by Ed Gorman
‘So how’s Jess doing?’
‘As far as I know, pretty good.’
‘Between us, I’d be afraid to be in public again.’
‘She’s got a lot of protection but I’m nervous for her sake, too.’
‘I saw Ted on TV this morning. He did a good job. But he loves the spotlight a little too much for my taste.’
‘Well, let’s say he did a good job and leave it at that.’
‘Someday we’ll have a real discussion about Ted Bradshaw and I’m going to force you to tell me what you think of him.’
Her phone rang. She went into field commander mode again. Apparently there was a sector of the city that had not been visited by our volunteers. She was relaying her feelings about this in a voice that would have done George S. Patton proud. Whoever was on the other end of the phone was no doubt cowering and getting ready to beg for mercy.
After she hung up, she said, ‘By the way, you hear what a caller said on Phil Michaels’s show?’
Michaels was our local hate-radio guy.
‘The caller said he hoped that next time there’d be a better shooter and Michaels said he’d be willing to pay for target practice at a firing range.’
‘You’re actually surprised? I’m not.’
‘In my day if you said something like that two of J. Edgar Hoover’s boys would pay you a visit.’
‘That dates you right there.’
‘What does?’
‘J. Edgar Hoover. He was a long time ago.’
‘Yes, he was, sonny boy.’ Her harsh laugh was a salute to the institutions of tobacco and alcohol. ‘But the stench lingers on.’ Then, ‘I suppose you want to bore our gang with a pep talk?’
I slid my arm around her and hugged her. ‘I’m thinking you and I would make a perfect couple.’
THIRTEEN
The dark waters reflected the moonlight. The yellow security lights swayed in the wind. Only one of the houseboats showed any light in its windows. The expensive craft were at the west end of the dock. The ones nearest the asphalt I stood on were not only modest, a few of them were in shambles. Paint faded, windows patched with tape, not much bigger than a prison cell. I doubted that these ever left the dock. They’d work for beer parties just fine as people, drinks and drugs sprawled over the land, keeping the shabby houseboats nothing more than storage bins. The elites at the far end of the dock probably roared up here just to stand on the bow and piss. It was strange then that the pavilion would be at my end. It was behind me in the wooded area. I’d checked it out. It was empty.
A politician is shot at. A minimum-wage landscaper has six thousand dollars cash in his underwear drawer. A woman who claims to be his wife woos me out here …
My rental was the only car in sight. There was no traffic on the river road, either. The surrounding timbered hills made me uneasy. After last night I’d become aware of all the places a sniper could hide.
The temperature had to be below forty now. I wore the collar of my Burberry turned up. My Glock was in my right pocket.
I watched as every few minutes cars drove east on the narrow river road. There was a new housing development about two miles from here. I kept waiting for one of the cars to crank down a turn signal and pull in here. Then the woman and her husband would appear and explain everything. And after they explained, we could bring in the police and the matter would be resolved.
I walked around to keep warm. The long line of watercraft should have been the scene of women in bikinis, cookouts and little kids proving that they were in fact powered by batteries. And husbands and wives happy to be together again after the long hard week of scraping together a living in these brutal and unforgiving economic times.
The pep talk at campaign headquarters had gone well for the twelve minutes it took to deliver it. How confident I’d sounded; how downright paternal. When you mention that you’re working with the FBI, the state police and a security task force, most people buy in. For all the time they’re listening, anyway. But then you leave and they start thinking and talking – you know how these damned human beings are, thinking and talking all the time – and all of a sudden it’s as if that fatherly gent hadn’t spoken at all.
But now it was just the attack of the branch-rattling wintry wind …
The clattering old Ford pickup truck came along a few minutes later, spewing country-western music and angry shouts. Then an image: the young woman and her husband bitterly arguing over talking to me. Him growing more and more dangerous the closer they got to me.
But no.
In a furious clamor, human and mechanical, the red pickup passed on, disappearing around the curve about a block east of here.
A few minutes later, another car. A newer Ford. Slowing down. Turning in.
I felt the beams of the headlights as they detailed me. A perfect target for any enterprising shooter.
The Ford kept on coming toward me. Then stopped jerkily. A white-haired man’s head appeared through the open window. ‘Could you help me?’
The voice was old and urgent.
Fingers around the Glock – who knew what the hell this was all about? – I made my way to the car. Seen up close, he looked very old indeed.
‘The wife got me this GSP thing’ – he meant GPS – ‘but I forgot how to use it. I was just drivin’ to the convenience store’n I got lost. I guess I should turn around, huh?’
‘You want to go back to town?’
‘Yeah. Then I want to get home.’
‘Then you turn right around and head back on the river road. Town’s just a couple miles away.’
The brown eyes were as worn as the lined face and the trembling voice.
I checked my watch again. I had been here just short of thirty-five minutes. And for no discernible reason.
‘Tell you what. Let me get in my own car, then you can follow me into town.’
‘That’d be real nice of you. This GSP thing ain’t worth a damn.’
All the way back to the hotel I sulked and brooded. Maybe I was playing a game with a woman who didn’t know a damned thing about the shooting. Hell, maybe Dorsey’s people had put her on me just to run me around in circles.
Later, I ended up in the hotel bar talking to a woman who was at least as lonely as I was. She showed me a variety of grandkid photos – she looked to be a very young forty – and talked about all the night-school classes she’d been taking since her husband had left her for the younger woman he’d met at the gym. She was here visiting her sister and would be heading back to Grand Rapids tomorrow. Then she got a tad alcohol-sad and started dabbing her eyes, not only with her drink napkin but also with mine. And then, like quick cuts in a movie we were in the elevator, then in her room, and then in bed. It was comfort sex for both of us – nothing wrong with that at all.
FOURTEEN
The activities of the next day reminded me of my army days. Complicated maneuvers.
The task force responsible for Jess’s protection had approved of the schedule we’d emailed them and then had responded accordingly by Google mapping every place we planned to go. The appropriate number of local and state police would be dispatched. Extra officers would be needed to control the swollen number of reporters. The three most desirable hotels were completely sold out. Jess was a national celebrity; the best kind, the kind you felt sorry for. Feared for.
Jess worked her way through the approved schedule. All photo ops – a retirement home, a new mattress factory Jess had wrangled massive tax cuts for, a farm family that would have been too sweet even for a Norman Rockwell painting. Jess had had no choice but to vote for the farm bill, a payoff to corporate agriculture that would make any sane person sick to his or her stomach. In addition to being thieves, they were also poisoning the worldwide food supply with pesticides and genetically modified organisms. But we’d voted for it, hadn’t we? This was an election year and this was an agricultural state. We liked to think of ourselves as decent people; we also liked to think of ourselves as hav
ing a seat in the next Congress.
The press loved the drama. The TV people especially enjoyed asking average citizens about the shooting. One woman even teared up talking about how afraid she was for poor Congresswoman Bradshaw. Tears are the TV equivalent of orgasm.
Jess found the number of protectors excessive. Instead of comforting her they reminded her of her vulnerability. It was easy to imagine last night’s gunshots playing over and over in her head.
Despite her annoyance and fears she was just about perfect in the Q&As and was especially touching in a conversation with an elderly couple in assisted living. The press loved it.
By early afternoon the appearances were over. Cory drove us back to Jess’s house. Jess wasn’t the gloating sort, but I could tell by the occasional playful smile that she was pleased with herself. It didn’t hurt that Cory reminded her every few minutes how well she’d done.
A black Mercury sedan that could only be an unmarked police car sat in front of the house. I was not only curious but for some reason uneasy about this. I assumed that the Mercury was the property of Chief Showalter.
Once inside, Jess excused herself and said she was headed upstairs to lie down. She didn’t seem interested in the presence of the chief.
‘Anything for me to do?’ Cory asked.
‘Go in the kitchen and get yourself a snack if you’re hungry.’
‘I could use a Pepsi.’
‘There you go.’
‘Just help myself?’
‘Don’t worry about that pit bull guarding the refrigerator. He only attacks Dorsey supporters.’
He laughed and headed down the west hall.
Nan emerged from the living room. Worry crabbed her pleasant face. ‘Chief Showalter and Ted have been in the den for twenty minutes or so. I heard Ted shout about ten minutes ago. I get the feeling something’s going on.’
‘Maybe I’d better get in there.’
‘Just knock.’
Which I did.
Showalter’s voice invited me in. He was in charge. My anxiety about him being here was proving to be correct.
The den was of Hollywood design. Massive built-in bookcases, massive stone fireplace, massive Persian rugs over hardwood floors, a desk you could perform surgery on and genuinely mullioned windows. The dark leather furnishings would have made a British lord proud.
The ambience of the room was spoiled by the two men sitting in it.
‘I’m glad you’re here, Dev,’ Ted said. ‘I was about to say a couple of things to our esteemed chief of police.’
‘I’m doing my job, Mr Bradshaw. Nothing more. I’m not accusing anybody of anything.’ To me, Showalter said, ‘We had a meeting at the station this morning. The whole crew, including Forensics, and a few questions came up. Mr Bradshaw is jumping to conclusions.’
‘The hell I am. You’re the one who’s jumping to conclusions. You come in here with some bullshit about maybe the whole thing was faked—’
‘Wait a minute. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘See, Dev, you’re reacting the same way I did. It’s total bullshit.’
There were two chairs in front of the aircraft-carrier-sized desk. Ted, being the commander, sat behind the desk; Showalter and I sat in front of it.
I said to the chief, ‘I don’t like the sound of that at all.’
‘I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t like the sound of that, either. But that isn’t what I said.’
‘Go ahead and tell Dev what you told me. See how he reacts.’
Showalter’s large head pivoted toward me. He angled himself in the chair so he faced me. ‘I’ll be happy to tell you what I told Mr Bradshaw. Hopefully, you’ll appreciate the fact that I’m just doing my job of investigating. You were an investigator. You know you have to eliminate all the possibilities if you want to do an honest job.’
But Ted’s charge that Showalter had said or implied that somehow the assassination was ‘fake’ had startled me. What the hell could Showalter be talking about?
‘We looked at where the shooter was firing from. The trajectory. Then we studied where the bullets hit the building behind Congresswoman Bradshaw. They all hit well above her head.’
‘So he was a lousy shot. I don’t know why that’s so important.’ Ted’s anger had now been replaced by whining.
‘Do you see what I’m talking about, Mr Conrad?’
I shrugged. ‘Either he was a total amateur or he panicked.’
‘We’re not ruling either of those possibilities out.’ He tried to enlist my support again. ‘I think you’ll agree, Mr Conrad, that I’m just trying to do my job.’
‘I can see that, Chief Showalter.’
‘You’re siding with him, Dev? Great. You’re on my payroll, remember?’
‘This is all speculation, Ted. The shots went wild. My personal feeling is that the shooter panicked. He wanted to kill Jess but he got scared.’
Showalter kept his face cop-blank as I spoke. Not even his eyes revealed any opinion.
‘There. There’s your answer. What Dev said. The bastard got scared at the last minute and his shots went wild. We’re just lucky it happened that way or my poor wife would be dead.’
Showalter spoke quietly. ‘Mr Bradshaw, you called me last night just before midnight. My wife and I happened to be sleeping. Our oldest daughter has strep and Becca was worn out. But I took your call and we talked for what, nearly twenty minutes? You said you wanted to be in the loop. You must have used that expression ten times. So I thought that as a courtesy I’d drive out here and let you know what we were thinking. All the scenarios we’ve considered so far,’ he nodded to me, ‘including what Mr Conrad said – that our shooter got scared and his shots went wild. We’re obviously dealing with a disturbed personality here so who the hell knows what he was thinking. All we know is that he’s dangerous and that we need to find him ASAP because we can’t be sure he won’t try it again. Which is why we’ve got the congresswoman protected seven ways from sundown.’
A couple of things were going on here. Number one was that Ted was getting the kind of treatment police officers reserve for the wealthy. If Ted had been middle class or, God forbid, working class or poor, Showalter would have said what was really on his mind. And he would have said it bluntly. As an accusation.
Number two was that Ted, for all his paranoia, did not seem to understand the real implication of Showalter’s theorizing.
But as he stood and shot me a look, I saw – and I was not imagining it – the intent of Showalter’s appearance in his eyes.
‘Mr Bradshaw, I’ll be in touch later today.’ A good-neighbor smile. ‘Sorry I got you all excited. I didn’t mean to.’
A nod to me. ‘See you again, I’m sure, Mr Conrad.’
When he was gone, Ted said, ‘Can you believe that son of a bitch?’
I was in a hurry. ‘Damn. I forgot to ask him about the ballistics.’
‘Ballistics?’
‘The kind of rifle and if they found the bullets.’
‘Oh, yeah, right. The ballistics. I should’ve thought of that, too.’
‘Let me see if I can catch him. I’ll be right back.’
‘Maybe I should go with you.’
‘No, that’s all right. You just sit here and relax now.’
I reached the hall in time to hear the massive front door click shut. I double-timed it to the front of the house. Showalter was moving at least as fast as I was. He was already standing next to his black Mercury. From the front porch, I said, ‘Chief, I’d like to talk to you a minute.’
‘Oh?’
I wanted to drown in the day. The scent of autumn in the hills, the soft soothing breezes, the burning colors of orange and gold and cocoa on the leaves, Churchill barking at birds. I did not want to approach Showalter and hear what I knew he would say. Not because I would believe it; the dread was that he already believed it.
I started out by telling him about the second call from the woman claiming to know about
the shooting, and how I’d waited for her and her husband last night at the boat dock.
The smile was in no way convincing. ‘You’re a grown-up, Mr Conrad. You realize that you could be being played. That this is just some kind of prank.’
‘I realize that.’
‘If you feel guilty about not letting me know about your trip to the dock beforehand, don’t. I appreciate that you didn’t waste my time or the time of my officers.’
‘Now let’s talk about the real thing.’
‘I’m not sure I’m following you, Mr Conrad.’
‘Oh, I think you are. You danced all around it, but I picked up on what you were really saying.’
‘And what was that?’
‘That you don’t think the attempted assassination was real.’
He paused; he was uncomfortable. ‘Well, I don’t think it was a serious attempt to kill the congresswoman.’
‘I don’t agree.’
‘You can’t afford to agree, Mr Conrad.’
So there we had it. He had just confirmed his real feelings.
‘What you’re really suggesting here is that we were behind the shooting.’
‘One of the men on the task force brought it up this morning. Congresswoman Bradshaw was starting to lose in the polls – a one-point lead isn’t much considering that she was several points ahead not long ago – and needed to turn things around.’
‘You really think the congresswoman would have anything to do with staging an assassination attempt?’
‘No, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean that somebody associated with her didn’t stage it without her knowing.’
‘So you’re formally accusing us of staging the shooting?’
‘No,’ he said, opening his door. ‘As I said inside, I’m just doing my job.’ He slid behind the wheel. Just before he closed the door, he said, ‘But it’s a possibility.’
Then he was pulling abruptly away. Brisk, brusque, military.
Bastard.
PART TWO
FIFTEEN
‘You’re brooding,’ Abby said.
This was much later in the afternoon.
