by Mike Doogan
She took the letters, knocked at the other closed door, and opened it. Kane could hear a booming voice saying, “…organized labor gets off its ass and—” The closing door cut the voice off.
Kane sat in one of the chairs and waited. The woman emerged a while later.
“The senator can give you a few minutes now,” she said, “but he does have a lunch appointment.”
She opened the door and passed through it in front of Kane.
“Mr. Kane, Senator,” she said.
Grantham sat behind a big, tidy desk of dark wood. His office was much bigger than the outer office. RHIP, Kane thought.
The senator got up and walked around the desk, extending a hand. Kane shook it. The hand was as big and soft as a catcher’s mitt. Kane had no urge to hold on to it. Grantham was big and soft, too, and no longer looked like a college kid. He had salt-and-pepper hair that hung over his shirt collar and a big belly that hung over his belt. He wore a gray, pin-striped suit and a starched white shirt that gaped above the belt to show a not-so-white undershirt beneath. Red veins were visible in his beak of a nose and he smelled of aftershave and alcohol.
“Thank you, Alma,” he said in a voice as well seasoned as an oak barrel. The woman left, closing the door behind her. “Please have a seat, Mr. Kane.”
Kane sat in one of the wing chairs facing the desk. Grantham leaned over the desk, picked up the letters, and handed them to Kane. He sat in the other wing chair.
“So you are here on behalf of Senator Hope,” Grantham said, “and with the recommendation of Mrs. Richard Foster. That’s a potent combination. What can I do to help?”
“I’ve been hired by the defense to investigate the murder of Melinda Foxx,” Kane said. “I don’t know anything about politics or how the legislature works or the defendant or the victim. So pretty much anything you can tell me will help, Senator.”
Grantham laughed.
“You’ve got your work cut out for you, don’t you?” he said. “I’ve been at this thirty years and I’m not sure how either politics or the legislature works.”
Grantham propped his chin up with a hand and sat there.
“There’s a lot I could tell you,” he said at last, “so much that probably all it would do is confuse you. And unless you’re trying to get a bill passed, it wouldn’t help anyway. For your purposes, just think of the legislature as a nomad camp. There’s maybe five hundred of us if you count legislators and staff and lobbyists and reporters. Most of us don’t live in Juneau, we just camp out here when we’re in session. We work together and socialize together and don’t mix much with the locals. I’ve always thought we’d make a fascinating study for a sociologist. Or an anthropologist. Or even a psychiatrist.”
Kane showed the senator a smile at the witticism.
“So you all know each other pretty well?” he asked.
“Fairly well,” Grantham said. “There’s a significant burnout factor, so people leave and new people take their places. And there’s a tendency to socialize with your own kind—legislators with legislators, staff with staff, and so on. Except lobbyists. It’s more or less their job to be on good terms with everyone.”
From where he sat, Kane could look out three windows located at intervals in the wall and see people walking past, going up or down the hill. He saw heads in the first window, torsos in the second, and legs in the last. His kids had had a game like that when they were little, matching the proper heads, bodies, and legs. Sesame Street characters, as he recalled.
“Did you know Melinda Foxx well?” he asked Grantham.
“Only superficially,” Grantham said. “I tend to spend most of my time dealing with other senators and their staffs, and, since he’s the chairman of the Finance Committee, there’s no getting around Senator O. B. Potter and his staff. So I had dealings with Miss Foxx and knew her well enough to say hello to.”
“And to socialize with?” Lane asked.
Grantham shook his head.
“Maybe twenty years ago,” he said, “but I find I don’t have the energy to keep up with these young women anymore.”
“So you don’t know much about her personal life?” Kane asked.
Grantham shook his head again.
“I think you’d be better off talking to someone more her age,” he said, “probably other members of the staff.”
“And what can you tell me about Matthew Hope?” Kane asked. As he waited for an answer, the head of a pretty brunette became a robust torso, then a shapely pair of legs.
“I don’t know Senator Hope all that well, really,” Grantham said. “I’m not sure anyone does. Native legislators are a minority, and since most of them are Democrats, and the Republicans run things, they are a minority within a minority. So they play things close to the vest and tend to not socialize much. Plus, Hope only came over to the Senate from the House two years ago.”
“You are in the same party,” Kane said.
“We are,” said Grantham, “but people tend to assign too much significance to that. We share the same values, but we don’t agree on everything and we don’t all get along.”
“Does Hope have any friends here?” Kane asked.
Grantham was silent for a moment.
“None that I know of,” he said. “The legislature, particularly the Senate, isn’t given to friendships. We each have our own priorities and careers to worry about. You’d be better off thinking of our relationships as alliances that are constantly shifting. The alliance among members of the same party is important but not definitive. There are personal and regional considerations, electoral considerations. It’s a complicated business.”
Kane shook his head.
“So this is going to be worse than I thought,” he said.
“Probably much worse,” Grantham said with a smile.
“Did Senator Hope know Melinda Foxx?” Kane asked.
“I’m sure he did, although I have no idea how well,” Grantham said. “Ms. Foxx took care of bills in the Finance Committee, so every senator knew her and dealt with her at one time or another. Many of the members of the House, too, as well as most of the staff.”
“She took care of bills,” Kane said. “What does that mean, exactly?”
Grantham smiled.
“Ah, Government 101,” he said. “Most committees deal with bills, with laws legislators want passed. If the passage of a bill would require the government to spend more money, it is sent to the Finance Committee. In addition, the Finance Committee writes the budgets. So the committee staff works either on the bills that are sent to the committee or on the budgets. Ms. Foxx worked on bills.”
Kane nodded, and the senator continued.
“Senator Hope is the prime sponsor of only one bill,” he said, “to allow civil unions, and it is in the Finance Committee right now. So he probably has had conversations with Ms. Foxx about moving it out of committee. Although I can’t think of a reason why he’d bother.”
“Why not?’ Kane asked.
Grantham smiled again.
“Gay rights isn’t the most popular issue in the legislature,” he said. “Senator Potter, who is very conservative and has a lot of conservative, especially conservative Christian, support, is worse than most on the subject. He grabbed the bill on the flimsiest pretext just to block it. So that bill would have trouble getting out of his committee, too, even if Senator Hope weren’t on his hit list.”
“Why’s that?” Kane asked.
Grantham shifted in his chair.
“I wouldn’t normally be retailing gossip,” he said, “but I want to do everything I can to help Senator Hope. Several months ago, he released information showing that the state Department of Transportation was leasing office space from Senator Potter at three times the going rate, without a competitively bid contract. There’s an investigation going on right now that’s likely to be embarrassing for both Potter and the governor. And just before the session started, Potter was accused of taking illegal campaign contributions f
rom a couple of oil field service companies. Everyone thinks Hope was the source of that information, too. So it’s not very likely that Potter would do Hope any favors. And that’s putting it mildly.”
Kane took his notebook out of his pocket and wrote in it.
“That wasn’t too smart, was it?” he asked. “Getting on the wrong side of someone as powerful as Senator Potter?”
He watched as a pair of chubby legs became a round body, then a fleshy head.
“Not if Senator Hope wants to get anything done in the Senate,” Grantham said. “But everyone thinks he’s got bigger plans, and he’s sacrificing effectiveness inside the legislature for political points outside it.”
Kane wrote some more.
“So you don’t think Senator Hope is serious about his civil unions bill?” he asked.
“He may be,” Grantham said. “He did manage to pry it out of a couple of committees in the Senate. But Senator Potter seems to be dug in pretty solidly against it, and I’m not sure what inducements Senator Hope could offer to change his position.”
“Inducements?” Kane said.
“Between senators, an inducement is usually a vote,” Grantham said, “as in ‘I’ll vote for your bill if you’ll vote for mine.’ A less kind term for that is logrolling. But Potter doesn’t have many logs to roll, and those he does have aren’t the sort of logs Senator Hope is likely to help him roll.”
“I can feel the water closing over my head,” Kane said.
Grantham saw the confused look on Kane’s face and chuckled.
“Just think of it as a big swap meet,” Grantham said, “with votes as the currency.”
“If you say so,” Kane said. “I suppose this makes sense, in its own way. Do you support the civil unions bill?”
Grantham smiled.
“I do,” he said. “I think it’s a matter of human rights.”
“I just read that in the newspaper, coming from Hope,” Kane said.
Grantham chuckled again.
“We all tend to use the same talking points,” he said. “But why so many questions about the legislation? Do you think it’s involved somehow in what happened to Miss Foxx?”
“God knows,” Kane said. “Could Senator Hope’s interest in Melinda Foxx have been personal? Social?”
Grantham shrugged.
“As I said, I know very little of their social lives,” he said. “Either of their social lives. But Senator Hope is single and so was Ms. Foxx.”
Kane nodded.
“I’ve been told that even married men aren’t always immune to the temptations of a legislative session,” he said.
“That’s true,” Grantham said. “Spending four months in Juneau every year is more than some spouses can take. So some legislators are here alone, under constant pressure and surrounded by young women and men. Under these circumstances, it’s no surprise that some stray. But if Ms. Foxx was involved with any legislator, married or single, I hadn’t heard about it.”
“Does your wife come with you?” Kane asked, nodding toward a large photo of Grantham and a woman his age that was turned half toward him on the senator’s desk.
Grantham shook his head.
“Unfortunately, no,” he said. “She’s back in Anchorage, tending to our children and grandchildren.”
That line of questioning seems to be petering out, Kane thought.
“How important is the civil unions bill?” Kane asked.
Grantham considered his answer.
“I suppose it is important to certain interest groups,” he said, “and it could have some repercussions at election time. But it is far from the session’s most important issue.”
“Which is?” Kane asked.
“Oil taxes,” Grantham said without hesitation.
“Why are they important?” Kane asked.
Grantham greeted the question with a smile.
“You’re not very political, are you?” he asked. When Kane shook his head, the senator continued. “Oil income accounts for about eighty to eighty-five percent of the state’s general revenue. Our current tax structure is outdated. With the value of oil as high as it is, we’re letting a lot of money get away. There’s a bill to change the tax system. The oil companies oppose it. Hundreds of millions of dollars are at stake.”
“Is Senator Hope involved in the tax issue?” Kane asked.
“We’re all involved in it,” Grantham said. “One thing people don’t understand is that we have hundreds of issues, big and small, to deal with every session. This session, no issue is bigger than oil taxes. The House has sent us a bill, so the ball is in our court. The Senate is sharply divided and every vote counts. So, yes, Matthew Hope is involved in the oil tax issue. As are we all.”
There was a knock at the door and Alma stuck her head in.
“Your lunch appointment is here, Senator,” she said.
Grantham got to his feet. Kane did, too.
“I’m sorry I can’t be more help,” the senator said. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell the press we’ve talked. They’re so hungry for a story about this murder, they don’t care who they hurt in the process.”
He ushered Kane out of his office. One of the whitest men Kane had ever seen stood in the reception area. He was probably six inches over six feet, and so broad he looked square. His hair was the color of straw and his eyes were a blue so pale they were nearly white. His skin was the color of copy paper.
“Hello, George,” Grantham said. “Mr. Kane, this is George Bezhdetny. George is a lobbyist. Mr. Kane here is a detective, working for Matthew Hope’s defense.”
The man took Kane’s hand gently, as if he was afraid he’d break it. Looking at him, Kane was afraid of the same thing.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kane,” the man said. His voice was a low rumble shot through with an accent Kane couldn’t identify.
“You, too, Mr. Bezhdetny,” Kane said. “Senator, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to Ms. Atwood for a while.”
Grantham took an expensive-looking overcoat from the rack. Kane and the big man had to step back to give him room to maneuver himself into it.
“If she’s willing to talk to you, I have no objection,” he said. “Shall we go, George?”
The two men left the office.
“That guy’s not very big, is he?” Kane said.
The dark-haired young woman laughed. Alma made a face. Neither of them said anything.
“Do you get to eat lunch?” Kane asked Alma. “I’m buying.” He turned to the dark-haired woman. “That invitation includes you, too.”
The two women exchanged a look.
“I’m afraid Jennifer will have to stay here to answer the phones,” Alma said, “but I’d be happy to join you. Just let me get my coat.”
She went into her office. Kane had his coat on by the time she returned, wearing a bright ski jacket. When he held the office door for her, Alma gave him a big smile.
“Oh, a gentleman,” she said. “I like that.”
Kane smiled back.
“You must have a lot of those here,” he said, as they walked down the hall.
“Not as many as you might think,” she said.
13
If you are sure you understand everything that is going on, you are hopelessly confused.
WALTER F. MONDALE
When they reached the lobby, Kane and the woman had to navigate around a knot of people surrounding a well-dressed, dark-haired young woman. They waved notebooks and shouted questions and, every time the woman tried to take a step they shifted to block her way. In the glaring light from the TV cameras, the woman looked dazed.
“Oh, that’s Mary David, Senator Hope’s staff,” Alma said. “She looks like she’s in trouble.”
“How well did your boss know the White Rose?” somebody shouted. “Were they having an affair?”
“How about you?” another called. “Are you sleeping with him?”
“Wait here,” Kane said.
He forced his way through the circle of reporters, earning himself some startled looks and angry mutters. When he was next to the young woman, he said softly, “Hello, Miss David. I’m working for your boss’s lawyer. Would you like to get out of here?”
The woman nodded her head.
“Please,” she said, a note of panic in her voice.
Kane took her arm and started forward. A man in a three-piece suit and carrying a tape recorder blocked their way. Kane put his hand in the middle of the man’s chest and pushed. The man stumbled backward.
“Hey,” he said. “You can’t do that. I’m a member of the press. Who do you think you are?”
“I’m the guy who is going to tie your nose in a knot if you don’t stop impeding this woman’s lawful progress,” Kane said in a loud voice. “That goes for the rest of you, too. Miss David has nothing to say and wants you to leave her alone. So get out of the way.”
“The public has a right to know,” the man in the three-piece suit said.
Kane laughed, put his hand on the man’s chest, and shoved again, harder. The man banged into a TV cameraman behind him. The camera slipped off the man’s shoulder and clipped the man on the side of the head.
“Ow,” he said. “You all saw that—he assaulted me.”
“Last chance,” Kane said, taking another step forward. The man shrank to the side. Kane led the woman to the door, then turned and stood in the doorway while she made her escape. When one of the reporters tried to get through another of the entryway doors, Kane reached out and grabbed his shoulder.
“You really don’t want to do that,” he said.
Deprived of their prey, the pack of reporters broke up. Kane stood there watching until Alma walked up to him.
“That was bold,” she said.
“I hate bullies,” Kane said.
Alma put her hand on Kane’s arm.
“Around here, we treat reporters with kid gloves,” she said.
“I guess that’s because you care what they write about you,” Kane said. “The ladies and gentlemen of the fourth estate. What a laugh. Shall we go?”
Kane and Alma became part of a steady stream of people leaving the Capitol, the court building across the street, and the state office building a half-block away.
