by Sydney Bauer
‘I understand, Lillian, I know it isn’t your fault.’
‘Patty, I am not asking this because I suspect anything, just because I want to know how Mrs Putty came up with such a story. What happened?’
‘He is such a nice little boy but quiet, timid. I gave him the job of putting the paints away because I felt he needed a little confidence boost, a little bit of importance. He only dropped a couple of jars. I cleaned it up quickly so none of the other children could make too much of a fuss.
‘I didn’t hit him. In fact, I bent down and gave him a kiss on his forehead and thanked him for being my number one helper. Even put a gold star on his day sheet. Poor Louis.’
‘Yes. Poor Louis indeed.’
The two women sat there silently for a moment, both of their backs straight, too distraught to look each other in the eye.
‘There’ll be a report then. My name is now in a Social Service investigation report.’
‘Yes. And . . .’
‘And what, Lillian?’
‘And I believe Mrs Putty also made a report to the police.’
Lillian O’Shae watched as a small but deep-seeded shiver vibrated through her friend’s entire body.
‘Well, I never,’ said Patty Cavanaugh as the lump in her throat rose and fell in an effort to swallow back the tears that threatened to escape her.
‘Well, I never,’ she said again.
That was four out of six. How could you hold an afternoon tea when over half of your guests had cancelled at the last minute. It was so embarrassing, it was unheard of. My God, what was happening to her life?
‘I don’t know what to do, dear,’ Elizabeth tried to hold back the tears as she spoke to her husband down the telephone. She had called Louise saying it was an ‘emergency’ and the Senator had run from a budget meeting to take her call.
‘Agnes just hung up from Lucinda McGrath. She claims to have the flu. Amelia Bilby-Smith says she accidentally double-booked herself and has to attend a charity lunch for the Boston Leukaemia Foundation, which is preposterous because I am on the board of the Foundation and know there is no lunch. In the very least she could have been more considerate in her choice of lie.’
The day had gone from bad to worse, first Agnes tiptoeing around and spying on her, and now this.
‘Elizabeth, calm down. You must . . .’
‘I can’t calm down, Rudolph, I don’t understand what is going on. They were the ones who asked to see me, to offer their condolences. I simply suggested we get together here so that I could thank them for their good wishes, their flowers . . .’
‘Look, my dear,’ her husband hesitated, ‘there are some people who feel it is best to steer clear of controversy and I fear some of your so-called friends fall into that—’
‘What do you mean so-called? They are my friends, that is why I don’t understand it. My daughter is not gone a fortnight and they appear to be avoiding me?’
‘Well, Sophia is still coming, isn’t she?’
Sophia Novelli was Mayor Novelli’s wife, and despite Elizabeth’s view that she ‘lacked a certain level of decorum’, she had been more supportive than most, ringing Elizabeth every second day since the drowning.
‘Yes . . . and Caroline.’
Her husband immediately cut in.
‘Darling, you must listen to me. You must pick up the phone, call Sophia and Caroline and cancel tomorrow’s gathering.’
‘What? How can I . . .’
‘Don’t argue my dear. It will be less embarrassing for all concerned if you delay the little get together for a month or two, until things settle down. This way you don’t have to explain why the other four are absent.’
‘Rudolph, you simply cannot uninvite people at twenty-four hours’ notice, no matter what the circumstances.’ Elizabeth was at a loss to explain her husband’s attitude.
‘Of course you can. You said it yourself, you have been through too much. Besides, I really think you should get some rest. You should be looking after yourself rather than waiting on that group of social scavengers.’
And there is was. This was the first time in all their years together that Rudolph had suggested their friends were anything less than genuine. Elizabeth was lost for words. On one level she was horrified that he could propose such a thing and on the other she was terrified that he was right – a fact she probably had known for most of her socially acceptable life. But admitting this was admitting they too were part of that shallow roundabout called ‘society’ and agreeing with him would mean she would have to deal with the very foundations of her entire existence. No, she was not ready for such concepts, true or false. It was much safer to stay in her privileged little world with her designer-suited, face-lifted, air-kissing ‘friends’.
‘I have to go,’ she said quickly.
‘Elizabeth.’
‘I have to go, darling, Agnes is calling me.’
‘Just call off the tea.’
‘All right my dear, now I really must go. I shall see you after work.’
Haynes held the receiver away from his ear and listened to the beeps of the disconnected call. This was a problem. He knew she would obey him and cancel the soiree. She had never disobeyed a request from him in all their years of marriage. But Caroline Croft? If that woman was after a story it would take more than a cancelled tea party to put her off.
Caroline Croft was a big name on American television, a respected journalist who was one of the high profile presenters on the acclaimed news magazine program Newsline. She was married to Bernard Jefferson, Newsline’s executive producer. Caroline was white and her husband was African–American.
God, imagine his wife left alone with the sugar-coated dominatrix of mass consumer journalism. He had no doubt Caroline would pass on any conversation with Elizabeth to her equally zealous husband and the next thing they knew they would be headlining TBS’ prime time news program for weeks. Thank God he had diverted that disaster, at least for the time being. Now he must press the point with his wife, forbidding her to speak with her ‘friend’ until all of this was over.
All the talk of the tea party and Sophia Novelli had reminded him of his friend Moses and the next step in his strategy. Moses – dear Moses. It is time to use your influence for the greater good.
He sighed before buzzing Louise and asking her to set up lunch with the Mayor – tomorrow if possible, if not Friday. Hell as soon as she could nail him down. Time was short after all and there was still so much to do.
Tommy Wu’s freshly painted, white shingle board house was a compact testament to the man’s approach to life – simple, neat, clean. The garden was small but tidy, the grass trimmed and watered, the windows shiny and clear. In other words a lot of care went into this house. No, not house, this Brighton three-bedder was definitely more like a ‘home’, even if this morning it looked decidedly empty.
David knocked again. There was no answer. It had been two days since he spoke to Vanessa and Tommy had not returned his calls. He decided the only way was to confront Tommy in person.
There was a car in the driveway, a Toyota with a freshly dry-cleaned police shirt hanging from the back left-hand side passenger window – Tommy’s shirt, Tommy’s car. He pushed the buzzer, this time leaving his finger on it for a good five seconds. Still nothing. He could have sworn he saw some movement behind the front curtain. Maybe it was his imagination. He was tired. Then he heard Tommy’s voice.
‘Mr Cavanaugh, you have to leave.’
Tommy was on the other side of his front door whispering through the crack, talking low with a quiver in his voice.
‘Tommy, I don’t understand, you were the one who called me, I am just trying to . . .’
‘I know. I’m sorry but you really have to go.’
They had got to him. The man was terrified.
‘Tommy.’
David knew he probably had one shot at getting Tommy to talk. His experience as a trial lawyer had taught him the longer people had time to th
ink about offering information the less likely they were to do so.
‘Tommy,’ he said again, ‘listen very carefully. I know about Petri and I know about Haynes. I know you are scared and I understand you are only trying to protect your family.’
This was a punt. David was guessing Haynes’ people had threatened the one thing that would prevent a good cop like Tommy Wu from coming forward.
‘But you must know what is at stake here – a woman’s life. Rayna Martin is innocent, she is being blackballed by a pack of bullies who stoop to threats and blackmail to get their way. I know you love your sister and your nephew, but you also know they love you because you refuse to pander to such lowlife bastards. You’re a good cop, Tommy. Don’t let them change that.’
There was silence. In the very least he had Tommy’s attention. He decided to play one more card.
‘We can protect you.’
Even as the words left his mouth, he did not know what they meant. Who was ‘we’? Mannix? Himself?
‘I’ll talk to Joe, we’ll make sure you are . . .’
‘Bullshit,’ said Tommy. ‘You and I both know you can’t hide from these people. No, I’m sorry, David, I have Vanessa and Mikey to think about. I may be a good cop but I am also responsible for their future. And when it comes down to it, that’s all that matters.’
‘Tommy please. I don’t want to have to subpoena . . .’
‘Go ahead, I’ll just lie. I’m sorry, Mr Cavanaugh, I truly am, but you really have to go.’
David heard Tommy’s footsteps backtrack away from his front door and realised he was losing his one true link to the real Rudolph Haynes. It’s over before we even begin, he said to himself. Shit.
That afternoon David did something he had never done before. He played hookey.
He left Tommy Wu’s at midday and drove directly home where he changed into his running gear and hit the streets. He started north towards the Charles River and then turned left down the embankment and along Storrow Memorial Drive. From there he turned south on Massachusetts Avenue, then all the way up Commonwealth and through the Public Gardens and Boston Common.
He felt the perspiration drip from his face as his legs, now red from exertion, pumped through the picturesque running paths that lead east towards the city. The smell of the Harbour spurred him on, running faster, harder, listening to his feet hit the pavement in successive strides so swift it felt like he was flying. He felt his heart driving blood into his lungs, feeding them with oxygen, daring him to push on.
By the time he hit Atlantic Avenue, his legs were starting to cramp, forcing him to slow to a jog . . . a fast walk, until finally he bent double, leaning against the weathered awnings which circled the waterfront like a squadron of soldiers holding rusty hands. He stood up and took a deep breath, sucking in the salt air, looking for some form of inspiration, some clue as to how he could solve this mess.
He did not know why his feet had carried him this far south. He had done a full circle of the city and he should have continued north from the Common, headed home, showered, gone to the office. But for some reason this afternoon he needed to smell the salt.
Then it hit him, this was where it all happened – here on the corner of Atlantic and Congress. This was once a wharf, before Boston started its relentless expansion into the Harbour. This was where those first brave revolutionaries threw the tea into the Harbour as a symbol of independence. They risked their lives for the freedom of others – man or woman, black or white. It may be a cliche but that was what independence, the Fourth of July, was all about.
It was history. It set the record. The evidence was in the past. That was it. He was making a mistake by looking at the present. He had to go back. He had to find out exactly what Rudolph Haynes was made of. The Senator may be careful now, but there must have been a time when his bigotries were more obvious, when they were worn as a symbol of his superiority. What did Sara say? Once a bigot, always a bigot.
He looked at his watch, it was after four. He had been running for hours. He turned north along the waterfront with a new vigour. He did not know what this meant, only that it was something to hold on to. There was no point going back to the office today, he needed some quiet time to think this through.
He ran home and washed and changed before heading out again to the Boston Public Library in Copley Square. It was a beautiful building, with an almost Roman façade that gave testament to its dedication to the pursuit of wisdom. It was in itself another source of inspiration, home to more than six million books and hundreds of thousands of historical manuscripts, the first public library in the US of A.
The hours went by as he ploughed through reams of newspaper articles and scoured through shelves of old magazines, social columns, political reports, election notices. Then, hungry and thirsty, he borrowed such titles as the Who’s Who of Boston and Massachusetts: A Recent Political History, Harvard Year Books and other community periodicals before heading out for something to eat.
He chose Grill 23 and Bar, a popular nearby steakhouse with a great menu and an even better selection of beers. It was a little more upmarket than he was used to, in fact he felt downright scruffy amongst this set of cigar-smoking, pin-striped suits. But he was tired, and it was close, and the food was delicious. He requested a corner table, ordered his first icy cold Heineken and selected the rack of lamb with potato, parma ham and goat cheese gratin, before opening his first journal and starting to take notes.
He pored through it all, writing down details of Haynes’ youth, his education, his time at Harvard, his marriage to Elizabeth Whitman, his political career. He scribbled random thoughts – places, dates, names of friends, alleged adversaries, political opponents.
It was almost midnight, and a good six beers later when he finally looked up to find the restaurant close to empty. Realising his eyes could no longer focus on the pages in front of him he put away his scratchy biro, gathered together the piles of paperwork and signalled for the check. He was exhausted, he had drunk way too much and all he could think of was sleep.
He left his car and hailed a cab for home, heading straight for his bedroom. He didn’t even change, just took off his shirt and fell onto his unmade bed, unable to contemplate moving again until morning. He knew he should check his messages – he had turned off his cell phone some time this morning before he went to see Tommy, before the day took him on a roller-coaster ride from disaster to revelation. But it was late, and all that could wait until morning.
He just needed a few hours’ sleep, just a little shut-eye to re-charge the batteries. Then, at sun-up, he would go at it again.
16
David woke to a loud banging on the front door.
‘Okay, okay. I’m coming.’
God, what time was it? The sun was up. He was squinting at the bright stripes which shot through the cracks in his vertical blinds and cut across his face like blinding daggers forcing him up, out of bed and towards his living room at the front of the apartment.
The banging started again.
‘All right, all right,’ he said in a hoarse whisper which was all he could manage at this point.
He looked through the peephole to see an anxious Sara fidgeting on the other side of the door. For a split second he contemplated at least trying to make himself look a little more respectable, but could tell she was not in the mood for waiting.
‘Hey,’ he said as he unlatched the door. ‘What are you . . . ?’
‘What am I?’ her voice escaped her in one almighty shriek. She pushed the door open and bounded into the apartment, turning to face him, her right index finger now pounding against his chest.
‘Where the hell have you been? My God, David, no one has heard from you for twenty-four hours. Arthur is fuming, Nora is sick with worry. Lisa called and I pretended you were in a meeting. Your brother has called three times.’
Sean? Now that was unusual. Sean was a man of few words and whilst he called every now and again, it was unlike him to call
three times in a day. The truth was, he and his brother tended to rub each other the wrong way and . . . His brow furrowed, bringing a fresh surge of pain and the thought left him as Sara ploughed on.
‘Arthur is on the verge of calling Joe. I was . . . I am . . . furious. How could you just disappear like that? You know we are treading on dangerous ground right now. You are so inconsiderate. What the hell did you do? Decide to go out and get drunk, ignore everyone who cares about you? Look at you, you obviously slept in your clothes. I mean . . . is there someone in your bedroom right now? Should I leave and give you your privacy? I just don’t . . .’
He grabbed her right wrist and held it firmly, wanting to do something to calm her down.
‘Sara, I’m okay. I’m okay. It’s all right.’
‘No it’s not.’ she said, trying to pull away from him. ‘It’s not all right, it’s unforgivable.’
‘Sara, Sara look at me. Please.’
She took a deep breath and turned to face him. Slowly her hand stopped trembling as she relaxed in his grip. Her shoulders slumped as she exhaled from deep inside her lungs. He reached out and pulled her close, his arms enveloping her, holding her tight. He felt her whole body shake with silent sobs. Her quick short breaths were warm against his skin, her hair smooth around her face.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have no right to . . . It’s just that, I knew you went to see Tommy, but Tommy has not been answering his phone. Your cell was off. I kept thinking about Petri and . . .’
‘No, it’s me who should be sorry,’ he said stroking the back of her head. ‘I should have called. I got home late, I had too much to drink, I fell asleep. But that’s no excuse.’
Slowly she lifted her head to look up at him, her breathing now slow, her tears settled in small pools in the corners of her pale blue eyes. He reached up to hold her face, drawing her closer, pulling her up towards him, and then he bent to kiss her, slowly at first, and then deeper until all that mattered was her smell, her touch. It felt so natural, so right and, in that moment, they allowed themselves to forget – about Rayna and Teesha, about Tommy and Petri, about Katz and Haynes.
