Ben automatically checked out the window, seeing where Peter must have parked the van on Beacon Street to have gotten the angle. The senator’s office was dominated by a huge mahogany desk, photos and paintings of Boston scenes from the turn of the century, and a beautiful globe on a floor pedestal. Cheever’s school and military affiliations—Harvard and the Army—were prominent. Photos of his family, two handsome boys and a rather imperious looking wife, flanked him on each side as he sat behind his desk.
Cheever said, “I was devastated to read about Peter Gallagher. He certainly kept me hopping over the years, but I always liked the man personally and respected his professionalism.”
Suddenly, the senator fell silent and Ben looked up to see him staring directly at him. “What’s your name again?”
Ben told him.
The senator stood. “My god, I didn’t recognize you without the beard.” He reached out to shake Ben’s hand. “I didn’t realize Insider would be sending over such a famous photographer. I want to thank you personally for what you did to stop that lunatic Johansen. Bad enough that it got as far as it did, at least we conservatives don’t have his success hanging over us.” The senator shook his head. “Believe me, it’s tough enough being a Republican senator for Massachusetts without nuts like Johansen around to pull the public’s impression of the right even further off center.’’
“That’s how you see yourself, Senator?” Lucien began. “Just about center?”
“Little further right than that,” the senator chuckled, and they began a traditional political interview. Ben wandered about the room as they did so, capturing shots of the senator. Cheever was an easy subject. Too easy, actually. Long familiar with having the camera lens pointed at him, Cheever posed constantly. He took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves; he made his points using his hands for emphasis; he even positioned himself so the photos of him with Ronald Reagan and George Bush were evident, if slightly out of focus.
Ben could see the pictures in his head. Although he knew the senator would have been pleased, the shots were too staged. Everything in place, including the looks and moves of a former athlete blessed with intelligence and drive: black hair going gray, friendly blue eyes that Ben saw he could change at will to convey anger, sadness, indignation, commitment, and resolve. Lots of resolve.
After fifteen minutes of a steady delivery of views and statistics, the senator looked at his watch. “Well, I appreciate you two coming in.”
Lucien took the manila envelope from his briefcase and Ben lined up the shot. “Senator,” Lucien said. “There’s one more thing that we’d like to discuss with you. As you may remember, Peter brought up the rumors about infidelity. Given the Clinton scandal and the weight the character issue played in your own election campaign …”
“I’ll tell you what I told Gallagher,” the senator began, his voice suddenly hard.
But then he stopped.
Lucien pulled out the three photographs and the senator said, “What’s this?” The senator looked through the photos, his face suddenly unreadable.
“This is your evidence?” the senator asked. Ben noticed a slight relaxation of the man’s shoulders. Relief, possibly. Cheever glanced up at Ben. “I would have thought you were above this kind of thing.”
The senator turned his attention back to Lucien and spoke in a slow, patronizing voice. “Yes, I sometimes have meetings up in these offices just as we are now. I sometimes serve wine, just as we are now drinking coffee. And, yes, sometimes the people who come to see me on state or federal business are women—and sometimes those women are young and attractive.”
“I understand that, sir,” Lucien began. “Perhaps you can comment on why she …”
“No.” The senator shook his head sternly. “I will not comment. I will not allow you to speculate and put my comments in print about goddamn nothing. There’s not an iota of evidence of me doing a damn thing wrong here, but if you run these photos the public will jump to damaging conclusions.”
“Sir, we’re not trying to hurt your career, it’s just that we’re following up on all of the stories that Peter was working on as an all-encompassing article that reporters run risks …”
Ben lifted his camera and caught a couple of frames of the senator pushing himself back from the desk, as if to better comprehend this new angle.
“Stop with that damn camera,” the senator said sharply to Ben. When he returned his attention to Lucien, his voice was quiet, well-measured, but shaking ever so slightly.
Ben couldn’t tell if the outrage was feigned or genuine.
Cheever said, “Let me understand you. You intend to run these photos in the context of the things that Gallagher was investigating that got him killed? Excuse me, but are you so damned irresponsible that you’d tar me with the suspicion of being involved in a reporter’s death? I’m a U.S. senator. Do you know what that would do to my career with all the nuts out there who have nothing to do but entertain conspiracy theories?”
“No, senator, no,” Lucien stood. “Look, let me talk with my editor. I don’t want you getting the wrong idea here… .”
“Who is she?” Ben said.
“What?” The senator looked confused. Then he slapped the photos with the back of his hand. “Did you take these?”
“Who’s the woman?”
The senator shook his head, and then shrugged. “Go ahead, call her. Her name is Teri Wheeler. Heads up the New England Software Foundation, NESF.”
“A political action committee?” Lucien said.
“They don’t refer to themselves as a PAC group, but that’s what they are,” the senator said.
“So you’re saying you have no romantic relationship with her,” Lucien asked, his pen poised.
“Emphatically.” The senator opened his drawer and flipped through some cards before finding hers. He tossed it to Lucien. “I’m also saying go ahead, talk to her. Clear your own minds. But you print something as damaging as what we discussed, with so little grounds, and I’ll come after you. Public figure or not, I’ve got some rights. Now get out of here.”
CHAPTER 13
“WHAT’RE YOU DOING?” JAKE ASKED, LETTING HIMSELF INTO THE library.
“Dumping off some old files,” Kurt said. “I’ll be done in a minute if you want to use the computer.”
“Yeah, OK.” Jake sat on the love seat, quietly watching his stepfather work for a few minutes. “My dad hates computers.”
“I know,” Kurt said. “He’s competent with them, but it’s a challenge to get him to do his expenses or log his shots. But his other talents overshadow that, don’t you think?”
“Sure.” Jake looked up at the prints of his father’s still up on the wall. “He’s incredible.”
Kurt caught the envy in Jake’s voice along with the admiration. Not for the first time, Kurt thought that those pictures should come down. For the kids’ sake, as well as his own. But he knew it would raise holy hell if he broached the subject. Better to wait until the new house.
“You think my dad will ever use a digital camera?”
Kurt smiled. “Miracles can happen. I tried to foist the new digital Nikon on him. He could still use his own old lenses, I thought that’d appeal to him. We’d cut out the processing, streamline production. He gave me half a dozen pretty good reasons why not, with the top three being, ‘I don’t want to.’ Your dad is a talented, creative guy, but he goes his own way. I expect that’s kind of tough on you and Lainnie, isn’t it?”
Jake shifted uneasily, wary now. “Maybe sometimes.”
It saddened Kurt to see how much Jake wanted to be like his father—and how different he was. The two of them didn’t even look alike: Jake had his mother’s light skin and dark hair, while Lainnie had her father’s coloring.
And Jake
’s manner was entirely different. More hesitant. More cautious. Kurt wished Jake were his own. He just knew the kid would shine with the right kind of attention.
Kurt said, “If ever I can be of any help, talking, just listening, that’s one of the things I’m here for.”
“Yeah, well… . Do you know where my dad is now? It’s been like a week.”
“You know he’s very busy trying to find out what happened with Peter.”
“I know, but still.”
“I understand.” Kurt looked at his watch. “He’s in Washington, D.C.”
“What’s he doing there?”
Kurt thought about it, and decided there was no harm. He told him how Ben was going to see Johansen.
“Cool,” Jake said, his eyes lighting up briefly. “You think he’ll be on TV?”
“Better not be,” Kurt said, smiling. “This is part of a feature we’re doing for Insider.”
Kurt saw the boy’s enthusiasm fade. Kurt felt he could decipher the look: My dad is cool, but there’s no time left for me.
“My own dad was a captain in the navy. Commanded a destroyer,” Kurt said. “I was proud as hell of him, but I sure didn’t see much of him. And even when I did, it sometimes felt like I didn’t…” He paused. “… it felt like I didn’t exactly register. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah,” the boy said. “I know what you mean.”
Kurt ejected the disk and exchanged it in his briefcase for packaged software that was still in the store bag. “OK. We’ve got some room on this drive again. I just picked up a copy of SimCity. You want to help me load it and start rebuilding Boston to our own liking?”
Jake straightened and reached for the software package. His eyes met Kurt’s directly for the first time since he came into the room. “Hey, thanks.” Those eyes were bright, and alive, and, for the moment, Kurt felt as if Jake was truly his own son.
“You knew I wanted this, didn’t you?” Jake said.
Kurt smiled. “That’s one of the other things I’m around here for.”
