by Davis Bunn
“Better.”
“She was a wonderful woman, Matt. We all miss her terribly.” The day’s somber mood settled onto Sol’s face in timeworn creases. “You need anything?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Hospital food reminds me of stuff you clear out of the disposal. I should know. We’ve got a few minutes; we could stop—”
Paul Kelly said, “You heard the boy. He’s fine.”
“I was just asking, Paul.”
“I don’t want to deal with stops and strangers. Not today.”
“Sure, sure, no problem.”
“There will be all the food in the world once we get this over and done.”
Sol said to the driver, “Let’s go.”
Matt was dressed in a dark suit and fresh shirt and gray tie. Everything had been brought to his hospital room by Sol Greene. Matt’s first inkling of what lay ahead had come three days before. By then he had been more than ready to leave the hospital. The twice-daily face wraps, done to help speed the healing process and reduce the risk of scar tissue, were finally over. His leg wound was closed, the muscle strong enough for him to start using light weights in his physical therapy routine. Then Sol had shown up and asked him to stay. Not his father. Paul Kelly had paid his son perfunctory visits most days, but said little. Communication had never been easy between them. Sol had played his customary role of mediator and asked Matt to hang tight for three more days. No reason had been given because none had been required, which was good. His mother’s absence had keened through the hospital corridor, a lament borne on electronic monitors and astringent odors. Matt had simply nodded acceptance and waited to be alone again.
The limo’s interior hummed with a repressed energy. Paul Kelly pointed his sunglasses at the side window and idly tapped his fingers on the glass. Sol kept to his somber silence, his body swiveled partway around.
The tension heightened as they approached Mount Vernon Methodist. The street in front of the Peabody Music Academy was cordoned off and filled with press and news vans and satellite dishes and antennae and cameras. The media coverage was immense. SENATORIAL CANDIDATE LOSES WIFE LESS THAN A MONTH BEFORE THE ELECTION. SON EMERGES FROM HOSPITAL TO GO DIRECTLY TO HIS MOTHER’S FUNERAL. NO ARRESTS MADE. Matt could feel the headlines shaping in the air around his head as he emerged from the limo.
The granite church was blackened by two centuries of city soot. The arched entrance doors loomed before them. The church’s interior was darkened by a future bereft of Megan Kelly and her talent for giving joy even to her conflicted men. The doorway framed a silent challenge so intense it crimped Matt’s chest. Matt gritted his teeth and limped forward beside his father. He had failed her before. He would not fail her now. He would find his mother’s killer and bring him down.
Inside, everything bore Sol’s trademark professionalism. The press filed into the upstairs gallery. The church downstairs was packed. The choir sang. The pastor spoke. Sol rose and delivered a brief eulogy on behalf of the bereaved. Megan Kelly’s numerous friends filled the church and sobbed. Even the pastor, Ian Reeves, a man his father disliked for reasons never expressed, wept from his chair on the dais.
When it was over, Matt rose and motioned one of the pallbearers aside. His body was one huge ache. The press thunked down the back stairs and piled outside for shots of the wounded kid, his scalded face framed by his mother’s casket. Matt did his best to shut them out entirely. He walked forward with the grim determination of one whose quest was about to begin.
At the gravesite Matt stood to the right of his father. Though it hurt his leg to remain at attention, he took refuge in stonelike rigidity. The day was heavily overcast. A wintry wind drifted through the gathering. The cemetery was rimmed on two sides by a forest of hickory. Magnolia and dogwoods sprouted in careful abundance along the silent lanes. The heavy gloom heightened their flamboyant autumn colors.
Toward the end, Matt had to hold his father upright. Paul Kelly took it very hard as the pastor, his wife’s dearest friend outside the family, closed the Book and took a step back. Matt’s father had shown no emotion all day. But his famous control was shattered at the sight of his wife’s body being lowered into the grave.
As he started to lead his father away, Matt spotted Trish on the other side of his mother’s grave. She had come by the hospital several times. Her visits had been almost as strained as those with his father. As Matt gripped his father and headed back to the waiting limo, he felt anew the constant defeat from every beautiful woman who had ever dared love him.
A groan from his father was all it took to refocus his attention. There was room for only one concern now.
Matt dreaded what was bound to come next.
Detective Lucas D’Amico held to the crowd’s edge and studied the perimeter. It was a cop’s way of attending a funeral. Some perps got their jollies hanging out and seeing the carnage they wreaked on people’s lives.
The papers were making a lot of noise over the murderer being from the right-wing fringe. On the surface it made sense. But D’Amico had his doubts. Still, the case was almost two weeks cold and they didn’t have a decent lead to their names. Having the papers make noises about a freakoid hiding in the western hills took a lot of heat off the chief’s head. So D’Amico kept his doubts to himself and followed the routine.
He watched the kid lead his father back to the line of black limos. Matt Kelly was limping worse now than when he had left the church. The wound on his left temple was healing, but the scab still looked parboiled. Even so, Matt Kelly remained a good-looking kid. He sure turned heads among the gathered women. He carried himself with a soldier’s posture, kept his dad upright, and hid his own distress well.
Lucas D’Amico doubted anyone else could see how much it cost the kid to basically carry his old man down the path. D’Amico watched them closely and ditched them both as primary suspects. They hadn’t been high on the list to begin with. Lucas D’Amico liked the way the kid looked after his old man, even when it cost him. The fact that two strong men were laid this low said a lot, as far as D’Amico was concerned.
D’Amico’s own name had been good for some ribald comment when his own dad had been a cop and the Baltimore underworld had been ruled by two Neapolitan clans. But nobody had mentioned that to Lucas in years. Nowadays Baltimore’s crime was high-profile and multiethnic. The Italians were still around, but they had to battle for turf with the Viets and the Haitians and the ’Ricans and the homeboys. Not to mention the gangbangers migrating up from northeast Washington.
The cops had changed as well. Few of the old clans were still on the force. Lucas D’Amico was the only third-generation cop working out of headquarters. When his old man had carried his gold badge into the front line, his best buddies were almost all from cop clans like his own. Irish, a few Polish, the occasional black. Tight. When his old man had caught a bullet, Lucas had supported his mom and been carried himself. It did him good, seeing these two, the old man sobbing hard and the kid limping but still supporting his father’s weight.
Camera flashes and television lights framed the gray day. The pair of them leaving the grave site made for great news coverage. Not to mention how the unsolved murder had turned a local race into a national event. Lucas spotted the mayor, three city aldermen, the local Democratic congressman, and the lieutenant governor. A lot of muscle in the power world, watching the departing pair. Lucas studied some of the faces, saw the mix of sympathy and envy. He wondered with a cop’s sense of irony which of them might be willing to sacrifice a family member for this sort of coverage.
His attention was caught then by a portly man holding back, watching the two men stagger toward the limo. He remembered the name— Sol Greene, a top political strategist and Kelly’s campaign manager. D’Amico and his partner, now laid low by another chest infection, had interviewed the guy twice. Sol Greene wore the sort of slick suit favored by people who bought without looking at the bill. Inside-the-Beltway, Capitol-Hill glossy. But no am
ount of silk and starch could do anything about the guy himself. Sol Greene was a doughboy long past his sell-by date. Discolored, fleshy, nervous.
Lucas walked over. “Terrible thing.”
Sol was so focused on the press and his candidate that he hadn’t even noticed Lucas’s approach. He glanced over but clearly couldn’t make the face.
“Detective D’Amico.”
“Oh. Right.” Sol resumed his observation of Kelly’s slow progress. “I’ve already talked to the cops.”
“Sure. That was my partner and me. He’s out with the flu.”
“Right.” Sol wasn’t paying attention. Or he was, and trying hard not to show it. “You need something, call my office, why don’t you?”
The guy watched father and son like a director offstage. His work was there on public display now. He couldn’t do a thing but sweat—which he was doing. His features gleamed in the steel-gray afternoon. “You okay, Mr. Greene?”
“Do I look okay? The election’s less than two weeks away.” The portly man rubbed his forehead hard. “You caught the fringe dweller that did this to my candidate?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Yeah, well, work harder.” Sol Greene did everything but snap his fingers. “Excuse me. I got to go speak to the mayor.”
“Sure, pal. You do that.” But the words were spoken too softly to carry, and only after Sol Greene stepped away.
As the mourners gathered, the press placed their house under siege. Sol organized a trestle table packed with food and drinks. The press ate and hung out in the narrow park running down the center of Eutaw Place, interviewing any guest willing to stand still.
Matt observed all this from the living room’s front window. He stood at the periphery of the gathering, silent and watchful. Mourners patted him on the shoulder, spoke a few words, shook his hand, and moved on.
Matt spotted Vic Wright standing in the front yard, eating from a paper plate. He was talking with Detective D’Amico. Vic spotted Matt in the window. He gave a quick hand gesture. Vic had no interest in meeting these people. He just wanted Matt to know he was there.
Matt heard the guests behind him quietly discussing the case. Right-wing fringe, they said, the same verdict Matt had heard on the hospital television. Some fanatic sneaked down from the hills, did his worst, and vanished. Remember the Carolina manhunt a couple of years back, the army was brought in, the bomber’s picture flashed on the nightly news, and the killer stayed on the loose for nine months? And the Baltimore cops don’t even have a name. Matt gave no sign he heard them. He did not like having to use this gathering as a time to plot. But he had to move while he could.
Trish moved up alongside him. “Can I get you anything?”
In reply, Matt took the drink from her hand and set it down on the already crowded coffee table. She looked at him curiously but made no objection as he gripped her elbow and steered her through the crowd. He spotted Jack van Sant, the personal aide to his new boss at State, standing in a corner by himself. Matt’s entire quest depended upon having a word with the man. But this had to be done first.
Now that he’d turned toward the room and the people, however, he was open to approach. Midway to the front door, the pastor who had given the benediction lodged himself in Matt’s way. Ian Reeves nodded to Trish and asked, “How are you holding up, Matt?”
“Fine, sir.”
“You don’t look fine. You look distraught.” Ian was fleshy and not the least bit handsome. Every part of him, from his lips to his wayward hair to his mud-colored eyes, seemed plucked from nature’s Goodwill box and fitted together at random. All but his voice, which could deliver the straightest blow with such care and concern there was no pain. “I shall miss your mother. A very great deal.”
The words were the day’s simplest soliloquy and the only one that threatened to undo his control. Matt clenched his entire body and managed, “Thanks for what you had to say in church. Though I’m not sure how much I actually took in.”
“To be honest, I didn’t hear much of it myself.” If Ian noticed Matt’s tension, he gave no sign. “She was a great inspiration to a lonely guy in an ill-fitting collar. The one I could trust with what needed to remain not just secret, but unsaid.”
Matt nodded and slipped around the man. He had to get outside before his resolve splintered and fell with all his unshed regret.
To Matt’s relief, both the detective and Vic had departed. Matt led Trish down the front stairs and turned his back to the clustered journalists. “Thank you so much for coming.”
Trish wore her long hair swept back from left to right. Matt considered it a California style, one that went with head flipping and feigned indifference. Which was what she did now. “You’re sending me away?”
“Everything you said about me, every argument, every demand, they were all correct.” The day’s pressure was a balloon in his chest and gut. “How am I supposed to care for somebody when I don’t even know who I am?”
Her hair was brown and blond, a few shades darker than his own, and her best feature. “Why does it take a tragedy for you to open up?”
He shook his head. He could probably come up with an answer, but the day did not hold enough room. “I have to go.”
“Will you call me?”
“Probably not, Trish.”
She leaned forward and kissed the unscarred side of his face. “Good-bye, Matt.”
He watched her walk away. Then he turned and used the iron railing to push himself up the stairs. His wounded leg was growing increasingly sore. Just then, however, he did not mind. The pain deafened him to regret’s heartfelt moan and helped him focus on what was coming.
Sol Greene met him at the front door. “Your father needs you.”
“Where is he?”
“In his office.” Sol’s worried expression told Matt all he needed to know. “At least, he was.”
As Matt crossed the living room to his father’s office, Jack van Sant stepped into his path. He had been serving as personal aide to the director of State Department Intelligence for two years, a job Matt had heard referred to as an acid bath.
Van Sant, however, seemed no worse for the wear. He was a former marine and bore the day with a stolid sense of duty. “The ambassador asked me to pass on his sincerest regrets, Matt.”
“Thank you for coming, sir.”
“No sirs in this game. Jack will do just fine.”
“Please give the ambassador my best.”
“Roger that. He told me to say you should take as much time as you need; report back when you’re ready.”
Even though he had plotted it out while still on his back in the hospital, Matt found it hard to shape the words. “That may not be happening.”
“Say again?”
“I’ve been approached by the CIA.”
Van Sant blinked slowly. “The ambassador will be sorry to hear that.”
“I doubt he knows I exist.” A slurred voice erupted from the next room. Sol Greene waved urgently. “If you’ll excuse me, I think my father needs a hand.”
Matt’s father was handsome even when extremely drunk. A bottle of single malt stood on the wet desk blotter. Matt could smell the spilled liquor from the doorway. Beside the bottle stood a replica of Paul Kelly’s newest development project, a nine-block section of downtown Baltimore. His business office in Camden Yards had a much larger mock-up in the boardroom. Matt ignored it. He had grown up being surrounded by renditions of his father’s latest prize.
Paul Kelly was holding court. “I never planned to enter politics. But Sol claimed I was a natural and Megan thought it’d be fun. Right, Sol?”
“A natural.” Sol moved up alongside his candidate but made no attempt to dislodge him from the crowd. Most of the others clustered around Paul Kelly held a glass in their hands. But Paul was the only one drinking. “Megan thought so too.”
“’Course she did. What else is she gonna think when our in-house pro gives her the word?” Paul Kelly ga
ve each word very careful work. Pretending he could hide his state from the gathering. “When I sold that company in Colorado, where was it? Can’t remember. Isn’t that a hoot? Bled for the sucker, lived it night and day for two years, can’t remember where . . .”
“Vail, Pop.” Matt stepped into the group. “It was your second—”
“Hotel. Sure, I remember. Finally got rid of that nightmare and started talking early retirement. How long ago was that. Six years, right?”
“Eight, Pop.” His folks had returned to Baltimore the year Matt had completed undergraduate school and joined the Vail police. And been disowned in all but name by his father.
“What I said. My old buddy Sol was waiting to pounce. State legislature.” He had trouble with that last word. “Megan loved the social side of politics. Right from the start. She would’ve taken Washington by storm, right, Sol?”
“She was made for the role,” Sol agreed, very sad.
Paul Kelly hammered back the single malt. When his head lowered, he finally saw his son. The glazed expression tightened. Or perhaps it was just the balloon in Matt’s gut. “How old are you, boy?”
“Thirty-one, Pop. Come on, how about—”
“Thirty-one years old. Graduated with honors from Illinois. Duke Law. Clerked for the state supreme court. My kid, the highflier.”
Sol stepped in close. Used the voice he reserved for crucial political moments. “Paul, listen, why don’t you let Matt help you upstairs. Have a rest.”
The entire room watched Matt pry the glass from Paul Kelly’s hand.
“I’m not done with that.”
“Come on, Pop. Time to roll.”
When Paul Kelly looked ready to argue, Sol said, “We’re right down to the wire, you hear what I’m saying? Tomorrow you’ve got to be in top form.”
This time Paul Kelly did not object as Matt guided him through the crowd, accompanied by sympathetic murmurs. Somebody patted Matt on his shoulder. Another commented on what a good son he was, what a strength and support to his dad. Especially given everything he had been through himself.
