Deadly Politics

by LynDee Walker

  Gasps and shouts erupted in the gallery of 13th circuit court judge Jeff Monroe’s court Friday, causing Monroe to threaten clearing the room after the commonwealth’s star witness admitted to stealing from the defendants in a murder trial stemming from a February mobile home explosion that left two people dead and three more, including said witness, injured.

  But it was the fireworks in the hallway after Monroe adjourned that changed the whole case.

  Moments after drawing an admission of guilt from Jerry Joe Stickley on allegations of theft, Defense Attorney Craig Terry said his clients were changing their plea. Details of the deal with the commonwealth weren’t immediately available.

  “The commonwealth has done an excellent job of stating its case this week, and the evidence on their side is formidable,” Terry said. “In light of the arguments presented here, my clients have agreed to change their plea.”

  Before that, Terry hammered Stickley with quick questions during the cross-examination.

  “Jerry, how much did my clients agree to pay you for your services?” Terry asked.

  “I got a third of what I sold. Half for hooking a new customer,” Stickley, who admitted to selling methamphetamine in a deal with prosecutors that guaranteed him house arrest, but no prison time, said. “Maybe a grand. Probably. Usually.”

  “And how about if you add in what you were stealing?” Terry asked.

  When the courtroom quieted, Stickley admitted he knew the defendants had discovered his profit-skimming.

  “Scooter told me they were onto me,” he said.

  Ricky Wayne Lesko, known to his friends as “Scooter,” was one victim of the explosion. The other was six-year-old Dakota Simpson, who was sleeping in his room at the end of the mobile home next door.

  I filled in the rest of the details, ran back through the story to proofread, and sent it to Bob with one minute to spare.

  Now. Back to Wyatt Bledsoe.

  I opened a notebook and my web browser, typing his name into the DMV database first. He lived about nine blocks west of my office, in a trendy building full of lofts popular with the upper-class hipster crowd. Next, social media: he’d graduated from Madison in May with a master’s in statistics, and was working . . . Oh, hell.

  He was on Governor Baine’s staff. Youth issues and voting rights.

  I tapped my index finger on the edge of the keyboard, studying his smile. I needed this guy to talk to me. But he wasn’t just friends with Hamilton—he worked for Hamilton’s dad.

  Which meant he wouldn’t want to so much as be in a room with me.

  I clicked back to his Instagram feed and scrolled through photos.

  Hamilton and Wyatt at a bar. At the beach. Raising beers at a baseball game.

  Maybe Parker could help me with this story after all.

  I didn’t get that written down before an email from Bob flashed in the corner of my screen.

  Nice work, kid. Still no update to the actual big story of the day?

  I rolled my eyes and stood, detouring through the break room for a Diet Coke on my way to his office.

  “Nothing I can print yet,” I said, tapping on the doorframe as I stuck my head around it.

  “You’re killing me, Nicey. And you’d better hope Charlie Lewis doesn’t slaughter you.”

  I gestured to his computer, stepping closer to his desk. “She didn’t have anything new at five. It’s coming up on six. What are they teasing?”

  He clicked the bookmark for the Channel Four site at the top of his screen. “Trial day four.”

  “She doesn’t have my sources, Bob. I will get this first. But I have to make sure I get it right. I can’t burn Kyle without making you regret that later as much as I will.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not asking you to burn your source. Just make sure you’re not holding back.”

  “Have I ever had an issue with such a thing?” I put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I don’t suppose you have,” he said. “Weekend plans?”

  “It was supposed to be quiet. But it’s looking busier every minute.”

  He clicked back to his design window, placing my sparse story on the suspicious remains in the capitol building below the fold on the front before he touched a few keys, added an image of the building with a credit to our photo editor, and dropped the file in the production department folder.

  Pushing his chair back, he switched the monitor off.

  “I’m going hiking in the mountains with a group from the Sierra Club tomorrow. I will likely be out of cell range.” He gestured for me to walk in front of him to the door, pulling his battered black leather briefcase from under the desk. “Enjoy your evening. Get your story. Do not get yourself killed while I’m gone.”

  He winked as he shut the light off and pulled the door closed behind us. “I’m only half kidding.”

  “Which half?” I smiled. “Have fun on your hike. Don’t overdo it, please.” Two and a half years on since his heart attack, and I could still feel the terror of finding him in that chair not breathing like it happened this afternoon.

  I carried my soda back to my desk and tapped the trackpad, bringing my screen to life, as I sipped it.

  My email icon flashed in the corner again. Clicking the window up, I almost spewed soda all over my keyboard.

  I didn’t recognize the return address, but I damn sure knew that name at the bottom.

  There are things you should know about Lakshmi. Come see me.

  Signed Angela Baker, former dean of students at RAU, physical mailing address for the next quarter century or so: cellblock seven at Cold Springs, on nine counts of procuring sex workers.

  Lakshmi’s madam.

  I couldn’t get a visitor’s pass for the prison until Monday, and needed a craftier angle—or help from a friend—before I tried Wyatt Bledsoe. That guy would spot a pump job at fifty paces, and I’d only get one shot. Had to make it count. Parker’s office was dark and locked, so I wandered back to my cube and swiped my computer screen back to life.

  I clicked the Channel Four bookmark at the top of my browser window and watched the first ten minutes of the six o’clock; Charlie didn’t have anything on me. I had more detail on the trial by virtue of space. They didn’t mention the murder at the capitol until after the second break, and then it was just updated footage of officers standing sentry while people milled in the background with a recap of the nonstory Aaron had offered before noon.

  Not a bad end to the week.

  I dropped my phone and my laptop into my bag, ready to head home for a glass of wine and a long, hot bubble bath.

  Darcy bounced on the white tile kitchen floor, pawing my foot before I got a half step in the door. I stooped to scratch her fluffy ears, smiling when she twisted her neck to lick my hand.

  “Hi, princess,” I crooned, scooting her backward so I could put my bag down and kick the door closed. “I hope your day was quieter than mine.”

  She flopped onto her back and presented me with a pink belly to rub. I obliged, giggling when she grumbled low in her throat. “I’ve never heard of a dog that purred.” I stood up straight, reaching for the purple leash hanging by the door. The bathtub would still be there in a half hour.

  Darcy scrambled to her feet, lifting her chin so I could clip the lead to her collar.

  “Me too, girl,” I said, following her back outside.

  We had a usual route, a one-mile loop around my little stone Craftsman in the Fan. The streets in my neighborhood aren’t for the easily confused, the whole area named for the way it spreads at an angle from the central part of downtown, resembling an old-fashioned hand fan. Darcy, however, is an old pro. She knows exactly where to turn, which yards have the best chance of a squirrel sighting, and to stop and look for Mrs. Powers at the corner. The latter is almost always working in her flowerbeds, which have graced the cover of many a magazine—and every dog in the Fan loves her because she keeps peanut butter snaps from the dog bakery in Carytown in her gardening apro
n.

  Darcy stopped at the foot of the steps leading to Mrs. Powers’s sidewalk and yipped.

  “Good evening.” Her voice was deep and lilting with just a hint of a warble, her drawl dropping the final g and elongating the vowels. I couldn’t tell if the greeting came from inside or outside, thanks to crisp evening air and open windows lining the front of the house. Darcy tugged at the leash, making for the right-side yard.

  I followed, watching my step around the bright palettes of mums and petunias, blazing reds and yellows stealing the spotlight from the last few blue-purple hydrangea blooms of summer.

  Mrs. Powers rounded the far corner of the house and knelt to pet Darcy when I turned the leash loose.

  Darcy yipped again, nosing at the pocket on the left of the apron. “I know, sweetheart. Here you go.” Mrs. Powers pulled off her gloves and fished out a little heart-shaped cookie. Darcy munched the treat as Mrs. Powers ran a hand through her long, rust-colored fur. The older woman smiled up at me when I stopped in front of them. “She’s such a sweet one, Nicey. Nice to see you girls.”

  “Always good to see you, ma’am. The yard is breathtaking, as usual.” I picked up the end of Darcy’s leash and looped it around my wrist. “Such a lovely evening to be outside.”

  “I do love Richmond in the fall.” Mrs. Powers shifted onto her backside and stretched her legs out in front of her, crossing them at the ankle. Her loose linen pants rode up to show an inch of skin starting to lose its summer tan. Darcy wriggled into her lap, resting her nose near the apron pocket.

  “You are too much, you know that?” Mrs. Powers scratched Darcy’s chin, shaking her head. “You don’t spoil her at all.”

  “Not a bit.” I grinned.

  “Can she have another?”

  “If it’s okay with you.”

  “It’s always okay with me.” She winked, pulling another cookie out for Darcy and stroking her fur while she gobbled it. “So what’s new in the news business? I haven’t seen much of you lately.”

  I perched on the stone edge of a raised bed of fall-blooming coral azaleas and smiled. “I’ve been busy with things besides work, as it happens, but work is good. Tiring today. But good.”

  “Your gentleman friend is very handsome, if you like that tall, dark, and quiet type—and who doesn’t?” She laughed. “His car hasn’t been here so much lately. I was starting to worry. I’m glad to know you’re happy.”

  “He got an apartment down by the river a few months ago. We spent a lot of the summer there—Darcy loves walking along the water and barking at the birds, and the view is just gorgeous.”

  She nodded, plucking a fading goldenrod flower from the mum next to her. “I saw on the TV this afternoon that there was a ruckus at the capitol this morning. You know what happened?”

  “I can’t really talk about that.” The words dripped apology. “I’m working on the story and my sources are very sensitive.”

  “I suppose I’d expect that when there’s a dead whore on the governor’s desk.” The dark words didn’t match her sweet tone even a little, her fingers still working absently through Darcy’s fur. “Shame about that. I like Thomas. I like his wife. And they’ve had enough trouble without another sex scandal.”

  7

  I tried to get words out for a good minute, but damned if I could remember how to make my lips work.

  Mrs. Powers smiled, scratching Darcy’s ears and setting her on the perfectly clipped emerald lawn. “Tell you what. Why don’t you come on in the house. I’m parched, and I have a fresh pitcher of tea in the fridge.”

  I nodded and followed her, Darcy trotting at my side sniffing the air in the general direction of Mrs. Powers and her apron.

  Seated at a charming raw pine farm-style dining table in a breakfast room brightened by twin skylights overhead and a large picture window overlooking the back deck, I smiled and thanked Mrs. Powers when she set a glass of tea in front of me. She poured herself one, filled a crystal goblet with water and put it in front of Darcy, and took the chair across from mine.

  I sipped my tea, watching her. I’d known Mrs. Powers since my second day in Richmond. Tiny puppy Darcy and I were exploring the neighborhood and got turned around by the crazy angled streets. The third time we passed her house, Mrs. Powers asked if she could help me find anything, made fast friends with Darcy, and told us how to get home. The next day, she was waiting with the fancy doggie cookies when we walked past.

  And all this time I didn’t know my sweet, dog-loving, flower-whisperer neighbor moved in powerful political circles? Some investigative reporter I was. But one thing I was sure of: whichever one of us talked first would lose here.

  She let the silence stretch into awkward range before she spoke. “You know I was a preschool teacher.”

  I nodded.

  “The part of that I always find too pretentious to tell folks is that I owned the preschool. I always hired someone to do the administrative things, because the little ones were my loves, and I enjoyed every minute I spent in the classroom. And my Harry, Lord rest him”—she crossed herself—“was a senior vice president at First Commonwealth Bank.”

  Governor Baine’s first job out of law school was on the bank’s legal staff, according to my research.

  My phone buzzed an incoming call in my pocket. I clicked the power button to make it stop.

  Thirty seconds later, a single vibration meant I had a voicemail or a text.

  I nodded at Mrs. Powers. Stay quiet, let her talk. Everything else could wait.

  She sipped her tea. I followed suit. Sweeter than I usually liked, but just the right hint of lemon made up for it. I took another sip before I put the glass down.

  “Harry had an eye for hotshots,” she said. “He told me the first time he met Thomas the boy was going to be someone special someday. I wish he had lived to see how special. He was the bank’s chief counsel back then and took Thomas right under his wing, thinking he’d help him out. But Thomas didn’t need Harry’s help—if anything it was the other way around. He was bright. Quick. Made the department look good to the big bosses in New York. Two years on, Harry was promoted to VP mostly to get him out of the way so Thomas could take over legal. They played golf together. Thomas and Leslie got married and we’d spend weekends joined at the hip, the four of us. Thomas had a thousand questions about early childhood education, the benefits of what we did, and how it might help kids whose parents couldn’t afford to pay. We’d stay up till the wee hours, talking out the finer points of giving kids their best start.” She sighed, turning to stare out the window. “Nichelle, honey, when you get to be my age, you’ll understand how the world works a little better. I wish I’d been better at understanding it back then.”

  Uh-oh. I kept my face neutral, her “another sex scandal” comment rattling around my head.

  I drained my tea glass. She turned back to the table and refilled it.

  “Anyway. The next summer, Thomas filed to run for the school board. He wanted to start an early childhood education program in the city’s poorest schools. Give those kids the same chance the kids he wanted someday would have. He won, of course, and by the time Hamilton was born, he was chairman of the school board and eyeing a run for mayor.”

  She stared at her hands. “It would have destroyed him.”

  Every muscle in my body tensed, keeping my ass glued to the chair when I wanted to crawl across the table and scream, “What? Who?”

  I had the back of her train of thought by my fingertips, but I needed a little hand to get on board.

  How did she know what had happened this morning when I’d practically been threatened with jail should I let it slip? Surely the governor wasn’t confiding in an old girlfriend.

  I cleared my throat. “So you’re still close with the family?” I asked when the silence had stretched around the house and back.

  “Of course, darling.” Her drawl swallowed the g again. “Hamilton Baine is my husband’s son.”

  I sucked in a breath so
sharp Darcy sat up and barked. “I . . . I’m sorry. What?” I stammered.

  She rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You’re not putting any of this in the newspaper, now, are you?”

  Shit.

  That was a tricky question. On the one hand, she was my neighbor and this was obviously a complicated part of her life she was sharing with me. I liked Mrs. Powers. On the other, she knew I was a reporter and she never said it was off the record. The general rule is, you don’t get to backtrack and take a comment or conversation off after you’ve said it. The terms are always on the table up front, and everyone has to agree.

  But.

  Was she sure she was talking to a reporter from the Telegraph, and not her neighbor Nichelle who had the sweet little dog?

  I’d lean toward no. People who don’t deal with the press on the regular don’t know the rules. I wasn’t at work. I didn’t even have a notebook with me—the closest thing I could write anything down on was a doggie poop bag I’d tied to Darcy’s leash.

  Which meant it came down to one thing: What did my readers need to know? And I didn’t have enough information to be sure yet.

  “Nichelle?” She put her tea glass down. “I was supposed to ask you that before I started blabbering, right? That’s the way they do it in the movies.”

  I spread my hands like a blackjack dealer, hoping like hell I didn’t regret it later. “I don’t have a notebook with me.”

  “I’ve just been so upset about this all day.” She refilled her glass. “When I saw you and Darcy come up, I was hoping you’d know something that might help me calm down.” She held out one shaking hand.

  Poor thing. I wanted to help her feel better. I also wanted to know the rest of this story.

  “Mrs. Powers, how do you know what happened this morning?”

  “Ham sent me a note this morning. On my phone. Text, is what he calls it. About all I ever hear from the boy these days, he’s so busy.”

  She pulled an iPhone out of her pants pocket, tapped the screen, and handed it to me.