Heart and Soul

by Liza Gyllenhaal

  “And in turn,” Cassie asked, “what do you want from me?”

  “Nothing you’re not ready to give,” he said simply, his gaze moving from her face, down her body, and back to meet her eyes. “I won’t lie and say that I’m not interested in you physically. I am. I have been since we first met. But in the beginning, I’ll admit, it was because you reminded me so much of Miranda. Now, my dear, it’s because you’re so definitely you: beautiful but kind, intelligent but not haughty. And your sense of morality … it’s…” He shrugged and smiled almost boyishly. “Just so charming.”

  “I don’t know what I’m ready to give,” Cassie replied, holding her glass against her chest, “but I am ready to take: I accept your offer. I’ll work like hell not to let you down. The other … let’s just start slowly and see what happens.”

  “Is this slow enough for you?” Magnus asked, stepping toward her. His arms slid around her waist, and he held her lightly, the brandy glass nestled between them. His thin, hard lips covered hers. His tongue invaded her mouth, lingered briefly, then withdrew.

  “Yes,” Cassie replied with a forced smile, hiding her distaste with a sip of brandy, “and enough, too, I think, for tonight.”

  Twenty-eight

  “That’s the connection all right,” Sheila said the next morning. “The one time all three of them worked together, knew each other. It’s also when the paybacks to Haas started.”

  “Something must have happened during Magnus’s run for mayor,” Cassie went on. “It blew Magnus’s chances, and it bound Jason and Magnus to Haas.”

  “Whatever it was, they managed to smother it publicly,” Sheila said. “I’ve had Research pull all the important files on Haas for the show. He looks to be lily-white.”

  “It’s got to be there,” Cassie insisted. “It has to be. And we’re going to find it, whatever it takes.”

  “Why don’t you just ask your new boyfriend?” Sheila demanded, trying—and not quite succeeding—to sound ironic and cool. Cassie had decided it was important to tell her friend everything that had happened the night before, down to the last detail.

  “When the moment is right, I promise you I will.”

  The following Wednesday evening presented the first such opportunity. When Magnus had learned from Marisa Newtown that Cassie was on the invitation list for the Parks Committee benefit that Marisa was hosting, Magnus asked Cassie if he might escort her.

  “It’s always easier at these formal affairs to have someone at your elbow with whom you can make fun of everyone else,” Magnus told her rather stiffly as if to offset any appearance of eagerness on his part.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Cassie replied. “I’d be delighted.” She wore a deep pink strapless organdy Laroche evening gown, long sheer silver gloves, and ballet-style silver slippers that allowed Magnus to tower a full two inches above her. She pulled her hair back in a French twist, then offset the simplicity of the look by wearing oversized platinum-and-ebony earrings that dangled all the way to her shoulders. She felt a bit like Cinderella the entire evening: the ball crasher, the new face, the woman with a secret.

  “Who is that heavenly creature with Vance?” she overheard one middle-aged woman ask Marisa as the guests filed into the ballroom for dancing after dinner.

  “That’s my dear friend, Cassie, Miranda Darin’s sister, you know.”

  “Oh, of course. Poor darling. Though I heard she inherited everything. Do you suppose that includes Vance?”

  He kissed her at the end of the evening—once, quite gently while they were still in the backseat of the limousine—before walking her to the door. She didn’t invite him in; he didn’t ask. But despite the mildness of his approach, she’d felt his eyes on her the entire evening: keen and possessive as an eagle spotting prey.

  Her second date with Magnus was to a private party honoring one of the men who sat on the Magnus Media board of directors. The guest of honor, a publishing warlord well into his eighties, presided over a sit-down dinner for five hundred in the grand hall of the New York Public Library. The poet laureate read a poem in the man’s honor. Magnus held Cassie’s hand when the lights were lowered and the hundreds of guests rose to sing “Auld Lang Syne.” Besides that, his behavior remained entirely circumspect, though once again she’d felt his predatory gaze and sensed something clamped-down about him.

  And then, quite suddenly, Jason and Heather were back. Cassie, of course, had been aware of their expected arrival. But even though she knew to the hour when they were due to return, even though she had assured herself that she was thoroughly prepared now to face Jason with poise and only friendly interest, the moment she saw him her heart betrayed her. She felt her face flush. She could not control the obvious pleasure in her smile. As Heather clamored all over her, demanding kisses and hugs, Jason and Cassie exchanged glances. He broke the gaze first. The kiss he gave her when Heather finally let her go was on the cheek: brief, almost formal. She knew it was irrational to want more: the pressure of his mouth on hers, the warmth of his arms.

  Rather like a couple sharing joint custody of a child, Jason and Cassie managed to spend as much time as they could with Heather during the next few weeks, while avoiding spending any time alone with each other. If Jason noticed that Cassie was out more than before, he showed no sign of it. The renewed demands of his work kept him down at his office to all hours, and though Cassie heard talk of problems with some new deal Jason was putting together in the Philippines, there was no hint that he planned to travel again soon. She sensed a renewed commitment from him as a parent, as well as a new restraint—and almost total withdrawal—where she was concerned.

  When Magnus called Cassie for a date, it was usually first thing in the morning, via the office intercom, in a tone that was businesslike and brisk. The third time he invited her out—to a dinner party hosted by the Mayor at Gracie Mansion for leading Republican businessmen—Cassie expressed surprise that he himself had been invited to the event.

  “Aren’t you a Democrat, or am I crazy?”

  “You’re crazy,” Magnus replied with a smile in his voice. “Oh, I once had some liberal misconceptions. Then I married Millie and saw the error of my ways.”

  “But you support Haas,” Cassie pointed out, then added on impulse: “And you ran for mayor as a Democrat.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. “That’s very ancient history,” Magnus said finally. “From whom, may I ask, did you learn that terribly minor piece of esoterica?”

  “From a photograph, actually, taken with Haas and Jason. The Senator has it hanging on the wall of his study.”

  “The fool.”

  “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry. In answer to your question—yes, I’d be happy to go with you. When is it?”

  There was something about the day he gave—the second Thursday in September—that tickled Cassie’s memory, but her mind was so preoccupied these days with the concerns of the present that she merely jotted the appointment down in her day book and turned back to the manila files of press clippings stacked on her desk. The folders, just a small part of what the Magnus archives had yielded up on “Haas, Anthony,” included all major print coverage during the mid-seventies.

  While ostensibly working on the Breaking News piece, Sheila and she had been poring over every agate line and sound bite of information they could find—including, along with the Magnus material, similar files from the New York Public Library, the Museum of Broadcasting, UPI, and two on-line networks.

  “Bingo,” Cassie said, looking up when Sheila came in fifteen minutes after she’d hung up the phone.

  “You actually found something?”

  “No, I heard something. In Magnus’s voice. I asked him about the mayoral run when he called a little while ago. And I heard it. But good.”

  “What?”

  Cassie leaned back in her swivel chair and smiled. “Fear.”

  “Hold on.” Cal stopped before the lights
flashed on. “I need a level on sound.”

  “One … two … buckle my shoe,” Cassie spoke into the mike clipped to her jacket label as she glanced around the room, wondering if they could possibly fit another person or piece of equipment into the Senator’s basement study. Besides Haas himself, standing solemnly upright while Felice the makeup artist patted his face with matte powder, there was Rita Kirbie, Geoffrey Mellon, and two other assistants from the Senator’s staff. The entire Magnus unit was in attendance, as well as such on-location personnel as the makeup artist, wardrobe assistant, and hairstylist. Setup of the lighting alone—especially tricky because the glassed-in photos tended to pick up glare—had taken a full hour. Now, two hours after they had been scheduled to begin, the Breaking News crew was ready to start shooting.

  “That’s fine,” Sheila said, standing to the left of Cassie, a headset covering her ears, clipboard folded under her arm. “How’re we doing on lights? Ready? Makeup, finish it up, please. Senator … Okay, Harve, Freddie, let’s do it.” Sheila pointed a trigger finger at Cassie and said, “Shoot.”

  “We’re here in the Senator’s private study,” Cassie began, smiling into the explosion of lights that had—just a few weeks ago—tended to blind her. Now, she’d grown accustomed to their glare in the same way that she’d learned to project her voice and orchestrate her gestures for the camera. Sweeping an arm across a row of photographs, she continued, “and we’re standing in front of a wall of memorabilia that represents—as best I can tell—a remarkably extensive photographic history of his years in office. Senator Haas,” Cassie said, turning to her right as Harve zoomed back to widen his angle, “perhaps you’d be so kind as to take us on a guided tour of this wall, of your past, of these remarkable memories…”

  Although carefully rehearsed, with Cassie’s relaxed presence, the fifteen-minute interview had a friendly informality about it that was lacking in the Senator’s public appearances. With Cassie’s arm on his sleeve and her encouraging smile ever ready, Haas found himself speaking with fluency—and even some humor.

  “Yes, that’s me shaking hands with Gerald Ford. Good thing he wasn’t trying to chew gum at the same time, eh?” And once again, Haas felt himself wishing that he could have more people like Cassie on his staff: someone who looked up to him, who appreciated his place in history, who even laughed at his jokes.

  “Finished already?” Haas asked when the lights suddenly flashed off. A wave of anxiety—not unlike the reeling sensation of inebriation—darkened his vision for a second.

  “We’re running a bit behind schedule, sir,” Sheila said, stepping over to help him remove the mike.

  “Actually we’ve planned a surprise,” Cassie added. “Since this interview gives us just about everything we need to start cutting the segment, we arranged a thank-you dinner for you and your staff. Just down the street at Hudson’s Cafe.”

  “We checked with Rita,” Sheila assured him, “and you’ve nothing on your agenda for dinner. We promise to have you back here in plenty of time to dress for your Meals on Wheels benefit at the Armory.”

  “Really, Senator,” Geoffrey said as he wedged himself between Sheila and Cassie, “nobody informed me of this event. It’s absolutely out of the question to—”

  “It was a surprise,” Cassie interrupted him. “Meant for you, as well. We just wanted to have a chance to show you our appreciation…”

  “Don’t be such a tightass, Geoff,” Haas told him, taking Cassie’s arm. “Lead the way, my dear. I think we all deserve a good stiff drink.”

  In the general hubbub of breaking down the equipment, loading the vans, and piling everyone into various vehicles, nobody seemed to notice that Sheila was left behind. Cassie, chatty and slightly flirtatious, managed to keep both the Senator and Geoffrey engaged straight through dinner.

  “Where’s your production girl?” Geoffrey asked finally as coffee was served. “Come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing her leave the house.” He sat up, suddenly suspicious.

  “She took a cab back to the city,” Cassie told him, tearing open a pack of Sweet’n’Low and shaking it into her coffee with a show of unconcern. She smiled knowingly at Haas. “Some hot date.”

  “I think I’d better check,” Geoffrey announced, standing up. For a moment, until he started to jangle loose change around in his pants pocket, Cassie felt her adrenaline surge. “I’m going to call Constance, make sure everything’s secure.”

  “Lord, Geoff, live a little.” The Senator sighed and reached for his double Sambuca as Geoffrey hurried toward the wall of pay phones along the corridor leading to the rest rooms. “That boy doesn’t know the meaning of a good time,” Haas went on, gulping down half his postprandial drink and turning a sloppy smile on Cassie. “All this new crowd cares about is getting ahead. Making it. Winning. No one takes time out anymore just to sit back and smell the roses.”

  “I bet you used to have some parties,” Cassie suggested, “back in the old days. Like when Magnus ran for mayor—that must have been one long good time. Am I right?”

  The Senator’s lidded gaze dropped, and for just a second Cassie thought he’d fallen asleep. Then she found herself staring into eyes that were suddenly sober, fully alert, and terribly sad.

  “Honey, I hope you haven’t been trying to play with us big boys,” he told her softly. “I really hope not. Because I was starting to get to really like you.”

  “I’m like totally lucky to be alive,” Sheila told Cassie breathlessly. As prearranged, they’d met at Finklestein’s, a typical watering hole on First Avenue, frequented by aging, mostly chronic singles. “Thank God I had the good sense to make Constance unlock that back door in advance.”

  “She okay, Constance?” Cassie asked, nibbling at her cuticles and totally ignoring the platter of club sandwiches in front of her.

  “Sure. Believe me, one hundred smackeroos goes a long way these days. And personal disgust doesn’t hurt either. The woman is sick and tired of picking up after a drunk. Who can blame her?”

  “So she lied when Geoffrey called?”

  “Cool as a cucumber. Said a taxi had picked me up not five minutes after they’d left for the restaurant. I should have had the good sense then to get out. Except I didn’t find the damn stuff until the very last second.”

  “I’ve had enough suspense for one night, Sheila. Please tell me what it is you found before I have to throttle you.”

  “Interesting you should use that word,” Sheila replied, taking a big bite out of her oversized cheeseburger, a multilayered extravaganza of beef, tomato, pepper, cheese, and lettuce. Catsup dribbled down her chin.

  “What word? And I’m warning you, I’m prepared to inflict bodily harm.”

  “Throttle. That’s what really happened to the girl. She was strangled to death. Asphyxiated, according to the death certificate.”

  “What girl? What murder?”

  “Not murder necessarily” was Sheila’s maddening reply. “Could have been kinky sex. Some guys get off on that, you know. Trussing a woman up. She was just a political volunteer—an aide to Haas. No one knows for sure how she ended up in his room. At least that’s what the newspaper article said.”

  “What hotel? When? Sheila, I’m warning you…”

  “The Savoy. In midtown. The night of Magnus’s big fund-raising party for his mayoral thing. Someone clearly tried to squash the story, but leave it to the New York Post to get the gory details.” Sheila reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out two yellowing pieces of paper. And there, reproduced in grainy sixty-five-line screen was the picture of Haas, Magnus, and Jason at the party, under a caption that read: “FOUL PLAY AT FUND-RAISER?” Cassie scanned the brief write-up which said, in slightly more lurid language, what Sheila had already told her, except that the story reported the girl had died of an overdose of cocaine. Sheila unfolded the other piece of paper and pushed it across the table.

  “In some ways, this is the more interesting
piece of evidence,” she said. “It’s the poor kid’s death certificate. But see that—official seal of the Manhattan coroner’s office? Copies wouldn’t have that. And why is this cause of death different from the one the papers carried? Also, tell me what the original’s been doing in Senator Haas’s private files all these years?”

  Twenty-nine

  Cassie waited until they were dancing, until Magnus’s arms were around her, until he could not walk away or show anger without publicly calling attention to himself. Then she asked sweetly, smiling at him, “So you really wanted to move in here?” She glanced beyond him at Gracie Mansion’s rather drearily formal decor. “Seems a bit stuffy to me.” She could feel him stiffen, but his expression did not change from the look of studied indifference he’d worn all night. He’d seemed distracted from the moment he’d first met her; as he helped her into the backseat of the limousine, his touch was clammy and cold. It wasn’t until he failed to mention, as he had in the past, how lovely she looked—and even she had to admit that the metallic lace Mary McFadden sheath clung to her slim body with alluring grace—that she knew something was wrong. They’d driven to the party in near silence.

  “A folly of my youth,” he replied. “Not a subject I relish, Cassie. I thought I made that clear.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just, I guess, because we’re here. I couldn’t help but wonder about it.”

  “And what excuse do you have for bringing it up with Haas the other night?” he demanded. Magnus was a superbly accomplished dancer. People stepped back and smiled at the stunning couple—she, tall, blond, shimmering with youth; he, as elegantly handsome as an older Cary Grant—as they moved together with such unstudied perfection.