Peter flopped onto the stoop right after her, they caught their breaths, then they started laughing. The runner’s high washed over them, the hit-me-with-a-hammer-because-it-feels-so-good-when-I-stop sensation that some people found exhilarating.
The only thing better: a shower for two, almond turnovers, espresso….
Peter got up to follow her inside, and someone called his name.
A young man was getting out of a Lexus across the street. He had dark hair, blue blazer, golf shirt; he looked like an assistant English professor at a local college.
“I’m Josh Sutherland.” He strode toward them. “I work for Harriet Holden.”
“Congresswoman Holden?” Evangeline came off the stoop. “Tell her we’re big supporters.”
“Tell her yourself.” The young man gestured over his shoulder.
The shaded back window of the Lexus powered down and a woman peered out. She was wearing sunglasses, blue sweatsuit, and a pink ball cap with the Boston “B”. “Is the coast clear, Josh?”
Sutherland looked up the street and down. “No one in this block.”
So the woman got out, and before she was halfway across the street, Evangeline was extending her hand.
“Not out here.” Harriet Holden barely glanced at Evangeline. She said to Peter, “We need to talk,” and climbed the stairs.
WITHOUT MAKEUP, HARRIET Holden looked like any other forty-five-year-old woman who spent too much time in the sun and was damned if she wasn’t going to keep doing it, because Botox was the greatest invention since hair coloring. But no injection or face-lift could loosen the lines of tension around her mouth.
Her whole body seemed nervous, jerking and twitching, all elbows and angles, as if it had never worn sweats before and wasn’t sure how to move unless wrapped in one of those expensive suits she favored for the C-SPAN cameras.
In the condo, she took off her hat, stuck her sunglasses into it, held it out to Josh Sutherland, said to Peter, “I need your help,” said to Evangeline, “Coffee.
No sugar. Just a dash of one percent. And Josh will have—”
Evangeline raised her hand. “Representative Holden—”
“I prefer Congresswoman. Or Congressperson.”
Peter chuckled at that, and Sutherland shot him an annoyed look.
“Whatever,” said Evangeline. “I’m a visitor here myself. And—”
Before she could finish, the congressperson shifted her eyes to Peter. “Coffee?”
“Coming right up.” Peter left the ladies to look at each other.
Harriet Holden looked around the condo instead.
Peter owned the second and third floors of a five-story building, put up as a single-family town house in 1872. The second floor included the original parlor with the bay window, the original dining room, and a modern kitchen fashioned from the butler’s pantry at the rear.
Both rooms had high ceilings, fireplaces, Persian carpets, and wallpaper—green in the living room, light brown in the dining room—that complemented the gold-hued oak woodwork. And of course, books, lots of books, and antique prints on the walls.
“Nice.” Harriet Holden dropped onto the sofa. “Very … masculine.” She gave Evangeline a thin smile. “I should have seen from the décor that there was no woman living here … permanently, that is.”
Evangeline was beginning to think she didn’t like this congressperson too much.
Then Harriet Holden showed why she was good at her job. As if sensing that she had come on too strong, she put a hand on Evangeline’s arm. “If I seem a bit snippy … it’s just that, with this Second Amendment fight—”
And that was enough for Evangeline. The congresswoman could be forgiven.
Peter carried in a tray of cups and an Italian twin-chambered coffeepot, along with two huge turnovers, each cut in half. He poured a cup and handed it to Harriet Holden.
She took a sip and said, “I was just telling—”
“Evangeline,” said Evangeline.
“I was just telling Evangeline that I have a tiger by the tail, Mr. Fallon.”
“The Second Amendment business,” added Evangeline.
The congresswoman nodded. “It’s the reason for all this secrecy. I didn’t want to visit you in your office. It might attract attention. No matter what I do these days I attract attention. There are reporters at Logan Airport right now wondering why I’m not on the seven a.m. flight to D.C. But I like to look a man in the eye before I ask him for help.”
“So”—Peter pulled over a hard-backed chair—”how can I help?”
“You’ve been following our repeal movement?”
“Since the day it began … more closely than you could imagine.”
Evangeline sipped her coffee and said nothing. She was one of the few who knew about Peter’s small part in the FBI action of June, and he had sworn her to secrecy.
“What’s your opinion?” asked Harriet Holden. “I admire your courage,” said Peter.
“The NRA has put me on a poster. Nothing but my face and the words, ‘An enemy of freedom.’ “
“And they’re the rational ones,” said Josh Sutherland, who sat in the bay window like a lookout, with a view up and down Marlborough Street.
Harriet Holden said, “I have a stack of hate mail as tall as you are, Mr. Fallon. I’m excoriated on talk shows all across America….”
“But getting the guns off the street is a noble cause,” said Evangeline.
“Thank you.” Harriet Holden took a bite of the turnover.
“More quixotic than noble,” said Peter.
The congresswoman brushed a fleck of almond from the corner of her mouth. “You disagree with the repeal movement?”
“I think that a musket over the mantelpiece is part of the American heritage.”
“What about an Uzi?” asked Harriet Holden. “The Founding Fathers never imagined the firepower of the weapons those terrorists wanted to use on us.”
“The NRA thinks that once you ban Uzis,” said Peter, “you’ll try to ban muskets, shotguns, target pistols. The slippery slope. They’ll fight you to the last bullet.”
“That’s why we chose the nuclear option,” said Sutherland. “To hell with ten-day waiting periods and background checks. Go after the amendment itself and get the story out: There are police chiefs who agree with us, district attorneys, even Republicans.”
“The repeal would never have made it this far,” added Harriet Holden, “unless the Republicans allowed it.”
Peter glanced at Evangeline, who was listening and nodding and drinking down all this insider talk like cold beer on a hot day.
He hated to spoil her mood with the truth: “I’ve read that the Republicans want to give a certain ambitious congressperson enough rope to hang herself on a national stage.”
For a moment, Harriet Holden just looked at Peter Fallon. She had begun her career in the Suffolk County D.A.’s office and had long ago perfected the prosecutor’s level stare: cold, piercing, righteously pissed. “The day I started this, Mr. Fallon, I sacrificed my dreams of higher office. But if we repeal the amendment, we can make more rational gun laws.”
“Or throw the gun question back to the states,” said Peter. “Then you’ll be able to buy an Uzi in New Hampshire while you can’t buy a BB gun in Massachusetts.”
Evangeline said to Harriet Holden, “If you’re wondering why we don’t live together, there’s your answer.”
Harriet Holden kept her eyes on Peter. “Have I come to the wrong place?”
“I’m not very political,” said Peter.
“But you did contribute to our last campaign,” said Sutherland.
“You do your homework,” said Peter.
“Listen”—Harriet Holden put down her coffee cup—”we didn’t start thinking about that Second Amendment repeal on the day of the FBI bust. That was simply the catalyst. We’d been researching awhile … doing our homework, as you say.”
“We started,” said Josh Sutherland, �
��by reading The Magnificent Dreamers, Professor Stuart Conrad’s great book.”
Peter did not usually tell one client that another was interested in the same item, but since he didn’t know what the item was, he might learn something by tossing out a bit of information. So he told them the professor’s assistant had come to him a few days before.
“Ms. Segal?” Harriet Holden looked at Sutherland. “We asked her not to go off on her own until we had talked to you.”
“Talked to me about what?”
“The professor’s work.” Sutherland came over from the bay window. “He said he was getting close to something that might affect the course of the Second Amendment hearings, which begin in committee next Monday.”
“One week,” said Harriet Holden.
“Did he tell you what it was?”
“No,” said Harriet Holden. “Only that he was on the trail of a rare document.”
“Does Jennifer Segal know what it is?”
“She might,” said the congresswoman. “But I think she’s playing a game, trying to keep the information for herself.”
“Why would she do that?” asked Evangeline.
“Jealousy,” said Harriet.
“Jealousy?” asked Evangeline.
“The professor and I were lovers,” said Harriet bluntly. “I took Ms. Segal’s place.”
“Jealousy, then,” said Peter. “Or maybe greed. Depending on what this is, it could be worth a lot of money.”
“I don’t care about the money,” said the congresswoman. “But if the Framers were debating gun laws from the beginning, I think the country should know about it. The NRA has owned this issue for too long.”
“But what happens,” asked Peter, “if this rare document says the NRA is right?”
“You find the document,” she said. “I’ll deal with the consequences.”
Then Sutherland asked, “Is there any reason why you can’t work for us instead of Ms. Segal?”
“Well, she didn’t tell me what she was looking for, and you did … sort of.”
Peter explained that in cases like this, he functioned as a detective. He charged $1,000 a day plus expenses, or he took 50 percent of the value of the document when found and sold.
They agreed that he would take 50 percent if he found the document.
“So long as we take possession of it,” said Sutherland.
“If you find it,” said Harriet Holden, “you may change the course of American history.”
On the way out, Sutherland pointed a finger at Fallon. “One week.”
AS SOON AS the door closed, Peter turned to Evangeline and gave her a high-pitched voice, “ ‘If you’re wondering why we don’t live together, there’s your answer.’ “
“You were very rude to her,” she said.
“She’s pretty rude herself.”
“She has reason. I bet she fears assassination. Maybe in the next week.”
“Not much time to find something when we don’t even know what it is.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Take a shower.”
“Me first.”
He had given up thoughts of a romantic morning. He now had things to do, and she had a column to write about the Cliff Walk, so long as her editor agreed.
While he waited for the shower, he went upstairs and slipped The Magnificent Dreamers from the pile of books beside his bed. He thumbed through it, glanced at the pictures of the Framers, looked at the jacket photo of the telegenic professor, read the opening lines:
There were fifty-five of them. They came from twelve states. Some lived in cities and some lived on farms. Some were already giants. The rest would soon grow tall. And none would ever do anything as important as what they did in the Philadelphia summer of 1787.
Nice, thought Peter. It made you want to read on. It wasn’t writing from the I-have-a-PhD-and-you-don’t school of prose.
He flipped to the acknowledgments.
The introductory paragraph: “Every author sits on the shoulders of those who came before….” Requisite stuff, polite and thankful.
Then came the names of people who had helped in the research: the usual suspects—professors, writers, curators at repositories where historical papers were collected; then the people from outside the “academy”—park rangers in Philadelphia, docents at James Madison’s home, and … Martin Bloom.
Peter laughed out loud. “Bloom!”
Evangeline was just coming out of the bathroom. She was wrapped in a towel. Her hair was stringy wet. “What’s so funny?”
“Call your editor. Tell him you want to write about Portland, Maine, instead of the Cliff Walk.”
“Why? What’s in Portland? Or should I say who?”
“A collector of autographs and documents whose specialty is 1775 to 1800.”
Evangeline sat on the edge of the bed and began to towel her hair.
He knew she was thinking this through. Should she go with him? What kind of adventure would this be? How dangerous? But what if they really could change the course of American history by finding a document?
And he was thinking of how good she looked, from that wet blond head to the pedicure … and how good she smelled, just soap and warm skin. Her head was tilted to one side as she worked the towel, offering her long neck for … a kiss? That might lead to a deft twist of a finger, a towel-knot undone….
She turned to him. “All right. I’ll do it.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” He leaned closer.
“Not that.” She put a finger on his chest. “You got that last night. I’m talking about Portland. Shower and let’s go.”
INTERSTATE 95 NORTH.
You could start in Miami and go all the way to the Canadian border. And you always paid a toll in New Hampshire. There were other tolls, but usually you got something for your money. In New Hampshire, I-95 crossed one bridge and about twelve miles of turf. And not only did they extract a fee at the infamous Hampton tolls, but on most weekends, they wasted half the surplus gasoline in New England as drivers idled through three-mile traffic jams, steamed at the other drivers, growled at their wives, and yelled at their kids.
It was leaf season, so even on a Monday there was tourist traffic. But New Hampshire had retooled to take EZ Pass, so Peter sailed through, grumbling all the way.
“If you hate the Hampton tolls so much, why didn’t you just call this guy?”
“The longer you stay in a business”—Peter accelerated back into traffic—”the more you learn about people. Some guys will talk for hours on the phone, about the Red Sox, the weather, all the rumors they’ve heard, and all the places they’re finding good stuff. And if you ask the right questions, they’ll give away sellers and buyers, too.”
“But not Bloom?”
“He and his partner have been in business for thirty years. He plays it close. If you want to do business with him, you’ll have better luck looking him in the eye.”
“And his partner? Will he be there?”
“I hope not. Paul Doherty. Grouchy bastard. He usually scouts. Leaves Bloom to run the store.”
As Peter settled into the right lane, he got a chill when he noticed a black Chrysler Sebring a few cars behind. He slowed down to a highway crawl, about fifty, and watched. The Toyota on his tail quickly lost patience and passed, so that the Sebring was directly behind him.
He slowed a bit more, and it inched closer … closer….
Evangeline leaned over and looked at the speedometer. “Are you getting sleepy?”
“Wide awake.” He kept his eyes on the rearview. “It’s just … that Sebring behind us … it’s moving but it has no driver.”
Evangeline whipped around, squinted against the glare, then laughed. “An old lady, Peter. And if you don’t step on it, she may run you down.”
Peter laughed too, but he realized that he was still wondering about that guy from the Cliff Walk.
PORTLAND, MAINE, WAS one of the safest anchorages in
America and closer to England than any other American city. So it had once been a gateway for Irish immigrants coming in, for north country lumber, Maine granite, and Grand Banks cod going out. It had been a railhead town, a shipping town, a working town. But after World War II, the old port had fallen on hard times and stayed there until the eighties.
Then vacationers passing through to Cape Elizabeth or Casco Bay or the Nova Scotia ferry began to notice that along with great views and grand Victorian architecture, Portland had lively bars, good restaurants, a growing colony of artists. Word got out. Money came in. And the old port became the Olde Port.
“This burg’s had more rebirths than a Hindu headed for the last level of enlightenment,” said Peter. “It’s burned down and been rebuilt four or five times. And look at it now. Jumpin’ even at lunchtime.”
If Boston was a miniature city when compared with most American megalopoli, Portland was like a miniature of Boston: three blocks of waterfront, three blocks of business district, neighborhoods both rich and poor, hotels, museums, restaurants, a powerful sense of identity all compressed into a peninsula of a few square miles.
The Old Curiosity Bookshop was on the west side of Market Street, two blocks from the waterfront. It may have gotten a shaft of morning sunlight in July, but the front window was usually in shadow.
Peter knew Martin Bloom liked it that way, because it meant he could attract window-shopping tourists by displaying New England treasures without fear of fading sunlight: a photograph of one of Maine’s greatest citizens, Civil War hero Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, framed with one of his letters; an antique map with different colors showing the extent of each Portland fire; the three-volume set that proclaimed Bloom’s real interest—the papers of James Madison, including Notes of Debates in the Federal Convention of 1787.
A little bell rang over the door. The Schumann piano concerto was playing on the sound system. The shop was empty.
Just inside, a case held more treasures: a first edition of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, written in Brunswick, Maine; a photo of the steamer Portland framed with a letter by Captain Hollis Blanchard, mailed just before he took her on her last voyage; a dirk—wooden handle, shiny sharp blade—that had belonged to Edward Preble, the Maine man who commanded the U.S.S. Constitution in the Barbary Wars. Price tags on all of them, all pretty steep.
The Lost Constitution Page 12
