Flashpoint

by Ed Gorman

  I nodded.

  ‘I have the feeling, Dev, that you’re not telling me everything.’

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know, Elise.’ I spoke softly because I could sense the agitation growing within her.

  ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were protecting Robert.’

  ‘I’m not, Elise. I don’t believe he had anything to do with the murder, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘You know damned well what I mean.’

  ‘Mom, please—’

  ‘Be quiet, Maddy.’ Elise did not take her eyes from mine. ‘Was my husband having an affair with this woman?’

  ‘No.’ I wasn’t about to go into the finer details.

  ‘Did you ask him that?’

  ‘Yes. That was the first thing I asked him.’

  ‘And he said he wasn’t having an affair with her?’

  ‘Yes. And I believe him the same as I believe he didn’t have anything to do with her death. I don’t blame you for being angry and hurt, Elise, but our main concern is keeping him from being charged with murder.’

  ‘In other words, you’re worried about the election.’

  ‘Yes. No point in lying, I’m worried about the election. That’s my job in this. But we’re friends, Elise. You and I and Maddy. I hope you understand how much I care about you.’

  ‘And we care about you, Dev, you know that,’ Maddy said.

  But Elise was having none of our Oprah hug. ‘Who was the woman?’

  ‘Her name was Tracy Cabot. Somebody hit her on the head with something heavy and killed her.’

  ‘She probably deserved it.’

  ‘Mother!’

  Elise brought her slight hand to her face and touched fingers to her forehead. ‘Oh, God, forgive me for ever saying such a thing. I apologize to both of you.’ Then, as if she’d already forgotten the tone of her apology, the anger was back in her voice. ‘Dev, I don’t believe what Robert told you and this time everybody will know he cheated on me. It will be all over the news.’

  Maddy angled herself so that she could see her mother straight on. ‘Mom, there’s no point in going through all this. There was a woman involved and she’s dead and the police think Dad did it.’

  ‘He was the one who found the body. Before the police got there I called Ben Zuckerman. He’s probably on a plane coming up here right now.’

  ‘I have a right to know if my husband was sleeping with another woman.’

  ‘He wasn’t.’

  I was back to Bill Clinton word parsing. He would have if he’d been able to get it up but since he couldn’t he didn’t.

  ‘He told you that?’ It didn’t matter that we’d gone through this a minute or two before. She wanted to convince herself that he hadn’t so she could find some relief from the turbulent emotions that were suffocating her; but her history with men in general and her father and husband suggested otherwise.

  Maddy flung herself back against the couch and folded her arms across her chest. Her mother’s persistence was obviously starting to grate on her.

  ‘Elise, listen to me. That’s exactly what he told me.’

  ‘He said to you, “I didn’t sleep with her.”’

  ‘Yes, he did. They weren’t, of course. But things were bad enough already.’

  ‘But he was going to meet her at the cabin.’

  ‘He was going to set her straight. That’s why they were meeting there.’

  ‘And now the police think he murdered her.’ Was there the faintest note of satisfaction in her voice?

  This time when she leaned forward she put her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands. Maddy took her in her arms but Elise stayed hidden. She probably wanted to crunch herself into the smallest configuration possible. And maybe just disappear.

  I remembered the dry bar in the far corner straight behind the grand piano. I walked over there and filled a small glass with bourbon and water. When I got back Elise was sitting up again, but from the gaze I wondered if she was in shock. The dullness of her eyes suggested it.

  She took the glass with both hands. Like a child. She began drinking right away.

  Maddy thanked me sotto voce.

  ‘That’s all I need. To become an alcoholic.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mom. You drink so much. What’re you up to now – two drinks a month or something like that?’

  ‘Honey, you know how many alcoholics are in my family.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re not one of them.’

  Elise had drunk most of the small glass. She set it carefully on the coffee table and then sat back and closed her eyes.

  ‘Are you tired, Mom?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Very.’ Eyes still closed. Willing the world away and I didn’t blame her.

  ‘How about if I take you upstairs and tuck you in for a while?’

  ‘It’s funny, Dev.’ Her eyes suddenly opened and she was staring at me. ‘I knew there’d be a woman. My father was like that. He’d make promises to my poor mother but he’d always go back to whoring around. And then one day he announced he’d fallen in love with some girl at his office. I’d actually met her several times before that and liked her. Very pretty and smart. I felt so guilty that I’d had those thoughts when my father told my mother about her. As if I’d betrayed my mother somehow.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Elise.’

  She stood up abruptly. But she was uncertain, almost falling over, which she would have done if Maddy hadn’t bolted up and grabbed her around the waist.

  ‘Just lean on me, Mom. We’ll take it easy and get you tucked in.’

  Mother and child, roles reversed.

  As if I’d already gone, and as Maddy began slowly walking her out of the room, Elise said, ‘Tell Dev I’m sorry if I was a bitch.’

  ‘You weren’t a bitch, Mom. And Dev is our friend. He wouldn’t think anything like that.’ She accompanied this with a glance over her shoulder. Another sotto voce thank you.

  Suddenly Mrs Weiderman came into the room and Elise broke from Maddy and rushed to the much larger woman, embracing her and putting her head to Mrs Weiderman’s chest. Elise began sobbing and the woman started stroking her small, fine head the way she would a child’s. Maddy stood in place watching them, a fond smile in her eyes and on her mouth. After two or three minutes Mrs Weiderman gently eased herself back from Elise and nodded to Maddy. Then Maddy took charge of her mother again.

  I watched them leave. I felt bolted to my chair. I was getting like Elise. I didn’t want to stand up and meet the world again. The world I knew was always a harsh and deceitful one, but this new situation was a treachery I’d never faced before. My footing was anything but sure.

  Mrs Weiderman came into the room and said, ‘I heard some of it, Dev, but I didn’t hear all of it. The police think that the senator killed a woman?’

  ‘Well, since she was found in his so-called cabin, they’re certainly interested in talking to him.’

  She sat down with prim dignity on the edge of the couch, facing me. She lowered her voice respectfully. ‘Was he seeing her, Dev?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. But he told me that they had never slept together.’

  ‘Oh, Lord. Poor Elise. Her father and then her husband – and now her husband again. I feel so sorry for her.’

  ‘I don’t think he had anything to do with her death – that’s what I have to focus on now. I like Elise very much but I can’t worry about his marriage. Within a few hours the press will be out here en masse and the way they’ll cover it will help to hand the other side the election.’

  ‘Lord, I hadn’t even thought about the election.’

  ‘Let me ask you something, Mrs Weiderman: how many people had keys to the cabin?’

  ‘Everybody. The whole family. I have one. And old Mr Stokes, the handyman we use for lighter work.’

  ‘Does James have one?’

  ‘James …’ Then, ‘My Lord, you’re not thinking—?’

  ‘No, I just want to be sure I know of everyone who h
as a key.’

  ‘Oh.’ But I could see she still didn’t believe me. ‘Yes, James has one, too. He takes some of his women there. As Elise says, “That’s all right with us because it means he isn’t here bothering us.” I probably shouldn’t say this but right now I’m more worried about Elise than I am about the senator. Thank God Maddy’s strong. I think they would have divorced if it hadn’t been for her. She would sit with her mother for hours and listen to the same thing over and over and never complain. And she would question her father from time to time to make sure he wasn’t seeing that woman anymore. He resented it but he understood so he never got angry with her. And now—’

  I suppose I heard the gunshot first but in my memory it and the scream are simultaneous. There was that second or two delay – it was the same with Mrs Weiderman – when we sat letting our ears inform our brains of the real meaning of the sounds … and then we were lurching from our sitting positions and racing to the sound of more screams from upstairs.

  I recall staring up the flight of stairs in front of me; it might have been a mountain. I went up them two at a time with Mrs Weiderman, gasping, close behind me.

  PART TWO

  FIVE

  Because I’d slept in the guest room a number of times, I knew where I was going. I took the steps of the winding staircase two at a time and when I reached the landing on the second floor I saw Maddy already pounding on the door of the master bedroom. She’d just started shouting to be let in. ‘Mom! Please let me in!’

  As I ran toward her, her voice got even more urgent and her fist against the door louder. When I finally got a glimpse of her face, the shock and dismay she’d kept hidden downstairs – I’d admired how coolly she’d handled the news about her father; perhaps because she understood she’d needed to hold it together so she could help her mother – were clear on her pretty features now. She was frantic, fearing that her mother might be dead.

  When I reached her she said, ‘It’s locked, Dev! It’s locked!’ She stepped aside. She wanted me to be the magic man, to fix this. I wished I could.

  I tried the fancy filigreed doorknob knowing it would be no use. Then my voice joined Maddy’s in calling out for Elise to let us in.

  ‘Kick the door in! Kick the door in! Hurry, Dev!’

  Thanks to the movies and television – not to mention at least a century of fiction – people have the impression that a kick or two will pop a door open in under a minute. And true, there are some old doors that probably wouldn’t put up much resistance. But any reasonably well-made door in any reasonably well-made frame requires energy and a little time. Especially if the door resides inside a home as expensive as this one.

  So while Maddy continued to scream I set about throwing myself against the door a few times, then slamming my foot into a space just under the doorknob.

  Then a funny thing happened. It shouldn’t have been funny – after all, we might find a dead woman in the room, and maybe it was only funny to me anyway – but just as I raised my leg and leaned forward to assault said door again it was opened from inside and I went stumbling head-first across the threshold, then slammed drunken-moose style into Elise and ended up sprawled across the floor.

  ‘Oh, God, Dev, I’m so sorry.’

  So she wasn’t dead. Or wounded.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘What the hell happened?’

  Maddy was already holding her mother, which was fine with me. That way they were too busy to watch me scramble to my feet. I do, after all, have my dignity. I’ll always be the seventh-grader who lives in fear of being humiliated in front of girls. Who gives a shit what boys think of you.

  Elise had started to cry again. ‘I tried to kill myself, Maddy. Or that’s what I thought I was doing. I put the gun to my temple but at the last minute I jerked it away and the bullet just went into the wall. I’m so sorry. Then I was too ashamed to come to the door!’

  Her arms dangled over Maddy’s shoulders. Neither of them appeared to realize that Elise still held a Smith & Wesson .45 in her right hand. She didn’t even seem to realize when I slipped it from her fingers.

  By now Mrs Weiderman had reached us. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Logan!’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Weiderman, I did such a stupid thing!’

  ‘You did no such thing, Mrs Logan. Now I’m going to take you into the guest room and turn the covers back for you and you’re going to lie down and relax while I bring you some hot cocoa with those little marshmallows you like so much. Isn’t that right, Maddy?’

  But Maddy was too distracted to respond. Her mother had fainted dead in her arms.

  SIX

  When I reached the desk at Linton’s only decent hotel – and the only likely place where Tracy Cabot would stay – I joined a group of four men and one woman who were doing everything except climbing over the registration desk and throttling the nervous-looking young man who was spit-and-polish enough to pass the meanest corporate test.

  The reporters were local. They had no idea who I was, which was to my advantage. A Chicago man or woman might recognize me because I’d been around so long.

  The clerk said, ‘This gentleman would like to get through. I’d appreciate it if you’d stand down the counter, please.’

  They were not happy, the dears. I was interrupting the fun they were having tormenting the kid.

  ‘Welcome to the Regency. May I help you, sir?’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll need a single for a few days.’ By tomorrow morning there would be no rooms to let.

  I’d brought a suitcase with two changes of clothes and balled-up underwear and socks. After signing my credit card slip, I carried the suitcase over by the elevators where a bellman who appeared to be in his sixties watched me suspiciously. He was a sharp and cynical sixty and he probably watched everybody suspiciously. He’d seen it all and maybe done it all and he knew that we’ve all got it in us.

  ‘You want some help, sir?’

  His jacket was ruby red with gold-sprayed buttons and epaulets that looked in danger of slipping off. His tan trousers were as faded as his blue eyes.

  ‘Not with my bag.’ I set the suitcase down and said, ‘But I do need to ask you about a woman.’

  ‘You mean to hook up with?’

  Nice to know I looked like the kind of guy desperate enough to have to pay for sex. ‘No. Somebody who might be staying here.’

  ‘Oh. Good. Because I could lose my job otherwise. So who’s the lady?’

  I described her.

  ‘Sounds like the Cabot woman. That’s why all those reporters are over there. A cop said somebody killed her out at the senator’s cabin.’

  Amazing how quickly and how much the press had already picked up on. Amazing and terrifying for us.

  ‘So she’s been staying here?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I’d have to check to be sure but I’d say four, five nights offhand.’

  The Regency would probably get a B rating in one of those travel guides. It had a kind of worn opulence like a grand dame on her uppers. The other bellmen I’d seen were much younger than this guy and much more clean-cut. I suppose every hotel needs a crafty old bastard. He would know where all the bodies were buried, sometimes literally.

  ‘She get many visitors?’

  ‘Lots of guys around the restaurant and bar who wanted to be visitors, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘How about anybody who actually got into her room?’

  ‘One. This little bastard. Thought he was pretty important. Like they say, you can tell a lot about a guy by the way he treats the help.’

  ‘He have a name?’

  ‘She called him Howie.’

  ‘Howie? Howie Ruskin?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Come to think of it, that’s what that candy-ass desk clerk called him. Mr Ruskin. He some kind of big deal?’

  He obviously didn’t understand the implication of what he’d just told me.

  Ruskin. Howie Ruskin. I’d never met him, but I’d heard way too much about him. In college he’d been a su
pporter of our party. Then, or so the story goes, he switched parties because a girl he loved dumped him. She’d been on our side. In revenge he spent his years as a political saboteur doing everything he could to demolish us. He was especially good at opposition research and at using the press to spread rumors. He was equally good at setting up traps for unwary politicians. His specialty was using women (or men on a few occasions) to seduce said politician and then outing the relationship. This had worked at least nine times in critical elections. It had brought down six of the nine, which was a damned good record. Throughout this time he’d paid a ghostwriter to concoct three bestsellers for him.

  Then there was Howie himself. Good Catholic boy/man in his late-thirties now. He was five-four and weighed around two hundred pounds. He was losing his hair and insisted on fitting his ball-like body with the latest fashions, said fashions being designed for teen-gaunt bodies. Once or twice a year you could see him on TMZ or in one of the supermarket rags on the arm of a model or a starlet. A publicist had always set it up for him. I was told that, pathetically, Ruskin had convinced himself these women actually wanted to go out with him.

  My favorite Ruskin story involved Mensa, the organization for people whose IQ registers in the top two percent of all humanity. He qualified as brilliant; the problem was he also qualified as one of the most obnoxious self-promoters the group had ever had to deal with. There were so many stories about his jerk-off behavior at various functions that his publicist had pulled him out of the organization.

  Among his other problems was his gambling addiction. By all accounts he was a terrible poker player but insisted on spending hours with some of the pros. He’d lost a lot of money – he’d also tried to welsh by claiming he’d been cheated. One of the pros, obviously a man of little sensitivity, sent a goon after Howie baby and gave him a black eye. Another apparently suggested he might meet with a fatal accident if he didn’t pay up within twenty-four hours. It was whispered that at any given time somebody in Vegas had it in for him.