“I’m asking for a tryout,” Ryan had told him. “I understand I have to earn my spot on the roster, no guarantees. I’m just looking for another shot.”
“I have just one thing to say about that,” the PawSox owner had replied. “I’ll be pulling for you.”
With that, it was settled. Ryan would get his shot, and he’d give it his all—even if tonight’s champagne was a break in training.
Garrisen said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been telling everyone about our talk yesterday. It’s very exciting news for the PawSox family.”
“That’s great,” said Ryan, though part of him wished Connie weren’t spreading the word so freely. Lots of things could happen between September and April, and many of them not so good.
“Let me introduce you to some folks,” said Garrisen.
“I’m fine,” said Ryan. “There must be plenty of people you need to talk to without me tagging along. Enjoy yourself.”
Garrisen gave him another smile and a friendly punch to the biceps. “See you around, number eleven.”
Ryan offered a mock salute and watched him disappear into the crowd. The hors d’oeuvres were being passed, and Ryan tried to snag something that didn’t involve fish eggs and wouldn’t make him look like Tom Hanks spitting out his caviar in Big.
Strangers. I’m in a roomful of total strangers.
A woman across the room looked vaguely familiar, though she was standing with her back to him, and he caught only glimpses of her profile as she spoke to her circle of conversation. She was wearing a black spaghetti-strapped cocktail dress, and her hair was up in a twist to show the curve of her slender neck. He watched her for a minute. Finally, she turned around, and Ryan got a good look at her.
It was Emma.
And she was gorgeous.
“Champagne?” said the waiter. Emma took a flute from the silver tray and thanked him.
The bubbly was surprisingly drinkable. The violin player was a nice touch, too. Lomax fund-raisers were rarely this exquisite. It was easier to be a man of the people among Boy Scouts at a pancake breakfast or at the obligatory Rhode Island “fundraiza” at Lombardi’s 1025 Club. But every politician in a statewide, multimillion-dollar campaign had to show his appreciation for the way the other one half of 1 percent lived—and for their check-writing abilities. Smart politics dictated no tuxedos until after the election, but the semiformal attire seemed at odds with the excesses of old Newport. Alva Vanderbilt’s fascination with Louis XIV of France was evident everywhere in Marble House—from a grand entranceway defined by massive Corinthian columns and ten tons of bronze and crystal to hallways made entirely of yellow Sienna marble to palatial rooms with eighteen-foot ceilings reminiscent of Petit Trianon at Versailles.
Moments like these made Emma wonder about her decision to live on a government salary.
Doug returned with her drink. “Oh, you already have one.”
She accepted his and placed hers on a passing tray. “Thank you for being so thoughtful.”
Emma was a guest of Brandon Lomax’s daughter. Jenny and Emma had been inseparable as schoolgirls, right up until Jenny had married and moved to New York after college. They tried to keep in touch, but as the years passed and Jenny became a stay-at-home mother of three, it seemed that she had less and less to talk about with Emma, the single career woman.
“Find Jenny yet?” asked Brandon Lomax, walking up to Emma and Doug. Connie Garrisen was with him.
Emma smiled. “No, not yet.”
“I know she’s eager to see you. Who’s your friend?”
Before Emma could make the introduction, Doug was already shaking hands with Lomax, seeming to make a point of introducing himself as “Doug Wells, Action News.”
“No wonder you looked familiar,” said Lomax, eyeing him.
“I don’t typically do political events,” said Doug. “I cover the courthouse. That’s how Emma and I met.”
“Doug is here off duty,” said Emma, reeling him in. “Right, Doug?”
“Uh, sure,” he said, but Emma could tell that he was already in reporter mode. His radar was fixed on the candidate. “So, Mr. Lomax, any truth to the rumors that Dr. Garrisen will be the next U.S. surgeon general if you’re elected to the Senate?”
Lomax chuckled. “Not that he isn’t qualified, but where did you hear that?”
Doug smiled thinly. “It’s no secret that Rhode Island is one of the key states the president needs to gain a friendly majority in the Senate. I imagine he’d be quite grateful to Dr. Garrisen for all the support he’s given your campaign.”
“Talk like that is very premature. You know how unreliable rumors are.”
Doug next trained his sights on Connie Garrisen. “Speaking of rumors, I heard some guys at the bar talking about Ryan James coming back to the PawSox.”
Connie smiled. “Now that rumor is actually true.”
“Really?” said Emma.
Doug looked at Emma, his face alight with an idea. “Hey, maybe we can tie that into the segment we’re airing.”
“Segment?” said Lomax.
“Yeah,” Doug said. “Emma wants more media coverage on the Chelsea James case, to encourage her anonymous tipster to come forward. Yesterday we shot a short piece on her three-year pursuit of the drunk who ran Chelsea off the road. It’ll air tonight. We could follow up with something about Ryan James and his comeback.”
“That could work well,” said Garrisen.
“Yeah,” Lomax said flatly, “that all sounds great. Good luck with that. Enjoy the party.”
Lomax abruptly turned and left, taking Garrisen with him.
“What was that about?” said Doug.
“What was what about?” said Emma.
“The brush-off Lomax just gave me. From the get-go, he seemed terrified that you were with a reporter. Then when I mentioned the Chelsea James case, he was actually perturbed.”
“I’m sure he just has a lot on his mind. Would you mind getting me more champagne?”
“You have a full glass.”
Emma guzzled it. “Not anymore.”
He smiled, took her empty flute, and headed back toward the bar.
Once alone, Emma surveyed the distinguished guests and spotted Jenny Lomax speaking to a retired congressman across the ballroom. Emma didn’t rush over. Doug had been right on target about the negative energy coming from Brandon Lomax. As eager as she was to see Jenny, Emma worried that the chill would carry over to the candidate’s daughter.
Emma stepped outside to the canopied terrace. Night had not yet fallen, and the setting sun’s afterglow cast a magnificent magenta hue on the Chinese Tea House at the foot of the lawn. Beyond was the Atlantic Ocean, and Emma watched and listened to the waves break against the rocky seashore. A server brought her another glass of champagne, and as she turned to reenter the ballroom, she ran straight into Ryan James—literally.
His shirt and tie were soaked with her champagne.
“Oh, my God!” she said.
“It’s all right,” he said.
She took her cocktail napkin and started dabbing.
“Ow,” he said.
“Sorry. Did that hurt?”
“I did about a thousand sit-ups today. I’m back in training.”
She handed him her napkin. “Training? Oh, yes. I just heard about the comeback. Congratulations.”
A server brought him a cloth napkin, but Ryan had already given up trying to dry himself. It was futile. Emma needed to make him laugh—fast.
“Some house, huh? Did you know that this was a present from William Vanderbilt to his wife on her thirty-ninth birthday?”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and three years later she divorced him, married the neighbor, and moved into the Belmont mansion down the street. Men just don’t get it: if it doesn’t sparkle, it’s not a gift. Go with jewelry.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” said Ryan, smiling now.
The awkwardness had passed. “A
re you here with anyone?” he asked.
In the three years she’d known him, it was the closest he’d come to inquiring about her “status.”
“I’m here with Doug Wells. The Action News reporter.”
“Oh, yeah. I still watch the Providence stations every now and then.”
“How about you?” she said.
“Just me and Asti Spumante,” he said, joking about the spill.
She could have pointed out that they were serving champagne and that Asti was actually a sparkling wine, but to his soaked shirt it was a distinction without a difference.
“There’s Doug now,” she said, thankful for another distraction. “Let me introduce you.”
“No, that’s okay. I actually need to be on my way back to Boston. Babysitter has a hot date. Early night for me.”
Emma wasn’t sure if her read was correct, but Ryan seemed almost nervous. She wondered if he would have darted off so quickly if she’d been without a date.
“Well, it was good to…run into you again,” she said with a smile.
He smiled, they said good night, and she watched him disappear into the crowd.
Now, where the heck did Doug go?
The music stopped, the crowd fell quiet, and Connie Garrisen was making a toast that would have made the average State of the Union address seem terse. The candidate was at his side, his jacket off in signature Lomax style. Every speech was a photo op, and he wasn’t going to lose his roll-up-the-shirtsleeves-and-get-to-work look—at least not this close to the election.
Emma slipped away but stopped halfway down the hall at the entrance to the Gothic Room. It was a private area set up as a staging room of sorts for the candidate and his entourage. But it was empty now, all of his supporters out listening to the speech.
Emma noticed a blue blazer draped over a chair—where Lomax had placed it before the speech—and the wheels began to turn in her head.
Emma had been given no choice but to accept the division chief’s decision not to subpoena Lomax and force him to submit to a DNA test. But Emma feared that both she and, to an even greater extent, Glenda Garrisen were letting personal feelings stand in the way of prosecutorial objectivity. To Emma, a comparison of Lomax’s DNA to the DNA found at the scene of the accident made sense, even though she might not like the answer.
And Doug had been absolutely right: Lomax did seem agitated at the mere mention of added publicity for the Chelsea James case.
Emma entered the room and walked toward the jacket. She had an idea in her head, but with each step it became clearer that no matter how strong her feelings, she would never find the nerve to reach inside Lomax’s jacket and remove his comb. But then she spotted it, right on the table with the rest of Lomax’s things: a hairbrush.
It would require only a few silver hairs to know the scientific truth. She plucked several strands from the bristles and tucked them into her handbag.
“Emma?”
She turned with a start, her heart in her throat.
It was Jenny Lomax.
Before Emma could even begin to wonder whether her old friend had seen anything, Jenny hurried over and gave her a huge hug. Obviously, she had nothing to worry about. Jenny pulled a flask from her sparkling evening bag and filled Emma’s glass.
“Vodka and cranberry,” she said. “Somebody has to get this party off the ground.”
Emma laughed as memory flashed of two rebellious teenagers drinking themselves silly on the lawn at Tanglewood after Jenny had sneaked too much of her father’s bourbon into their cherry Cokes.
“Cheers,” said Jenny.
“I can use it,” said Emma, her hands still shaking.
Arm in arm, the two old friends stepped out onto the terrace to join the crowd and give their enthusiastic applause for “the next United States senator from the great state of Rhode Island.”
The guests were gone by ten o’clock. Brandon Lomax was in the Gothic Room, resting in the Louis XIV–style armchair. His campaign manager was still too wound up to sit.
Both men understood that the proverbial gloves were off from now to Election Day. The newspaper photograph with the coded message “It’s him” was dangerous enough. But it was the recent e-mail that really had Lomax worried. This kind of scandal could cost him the election.
“That Doug Wells from Action News is trouble,” said Lomax. He was massaging between his eyes, as if staving off a migraine.
His manager was staring at the patterns in the red silk wall upholstery, his expression tired. Josef Weimer was a Princeton graduate with the political cunning and finesse of Otto von Bismarck but the television persona of a frankfurter, which in the modern world left him perfectly equipped to live vicariously through men who were gifted with the total political package. For the past eighteen months he had worked twelve hours a day, seven days a week with one mission: get Brandon Lomax elected.
“He’s just one reporter,” said Josef.
“A reporter who’s trying to impress a woman.”
Josef looked away. “A dangerous combination, I admit.”
“Wells is not going to let go of this Chelsea James investigation. Even if Emma backs off now, Wells won’t. Not after his TV segment on how Chelsea James is the unsolved case that still haunts her three years later. If she suddenly loses interest, that will only make him more inquisitive. That’s the way the journalistic mind works.”
“What do you want to do?”
“We have to find out who this tipster is before Wells finds out that the son of a bitch is pointing the finger at me.”
“If the AG’s office can’t find him,” said Weimer, “I don’t see how we can.”
“I don’t care how,” said Lomax. “Make it a priority. Make it the top priority, you hear me!”
The order came with so much force—and desperation—that Josef paused to collect himself. His voice quaked, but he had to ask the question.
“Sir, I don’t mean to be impertinent. But are we talking about saving an election or are we worried about going to jail for vehicular homicide?”
Lomax delivered a chilling glare. “Just find him,” he said. “Fast.”
17
HE DID IT IN THE BLACK OF NIGHT, ALONE, IN A PARKED CAR. TOTAL darkness and total silence. As if that would help conceal his identity.
He had absolutely no intention of giving up his anonymity.
The Action News segment on Emma Carlisle and the Chelsea James case had aired midway through the eleven o’clock news, right before the weather. It concluded with Doug Wells’s direct appeal to the anonymous tipster: “Law enforcement is waiting to hear from you on your terms. Please visit the Rhode Island attorney general’s Web site for more information.”
At 11:30 P.M., after the sports update, he logged on to the AG’s Web site from an iPhone that was still linked to the pirated wireless account that he had used to send Emma the anonymous e-mail. The police hadn’t shut it down—obviously, because they wanted to hear from him again—but there was no way to trace the wireless activity back to him. It wasn’t exactly ingenious, but he was definitely feeling clever.
The site came up on his screen. On the far left side, directly below the attorney general’s shield, was a menu. At the bottom of the list, below the button marked “Media and Information,” was a link to “Chelsea James Investigation.” It looked different from the other menu buttons and was clearly a new addition. He clicked on the link, which led to another Web page.
“Please enter your password,” it read.
His first thought was that he didn’t have a password, but the directions at the bottom of the page cleared up the confusion.
“Earlier this month, an attorney in the Criminal Division of the Office of the Attorney General received an e-mail from an anonymous tipster. The password is the e-mail address from which that e-mail was sent.”
Smart, he thought. Without a password, no one visiting the site—including the media—could see whatever special instructions law enforcem
ent wanted to give the tipster. The chosen password was one that only the tipster would know.
He entered it.
The site took him to another page. The message there was short, directly to the point: Emma Carlisle wanted to meet. She promised it would be just herself and the tipster—no police. It laid out everything he needed to know: where to go, when to be there. But he already knew all that.
His visit to the Web site had nothing to do with gaining information. He’d gone through the motions for one reason only: to alert the authorities that their special site had received a hit from the man who knew the correct password, the man who had sent them the anonymous e-mail. The cops would spring into action, even if Emma had promised no police involvement. They would all be waiting for the tipster to show up at the proposed meeting on Monday morning.
He logged off his Internet connection and switched off the iPhone, returning to total darkness. He wondered who Emma expected to see when she got there.
18
BRANDON LOMAX WAS GETTING NERVOUS. THE MEETING BETWEEN Emma and her anonymous tipster was set for Monday at 9:00 A.M. The countdown had begun: T minus thirty-one hours.
“Go to sleep, honey,” his wife said.
She lay in the bed beside him. After thirty-two years of marriage, he didn’t have to do much to convey his restlessness to her. Even in a dark room at midnight, lying on her side with her back to him, she could sense when his eyes were open.
“I’m trying,” he said, but it was futile.
His campaign manager’s question was replaying on a continuous loop in his mind, threatening to keep him awake all night: “Sir…are we talking about saving an election, or are we worried about going to jail for vehicular homicide?” His response—“Just find him”—must have seemed cryptic, even incriminating. But he wasn’t playing games.
The truth was, he didn’t know.
Lomax had indeed suffered a relapse into alcoholism three years ago. Unfortunately for him, there were no slight relapses. He had a drinking problem, and he didn’t want just one or two drinks. He wanted ten or twelve.
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