by Rob Byrnes
What he said, though, after squaring his shoulders, was, “I don’t know what you guys are up to, but if you’ve got a problem with Kevin—or with my wife—you’ll have to take it up with them.”
“Here’s the thing, kid,” said Chase, who smiled and put an affectionate hand on the candidate’s shoulder before thinking to ask, “Mind if I call you Austin?”
“I…” He faltered. “I don’t mind.”
“You see, Austin, like we told you, we were hired to do this job. So we did it, and then we got screwed out of thirty thousand dollars. But that’s not why we’re talking to you right now.”
Peebles made a face. “It isn’t?”
“It is, but it isn’t,” said Grant. “Your campaign does owe us thirty Gs, but we’ll take care of that on our own.”
“Then why are you bothering me?” He looked around at the sea of indifferent and / or hostile passersby that kept streaming out of the subway. “I’m supposed to be meeting people…and, uh, doing…uh…campaign stuff.”
To Chase, Grant said, “He thinks this is bothering.” Then he smiled darkly and addressed Peebles. “We’ve thought this through a hundred ways, and the only possible way that picture got back to June Forteene is if your buddy Wunder sent it to her.”
Austin crossed his arms defiantly. “Kevin Wunder is a friend and political ally. On top of that, he’s my mother-in-law’s most loyal aide! He would never sabotage my campaign.”
“Or so you think,” said Grant. “But here’s something I want you to ask yourself: If you have to get out of the race, who’s the logical person to run for Congress in your place?”
“And,” added Chase, “who wants to be a congressman, but got passed over because he isn’t a Concannon?”
“And,” Grant said, but stopped. He looked slightly confused. “Wait—there was one other thing, but I forgot it.”
Chase didn’t miss that. First it was Grant’s back, then the neck snap, then his bladder, then his eyes, and now his memory. But he could worry about that later. “I remember. If Wunder isn’t the guy who keeps sending your cock shots to June Forteene, who is?”
Austin Peebles—who fully expected to be sworn in as a United States Representative in three short months and trusted Kevin Wunder—wasn’t impressed by their reasoning. He couldn’t conceive of Kevin double-crossing him, and he certainly wasn’t going to play games with these lowlifes. Why, they probably weren’t even enrolled voters in the district.
“The answer to your last question is that you must have failed to do what you claim you were hired to do. This is just a cheap attempt at blackmail. I should call the police right now.” He began fumbling in his coat pockets for his phone, hoping they’d just go away and end this incident right now. Mostly because he’d really prefer the police not be involved, but also because he wasn’t used to wearing a suit and couldn’t remember where he’d tucked his phone.
“Here’s the thing, Peebles.” Grant was pretty sure the guy was bluffing but also was confident they could disappear into the subway if Peebles really did call 911. “Wunder had the motive, and he had the opportunity.”
Austin found the phone in a breast pocket and pulled it out, but didn’t punch in any numbers. “So you say.”
“If we’re lying,” said Chase, “then why would we have been at your mother-in-law’s congressional office last night? Want me to describe it?” Austin didn’t answer. “And how did we know your wife was there with Wunder?”
“I…I…”
Seeing the young man finally falter, Grant added, “Did you even know your wife was there last night?”
“I don’t believe you.” Austin slipped the phone back into an inside pocket and hoped they wouldn’t notice. They did. “If my wife was there, describe her.”
“Tall blonde,” said Grant. “Young, attractive, doesn’t take bullshit from anyone…And no offense, but she looked like, if you poured warm water in her mouth, you’d get ice cubes back.”
Austin nodded involuntarily. That was Penelope. And then he allowed himself to think, Maybe…
He pushed that glimmer of doubt away. The world was full of maybes, and if you thought about any impossibility long enough, it could seem possible.
There was a tiny bit of logic in the words these hooligans were saying, but the facts still didn’t add up. Maybe Kevin did want to be the candidate, and maybe he was frustrated when Mother Concannon bypassed him to keep the congressional seat in the family. Maybe—and it was a stretch—Kevin had hired these men to try to steal the image back. And maybe Kevin had even somehow gotten Penelope involved.
But maybe Austin was out of the loop because he was the candidate and didn’t need to know some of the ugly truths that were part of any campaign’s backroom operation. His father had never dragged him into it, nor had his grandfather. Nor had Mother Concannon, for that matter.
Of course, that could have had something to do with the fact that he’d been indiscreet enough to take and send the picture in the first place. It was a really awesome photo—his face, body, and penis looked perfect—although he could understand why taking it and tweeting it could result in his banishment from the campaign decision-making process.
However, to connect all those suppositions and come to the conclusion that Kevin Wunder—his own campaign manager—was trying to cut his legs out from under him? That seemed impossible.
The truth, as Austin Peebles saw it, was this: Maybe these guys were hired to do this job. But they failed, because June Forteene still had the photo. Still, they wanted their thirty-thousand-dollar fee, which they had never really earned. So…
Grant and Chase had been standing silently, eagerly awaiting the moment Peebles recognized they were telling the truth and Kevin Wunder was the real enemy. What they got, though, when the candidate was finished mentally sorting through the facts, was quite the opposite.
Austin Peebles offered up a seductive smile, smoothed his tie, and leaned toward them to deliver the harshest words he’d ever uttered in his life.
“If I ever so much as see you again, I’ll have you both arrested.”
And then he strutted off to meet the unwelcoming public.
Those words didn’t sound right coming from a guy whose dick they’d seen. Grant and Chase were stunned for a moment.
Grant elbowed Chase when he caught him following Austin Peebles’s butt as he walked away.
“I wasn’t, uh…I wasn’t looking at that,” said Chase.
“Shuddup.”
Back on the subway platform, Grant said, “I think he needs a little more convincing.”
Chase raised an eyebrow. “Ya think?”
“By the way, I saw you flirting. You weren’t exactly subtle.”
“I wasn’t flirting.” Chase rolled his eyes. “Please! He’s a baby! Like, what, twenty-two?”
“Wunder said twenty-seven. Anyway, you have to be twenty-five to be a congressman. I mean, Representative.”
“Close enough. And whatever.”
“We’ll talk about it later at home.” Grant paused and leaned forward to see if a train was coming. “But you were definitely flirting.”
“Oh, jeez…”
“Anyway, you’ve got a reprieve, because we aren’t going home right now.”
Chase jammed his hands in his pockets. “No? So where are we going?”
“First we’re gonna grab some breakfast. And then we’re gonna pay some people a visit.” Grant leaned forward again, and this time saw the distant light of an approaching train.
Chase thought he understood. “Because we’ll need backup.”
As the train roared into the station, Grant leaned close to Chase’s ear and raised his voice.
“More than backup. If this guy isn’t going to cooperate, we’re gonna need an entire gang.”
Chapter Twelve
Lisa Cochrane was a savvy real estate agent and knew a deal when she saw it. That’s why a few years earlier she became a refugee from Manhattan, settling across t
he East River in the Borough of Queens. Her apartment at Aquaterra Tower II was on a high floor that faced the river and, of course, the Borough of Manhattan, with all the scenery it had to offer.
The cruel irony of Manhattan residential space was that you either had to make millions a year or forfeit a view. Lisa made hundreds of thousands of dollars and wouldn’t have minded making millions, but wasn’t quite there yet. Still, she wanted a million-dollar view, and knew she could get that—and more—through the simple act of moving off the damn island.
Now the Queensboro Bridge—she refused to think of it by its rechristened name, the Ed Koch Queensboro Bridge; not because of politics, but because she was a traditionalist—was the view from her terrace. The United Nations Building was the view from her bedroom. If she looked down, she saw the backside of the iconic Pepsi-Cola sign that had been an East River landmark for decades. She could see the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, Roosevelt Island…
Better to pay a lot of money to have the view of Manhattan, she firmly believed, than pay even more to actually live in Manhattan, but have a view of an airshaft. Lisa refused to pay a lot of money to look at an airshaft.
Her partner, Mary Beth Reuss, had bitterly objected to the notion of moving to Long Island City, insisting they would lose the prestige that came with a Manhattan address and be stranded in some sort of homophobic wilderness. But when Lisa—who paid all the bills for the necessities, not to mention most of Mary Beth’s monthly credit card debt—informed her she was free to stay in Manhattan, but on her own dime, Mary Beth decided she’d learn to love living in an Outer Borough. After several years, she’d managed to at least get used to it. For the most part. But it wasn’t worth arguing about, especially because she loved Lisa but also because she’d never worked—not even a single day—and therefore had no idea how she’d pay rent, eat, drink, and shop at Dolce & Gabbana, Hermès, Valentino, Calvin Klein, Barneys, Bloomingdale’s, and Giorgio Armani if she were on her own.
Even Mary Beth had to agree—albeit begrudgingly—that Aquaterra Tower II was a nicer building than they would have found in their price range in Manhattan. The units were spacious and bright, the residents were professional and polite, and the security was top-notch.
So top-notch, in fact, that the doorman was eyeing Grant Lambert and Chase LaMarca warily on a closed circuit camera even before they’d walked into the building lobby, and came damn close to calling the police.
“Can I help you?” he asked as they approached his desk, one hand still poised anxiously over the phone.
“We’re here to see Lisa Cochrane in 28-C.” Grant tried to give him a friendly smile; on Grant, it didn’t come off as particularly friendly. “No need to announce us. We know the way.”
“You have to be announced,” said the doorman.
“Have to?”
“It’s policy!”
“You don’t understand. Lisa and me, we’re close friends.” Grant edged away toward the bank of elevators, Chase following reluctantly.
“Sir!”
“Like I said, we know her…”
The doorman stood, doing his best to look intimidating. It worked about as well as Grant’s friendly smile. “Sir, if you don’t let me call up, I’ll have to call the police.” He looked at the panel on his desk. “I’ll lock the elevators, too.”
That stopped them. Even when they weren’t pulling a job, they had a natural aversion to the police and twenty-seven flights of stairs.
Grant looked at the doorman, shrugged, and said, “Go ahead and call up. I’d hate to violate building policy.”
While the doorman dialed, Chase whispered, “What if she won’t let us up?”
“I thought about that. Which is why I didn’t want him to call.”
As the phone rang in 28-C, the doorman continued to eye them warily. Finally, he heard a voice on the other end. “Ms. Cochrane, this is the front desk. Two gentlemen are here to see you.” He listened to her, nodded, and then looked at Grant. “She said she isn’t expecting anyone.”
Grant snatched the phone from his hand, dismissing him. “Let me talk to her.”
“Sir!” the doorman squawked, but left it at that and didn’t try to grab the receiver back.
The phone talked back at Grant in a gravelly voice that, disembodied, almost sounded like it came from a hard-edged man. “Lambert? I know that’s you. I recognize your voice.”
“Yeah, it’s me. I need to come up and talk to you.”
“Not today. I’ve got guests.”
“Just for a few minutes. Then we’ll be on our way.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I have guests for brunch, and they’re not the type of people you’re used to dealing with.”
Grant smiled at the doorman and winked. “Great! I’ll be right up!”
“Lambert!” she screamed. “Don’t you dare—”
He cradled the phone and said to the doorman, “We know the way.”
For his part, the doorman was embarrassed he’d been rude to a tenant’s guests. “I apologize, sir, but I do have to announce visitors.”
Chase smiled. On him, it worked. “We understand. You were just doing your job. It’s policy.”
“Yes, sir. Exactly. Just policy.”
They took the elevator to the twenty-eighth floor, found Lisa’s door, and knocked. The door opened a crack. Just enough to show angry eyes and flaring nostrils.
“Go away!”
The door closed in their faces. If she hadn’t had guests, no doubt it would have been slammed.
Grant and Chase looked at each other and shrugged.
“I guess she really doesn’t want to see us,” said Chase.
“Guess not. That’s a shame.” Grant knocked again.
This time, Lisa was more polite, but her cool greeting was, to be charitable, unenthusiastic. “What the hell are you doing here?” Her voice was paying the toll for decades of cigarette smoke and hard liquor.
“We’re here to see you.” Grant added a shrug that said, But you knew that.
“How many times do I have to tell you to call first? I’m in the middle of brunch, Lambert. With guests. Nice guests.”
“Brunch? Oh, fancy.”
Her hiss was not unlike that of a coiled snake. “I. Have. Guests. If you had called, I would have explained that and saved you a trip. But, of course, you don’t call.”
He glanced at the floor. “Yeah, well…you know.”
Lisa shook a head of short-cropped blond-going-gray hair. “I understand people being afraid of spiders. Or flying. Or the dark. Not phones.”
“I’m not afraid.” He tried not to sound defensive and failed. “I just don’t like ’em.”
“You, my friend, are a phone-aphobe.”
“Hey, I called from the lobby.”
“You yanked the phone out of the doorman’s hand. That’s not the same thing.”
“Look, can we just talk for a few minutes?”
Seeing no other option, she finally opened the door wide enough for the men to enter. It was that or try to wait them out, and Lisa Cochrane knew Grant had such a stubborn streak he’d stand in the hallway for a week if he had to.
“Go directly to my office,” she commanded. “Don’t even look at my guests.”
They would have done just that, but Lisa’s brunch guests had their own ideas.
“Oh!” A plump, pink-faced man with thinning white hair, holding what looked like a mimosa, reacted with too much enthusiasm when Grant and Chase walked through the front door. “More guests? I should help put out place settings!” He looked at the new arrivals again. “By the way, I’m—”
“They’re not staying long enough for you to bother introducing yourself.” Lisa’s smile was so tight it threatened to fracture her cheekbones.
Seated next to the plump, pink-faced man at the table, a short middle-aged woman sized them up with a bad attitude most people would cross the street to avoid. She then turned to him and said, “Keep your hand on your
wallet.”
Grant heard that but pretended he didn’t. Instead he looked around and asked Lisa, “Where’s Mary Beth?”
“She’s out shopping, but she should be back soon. So let’s try to get this over before she gets home. None of us need that drama.” With that, she began herding Grant and Chase toward her home office.
“I’d really like to see her.”
“Just move!”
The short woman would have none of that. “These guys are criminals, aren’t they.” It was a statement, not a question.
The plump man tried to shush her. “Margaret!”
Lisa, still trying to herd, shook her head. “Of course not. They’re, uh…they’re…”
Grant stopped and gave the short woman a hard look. It was meant to be withering, but she simply stared back, unblinking. “Who’s she? And why is she calling us names?”
Now it was the plump man’s turn to speak. He leaned forward, suddenly intrigued by—and maybe a little bit proud of—his companion’s outburst. “If anyone can spot a criminal, it’s this woman.”
“Oh, hell,” muttered Lisa. She shook her head at Grant. “You couldn’t call first.”
Ignoring Lisa, the short woman continued. “I wasn’t calling you a name. I was just identifying your occupation.”
“Who is this woman?”
The plump man held his mimosa but didn’t drink. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Margaret Campbell. People calls her the Grande Dame of the American Mystery Novel.”
Grant didn’t get it. “Which people?”
The man sighed. “I was referring to the magazine.” He then thought to add, “I’m David Carlyle. I’m Margaret’s—and now Lisa’s—editor.”
“Yeah, okay,” were the first words out of Grant’s mouth, until his brain processed David’s words. Then he stared at Lisa. “Why did this guy say he’s your editor?”
Lisa wouldn’t answer him. So David Carlyle took it upon himself.
“Our company will be publishing Lisa’s book next month!”
“Huh?”
