by Jeff Miller
“Always thought I was supposed to be a lawyer, ever since I was a little kid.” Ever since Dad died, she thought, but she left that part out. “So I went to law school.” She told him about Harvard and the job at the big firm in Manhattan. “On my first day at work, they shipped me down to Houston to review documents in a warehouse for a securities case. For a year.”
“Was that Enron?”
“No, it was right after Enron, but it was like Enron. Years and years of records, and we had to go through them all, weed out the privileged stuff, try to contrive legal justifications for not turning stuff over.”
“You must have gotten sick of the flying.”
“I just stayed in Houston. It was actually cheaper for the client to put me up than to fly me back and forth. Free meals, luxury hotel—it wasn’t all bad. They paid me a hundred eighty grand that year to flip through documents, and I didn’t have to spend any of it. Finally, the case settled and I moved back to New York and lived in my office.” Dagny slurped a long noodle. “This is great, by the way.” Great artist, great body, great cook, she thought.
“Thanks,” he replied. “You mean you were at the office a lot?”
“No, I mean I literally lived at my office. I never had time to find a place, and I was working late every night—weekends, too. The firm had a dining hall, a fitness club. Sometimes I’d go a week without setting foot outside. I saved a lot of money that year, too.”
“The partners must have loved you.”
“Nobody noticed,” she sighed. “I lived at the firm for a year, and nobody noticed.”
“So what got you out?”
“I had a friend who was killed in the London Underground bombing. Not even a friend, really. Someone I knew when I was a kid. Her dad had been killed in the World Trade Center four years earlier. I read about it in the paper—these two tragedies that happened to the same family. Sifting through financial documents in a warehouse suddenly seemed a lot less important. I applied to the Bureau about two weeks later.” She realized that they had stopped eating. She twirled some more pasta on her fork. “Did you know anyone—”
“No. Almost, but...”
She sensed that he regretted the almost. “What?”
“My ex was supposed to be on one of the planes.”
Ex-wife? Ex-girlfriend?
“Fiancée,” he said, sensing her question.
Oh. “What happened?” Dagny asked.
“She missed the flight.”
“No. I mean with the engagement?”
“She left me.”
She wanted to ask why. Instead, she said, “Tell me about her.”
“She taught criminal law at Georgetown. Taught English literature, too. Refined, elegant, descended from landed gentry and all that. But she liked me. And she used to be sweet, unpretentious. And then the Post asked her to write an opinion piece for one of those show trials in the 1990s.”
“O. J.?”
“No. It was right after O. J., but it was like that. It led to an appearance on CNN, and then a recurring segment. Over time, her commentary became less thoughtful and more caustic. When reasoned discourse finally gave way to shouting, they gave her a show. I thought it would end when the trial was over, but there was always a new trial.”
Dagny realized her pasta was gone. She didn’t even remember finishing it. That never happened to her. “How did it end?”
“One night, over dinner, she said, ‘Oh, did I tell you I’m taking that job at Columbia?’ And I said, ‘What job at Columbia?’ She said it would be easier to get on the networks from New York than DC. I just stared at her blankly—trying to understand. She wouldn’t look me in the eyes. So I just said, ‘We’re not getting married, are we?’ And she said, in this matter-of-fact voice, ‘No, I guess we’re not.’”
Mike got up and walked over to the sink. He turned on the water and began washing the dishes. “Afterwards, I walked her home, and she shook my hand, wished me luck. She didn’t seem the least bit emotionally affected by the evening. The person I fell in love with...she was gone.”
Dagny carried her bowl over to the sink and put her arms around Mike. He turned off the faucet and kissed her. “I really like you, Dagny Gray.”
“I really like you, Michael Brodsky.”
He took a step back but held on to her hands. “The paintings on that front wall—”
“Yes?”
“The van Eyck—I never sold it—I painted that for me. Sometimes, if I was painting for myself or a good friend, I’d hide myself in the painting as a joke. And so I put that one in the front hallway to remind myself not to take myself, or my art, too seriously. The Picasso and the Monet—I bought those back at auctions. They cost me a fortune—years of sales of my own art. I bought them to prevent others from buying a fraud. If any more come up for auction, I’ll be broke. Thought about burning them. Hung them in the front hallway instead, so that I have to confront them every day. So that I can’t just forget about it all. So that I have to deal with it.”
Dagny looked into Mike’s eyes. She understood what he was saying. “Okay.” She paused, then exhaled. “I have to gain seventeen pounds by March fifteenth or they’re going to put me on medical leave. It’s an issue I’ve struggled with, on and off, for a long time. I was fine for a few years, but I’m slipping. And if you like me, this is something you need to know. Because it’s something you’ll never understand, and it will probably drive you crazy. If I were you, I’d run from this as fast as possible. This isn’t something you can make better. And this probably the most I’ll ever talk about it, because even this is hard. I don’t hang this painting in my front hallway.”
He pulled her close and kissed her. “I’m not running. I’m not going try to fix anything. I’m not going to make you talk about this again, unless you want to. You’re not going to do this for me. But I’m going to be with you. And you’re going to do it just fine.” It was everything she had wanted to hear.
They devoted the rest of the evening to lighter subjects and the kissing that new lovers do. Halfway through a second bottle of wine, Dagny noticed it was nearly midnight. “I have to go—”
“No, you don’t.”
“—get my things from the car.”
He walked her to the car and carried her bag inside. They climbed a metal spiral staircase from the living room to the second floor—a large open space that served as Mike’s studio. Dagny wanted to linger, but Mike tugged her up another staircase to the third-floor bedroom. He lifted her onto the bed, then lay down beside her, kissing her neck as he unbuttoned her blouse. She reached over and turned off the lamp, wrapped her right hand around his neck, grabbed the hair above his collar, and pulled him to her lips. The blood rushed close to her skin, a familiar feeling that she couldn’t place until she realized—yes, this is what it feels like to be alive.
CHAPTER 7
February 1—Chula Vista, California
God, he hated that dog.
Tucker was scratching at the sliding glass door. The kids were screaming about going to bed. Martha was doing the dishes and talking on the phone to her mother.
Fred Lubers rubbed his forehead with his thumb and index finger, trying to stifle the start of a migraine. He slid open the back door and the German shepherd ran out.
“No! No! No!” the kids yelled in unison.
“You have to go to bed right now!” he yelled back.
“Fred, I’m on the phone!” Martha yelled. “The kids won’t go to bed. Every night, it’s World War Three,” she complained to her mother.
Fred lifted six-year-old Gina into his arms and headed upstairs.
“It’s not fair. I went up first last night,” she complained. Her pigtails twirled in the air as she shook her head.
“You’re older, honey. You have to set the example.”
Four-year-old Josh stood half-naked at the bottom of the stairs, laughing and pointing at his ascending sister. “You’re going to bed first!”
Fred reverse
d course and carried Gina back down. “Just for that, Josh, you’re going to bed first. There’s no taunting, okay?”
Josh stomped his foot, but only once before Fred scooped him up and started up the stairs. Gina began singing, “Josh got in trouble. Josh got in trouble!”
Fred shook his head but continued up the steps, carrying Josh into the bathroom and setting him atop a step stool in front of the sink. “Time to brush your teeth.”
Josh looked up. “I don’t want to.”
“It’s not an option.”
“I don’t need to brush them. I drank a lot of water.”
Fred didn’t follow the logic of this argument but didn’t feel like pursuing it further. “Just brush.”
“No.”
Tucker was barking at something in the backyard. If that dog kept it up, the neighbors were going to complain again. Fred knelt down and looked Josh in the eyes. “Josh, I have a headache. Please just do this for me.”
His son smiled. “Okay, Daddy.” Josh brushed his teeth, spitting out his toothpaste near, but not into, the sink. Fred cleaned up the mess and carried Josh into his bedroom.
“Jammies, Josh.”
“Which ones?”
“You get to pick.”
“Football.”
“Okay.”
Josh put on his pajamas and crawled into bed. “Will you read me a story?”
Fred didn’t feel like reading to Josh. He wanted to put Gina to bed and then get some sleep. He had to catch a 6:00 a.m. flight to Nashville with a layover in Salt Lake City. Steve Hammond from corporate was going to be there for his presentation. He needed to be at his best.
“Which one, Son?”
“The cookie mouse.”
Fred grabbed If You Give a Mouse a Cookie from the bookshelf. He actually liked this one. “If you give a mouse a cookie,” Fred began, then turned the page. “He’s going to ask for a glass of milk.” Josh fell asleep before Fred could finish the story. He turned off the lights, closed the door partway, and headed down for Gina. She was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“Tucker keeps barking, Daddy.”
“He probably sees a raccoon or something, honey.”
“Tucker sounds mad.”
She was right. Tucker was in a frenzy. He lifted Gina up and turned toward the stairs. “I’ll go check on Tucker in a minute.” Just as his foot hit the first step, something sounded like a gunshot. Tucker stopped barking. Gina screamed and Martha put down the phone. Fred set Gina down and raced into his study, unlocked a desk drawer with one key, and removed another key. He used that key to unlock the gun cabinet, grabbed his rifle, and sprinted to the back door. “Martha—take Gina upstairs.” He flipped the switch for the backyard light, opened the sliding glass door, and stepped onto the back patio.
The German shepherd lay motionless in the grass, next to the swing set. Moving closer, Fred saw blood trailing from a gunshot wound just to the side of Tucker’s right eye. The dog was dead.
The rustle of footsteps echoed from the woods behind the house. Whoever had shot Tucker was headed toward the 805. Fred chased the sound, dodging trees as the killer moved faster. “Stop right now, you coward!” He tried to hurdle a fallen tree, but tripped and fell forward. The butt of his rifle drove into his chest, bruising a rib. Fred waited on the ground for some audible clue to the killer’s whereabouts, but everything was silent. After a moment, he felt ridiculous, and then afraid. Maybe chasing an armed dog-killer through the dark wasn’t the best idea.
Fred rose to his feet, grabbing a tree for support. The snap of a branch in the distance caught his attention. A dark silhouette of a man turned toward Fred for just a moment and seemed to wave. It was a quick, halting gesture, and then the figure was gone.
Taking a step back toward the house, Fred realized that he had twisted his ankle in the fall. Limping back to the swing set, he headed for Tucker’s lifeless body. A white card was taped to the dog’s belly. He tore it away and held it up to the moonlight.
THIS IS MY THIRD CRIME.
MY NEXT WILL BE BIGGER.
A piece of gum was taped to the back. Fred put the card in his shirt pocket and turned toward the back patio. Martha stood at the door with her arms wrapped around their children. He fought back tears and walked over to comfort them.
God, he loved that dog.
CHAPTER 8
February 14—Quantico, Virginia
There was an American flag decal on the long neck of the Detecto 448, and the words “Made in” above it and “USA” below it. A black rod ran from the bottom of the neck to the top, and could extend further when required. Dr. Malloy had used it to measure her height at her last visit: five nine and a quarter. The weights at the top of the Detecto 448 slid across two weigh beams. The bottom beam was marked from zero to 350 in 50-pound increments, although additional notches carried the weight to 450, even though they were not marked. The top beam went pound by pound to 50. The base plate on the machine was solid black, and cold on Dagny’s bare feet. On the front of the scale, below the weigh beams, was the name DETECTO and the company’s logo—a red outline of a bird alighting on a thin branch. Dagny felt like that bird.
Malloy read the results. Dagny’s scale at home had registered an additional pound, but that was okay. She dressed in the examination room, then sent Mike a text: 116, it said. Nine more pounds to go.
In 1818, five-year-old Thomas Alexander Mellon emigrated with his family from Northern Ireland to Pennsylvania. Inspired to seek riches by The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, Thomas studied hard and became a lawyer, and then a judge. He saved his money, bought vast stretches of downtown Pittsburgh real estate, and opened T. Mellon and Sons Bank, where he placed a life-size statue of his hero, Ben Franklin, above the door.
In 1890, Thomas gave control of the bank to his son Andrew. Andrew transformed the bank into the Mellon National Bank, and as the family fortune swelled, he invested in other industries, too. Some of the investments became Gulf Oil, Alcoa, and Union Steel. Over time, Andrew Mellon served as an officer or director for more than 160 corporations. In 1913, he and his brother established the Mellon Institute of Industrial Research, which later merged with the Carnegie Institute of Technology to become Carnegie Mellon University. During the First World War, he served on the board of the American Red Cross and other organizations supporting America’s wartime efforts.
In 1921, President Warren G. Harding appointed Andrew Mellon to secretary of the treasury, and he continued as such under both Calvin Coolidge and Herbert Hoover. As secretary, Mellon was a pioneer of supply-side economics, cutting tax rates in order to spur investment and economic growth, while slashing the national debt by more than 30 percent. Throughout most of his tenure, the nation enjoyed unparalleled prosperity, and his public service and numerous philanthropic endeavors made him a beloved national figure. As Time magazine later noted, he was widely considered the “greatest secretary of the treasury since Alexander Hamilton.”
And then the stock market crashed in 1929.
Mellon resigned from office in 1931, and Hoover lost reelection two years later. After taking office, Franklin Delano Roosevelt drew up a list of enemies and scapegoats. Mellon topped the list. FDR demanded that the IRS audit Mellon’s tax returns. No irregularities were found. Undaunted, FDR ordered his administration to seek an indictment against Mellon for tax evasion, but the grand jury refused. Finally, FDR’s Treasury Department filed a civil lawsuit against Mellon before the US Board of Tax Appeals for underpayment of taxes. Mellon was innocent; FDR knew it, but didn’t care. The tax proceedings kept the eighty-year-old Mellon on the witness stand for five days in 1935.
A lesser man might have held a grudge. But in 1936, weak and weary and dying of cancer, Mellon met FDR for tea at the White House and told him that he wanted to create a National Gallery of Art in the nation’s capital that would rival the best galleries of Europe. With FDR’s approval, Mellon financed construction of the gallery and donated his vast collection
of art, then valued at $50 million. He died a few months later, just before the Board of Tax Appeals unanimously cleared him of all charges. The National Gallery of Art was completed in 1941. Thirty years later, a second building was added. It became known as the East Building; the original became known as the West Building.
A statue honoring Mellon now sits in a small park next to the West Building. Dagny and Mike raced past the statue on their way to the East Building. Although they had arrived late, they were greeted by a blinding flash from a Post photographer at the door. Mike gave him their names, spelling “Dagny” twice.
Inside, the gallery’s atrium was filled with floating red heart-shaped balloons. Below them, the district’s high society was at play. Dagny was trying to eavesdrop on George Will’s conversation with Senator Mitch McConnell when Mike tugged her toward a heavyset Mexican man wearing a big grin.
“Diego, this is Dagny Gray,” he announced.
“She’s even more beautiful than you described.” Diego hugged Dagny and kissed her cheek.
“It’s nice to meet you, Diego. I’m excited to see your exhibit.”
“Forget that!” Diego bellowed under the weight of too much wine. “Tonight is about something much more important.”
“Raising money for your charity?” Dagny asked.
“No. Dinner!” Diego laughed. “I put you guys with Carville and Matalin. You won’t have to say a word all evening.” A museum employee called for Diego. “Let’s talk after, okay?”
“Of course,” Mike replied as Diego jogged away.
“He seems like a very nice man,” Dagny said.
“Biggest heart in the world. A good friend. You want to see his work?”
Mike led Dagny up a staircase, then steered her past several paintings to a watercolor of a young Mexican fording the Rio Grande. His jeans were covered in dirt and mud, his shirt was ripped, and he had a scar across his forehead. The man looked tired, but also hopeful. Afraid, but free.
