“What about St. Cyr?” Val asked.
“We’ll have Jon’s staff look into him.”
Madeline all of a sudden realized that she couldn’t take it for granted that her staff would still be on board—especially the day-to-day workers and volunteers. She could see by the look on Jon’s face that he hadn’t thought about that either and now that he had, he was unsure of the answer.
“Call a meeting. Here at my suite. Get as many people from the Government Center office as you can to come and we’ll squeeze them all in. Get room service to provide the best they have in brunch food. I need to give a Goddamn mother of all inspirational speeches to rally the troops if we’re going to do anything but fold right here and now.” Madeline was still busy propping herself up in her own mind. She hoped maybe that would help the speech. It would be like she was talking to herself.
“We need to get the true story out there,” she said.
“That’ll mean a press conference,” said Val.
“I’ll arrange that,” Sarah said.
“I guess the Fordham Hall speech turned out to be a turning point in the campaign after all.” Jonathan said it with a wry smile, more as a stab at humor than to be a wise guy, the distinction with him always a close call. Madeline smiled to herself and noticed Sarah pursing her lips. “Do you think PJD would stand up for you?” This time Jonathan sounded serious.
“No. His priority is to win in the short run and further his career in the long run,” Sarah answered. At Valerie’s disapproving expression she added, “Same as our priorities have been.” Mad realized that was no longer true and there was a kind of free-floating sense of being an untethered balloon, soaring without destination. Feeling free wasn’t so bad, but once she looked around there was a sense of alarm at having nowhere to go.
“The first order of business—if we want to stay in business—is to make like Perry Mason and discover who’s behind the murder of my campaign. Expose the plot, uncover the truth for all to see and get full-fledged exoneration. In the end, this could be a boost to the campaign. If we can execute. Fast.” She looked around at everyone, her silent expectation moving them to their tasks for execution.
“You heard her. Let’s get the people in here. Let’s get on the phone to the Berkshire County Women’s Clinic and dig for details about this nurse, no matter how meaningless they seem. I want to know every goddamn detail you can find out. We need leads. Get to it!” Sarah stood with her hands on her hips. She’d taken over Dennis’s post as general of the troops. She would probably look good in army green with big fringed shoulder pads and gold stars on her lapel. Madeline smiled at her mental image, reminding herself that everyone had their quirks—and right now she was very fond of and thankful for every last one of her quirky troopers.
The room emptied and Mad was left with Sarah, who’d turned from the general-in-charge a moment ago into what seemed like a lamb.
“What?” She asked.
“I don’t think we’ll find much on the mayor. But I’m curious to know why you chose to target him. Why are you suspicious of the mayor?” Sarah spoke in quiet words as if she were afraid to hear the answer.
“I have it on good authority that he could be responsible for some of the leaks to the press about my personal life.”
“I don’t think so. I think you should be looking at St. Cyr.”
“Of course. St. Cyr is the obvious one, but he’s the conduit, not the source. Someone’s feeding him. He’s not the one behind it all.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure…”
“What do you know about this, Sarah?” Mad asked. Peter’s words about an inside informer popped into her head, but only for an instant. Sarah was her most trusted friend.
“I don’t know a goddamn thing. But I swear, Mad, I’ll stay with you to the end no matter what.” Sarah’s intensity was unusual even for her.
“Of course you will, honey. Maybe you should get some rest. We could both use some sleep before the press conference.”
“Not likely,” Sarah said.
“Okay, then set up the press conference, but don’t plan on going. I’ll call Peter and ask him to be at the press conference with me,” Madeline said. She was talking on the fly and Sarah knew it but didn’t interrupt. “He’ll stand up for me and maybe even confirm that he’s still interested in me for his lieutenant governor. But don’t worry—I won’t take it. I’ll make sure he knows that ahead of time. But it would be a convincing endorsement if he offered it to me publicly. That would lend our story lots of credibility if he told everyone he believed me.”
“Yeah. Sure. I thought the judge said Peter was going to call you?” Sarah was unenthusiastic.
“He will. It’s early yet,” Madeline said, but she was counting on him—and counting the minutes.
Chapter 18
“I can’t continue to live out of your house like this. It’s bad enough I’ve been working here. All my personal things are still at home. And when are we going to visit the office?” Rick whined yet again as he stood near the front window scowling out through the curtains.
They were waiting for Marcus Thompson to arrive to talk about his running for lieutenant governor and the impending announcement to support him. They’d put him off four long days, and Rick was mad as hell they still hadn’t announced their support, but being the consummate professional, he had left them some margin. They weren’t locked in either way, and it was a good thing. Peter had major doubts.
“When that mob of reporters stops hounding me like I’m some rock star.” Peter glanced out the window himself. It had been a long half of a week in the eye of the swirling hurricane named Mad Madeline—the latest political scandal. He was hoping someone else famous would do something scandalous soon to get him and Mad out of this hot spot. He was also waiting for Madeline to call.
“That’s never going to happen for the duration of the campaign,” Rick said with a hard edge of certainty. Peter had to remind himself that Rick was not talking about when Madeline was going to call. Rick was certain that they would be hounded like rock stars by the paparazzi for the duration.
“Then you have your answer.” They looked at each other.
“Come on, Rock Man—you are a rock star—you always have been and you always will be.” Acer strolled over to the window, munching on a donut. Peter frowned but otherwise studiously ignored the comment. Acer was eating him out of house and home and worse yet, all his deliveries for take-out junk food, like pizza and steak bomb subs and shopping bags full of Chinese food, were getting Peter an undeserved reputation as a junk food junkie. The media refused to believe it was only Acer eating all that food.
“What time is he supposed to get here?” Acer asked both of them.
“Any minute. And in the nick of time to save the campaign,” Rick fairly growled. The peace between the two men had been precarious, especially with Sam gone.
Peter frowned again. They hadn’t seen or heard from Sam since he left precipitously, what seemed like a long time ago. He knew his friend would be back eventually, even if less enthusiastic about the campaign. Peter had a feeling he was researching the campaign issues in his own way out there. Sam had always been the relative loner on the team. He’d acted as an individual in the past.
“What are you talking about? We gained a couple of points.” Acer was incredulous and insisted with his stare at Rick that the man answer to him.
“But the other party gained ground,” Rick explained as if to a stupid child but without the patience of a teacher, let alone a saint. “That nurse’s interview made Madeline look like a liar and since our statement was neutral, we’re on the wrong side of this dirty issue,” Rick said. He didn’t look away from the window. Peter knew they were all on edge since the nurse at the clinic with her eyewitness account shredded what was left of Madeline’s credibility. It had them all concerned.
“Any progress with tailing Theresa?” Peter asked Acer.
“She’s been talking to the press, but
otherwise seems to be laying low,” Acer replied. “I found out they have an electronic scoreboard at Mad Madeline’s headquarters.” Acer was clearly proud of this insider tidbit he’d picked up.
“That’s Dennis McBain,” Rick said, still staring intently out the window.
“Yeah, I think the scoreboard was his doing,” Peter confirmed for them, idling his mind with the idle chatter.
“No. I mean that’s Dennis McBain walking up your walkway to your front door right now.” The distinctive increase in the sharpness of Rick’s voice caused Peter and Acer both to jump toward the window for a closer look.
“Shit,” Peter muttered. They were damned whatever the reporters wanted to make of this.
“Hell. What does this mean?” Acer stood back to let the other two retreat and regroup.
The doorbell rang.
“Shit. Thompson will be here in a second or less.” Rick looked at Peter with a question in his eyes. “Thompson’s not going to like seeing an insider from the enemy camp at our door.”
Peter wanted to let McBain in and talk to him, but this was bad timing. The damage had already been done as far as the media was concerned. With McBain showing up amongst the mob at his front door, there would be plenty of speculation in the press. He may as well satisfy his curiosity and find out what the man was actually up to. He didn’t care so much about Thompson.
“We’ll put McBain in the library and close the doors…” Peter started to plan on the fly and walked to his front door. There was the unmistakable noise outside of eager reporters all shooting off their questions at once.
“Too late. Thompson just arrived and Dennis is watching from the steps.” Rick watched grimly through the curtains. He straightened and looked to PJD again for a plan.
“That’ll be nice. They’ll meet and greet at the front door—as we let them both in for a chat at the same time. In the same room. It should be fairly interesting.” His voice was as cold as the metal blade of a knife. Peter hadn’t been forced to think so quickly on his feet since his special ops days, but found he was still up to the task—and he enjoyed it.
Rick stood staring at him with his mouth agape. Acer smiled, obviously recognizing the machinations at work in his old special ops group leader’s brain. Acer knew he had a plan. Rick assumed he’d gone mad. Peter figured they were both right.
He pulled open the door and waved to reporters and their flashing bulbs in the process.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Come right in.” He ushered them in with a very sincere and amused smile. Both Dennis McBain and Marcus Thompson looked wary, bordering on hostile once out of the glare of the media. Rick showed them into the library. Good choice. There was the bar and at least one person, Peter was not sure who, might need a drink before the end of this meeting. Possibly Rick from the tense look on his face, although it would be highly unusual. Maybe it would be Peter himself—just for the hell of it.
He was about to dismiss the thought as they all acknowledged each other—you couldn’t call it a greeting—and took their seats, but the doorbell rang again. Peter was the only one standing and he was nearest the door, so he went. It was an effort to keep his trepidation at bay.
He opened the door without bothering to check and see who it was. He would normally consider this an extremely reckless move, but he’d half expected the man’s arrival.
It was the judge.
“Glad you could join the party,” Peter said to his father. He smiled again at the reporters, as the cameras flashed away, capturing the scowling look on the judge’s face. Can’t wait to see the papers tomorrow morning.
“You ought to have this horde chased off.”
“Why, judge, you know better than that. It’s that first amendment thing,” he said. Peter enjoyed the annoyed look his father flashed him at his sarcasm. He closed the door behind them with a thud.
“To what do I owe the honor of your visit? You had an itch to get your picture in the paper so you came rushing over? What’s wrong with the telephone anyway?” It was Peter’s turn to be annoyed.
“Who’s here?” The judge gestured toward the study. He was always a sharp one and his age had not diminished that. Peter knew he had to spill everything sooner or later and suffer his father’s opinion—or maybe enjoy his support. He never knew.
“That’s the party. Marcus Thompson and McBain. Thompson was invited to talk turkey and McBain just popped in for a reason as yet undisclosed. Like to join us?” Peter’s smile was sincere because a part of him was really enjoying this. He tried to hold onto that as he led his seriously scowling father into the study. No need to explain the score to his old man. The judge knew these two were archenemies. He knew the turkey talk was about Thompson joining Peter’s campaign as lieutenant governor, and he knew McBain wanted it for his candidate as much as the other guy. It was probably not a good idea to have them both in the same room at the same time for this discussion. This situation gave Peter and Rick no room to play, allowed no behind-the-scenes maneuvering.
Not to mention the fact that the horde—as his father had so fondly referred to the reporters—was now ardently aware of the meeting. They would never believe it was accidental, and no one had to explain to them what it was all about. They were experts at speculation, after all—it seemed to be their business these days. Peter observed that they liked it better when they didn’t have all the facts because it allowed them more room to fill in the details themselves. Madeline was right. They were all wannabe fiction writers—every last one of them.
“Douglas, Judge, what’s this all about?” Thompson said. His anger was apparent as he practically stood in the door, blocking their entry to the room. Peter didn’t blame the man for feeling put out, but he was out of patience himself as he glanced meanly at McBain. He figured he had a right.
“Have a seat, Marcus, and we’ll all find out together.” Peter pushed past the man and ushered the judge to the nearest open chair. They were running out of seats. He’d have to stand, but that was just as well. Glancing around the room, he recaptured his sense of the absurd and his amusement returned. Rick and the judge wore twin scowls. Acer looked interested and puzzled, sensing there was a show to come. McBain looked half belligerent, half wary since he knew by now he’d stepped in it. And, of course, Marcus Thompson tried his damnedest to appear angry, but he was only posturing to cover his fear that he’d lost favor. They all knew, except Acer of course, that Thompson needed PJD more than PJD needed him.
Nicely set stage, Peter thought. Time to raise the curtain.
“What do you want, McBain?” Peter zeroed in and let his gaze bore into the man. He knew the guy was as slick and professional as they came and almost as impossible to read as he himself was—when he wanted to be. That comparison spurned some worry at the very back of his mind—to know that Madeline might be drawn to that. It was a sure bet that Clever Dennis was drawn to Madeline—in more than a professional way. Some things were too obvious.
McBain didn’t respond immediately. Took his time, presumably to try to read him. The clever man could take all day, and Peter knew the smugness wouldn’t show on his own face. He was well practiced at being a blank slate. He was in full deceptive op mode now. His biggest problem would be trying to not let his great enjoyment show. But what the hell, such a mind-set was only bound to puzzle someone like McBain.
“Unofficially, I came to talk to you about getting Madeline Grace on the ticket as your lieutenant governor,” McBain said. The man hadn’t moved his eyes from Peter’s. He hadn’t so much as blinked or twitched. Now he had the great audacity to smile and take a look around the room at the other faces as if he held all the cards, when his gaze came to rest on Marcus Thompson. Thompson was so startled with the stare that he nearly jumped as if the gaze physically touched him when it landed. Marcus quickly turned to Peter, then Rick. He stayed with Rick Racer, showing very good instincts in Peter’s opinion.
“Racer you called me,” Marcus said. “What kind of game are you pla
ying? I’ve already set the wheels in motion—this is going to cost me, and if it costs me it’s going to cost you. You can count on that.” He was not posturing. He didn’t have to, because he was right. Peter could see Rick squirm mentally with the subtlest of shuttering of his friend’s eyes.
“Marcus, it should be obvious even to you that McBain was uninvited, in spite of the man’s bravado.” Peter got everyone’s attention. Acer smiled and immediately turned—to the bar.
“Would anyone like a drink?” It was as if the maitre d’ from the toniest restaurant in town had taken over Acer’s body and he was dropped into this room to work the party.
“I’ll have a Jack Daniels straight up.” Peter said it with a smile and looked around expectantly at the others. It was time to jump into the spirit of this with both feet and amuse himself thoroughly. His thinking was sharp and as stark as the moon in the middle of a winter night. A few sips of JD would add the icing of boldness to his demeanor.
His father quirked a brow, and McBain remained silent and inscrutable.
“I’ll have a jigger or a shot or whatever,” Rick said. He went over to the bar with Acer, shaking his head. Obviously he knew it was Peter’s game and was willing to follow the lead in his invaluable and adept way.
“This is no social occasion, Douglas,” Thompson said, forced to address Peter again. Though he was frowning, some of his earlier steam and confidence had left him.
“I agree. I have a dilemma. As you know, Marcus, I have courted Ms. Grace long and hard throughout the campaign to join my camp as lieutenant governor, only to be spurned. Now her chief operative, recognizing the turn of events, and no doubt aware of the score—given the enormous scoreboard at their campaign headquarters—has done the exact same thing you or I would do, the only intelligent thing he could do.” Peter alternated looking at them both. No need to pull punches since they were all in the same room and they all knew the truth of the matter. He only needed to stall until he’d made up his mind.
The Scotland Yard Exchange Series Page 25
