by Mike Doogan
“Montaigne,” he said. “I read some of this once.”
“What did you think?” Kane asked.
“It was for a class,” Dylan said. “Why are you reading it?”
Kane shrugged.
“I guess because it helps me figure things out,” he said.
“Is figuring things out important to you?” Dylan said. “Is that why you’re a detective?”
“I suppose it is, at least partly,” Kane said. “Why are you asking all these questions?”
Dylan looked around the room. His movements reminded Kane of Laurie, too. He’s really his mother’s son, Kane thought.
“I guess because I don’t know you very well,” Dylan said. “I was still pretty young when you left, and what I remember is that you weren’t around much even before that. It made me mad, that you didn’t pay more attention to me.”
“Are you still angry?” Kane asked.
Dylan shrugged, his thin shoulders coming to points under the white shirt he had worn for work.
“I guess I am,” he said. “I don’t want to be, but I am. And I don’t know what to do about it. There were times when I really needed a father, and you weren’t there.”
The truth of what Dylan said, and his honesty in saying it, made Kane flinch.
“I could be a father now,” he said.
Dylan nodded as if he’d expected Kane to say that.
“I know,” he replied, “but I’m not sure I need a father now. Besides, what good does it do to have someone in your life if you’re mad at them all the time?”
He got to his feet and walked around the room, looking at the furniture like he’d never seen anything like it before.
“You got anything to eat?” he asked.
“No,” Kane said, “but we could call room service. Let’s look at the menu.”
They did, and Kane called and ordered. As they waited for the food, Dylan chatted about school and his job. It was as if, in talking about his anger, he had walked up to the edge of a cliff and, now, he wanted to back away from it in a cloud of inconsequential noises.
The food arrived and they sat at the table. Dylan began eating the French fries from his fish and chips and Kane took a bite of his steak sandwich. Dylan broke off a story about a party he’d been at and said, “Why did you leave us?”
Kane swallowed his food and said, “I was put in prison.”
“I know that,” Dylan said, “but Mom always said that you went to prison because you’d made bad choices. Why did you make bad choices?”
That’s the $64,000 question, Kane thought. He took another bite and chewed and swallowed automatically, then drank some water.
“I could give you a lot of reasons for that,” he said. “I could tell you about my difficult childhood and about the fact that I’m an alcoholic. But I’ve come to think those are just rationalizations. I think the real reason I made bad choices was that I wasn’t thoughtful.”
“You mean you were, like, impulsive?” Dylan asked. “People say I’m impulsive.”
“Not exactly, although I was impulsive at times, too,” Kane said. “I mean I didn’t think about my life, about what it was and what I wanted it to be. It was like I just accepted everything about myself without question, without judgment. So I never really saw the bad parts of myself. No, that’s not quite right. It’s more that I never really saw that I could or should do something about those bad parts. I just thought I was who I was and there was nothing to be done about it. And since I was, by my reckoning, a better man than my father, I didn’t really see the need to try to improve. Until it was far, far too late.”
Both men ate for a while in silence.
“What do you think now?” Dylan asked.
“I think Socrates was right,” Kane said. “‘The unreflective life is not worth living.’ Now, I’m trying to figure out why I am who I am, and what I can do to be a better person. That’s why I read Montaigne, I guess, and sit in church. It’s hard, though, two steps forward and one step back. Sometimes three steps back. I’m beginning to wonder if I have enough time left to get where I’m going.”
Dylan reached out and put his hand on his father’s.
“It might be too late for us to be father and son,” he said, “but we could still be friends. I could work on my anger and you could work on your bad habits and things might improve.”
“I’d like that,” Kane said. “I would certainly encourage you to be thoughtful about your life, and to judge who you are and what you do by whether it makes you happy, not by whether you are doing well in the eyes of the world. It’s a better way to live, even if it doesn’t solve all your problems.”
“What do you mean?” Dylan asked. “I thought that’s what you were talking about, solving your problems.”
Kane ate silently for a few minutes, trying to get his thoughts in order.
“I think what I mean is that changing yourself takes a lot of time and effort,” he said. “I’m not sure that I could have made myself a better father even if I’d known I needed to. I love you and your sisters, but I never really had the patience to spend much time with you. I was too demanding and critical and, frankly, the things you enjoyed when you were younger bored me. I’m not sure there was any way I could have overcome that.”
“What should you have done, then?” Dylan asked.
“If I’d known myself well enough, I would have not become a father,” Kane said, “at least until I’d managed to change myself.”
They finished their meal in silence, both of them considering what Kane had said.
“How do you change yourself?” Dylan asked when they’d finished. “There are some things I don’t like about myself, either.”
Kane shook his head.
“I’m not sure I know, really,” he said. “About all I’ve figured out is to change my behavior and hope my instincts fall into line with it. I’m trying that with a few things now, like drinking, and it seems to be working. Sometimes.”
Again they were silent, until Dylan said, “Pretty heavy conversation. I’ve got a lot to think about now.”
He got up and walked around the room again.
“I’ve got to get going soon,” he said, “but tell me how your case is going. The Capitol gossip is all crime all the time. Hardly any work is getting done.”
So Kane told him about the Ukrainian, the plot to defeat the oil tax, the kidnapping and the shooting.
“Wow,” Dylan said, “it’s like a Harrison Ford movie or something.”
“Not much like a movie,” Kane said, shifting to make his leg more comfortable. “And none of it seems to be much help in figuring out who killed Melinda Foxx.”
“The White Rose,” Dylan said. “Is that over the top, or what? Maybe I could help you with the case. I know a lot about what goes on in the Capitol.”
“I’d be grateful for information,” Kane said, “but I don’t think you should get involved in any other way. Two people are dead, so we know the situation is very dangerous.”
Dylan laughed and got to his feet.
“I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “I’ve got to be off. I’m going to meet Samantha down at the Alaskan Hotel. They’ve got a band tonight.”
He went to the closet for his coat.
“Dylan, are you really sleeping with that woman?” Kane said.
“Why do you ask?” Dylan said.
“Because I was in the Triangle the other night and saw her making out with another woman,” Kane said. “She’s gay, isn’t she?”
Dylan stood quietly, like he was thinking.
“I’m not sleeping with her,” he said at last. “I just said that to sound, you know, older. I like hanging out with Samantha and everything, but she doesn’t like men that way. She’s a lesbian. One of the reasons she lets me hang around, she told me, is that it gives her cover.”
“Why does she need cover?” Kane asked.
“My American studies prof would say it’s because the legislature is very
chauvinistic,” Dylan said. “Its culture is based on male values like dominance and aggression, and it is also deeply homophobic, as a matter of culture as well as politics. So a lesbian, well, she just screws everything up.”
He paused for a moment.
“Man,” he said, “that sounds deep, doesn’t it? All I know is that it’s only okay to be gay if you don’t flaunt it.”
“Dylan, are you…,” Kane began, then thought better of what he was going to ask. “So why do you hang around with her?”
Dylan shrugged again, and when he spoke his voice sounded forlorn.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not good with girls. She’s safe and there’s no pressure. I’m still trying to figure stuff out.”
“It’s worth the effort,” Kane said. “Figuring stuff out. It’s hard, and sometimes you don’t like the answers, but it’s still worth it.”
Dylan put out his hand and Kane took it, then pulled the boy into his arms. The strength of his hug surprised Kane. Then they both let go and Dylan opened the door.
“You know, Dad,” he said, “right after they found Melinda Foxx’s body, Samantha told me that they’d been friends last year. Samantha’s kind of friends, that is. And that Melinda had a new friend this year. Maybe I can find out more about that.”
“I think you should let me do that, son,” Kane said. Dylan gave him an unreadable smile and left.
Kane thought about putting on his coat and going to find Dylan and Samantha and questioning the woman. But he was sore and found that the conversation had drained him.
I’ll do it first thing tomorrow, he thought, and started getting ready for bed.
32
It is true that the politician, in his professional character, does not always, or even very often, conform to the most approved pattern of private conduct.
FREDERICK SCOTT OLIVER
You look like you’re about to go on safari,” Mrs. Richard Foster said as she opened the door for Kane.
The detective had to admit she was right. Kane had gotten some of Cocoa’s purchases back from the hotel laundry, and everything but the underwear had some sort of loops or epaulettes or little squares of Velcro on it.
“This is what I get for sending the fashion impaired out to buy me clothes,” he said, shooting a look over her shoulder at a laughing Cocoa. “Where’s Winthrop?”
“He’s in the kitchen making mimosas,” the woman said. “Please come in and help yourself to the croissants. The kitchen here baked them special.”
Kane sat down at the big table, poured himself a cup of coffee, and tasted it.
“This isn’t the usual dishwater they call coffee here, either,” he said.
“If you have a choice between being rich and poor,” Mrs. Foster replied with a smile, “pick rich.”
Winthrop came in and set a tray of mimosas in delicate-looking flutes in the center of the table, then went to answer a knock at the door. Oil Can Doyle came in, removed a paper from under his arm, handed it to Mrs. Foster, took off his coat, tossed it to Winthrop, patted his toupee into place, and sat.
“Listen to this,” Mrs. Foster said. “The headline says, ‘Governor’s office aided alleged criminals.’ It’s the big headline, too, on the front page.”
Doyle was grinning like a crocodile.
“That’s today’s paper,” he said. “It should give Hiram Putnam and his minions heartburn. Here’s yesterday’s.”
He took a folded paper from his inside pocket and handed it to Mrs. Foster. She unfolded it and said, “It’s the main headline again. It says, ‘Blackmail, kidnapping in scheme to defeat oil tax.’”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Doyle said. “Somehow that reporter, Cockerham, got his hands on copies of Miss Atwood and Senator Grantham’s statements, plus a lot of information on what happened to you, Kane. I can’t imagine how he did that. Or what the jury will make of all this if Senator Hope comes to trial.”
Instead of replying, Kane took a bite of croissant. It practically melted in his mouth. He swallowed and said to Mrs. Foster, as if Doyle hadn’t said a word, “That’s good advice. Be rich. I’ll have to remember that. Why doesn’t everyone sit and we can get started.”
Before going to bed the night before, Kane had made a round of telephone calls to set up this meeting. Then he’d gotten up early and hobbled up the hill to sit in the back of the church during the early mass. The old priest had given a vigorous sermon against what he called “unnatural acts” and the civil unions bill “being considered down the street,” using as his text Romans 1:26: “For this cause God gave them up unto vile affections; for even their women did change the natural use unto that which is against nature.”
A pair of middle-aged women got up in the middle of the sermon and walked out, talking loudly about “closeted old queers” and “mixing religion and politics.” Kane followed them out, thinking about what Dylan had said the night before. How have we gotten to this place in America where people glory in looking down on other people? He knew that religions weren’t perfect—the Roman Catholic Church has plenty to answer for, God knows—but expected them to resist the impulse to condemn people, not encourage it. No wonder Dylan’s friend Samantha was careful not to tread on convention.
When everyone was seated, he began, filling in the group on his dealings with George Bezhdetny.
“So you think he isn’t involved in the murders?” Mrs. Foster asked when he’d finished. “Where does that leave us?”
“I’m not sure,” Kane said. “But last night my son told me that a woman he knows named Samantha was once involved romantically with Melinda Foxx, and that Melinda may have had another woman lover this year. I think my next step is to find this Samantha and get her to tell me what she knows. But I don’t even know her last name. I tried calling Dylan just before coming here, but he wasn’t home. All I did was wake up his roommate again.”
“I’m sure I can find out,” Mrs. Foster said. “Let me make a few calls.”
Cocoa cleared his throat. Kane looked at him and raised an eyebrow.
“I know where she lives,” he said. “I can take you there.”
He looked at the surprised faces around the table and said, “What? All the cabbie can do is drive? I’ve driven Samantha home plenty of times. Like I already told Nik, I expect I know where everybody in the legislature, and everybody who works there, lives.”
“Okay,” Kane said. “Then I guess I’ll go talk to her. Does anybody have anything they want to say before I go?”
“I do,” Oil Can Doyle said. “After I left you yesterday, I went out to talk with my client, and he actually told me some things.”
“What things?’ Kane asked.
Doyle looked around the table.
“I’m not sure how much I can say,” he said. “The rest of these people could be subpoenaed.”
Kane gave the little lawyer a disgusted look. Mrs. Foster opened her mouth, but the detective held up his hand to silence her. Everyone looked at Doyle until he actually began to squirm.
“I need something to drink,” he said, looking at Winthrop. “Could I have some just plain orange juice?”
Winthrop got up and went into the kitchen.
“Too early for you, Counselor?” Mrs. Foster asked, amusement in her voice.
“He doesn’t drink,” Kane said.
Both the woman and the lawyer looked at Kane in surprise.
“But his reputation…,” Mrs. Foster began.
Kane nodded.
“He pretends to drink,” Kane said, “but it’s all part of his act. He wants people to think he’s strange and flawed and repugnant. He wants them to underestimate him.”
Winthrop returned with a glass of orange juice and handed it to Doyle. The lawyer took a drink and said, “I’m not sure about repugnant. How did you know?”
“You stuck me with the bar tab, remember?” he said. “The night I got here? All that was on it was ginger ale.”
Doyle smiled, a real smile this time, n
ot the horrible rictus he usually employed.
“I guess I can’t be both a deadbeat and a pretend lush,” he said. “I’ll have to remember that.”
He looked around the table.
“Melinda Foxx called Senator Hope when he was in Anchorage last fall and asked to meet him in an out-of-the-way bar,” he said. “He thought it was odd, but she said it was important.
“When she arrived, she seemed to be both troubled and afraid. She said she had proof that her employer was breaking the law. She said that she was willing to give the proof to Hope but that he had to keep her identity a secret. He said he started out suspecting she was part of some sort of scheme to discredit him but her sincerity convinced him otherwise. Still, he was reluctant—the whole one-senator-spying-on-another problem—but she told him that they both had an obligation to expose corruption. He couldn’t argue with that, so he agreed.
“She gave him the information about the no-bid contract. He handled it carefully, he said, and when the information turned out to be good, he was happy to meet with her again when she called. This time, she insisted on a hotel room. She was very excited when she arrived, he said, and even more afraid. He tried to comfort her and she was, by his account, more than willing to be comforted. At the end of their…encounter…she gave him the information about the illegal campaign contributions.”
Doyle swigged orange juice and looked around the table.
He likes being the center of attention, Kane thought. I suppose that’s one of the things that make him a good trial lawyer.
“He saw her frequently after that, always at the same hotel,” Doyle said. “She said she was still looking for information, but mostly they met to have sex.”
Kane looked at Mrs. Foster. Her face was deadpan. He realized that she had never actually said how she felt about Hope now that her husband was dead, and thought about trying to get Doyle to stop talking about the sex he was having with another woman. But he decided that it was too late for tact and that she was going to have to protect her own heart.
“They continued to meet here after the session started,” Doyle said. “About a week before she was murdered, they met at their usual spot. She was very excited. She told him she was pregnant with his child and asked him what he wanted to do about the baby. He said he’d have to think about it. They agreed to meet again the night she was killed. As she was leaving, she said, ‘We make a good team,’ and that’s when he knew she wanted him to marry her.”
