by Katy Munger
"To offer my cooperation," he said. "I am anxious to put this matter to rest so that the campaign can continue to focus on the real issues."
Stoltz groaned and I felt sorry for the guy. He was having trouble controlling his proteg6.
"Is this a joke?" I asked, scanning all three of their faces. "I know. You want me to run out and let the press know that you're cooperating, is that it?"
"No, no, no," Stoney assured me, his hands lifting off the desk in emphasis. "I assure you I am not offering my services for publicity's sake. I am entirely serious. Mary Lee and I are old friends, you know, we go all the way back to our college days. I went to Duke and she went to the University of North Carolina but we often met at parties. Duke is a tradition in my family, my mother went there as well." He smiled at her and she relaxed a little. "She was homecoming queen one year, I believe."
Well, whoopee doo. That made me like her a whole hell of a lot better.
"Adam here, of course, is one of our northern brothers." Stoney smiled apologetically and, being a sucker, I felt a flash of sympathy for Stoltz. He had been a stranger in a strange land for many months now. "He graduated from Harvard, but we won't hold that against him, now will we?" Stoney smiled at his advisor. I did not join in. I had decided to hold everything against Adam Stoltz, if possible.
"How can you help me?" I asked him. "Are you aware of the nature of my investigation?" I knew damn well that he was not, since I hadn't updated anyone. I was getting the feeling that maybe that was the purpose of this visit. Did he want to pump me for information on my leads? Was there something personal in this for him?
"Am I aware of your investigation?" he repeated. "Well, in answer to your real question, I am not trying to trick you into divulging anything confidential, I assure you."
Well, ouch. The guy was so upfront it was ridiculous. What was I going to do now? "So you're just offering to answer any questions I may have for you that might possibly help in my investigation?" I said. I thought his advisor and mother would pass out when I phrased it that way.
Stoney nodded. "If they are pertinent to your investigation, yes. Like I say, I would like this to be over."
"He means he will answer any questions relating to his relationship with Thornton Mitchell," Adam Stoltz clarified. "But only on the proviso that his answers remain confidential and that they are not leaked to the press in an attempt to help the Masters campaign."
On the proviso? Geeze, is that how they talked in the North? "I am not a paid political operative," I assured him. "I've never even stayed at the Watergate."
He didn't even get the joke. Good god. How old was I anyway?
"Stonewall, this is too much," Mrs. Jackson interrupted, distress lending an owl-like screech to her voice. "We must call Uncle Boyd and ask his advice before we go any further. Can't you see this woman does not have your best interests at heart?" She pointed at me like I had just caused three young ladies to drop to the ground and writhe in agony under my spell.
"Mother," Stoney said, his composure cracking for the first time since I'd met him. "I am a big boy. I do not need to ask Uncle Boyd's advice. I did not offer him advice during his campaigns. I let him run his office in the manner he saw fit. I expect the same courtesy for myself. Give it up. I am not going to call Uncle Boyd with trivial matters. Let him die in peace."
"Don't repeat that!" Sandy Jackson cried at me. "You did not hear that!"
"Hear what?" I asked innocently. So, Senator Boyd Jackson was closer to death's doorstep than I —or anyone else —realized.
"You must not repeat that," Mrs. Jackson insisted again. "It invades our privacy."
"I'm not a political reporter, either," I assured her. "Calm down."
"I am perfectly calm," she snapped back, tugging her jacket down and settling back in her chair like a petulant child. Jesus, and I thought my own mother had been a drag. At least mine had been upfront about torturing me.
"I should not have said that," Stoney conceded. "And I would consider it a personal favor if you keep the true nature of my uncle's ill health confidential." I shrugged and he took it as a yes. "To get back to the matter at hand, if it helps, I can fill you in on some of the information you may need. I did not know Mr. Mitchell personally. Indeed, I have never met him that I can remember and he is a virtual stranger to my family. But he did contribute to my campaign, I will concede that. How much was it?" he asked Stoltz.
"The maximum," Stoltz grumbled. "Four grand."
"Does that include his PAC contributions?" I asked brightly, knowing that Mitchell probably single-handedly supported the mother of all political action committees in this state. PACs are a nifty way to circumvent the legal limits on individual contributions.
A long silence greeted my remark.
"His company did make additional contributions through a PAC," Stoltz admitted glumly.
"But the pertinent thing is that we did not know him," Stoney pointed out like the lawyer he was. "He has attended several fundraisers for both myself and my uncle. Most of them, in fact. But that was the extent of my family's relationship with him. I am sorry I cannot provide you with more useful information on Mr. Mitchell. Perhaps you have some questions for me? I would be glad to answer them if you do. In return for our cooperation, I hope you will let me know in advance what the outcome of your investigation is."
That was when I finally figured out his angle.
"After checking with Ms. Masters, of course," Stoney added. "She is a gracious woman and I am sure she would want to let me know before the press gets ahold of any information you may uncover."
Lord, he would make a good senator. He had charm and nerve in spades. He wanted me to let him know in advance so he could prepare his reaction and come out looking calm, cool, and collected.
"If Mary Lee agrees, it's a deal," I said. I knew she wouldn't.
"Good. Then I'm glad we had this talk." He stood and beamed his hundred-watt smile at me. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" he asked.
"Sure," I admitted. "You can tell me where you were the night Thornton Mitchell was murdered. Since you weren't at home."
His smile switched off. His advisor groaned. His mother shifted abruptly and let one leg fall to the floor with a thump.
The candidate sat back down in his chair. "Who told you that?" he asked calmly.
"It doesn't matter," I answered. "You offered to cooperate. Now's your chance."
"I warned you!" Stoltz interrupted in his deep voice, but his control had slipped and it boomed out like a foghorn cutting through the mist. Everyone jumped and he looked embarrassed. "I warned you," he repeated in a lower voice. "Not everyone is going to act like a gentleman, Stoney. You can't follow some code of honor that no one else is following. You're trying to play some sort of honor game but you're the only one following the rules. You can't win that way."
Huh? I always get lost during macho sports metaphors. I suspect I'm supposed to.
"Mother, could you leave us alone?" Stoney asked politely. His voice was soft but the look he turned on his mother was not. She rose without a word and left the room, slamming the door behind her.
The silence that followed was broken by Stoney's polished voice. He was calm, I gave him that. Very calm.
"Ms. Jones," he said evenly. "It is true that I was not at home the night of Mitchell's murder. The police are aware of this fact, as well as the circumstances of my whereabouts that night. They have confirmed my alibi, if you wish to call it that, and are satisfied. While I understand your desire to know the details, I cannot satisfy your curiosity. There are certain things a gentleman does not tell. I'm sorry."
That weird thing happened again. I believed him. I sat there staring at his determined but apologetic face and could not tear myself away from his gaze. He had been with someone and he wasn't going to tell because he cared about her. Lucky lady.
"I'm sorry to hear that," I admitted. "It would make my job easier."
"Sorry to inconvenience you," he a
pologized again.
A knock at the door interrupted us and the receptionist in the blue mini-dress stuck her head into the room. "Mr. Maloney," she squeaked in excitement. "There's a man here from one of those tabloid shows. They're doing a segment on the murder and they want a statement."
Stoney exchanged a glance with his advisor and I knew at once that they had discussed this eventuality days ago. He was prepared. "I'll be right out," he told the girl.
"Okay," Stoltz commanded, my presence forgotten as he assumed an air of authority. "Let's get out there quick so this looks off-the-cuff. But remember, stick to the statement you gave earlier. You're above it all. You can make it casual, if you want. This is television and any stiffness will work against you. In fact, let's do it in short sleeves." He actually scurried over and unbuttoned Stoney's shirt sleeves, pushing them up his arms so the cloth bunched around his elbows like he'd been toiling over hot legislation for days. "Repeat at least twice that you and Mary Lee are on good terms and you're sure she's not involved. The middle-of-the-road vote is important and polls show we're attracting center voters that your uncle would never have reached. And don't laugh, whatever you do, a man has been killed after all. Be courteous, but remember that the whole experience is just a little too sleazy for you."
"The whole experience is just a little too sleazy for me," Stoney replied, heading for the door. Stoltz scurried after.
That left me as part of the furniture. I contemplated putting on my sunglasses and furtively slipping behind Stoney, pinching his ass on camera as I breezed past to leave all of America wondering who the bleached blonde with black roots could possibly be. But more practical matters beckoned. Instead I searched Stoney's desk drawers for evidence of a romantic liaison. If he didn't want to give the woman's name, chances were good she was married. That meant hotel or motel time, someplace where no one would be watching. And that meant credit card slips. But the drawers yielded nothing more exciting than a three-pack of red, white, and blue American flag condoms. The box was unopened so it was possible it was a gag gift and not a megalomaniacal fetish on his part. The pockets of his suit jacket were equally barren, though I did find three notes with girl's names scrawled on them, along with their phone numbers. All three were written in different handwritings. I guess women threw these scraps at him all day. They were slightly less obvious than tossing brassieres. I considered tucking my card in with the stack, but refrained. I never did like being part of a crowd.
I had just finished replacing his jacket on the back of the chair when I heard noises in the corridor. I dashed back to my chair and was innocently smoothing the legs of my pantsuit by the time Stoney and a small crowd of minions returned.
"Perfect," Stoltz was saying in satisfaction. "Your mother is a good touch. Having her in the background answering phones makes it clear you're independent, but her recognizability factor is so high they can't ignore her and have to ask how she is. So we get the family vote. Perfect."
Stoney didn't look as if it had been perfect. He looked like he was getting an ulcer. His shoulders slumped as if he were weary of the entire game and wouldn't mind warming the bench for a while. "Leave me alone with Ms. Jones for a moment," he commanded. Stoltz and the three volunteers behind him hesitated halfway out the door. "Just a few minutes, Adam. Then we'll leave for Asheville." The advisor and his lackeys took their leave reluctantly.
"I hate that stuff," Stoney confessed when we were alone. He did not return to his seat behind the desk but instead pulled up an armchair until it was only a foot or so from mine. He plopped down in it wearily and ran his fingers through his hair. It was thick and springy, like teddy bear hair. I wouldn't have minded running my fingers through it myself. And maybe patting him on the back and rubbing the kinks out of his shoulders while I was at it. The Rockman looked exhausted.
He sighed and exhaled a good five seconds of air. "Listen, this really does suck," he said. "Mary Lee doesn't deserve this kind of crap hanging over her head and all anyone is asking me about is the murder. I'm tired of it. I was running a good campaign, a clean campaign, until this. I want it cleared up and cleared up fast."
"But not enough to tell me where you were on Wednesday night?"
"Look, Casey," he confided, leaning toward me until I could smell his aftershave. Yum. "I had to tell the police, I know that. And I had to use some family pull to get them to keep it quiet. I didn't like that, but it had to be done. But I won't tell you and I won't tell anyone else. The woman in question is married and any disclosure would cause her and her family a great deal of pain. I can't do that to her."
"Does your mother know?" I asked, partly out of curiosity and partly because I was pissed that he wouldn't tell me.
He flinched. "No. She knows something is going on. She doesn't know with whom. That's a battle I'll have to fight on my own."
"How long do you expect it to go on?" I asked. "Are you planning to sneak her into your D.C. pad or what?"
He sighed. "Look, I don't expect it to last. There are too many problems. But I'm not giving her up until I have to."
"I'm sorry," I said. The words surprised both of us. "Really, I am. You haven't got a private life and I know it's difficult. I can tell just by looking at your mother."
He nodded. "The trouble with my mother is that she's usually right. She knows North Carolina politics better than anyone in the state. But I could not walk away from this… woman. And I won't until I have to. I hope you understand."
"I hope you get to keep your secret," I said.
He smiled thinly. "Want to have a drink with me when this is all over?"
"What?" I almost dropped my drawers.
He looked up at me, his face a little sad. "No, I mean it. I like you. You're smart and you don't hide it. You're strong and you let people know it. I know who you are. How many people can you really say that about?" His blue eyes bore into mine like he really expected an answer. He didn't get one.
"Well, maybe I'll ask you again sometime," he finally said.
"You do that," I answered, standing to go.
The corridor was crowded with volunteers and paid workers, including Stoltz and Stoney's mother. They watched silently as I walked down the long hallway, my thoughts filled with more questions than I'd had when I arrived.
I couldn't figure Stoney Maloney out. He was not what I had expected at all. He seemed genuine about wanting to help. Yet it was a dangerous offer for him to make. He had nothing to gain except a little advance notice of anything I unexpectedly uncovered. And he had a lot to lose if my path led to him or his campaign. I struggled to separate the real man from his image. I was starting to believe that he was the rarest of people, someone whose heart led the way. Yet I felt downright naked without my cynicism.
Chapter Eight
Let me explain what happened next. I appreciate a man with principles (when I can find one) but that doesn't mean I go so far as to trust a guy just because he makes my cooter twitch. After leaving Maloney headquarters, I circled back to Hillsborough Street and parked behind the dumpster of the nightclub across the street. I had my eye on a little red Mazda Miata waiting near the back door of campaign headquarters. I knew it was Stoney's and I knew I was going to search it. Then I would trust him. Maybe.
Half an hour and two lukewarm Diet Pepsis later, a black stretch limo pulled into the parking lot of Maloney headquarters and slid to a halt near the rear entrance. The building door opened and an entourage emerged, blinking into the sun. Adam Stoltz looked around nervously as if he knew I were watching, but Stoney was too busy consoling his mother to be suspicious. He had his arm draped over her shoulders and was bent low, talking intently as she scowled. Several volunteers brought up the rear, their arms piled high with promotional giveaways. The driver of the limo hopped out of the front seat and went around to the trunk to help the campaign workers dump their loads of buttons and bumper stickers inside. Stoney wasn't big on ceremony. He opened the limo door himself and climbed inside, leaving Mom on the
outside looking in. Adam Stoltz and the volunteers joined Stoney and the car pulled away in a cloud of exhaust. Sandra Douglas Jackson stared after the tail lights. She watched the car for as long as she could, then marched back inside Maloney headquarters as if she were in need of a few good people to kick around.
Leaving my Valiant nosed in between two dumpsters, I dashed across Hillsborough Street and slipped behind a large hedge that sheltered Maloney headquarters from the dental offices next door. I emerged from the boxwoods ready for action, my trusty Slim Jim in hand. It's a nifty curved piece of metal that can jimmy the lock on just about any car door, especially Mazda's—which are as easy to open as a can of tuna. The back door of Maloney headquarters was firmly closed and the only noise was the steady hum of the air conditioner. I slipped the Slim Jim down between the inner and outer hulls of the driver seat door, sliding and pulling it until I hooked the right assembly and the lock indicator popped up. I was in the front seat within seconds, sprawled across the soft leather so that I was invisible to anyone walking by. At least I hoped I was. Chances were good my refrigerator butt was poking up a few inches. But I'd just have to risk it.
Stoney was something of a pig when it came to his car and I felt a certain kinship between us. The floor was covered with political pamphlets, fast food wrappers, one black sock, and two empty Mountain Dew cans. I decided not to hold his beverage of choice against him. There were no empty beer cans, open liquor bottles, or patriotic condoms to be found. The console between the two front seats held a supply of quarters and I wondered why. There were no toll roads near Raleigh. Phone calls perhaps? To his secret love bunny? I saved the glove compartment for last, preferring to draw out the suspense. Hey, I take my kicks where I can get them. When I finally opened it, a Niagara Falls of registration and insurance papers, crumpled napkins, aspirin bottles, sunglasses, plastic fast food sauce packets, and badly refolded road- maps tumbled to the floor. It was awkward lying sideways across the seat with oozing ketchup packs plastered to my forehead, but fortunately I'm used to suffering.
