“Damn, Torie, go on and run for president of the whole damn country. I know you’ve thought about it. Tell me you haven’t.”
“If and when I do, your bed-wetting liberal ass had better be standing right next to me, smiling in the finest Dolce and Gabbana suit you can drag out of your closet. Hampton Bridges had the nerve to ask me if I was running for Congress, and you sound just like him.”
The familiar breaking news music sounded. The words SUSPECTED ATLANTA SNIPER DEAD IN SWAT TEAM RAID crawled across the bottom on the high-definition display. A local newscaster gave the play-by-play while chopper-fed video of the scene streamed live.
“Read it, Torie! It says ‘suspected’!” he shouted. “You’re not a jury!”
“I am tonight.”
“So, you don’t have an ounce of doubt? What would your father say about this?”
“My father was a graceful man, far too hesitant to seize the mantle all but handed to him by Dr. King. Hawk won that congressional seat only because my daddy refused to run.”
“You could use some of his grace.”
“I am not my brother’s keeper, nor am I my father’s child,” she said. “It’s over and we got him. That bastard—” she said before she caught herself and looked up.
Dressed in matching Lilly Pulitzer nightgowns, their twins hovered in the doorway.
“Mommy, what’s happening?” Maya said.
“Why are you yelling?” Mahalia chimed in.
“It’s over,” their mother said, taking both girls into her arms. “A very bad man killed Uncle Ezra and we caught him.”
“Well, that’s good, right?” Maya said.
“Yes, Maya, that’s a good thing,” she said, giving Marsh the side-eye. “I want you to go back to bed now. You’ve got tennis camp in a few hours.”
“But we don’t want to go to camp,” Mahalia said, wiping her sleepy eyes. “We want to stay with you and Daddy.”
Victoria knelt down and cupped her daughter’s chin with her fingers. “Hallie, everything is okay now. I promise you.”
“You promise?” Mahalia said.
“Mommy doesn’t break her promises. And I promise you that I will always protect you.”
Marsh left the room. Minutes later, Victoria heard the garage door go up and Marsh’s Porsche Panamera Turbo rumble down the drive.
“Where’s Daddy going?” Maya asked.
“Your father has a patient at the hospital,” she said, spilling out the first white lie that came to mind.
“Okay,” Maya said. “Can I have your dragon?”
“What dragon?”
“The red one on your desk. Can I have it? It’s Japanese origami. Mrs. Connor taught us about them in school. She and Mr. Connor went to Asia last year. She had lots of pictures. I can show you on her Facebook page, if you want. They’re called paper gods. She taught us how to make them, but mine didn’t turn out right. Hallie’s was way better than mine,” Maya said.
“I’m sure it was perfect,” Victoria said, giving her an assuring kiss. “You can tell me all about it tomorrow.”
She shook her head in amazement. Enrolling her girls in an ultraexclusive school like Pace Academy had its political costs, especially in Southside majority-black precincts, but moments like these more than validated that decision. It was also Marsh’s alma mater.
He had been a stabilizing force, the one who wasn’t fazed by the trappings of marrying a Dobbs. He was his own man with his own family fortune, Victoria reminded herself. She regretted talking to Chief Walraven that way too. But the deed was done, her personal loss too great.
Victoria picked up the origami again. She had no idea what the red dragon meant, or who might have sent it or why, but it made her uncomfortable. She shooed her daughters down the darkened hallway and into their bedroom. Back in her den, she called Chief Walraven again.
A fully loaded AR-15 sniper rifle, the same type of weapon that likely killed Hawkins, was found cased in a storage room in the basement of the house, he explained in a halting voice.
“We’re shipping it to the FBI ballistics lab in Virginia. We’re sure it’s our gun,” the chief said.
“What about the woman? The kids?” she asked, examining the silky-red dragon.
A paper god?
“She’s in federal custody,” the chief said. “She’s not saying much, but she did say that her husband was at home all day.”
“What about the kids?”
“They’re with Child Protective Services,” the police chief went on explaining. “The feds will debrief them in the morning.”
He stopped and said, “By the way, Mayor Dobbs, just so you know, we didn’t shoot him. He killed himself, single gunshot to the temple. He was already dead when we got inside the house. We recovered a nine-millimeter handgun.”
“That coward saved us a trial,” she said with a shrug.
SEVEN
Hampton tapped the top of the fancy, single-serve coffeemaker and watched as hot, foamy milk dripped into the waiting cup. Back in the day, before the Times-Register relocated to a suburban office tower, the Deadline Diner used to sell real food. These days, the overworked Keurig machine and a rack of prepackaged snacks in the breakroom were among the few indulgences left at the Times-Register. He had his daily pick of flavors, and the very thought of sipping on this hazelnut-vanilla latte made his soul sing. And, of course, it came compliments of the house!
It was the least management could do, seeing as the editorial staff had been cut in half over the last two years, on top of the system-wide early-retirement packages that gutted the newsroom. Website traffic was up, but the print edition was thinning and failing. There were now more coupons than stories in the Sunday edition. Travel budgets were slashed, and the reporters were forced to get by on shoe leather, outdated laptops, and age-old cell phones. Every open records request had to be approved, and payment to government entities was known to take several months. Hampton slipped a couple of seemingly innocuous requests through the system without drawing the ire of the accounting department.
He was stuffing four small packs of mini-pretzels into his side pocket, when Hampton received an urgent text message from his editor. Infrequent but terse missives from Tucker always sent shock waves down his spine, and Hampton had no idea what he might have done to deserve this one.
Call me.
A second text immediately followed.
MEET ME IN MY OFFICE. NOW.
Forgetting the cup of java in the breakroom, minutes later Hampton was waiting outside the managing editor’s office when Tucker’s secretary strolled by. Joyce Renfro was notoriously short on words, though her demeanor always gave her away. Miss Joyce, who was aging like a bottle of buttermilk left in a high sun, glanced at him and glowered as if he’d personally strangled a litter of newborn kittens.
He was in some sort of trouble, but of what sort or severity he could not venture to guess. The look on Miss Joyce’s face made him want to make a beeline for the elevators. It was just like Tucker to leave him sweating out in front of the entire newsroom.
The office door suddenly jerked open.
“Get your ass on in here, Hamp,” Tucker boomed.
Hampton wheeled himself through the threshold. The editor slammed the door behind him. Before he could part his lips to say “How goes it,” Tucker tossed a stack of binders onto his lap. “I thought I told you to let this go.”
“Let what go?”
“This so-called investigation of yours,” Tucker said. “You’re going to get us both strung up.”
Hampton was dumbstruck. “What investigation?”
“Don’t play me, Hampton Bridges. This isn’t the time. The executive publisher called me about this herself.”
Hampton looked around nervously. “Reclaim Atlanta?”
“Keep it up, and you’ll be claiming an unemployment check.”
“What I do on company time is your business. What I do on mine is mine,” Hampton shot back. “Honest to God, I wi
ll tell her that myself.”
“I seriously doubt Wilma Delacourte wants to hear from you.”
Hampton looked down at the heap of folders. A copy of some financial disclosure reports he’d ordered from the secretary of state’s database and a time-stamped Freedom of Information Act letter he had filed with the City of Atlanta sat on top.
“How did you get this, anyway?” Hampton said without looking up.
“Don’t ask me things you don’t really want to know.”
“You’ve got people spying on me? You sent those IT goons into my email account?”
“I’m just the messenger. Learn not to use company servers or your press credentials,” Tucker said. “And company stationery is strictly reserved for authorized company business.”
“Okay, so what?” Hampton said. “I was doing a little digging. That’s what reporters do, right?”
“You’re digging your own grave here,” Tucker said. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that this is a suicide mission. The entire executive team wants you fired.”
“Then do it, Tuck,” Hampton challenged. “I don’t have a problem suing anybody for wrongful termination, least of all the suits upstairs.”
“I would if I didn’t think there was something to this.”
Hampton blew out an audible sigh. “Then let me follow it, wherever it leads,” Hampton said. “Let’s toss some chips in the air and see where they fall.”
“I’m more worried about who they might fall on.”
Hampton grumbled.
“Why would you use your company laptop, anyway? And you know good and damn well that open records requests are discoverable.”
“It’s the only one I have. I had to pawn my MacBook to pay the damn light bill, thanks to the dock in salary.”
“The mayor is one thing. But you cannot go accusing the Delacourte family of campaign finance fraud and expect to keep your job.”
“I haven’t accused anybody of anything,” Hampton said, arching his brow. “Yet.”
“So that’s really what this is? You’re going to haul the wealthiest family in the Southeast into federal court?”
“I’m not a prosecutor and I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Does it matter?”
“Then find another way to get there. I cannot get another call from upstairs. I’ve put my neck on the chopping block for you a few too many times, and I won’t do it again.”
“So, you’re telling me to keep going?”
“No.”
“Then what are you saying, exactly?”
“Mr. Stovall, your editor, is ordering you to stop. Tucker, your friend, is saying where there’s smoke, there is fire. The less I know, the better. You’re on borrowed time.”
Hampton was relieved. The wave of fear was almost gone, but he was now rummaging through his head to figure out who had snitched. He wanted to know who ordered his IT accounts scanned and why. Somebody was poking through his email and somehow knew about his latest FOIA request. He’d sent it only days ago.
Hampton hated putting Tucker in a tight spot and told him so. For that, he apologized.
“This conversation stays between you and me,” Tucker said finally. “Deal?”
“Deal.”
EIGHT
Victoria woke to the pleasant sounds of rustling pots. The smell of maple bacon floated down the hallway to the master bedroom. Being a self-professed albeit backsliding vegetarian, she’d denied herself the pleasures of the hog, but surely there was a pan of Mother’s legendary apple-cheddar drop biscuits too! Rosetta knew how to roust her children from bed without uttering a word.
Her brother, Chip, had phoned earlier, eager to kick off the campaign. She resisted the urge to hang up on him.
“I haven’t decided,” she told him.
“I know you loved him, Sis. They don’t make them like that anymore. But Hawk would want you to do this. You know Daddy would too,” he said. “I’m ready when you are. Say the word, and we’ll get to work.”
“Work? You can’t work for me, and don’t bring Daddy into this.”
“That man loved you,” Chip whispered almost inaudibly. “Like you were his own.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“I didn’t stutter. Say it again!”
“You don’t want to hear what I’ve got to say. I know you better than you know yourself, and that’s real.”
“Fuck you, Chip,” Victoria said. “There is no campaign. If and when there is, you don’t have a job.”
“I’m still your brother,” he said. “I’m still your blood and the best campaign manager you’ll ever have.”
“Had,” she said. “Ever had. You’ll be lucky if they don’t put your ass in jail.”
“Plenty of room in the penitentiary for two.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you need to think hard about these choices you’re making.”
“Is that a threat?”
“You know me better than that.”
“Fuck you.” She hung up, tossed the phone into the nightstand drawer, and slammed it shut.
Victoria gathered herself and tried to forget about Chip. She allowed herself to wallow for a time between the Egyptian satin sheets, basking in the sounds of her daughters giggling between chords as they tapped the keys of the grand piano in the formal living room. Besides, her own keys needed tapping. She ran her hand up her leg and tickled her clitoris until she felt the creaminess spill out over her fingers. She let out a gentle moan as she continued massaging herself under the comforter.
Marsh had not come home again. But Victoria could not bring herself to be concerned about his frail ego or where he was at that moment. It took several days of quiet diplomacy, but the funeral arrangements were finally complete. With the public memorial service only days away, she was certain that Marsh would show himself at some point. He would not falter on that obligation, she knew. Until then, she was happy to see after her own needs.
It was 8 A.M. or so by the time Victoria laced up her running shoes and pushed her way over, around, and down the bends of Habersham Drive. She jetted over the short stretch along Peachtree Battle Avenue and then up Peachtree Street, passing Bennington Towers, Park Place Condominiums, and the Cathedral of Saint Philip. Saturday morning traffic was in full stride. Cars spilled onto the roadway from various private drives and condominium parking decks. A spate of joggers littered the sidewalks as mothers and nannies pushed fair-faced babies in tricked-out strollers and walked their beautifully groomed dogs.
Her hip was still grumbling, over the objections of a mild pain reliever. Still, Victoria managed a two-mile run in the low summer sun. Holy Row, the strip of Peachtree Street lined with grand cathedrals, synagogues, and churches, was especially grueling, but visions of golden biscuits laden with peach preserves danced in her head. Though she did not want it, Sal Pelosi ordered an additional security detail and tightened the perimeter around the mayor and her family.
“The shooter is dead,” she told him. “Do we really need this?”
“Precautionary,” he explained. “A show of force is necessary to ward off copycats.”
With two plainclothes officers in tow, Victoria picked up the pace as she passed Second-Ponce de Leon Baptist, a near-century-old, painted-white brick church, before finally hooking the left onto Andrews Drive. She sprinted the last fifty yards back to her cobblestone driveway and disappeared beyond the eight-foot privacy wall.
Victoria hadn’t wanted this house. When Marsh ordered the eleven-thousand-square-foot, sprawling Tudor-style mansion built smack-dab in the heart of “Whitelanta” for their fifth wedding anniversary in 2010, she was initially cold to the idea of selling their home in Guilford Forest, an all-black enclave in southwest Atlanta. Her mother had warned that moving so far away from her childhood home would be both a political and personal misstep. No matter how much money they had, she should be living among the people, her peop
le, Rosetta scolded at the time.
“That man of yours is always looking for a bigger mountain, my dear,” her mother said. “Don’t let all that money make you lose sight of the valley or the people in it.”
“It isn’t where you lay your head, it’s where you lay your heart,” Marsh had argued.
Victoria wanted to believe him. But even as they’d unpacked the moving boxes, she couldn’t stop thinking about the rash of radio talk-show callers who had no qualms about calling her a “house Negro” on WAOK, the only black news and talk station in the city. Then there was the never-empty email inbox that overflowed with messages questioning her political loyalties from people who could not name their state representative if their very lives depended on it. Marsh kept kissing her, up and down her neck, over her shoulders and between her breasts, until Victoria agreed to put the state-issued smartphone away.
“Are you going to listen to them or me?” he cooed, leading her to the king-sized bed that hadn’t been loaded into its frame. He tipped the mattress onto the floor and slipped himself between her legs. Rosetta, coughing over the intercom system, interrupted their midafternoon frolicking.
Atlanta was two cities in one: one black, one white. One sat north of I-20; another lay to the south. One of them controlled the ballot box. And the other held its purse strings. Winning in a citywide election always meant cutting a grand bargain.
Victoria knew the rules all too well. Her father, Park Dobbs, along with Ezra Hawkins and others, had rewritten the playbook decades ago, when Maynard Jackson beat Sam Massell in his first bid for mayor. It was 1973. Hawkins took his seat on the Atlanta City Council that same year. John Lewis followed in 1981.
Victoria thought about Hawkins now, his sparkling coffee-brown eyes, the way his jowls shook like saddlebags when he laughed, the way he made you feel as if you were the only person in the world when he spoke to you. She missed his soft warm hands, the lumbering gait of his stride, and his proclivity for pressed white napkins when he took afternoon tea with a spot of cream.
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