by Davis Bunn
“Kelly has proven to be useful to our efforts, sir.”
The commissioner swiveled in his chair. “You’re telling me your division can’t solve a simple homicide on its own?”
“Sir, there is nothing simple—”
“Don’t argue with me, Major. Just do it.”
They took the stairs because their chief was too hot to stand and wait for the elevator. Bernstein’s anger carried her half a flight ahead of her men.
D’Amico caught up with his boss as they were crossing the street. “You weren’t going to give them what the kid gave us from the FBI, were you?”
“Don’t talk silly.”
“No, I didn’t think so.” He found his grin popping out again. “You were great in there, Hannah.”
But she was still working off a full head of steam. Her heels came down like she wanted to stab her way through the concrete. Or a pair of stuffed shirts. “I want you to put everything else aside. Focus exclusively on this case. And be fast. I don’t know how long we’ll have before they shut me down.”
“You’re sure about this? This could cost you your job.”
She responded by turning to the lieutenant and saying, “Reassign all D’Amico’s other cases. He’s going full-time on Kelly for as long as we can keep the lid on.”
Crowder could do pained better than anybody D’Amico knew. “Do I have a choice in the matter?”
“Absolutely. You can do it, or we’ll stand here and argue, and then you’ll do it.”
“Chief, we are seriously overstretched.”
“Crowder, this is happening.”
The lieutenant gave D’Amico a world-class scowl. “Man, I’m buying you a corned-beef sandwich with a rat in it.”
But D’Amico was busy watching Hannah Bernstein carry her ire toward the parking lot. “That is one incredible lady.”
“Here’s some free advice, D’Amico.” Crowder walked away. “You seriously need to get out more.”
Saturday was officially Judy Leigh’s day off. But her boss was a woman and a mother, a rarity in the newspaper industry. Sarah was dealing with twin teenagers now, which left her less than positively inclined toward motherhood. But she gave Judy a lot of leeway when it came to office hours.
Which made Sarah’s greeting when Judy showed up late Saturday afternoon more than a little odd. “You’re here.”
“And?”
“I didn’t expect to see you today.”
Judy Leigh’s desk was by the newsroom’s north wall, separated from the worst of the deadline clamor by a pillar and the jutting corner of the managing editor’s office. “The baby’s learning to tango. I thought I’d clear up some of the backwork, get my mind off this fifty-pound jumping bean I’m lugging around.”
Usually Sarah came back with something cute. As in, you think it’s bad now, wait ’til the little dumpling gives you lip at midnight and the words are slurred because of a new tongue stud she forgot to ask your permission about. Like that. Sarah’s twin blond teenagers were known around the newsroom as Bandit One and Bandit Two.
Sarah just said, “Today’s not so good.”
“Excuse me?”
“We have a problem. I was hoping to clear it up before—”
The elevator doors opened. A portly man in a billion-dollar suit walked out, followed by the newspaper’s publisher.
Sarah sighed. “Too late.”
Judy had never seen the guy before. But she knew him. His portrait hung in the upstairs boardroom. And the downstairs lobby. And the publisher’s office. Harry O. Weller. Chairman of Lex Industries. Owner of the Times and thirty-seven other papers around the globe.
Weller was as polished as an ugly man could manage. His face looked waxed and buffed. Judy could see her reflection in what hair Weller had left. He moved in close enough for her to smell a spicy mix of aftershave and hair oil. She would have laughed out loud except for the man’s gaze. “This the woman?”
“Harry Weller, Judy Leigh.” Sarah’s voice had gone toneless.
“I thought you said she was out of town.”
“I managed to track her down.”
“You. Listen up. The kid.” Harry Weller was a legend. Not a good legend, mind. But a legend just the same. The son of a Chicago junkyard dealer who had fought his way to the top of the nation’s newsprint. The few reporters who had met Weller suggested the junkyard owner might have made a mistake and raised his dog instead. Weller snapped his fingers. “What’s his name.”
The newspaper publisher was normally a pompous force in his own right. It was only now that Judy comprehended his nickname among senior editors, which was “Native Bearer.” He adjusted his spectacles and replied, “Matt Kelly, Mr. Weller.”
“Right. You. As of now, the Kelly kid is off your list.”
Judy was too astonished to speak. And those eyes. She saw her future splinter and fall apart just meeting the man’s gaze.
Sarah, however, was made of sterner stuff. “Matt Kelly is at the center of—”
“Far as you’re concerned, the kid is history. His story is finished. You focus on something else. Or leave. Both of you. Pack up and get out. I want your decision now.”
The reporter and her editor looked at each other.
“That’s what I thought.” He wheeled about and said to the publisher, “Get out of my way.”
“Sorry, Mr. Weller.”
When they were alone and Judy could speak again, she said, “This is the first time in a week my baby isn’t moving. She’s frozen up solid.”
“We need to do a weekend piece,” Sarah replied. “Does owning thirty-eight newspapers make you a lizard, or is it only a lizard that can crawl that high?”
“Am I fired? I couldn’t tell.”
“The Native Bearer didn’t hand out pink slips, so I guess we’ve both still got desks.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I’d tell you that I’ll handle Weller, but you know I’d be lying.” Sarah leaned against the pillar. “Do your job. Double-source all material. I’ll assign you a few puff pieces as cover. If anybody asks, they’ll be your current assignments.”
“You want me to find out why Weller is so concerned about Matt Kelly.”
Sarah’s expression carried a three-alarm warning. “Very. Very. Quietly.”
Lucas entered church hand in hand with his daughter. He was used to people staring and hated it just the same. Not for himself. Katy was slow, not numb. She was extremely sensitive to what others thought, which was one reason she remained so quiet. But it was hard for such a large woman to hide.
Rev. Ian Reeves watched them take their seats midway up on the left. Lucas felt his friend’s words pressing down upon what was otherwise a splendid autumn day.
On their way over that morning Katy had announced that tomorrow she would begin helping out at the home. She treated it as the most natural thing in the world. It was only after careful questioning that Lucas learned she already worked there on occasion. The two houses, one a hospice and the other for special-needs adults, were separated by a garden that Katy loved to tend. Another surprise. He settled into his seat and tried without success to push aside the sense of his own life, not Katy’s, being stolen from him.
He bowed over the pew in front of him. Sometimes he could find a special sense of clarity in these moments. But not today. He missed his wife terribly. June had a way of cutting through his selfish excuses and looking at the core of issues. But he was alone now and could not see beyond his desire to hold on to what was already gone.
Matt sat across the central aisle from the detective. Connie had mentioned that the guy was religious. Still, it was jarring to see the man responsible for the investigation into his mother’s death enter his mother’s church.
A young woman sat beside D’Amico. She was dressed in a dark sweater and long black skirt. The clothes only heightened her lumpish appearance. She was broader than the detective and was crowned by uncontrollable dark hair pinned back wit
h a pair of pink plastic bows. She sat staring forward, not looking at anyone.
Matt dropped his gaze back to his hands. Now that he was here, he wished he had not come. He had awakened that morning to the same jarring nightmare and spent much of the early hours staring out the back window and sipping his coffee. His leg had felt stiff from the previous day’s sprint, so he had decided not to run. He could not go to the dojo. He had no campaign commitment until the afternoon game. He had nothing to do except stand by the window and drink his coffee and miss the way things once had been. Finally Matt had dressed and left the apartment without even trying to explain the action to himself, hoping in a wordless swirl of dead emotional leaves that something of Megan Kelly might still be here, in this place she had cherished. Where he had said his final farewell.
After the service, Matt remained seated as the detective led his daughter to the side entrance. Only then did he rise and take aim for where Ian Reeves stood by the rear door.
The pastor greeted him with, “Matt, I thought I recognized you there. How are you, man?”
“I was wondering if I might have a word.”
“Of course.” Ian Reeves pointed to the corner beside the shelf of handouts. “Step over there and give me a minute. I’ll be right with you.”
Matt stood and watched the pastor offer each departing parishioner ten seconds of undivided attention. The man had a politician’s ability to give single-minded focus to one person at a time. As soon as the last lady had tugged at Ian’s sleeve, he turned and said to Matt, “Follow me.”
Matt was led to a stone-lined chamber beside the altar. Ian joked with the elders counting the morning’s donations as he slipped off his robes. He pulled a gray sweater over his head and led Matt into the pastor’s study. “What can I do for you?”
“I need an introduction to Rolf Zelbert.” Matt’s mother had often mentioned the pastor’s Republican affiliation, which Matt assumed was the reason his father disliked Ian. Paul Kelly’s world was cleanly divided between obstacles and those who could help him gain the next prize.
“No problem. Rolf is in town today, as a matter of fact.”
The blank check caught him unawares. “Don’t you want to know why?”
“Is it any of my business?”
“It is if you want it to be.”
“Matt, I’m a plain-speaking kind of guy. Your mother’s absence leaves a hole in my world. If offering you a helping hand draws her a fraction closer, then I’m having a good day.”
Matt rubbed the lower half of his face, trying to conceal the sudden emotion. “I miss her too.”
“Which is why I feel so much closer to her when you’re around.” Ian reached for the cell phone on his desk. “You want to pay back the favor, stop by for a visit. There’s a great deal of her in you. More than you realize. It’d do my old heart good to see more of you.”
The Republican candidate for the United States Senate was a small man with skin the color of a permanent tan, dark eyes, and the aquiline features of a Persian or Armenian or aristocratic Spaniard. Matt found him in the studio of a local NPR station. His campaign manager was a big-boned woman in black with a long silk scarf splashing color around her neck and down one side. She wore thick-framed oval glasses and a worried look. “You’re Paul Kelly’s son?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re FBI?”
He offered his ID. “State Department Intelligence.”
She examined it carefully. “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“A lot of people don’t.”
“But I’m not a lot of people. I’ve worked inside the Beltway for twelve years. I’ve managed eleven national campaigns and won eight of them.”
“I’m not here to cause trouble.”
“A rival’s wife is murdered and the press suggests backers of my candidate are behind it. The son shows up eight days before the election, wanting to interview my candidate. He represents an intelligence division I’ve never heard of.” She turned her attention back to the glass barrier. “How could this possibly not be trouble?”
They stood in the darkened control room. The sound through the overhead monitor was so muted Matt could not hear what was being said. But the two people on the other side of the glass did not pretend at friendliness. Matt leaned forward and tapped the producer on the shoulder. When she lifted one earpiece, Matt asked, “Could I hear what they’re saying?”
Wordlessly the technician offered him a pair of headphones. Matt fitted them on.
“—Gun control?”
“Last time I checked,” the candidate retorted, “Megan Kelly was killed by a bomb.”
The interviewer was young and earnest and very intelligent. She was dressed in a T-shirt and peasant’s skirt. Rolf Zelbert, in sharp contrast, wore a salt-and-pepper jacket that matched his hair and mustache. He was tightly groomed. Equally articulate. And angry.
“But clearly Mrs. Kelly’s tragic death raises all sorts of questions about—”
“Crime in general. I couldn’t agree more. Pouring billions of dollars into renovating downtown Baltimore is no answer if people are afraid to move here. This city is America’s murder capital and assault capital and armed robbery capital. Federal agents claim its harbor is the principal East Coast entry port for hard drugs. This has got to change. If the local authorities are too busy fighting battles over how to spend federal grant money, we will have to find another way.”
The young woman sought to steer the interview in another direction. “Would you care to comment about the accusation that right-wing fanatics were behind Mrs. Kelly’s murder?”
“That is not the issue. What you should be asking is, why does the press insist on wasting my time with such a ludicrous accusation?”
“The police don’t think it’s ludicrous.”
“These same Baltimore police who have let crime in their city grow completely out of control? Baltimore has fewer cops on the street per capita, and more politically appointed chiefs, than any other American city. That is the problem.”
“We were talking about right-wing fanatics, Dr. Zelbert.”
“You were talking. I was talking about this city. Baltimore spends insane amounts on social programs that prop up a population who are terrified to leave their homes. They effectively bribe property developers to rebuild areas that gangs have turned into combat zones. Cronyism is rampant. The federally funded social net has become a substitute for decent jobs. Why? Because companies wouldn’t dream of setting up in this place.”
Matt took off his headphones and said to the campaign manager, “Thank you for your time.” “That’s it? That’s all you wanted?”
“I’ve heard enough.”
“My candidate had nothing to do with your mother’s death.”
“I know that now.”
She gave him the stare. The one his mother had always laughed over. The Washington insider’s glare, fashioned by years of hearing one thing and needing to understand another. “Wait. I’ve got it now. You’re a drone. They sent you over to flash your badge and sniff around.”
“My father doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Who’s talking about your father? Sure. It all makes sense now.” She was nodding now. “Well, you tell Sol he got in a good hit below the belt. But my man isn’t bleeding. You go ask Sol if he saw the polls this morning. We’re up two points.”
Matt knew there was nothing to be gained from arguing. “Thank you for your time.”
“Eight days. You go tell Sol that.” She turned back to the glass. “Eight days is an eternity in this game.”
Sunday afternoon, the waterfront was awash in the home-team colors of blue and black. Kids as young as six weeks bore Ravens wings tattooed on cheeks, palms, and foreheads. They came ready to yell. Ready to win. The Cowboys were in town, and even the weather rooted for Baltimore.
In bygone days, the city had only one stadium, but that had been good enough for the Colts and the Orioles. Then the Colts had slipped
away in the middle of the night and taken the last shards of city pride with them. But Baltimore was a city born to struggle and to win. New stadiums were built. A new team found. New fans ignited. Baltimore came back from the grave. Again.
Connie met Dorcas at Gino’s, their pregame spot when they weren’t invited to somebody’s tailgate heaven. There had once been a dozen or so Gino’s around town, owned by Gino Marchetti, a former Colts player and hometown hero. More than half had been firebombed after the Colts had fled to Indianapolis. The last remaining Gino’s had no relation to the player, was located across from the new Orioles stadium, and served the world’s finest hamburgers and beer-batter fries. Three ceiling-mounted televisions blared the pregame broadcast. Dorcas was always on a post-kid diet and Connie almost never ate anything that had a nodding acquaintance with grease. But this was game day. And on game day, none of the house rules applied.
They took their orders to the plastic chairs set illegally along the sidewalk. The tables would have been ticketed as a traffic hazard if half the clientele weren’t cops.
Connie turned her face to the October sun and sighed with pleasure. “If I could find a man who was half as good as a home game, I’d be lost forever.”
“Speaking of men, is Matt Kelly wearing well?”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“I take that as an affirmative.”
“Matt is fed. Feds come and go. Today Baltimore, tomorrow Kabul.” Connie stabbed fries into the ketchup. “If I’d wanted a leave-home guy, I’d have gone for a marine.”
Dorcas smiled around her burger. “Sounds to me like you got a bad case of the shivers.”
“Now I know you’re crazy.”
“Girl, this is me you’re talking to. Just saying Kelly’s name gives you the tummy quivers. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Connie squinted into the sun. “He’s here.”
“At today’s game?”
“He’s in the owner’s box. With his dad.”
“And you came with me? You are crazy.”
