by Andrea Kane
And Stephen was in no state to deal with him.
"Hi, Philip," he said, switching to automatic pilot and trying desperately to keep his voice even. "I was just on my way home. I'm glad Greg reached you. Yes, I was surprised, too. I had no idea one of our members was checking into alternatives for the municipal parking lots. Still, what he proposed does have merit. I don't know if Greg went into detail, but the proposal is to get rid of hourly and daily payments altogether. The city would issue long-term parking permits. The fees for those permits would be collected by the city clerk on either an annual or semiannual basis. It's a low-cost, painless alternative to what we have now."
"Perhaps." A thoughtful pause. "On the other hand, that system doesn't provide any security for the cars or the people walking to them."
"I pointed that out at the meeting," Stephen answered, barely able to think over the pounding in his head. "And your proposal is still on the table. But I have to be honest. Most of the council members are leaning toward the permit option. It's cost-effective and less drastic than turning the entire parking system over to a private company."
"I see." A drawn-out silence. "Well, I hope you'll change their minds. In fact, I'm sure you will."
Maybe it was Stephen's state of mind, but the words sounded more like an order than a request.
"Anyway, I won't keep you. Go home to your family." Philip coughed. "But before we hang up, I have another reason for calling. It's a little embarrassing, but I just realized I made a huge error on that campaign contribution check I gave you. I must have been preoccupied when I wrote it. I accidently added an extra zero. I'd appreciate your tearing it up. Of course, I'll write you a new check for the sum I'd intended—ten thousand dollars."
Stephen felt bile rise in his throat. Slowly, he sank into a chair, his whole body trembling. This had to be some kind of cruel joke. Tear up the check? He couldn't. Thirty thousand dollars of it had already been gambled away.
"Mr. Mayor?'
"I'm here," Stephen heard himself say.
"Don't be offended. I wish I could contribute more. But we don't always get what we wish for. Let's face it, life is a crap shoot. If we're lucky, we come out ahead. If not, we wind up losers. It's usually in the hands of dumb luck—which, as you know from recent personal experience, can mean one long bad streak. Once in a while, we can control the way things turn out. Like, for instance, when one hand washes the other and everybody gets what he wants. Then again, how often does a situation like that present itself?"
This time, there was no missing Walker's message. It came through loud and clear.
All of it.
Icy chills shot up Stephen's spine. "Are you suggesting that the hundred thousand is contingent upon ..."
"We have a terrible connection," Philip interrupted to announce. "Damn, I hate phones. In any case, you were on your way out. I'll let you get home to your wife and son."
A quiet click, followed by a dial tone.
* * *
Stephen sat alone in his dark office, his head buried in his hands, long after Philip Walker had hung up.
He was being blackmailed. That was bad enough. But how much did Walker know? A whole lot, obviously.
For starters, this whole scenario wouldn't make sense otherwise. Based solely on their previous dealings together, Walker's perceptions of Stephen would have to lead him to conclude that the mayor was a squeaky-clean, ethical leader. Therefore, it followed suit that he'd expect Stephen to be outraged by his innuendos. He'd expect him to tear up the check, refuse any further offers, and report Walker's extortion attempts to the police.
That's not the way it had played out.
Which led to the more damning part. That pointed reference to life being a crap shoot and the equally pointed mention of recent personal experience and a long streak of bad luck. The whole gambling analogy was too precise to have been a coincidence.
No, the handwriting was on the wall. Philip Walker knew Stephen was in trouble. But how? More important, how extensive was his information? Did he know Stephen was up to his neck in gambling debts? Did he know those debts had come from campaign funds and had yet to be reimbursed? Worse, did he know that his own contribution was among the losses? Was that why he was so sure that blackmail would work—because Stephen couldn't return money he no longer had?
Stephen's breath was coming so fast he could feel the rise and fall of his chest. He had to find out how much Walker knew. If it was as bad as he feared, he had to convince Walker to be patient and not demand his money back. He'd promise to throw all his weight behind Walker's municipal parking proposal. Hell, it didn't matter to him which motion the city approved. Both had their benefits. So he'd actively endorse Walker's—-for security reasons, he'd claim. It was a valid argument. Somehow he'd win over the other council members. He had to.
He picked up his private line and dialed.
"Yes?" Walker answered on the first ring, obviously expecting the call.
"I need to see you," Stephen said without preliminaries. 'Tonight."
"Mr. Mayor?" Feigned surprise. "I thought you'd be sitting at your dinner table by now."
"I'm not. Apparently, neither are you. When can we meet?"
A pensive pause. "How's half an hour, at the bar on the comer of North and Third?"
"I'll be there."
* * *
Stephen had downed half his gin and tonic by the time Philip strolled in and slid into the dark corner booth. Unbelting his trench coat, he ordered a bourbon, awaited its arrival, then took a healthy swallow before meeting Stephen's gaze.
"You wanted to see me?"
"I'd like an explanation."
"About?"
With trembling fingers, Stephen set down his glass. "I'm not interested in playing games. I want to know what you meant by one hand washing the other."
Philip's brittle stare bored into his. "I think the statement is self-explanatory. You have something I want. I have something you want. We help each other." Another swallow. "Simple."
"What makes you think I'd stoop to dirty dealing just to collect a campaign donation?"
A corner of Philip's hard mouth lifted. "Not just any donation. A one-hundred-thousand-dollar donation. One you can't return because you've already invested it in sports betting."
Stephen's insides wrenched. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? Then I tell you what. Call my bluff. Tip the cops off to the fact that you're being blackmailed." He offered Stephen his cell phone. "Go ahead. I'll wait here for them to show up and take me in."
With a heavy sigh, Stephen lowered his gaze, staring at his drink. "You want the municipal parking contract with Leaf Brook."
"That's the idea."
"I can't force the council to vote my way. But I can make a damned good pitch."
"You do that." Philip polished off his bourbon, shoved aside the glass, and rose. "Call them each individually. It'll be easier that way. After you've won them all over, take a vote. You've got a week to deliver good news."
"Or to give you back your money," Stephen reminded him.
Another grim smile. "We've passed that point, Mr. Mayor. What I have on you would ruin your career and send you to prison, whether or not you managed to scramble together what you owe me. So keep the money. Use it for your campaign or your compulsion—I don't care which. I don't want reimbursement. I want the contract. So find a way to make it happen." He rebelted his trench coat. "I'll expect to hear from you next Thursday. Have a nice evening."
* * *
Connor was asleep when the phone rang.
He groped around on his night table until he found the receiver, dragging it to his ear. "Hello?"
"Connor, it's me." Nancy's voice was muffled and choked with tears.
He was instantly awake. "What's wrong?" he demanded, his gaze finding the lighted dial of the clock. It was four-fifteen.
"I'm sorry to wake you. But I didn't know what to do. I couldn't call Cliff, not about this."
"Nancy, calm down." Connor was already throwing back the covers and climbing out of bed. 'Tell me what's going on."
"It's Stephen," she whispered. "He doesn't know I'm calling. But I'm scared to death. He didn't come home until after three. And when he did, he was so drunk he could hardly walk. I tried to talk to him, but he told me to leave him alone. He said some horrible things. Then he passed out on the couch. I don't want Brian to find him like that in the morning, but he's too heavy for me to carry upstairs. And with the state he was in when he passed out, I'm afraid to wake him." A shaky pause. "He's in trouble, Connor. I've never seen him like this. And I don't know what to do."
"Is Brian okay?"
"Yes. He doesn't know about any of this. He went to bed at nine. I told him Stephen had a late meeting. He slept through the rest."
"Good. I'm on my way. I'll be there before Brian wakes up."
After slamming down the phone, Connor flipped on a light and went into the hall to yank down his suitcase from the closet. He flung the case onto his bed and randomly tossed in some clothes, his mind racing a mile a minute as he packed. It was Friday. That bought him the weekend. But the way things sounded, he'd need more than that.
He made a swift decision.
His deals were all running smoothly. Thank God for modern technology. With that new state-of-the-art unified messaging system he'd just gotten, he could go to Europe for a month and no one would miss him. The hi-tech gizmo integrated his voice mail, e-mail, and faxes and displayed them all on his computer screen. He would forward his private line to his cell phone. Then he could work from anywhere.
It was time for an extended stay in Leaf Brook.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Connor tossed his laptop and suitcase into his Mercedes, and, with dawn a mere glint on the horizon, he zoomed up the West Side Highway and toward the crisis that awaited him.
* * *
8
Nancy looked close to collapse when Connor walked through the front door forty-five minutes later. He frowned, not used to seeing his always-put-together sister-in-law in an old pair of sweats, her face blotchy and her eyes swollen from crying.
"Hey." He dropped his bag and gripped her shoulders. "Are you okay?"
She nodded, clearly struggling for control. "Thanks for coming. Stephen might kill me for calling you, but I had to do something. I couldn't let Brian see his father like this." With a shaky breath, she glanced down at herself. "Speaking of Brian seeing us like this, I think I'll go up and shower now that you're here. That way, I'll look seminormal when my son comes downstairs." She gestured toward the living room. "Stephen's still on the couch. Also, I made a pot of coffee. You're going to need it."
"I'm sure I will."
"Connor?" Nancy touched his arm as he started to move toward the living room. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate..."
"I know." Connor covered her hand in a brief gesture of comfort. "Go on upstairs. I'll handle it from here."
Stephen was still out cold, crumpled over the arm of the sofa. He was fully dressed from his coat to his shoes.
Swearing under his breath, Connor seized his brother's arms and shook him. "Stephen." Another hard shake, followed by a few light but insistent slaps on his face. "Stephen."
Stephen's eyes cracked open long enough for him to mutter something unintelligible. Then they slid shut.
"Dammit, Stephen, wake up." Connor ground out the order from between clenched teeth. What he really wanted was to shout the house down. But that would wake Brian.
It took him a full five minutes to get a coherent response out of his brother.
Scowling, Stephen forced open his lids, his bloodshot eyes focusing vaguely. "Connor?"
"Yeah, it's me." He clasped Stephen's chin and gave it a hard shake, then another. "Stay awake," he commanded.
"What're you doing here?" Stephen slurred.
"Saving your ass." Connor dragged his brother to his feet, anchoring him by draping one of Stephen's arms around his own shoulders. "Walk with me."
"What?" Stephen complied unsteadily. 'To where?"
"The kitchen. You're going to down about three cups of black coffee. Then I'm throwing you in the shower. You reek of booze."
A flash of irritated resentment crossed Stephen's face.
"Before you start fighting me, think of this," Connor advised in a tight, angry voice. "In about one hour, your son is going to come down here for breakfast. Is this the way you want him to see you?"
The resentment vanished, replaced by a haunted look that made Connor's own anger fade. Whatever the hell was going on, his brother was in torment.
Stephen drank his coffee in silence, shuddering from the bitterness of the taste. Slowly, sobriety returned, and the glazed look disappeared from his eyes.
"What time is it?" he asked at last.
Connor checked his watch. "Almost six."
"Barely dawn." Realization tightened Stephen's mouth into a grim line. "Obviously, Nancy called you."
"Damned right she did. And don't even think of being pissed. Your wife loves you. She was worried sick. She turned to me because I'm the only one who knows the situation. She was protecting you, the same way she always does."
Stephen stared into his coffee mug. "I know," he said in a strangled voice.
It was the perfect opening for Connor to start firing his questions. Unfortunately, the timing stank.
The inquisition would have to wait.
He rose. "Let's get you shaved and Showered. We'll all have breakfast together when Brian comes down. After Nancy takes him to school, you and I will talk."
At that moment, Nancy walked in, looking infinitely more put together than she had a half hour ago.
Tension crackled in the air as her wary gaze met Stephen's. Neither of them spoke.
"The shower's free?" Connor's light question sliced the silence.
Nancy nodded. "Ready and waiting."
With a shaky sigh, Stephen came to his feet, more worn out than unsteady. "I don't remember much about what happened when I came in last night, but I doubt it was pleasant," he said quietly to his wife. I'm sorry. More sorry than you can imagine."
He was talking about much more than coming home drunk, and they all knew it.
Nancy swallowed hard. "I know."
"I'd better get myself together" Stephen walked toward the doorway, regaining his equilibrium as he did. He shot Connor a quick look. "I can manage alone."
Yeah, right, Connor wanted to say. Maybe with your shower. But not with your life. "Fine," he said instead. "I'll hang out down here and grab a cup of coffee with Nancy."
* * *
Brian slept through his alarm clock that day, a first-time occurrence.
When seven-fifteen came and went with no telltale stomping overhead, Nancy went up to wake him. She came down, her expression bleak. Meeting Stephen's questioning gaze, she reported that their son had been dead asleep, that he looked exhausted, that his covers looked worse—as if they'd survived a war—and that his first question had been whether or not his dad was home. Wincing at the implications, Stephen reacted immediately, going right upstairs to reassure his son. The ensuing sounds of thudding closets and running water told Connor that his brother had taken over Nancy's morning rituals—choosing clothes that matched and overseeing tooth-brushing and shoe tying.
Still, Connor could hear Brian's voice, and it was a poor echo of his normal exuberance. Until he and Stephen were halfway down the stairs and Stephen announced that there was a surprise waiting at the breakfast table.
That got Brian's attention.
"What is it?" he demanded.
"Go down and see for yourself." Stephen sounded relieved.
Brian ran on ahead, scurrying into the kitchen and peering around expectantly.
He wasn't disappointed.
"Uncle Connor!" A huge grin split his face when he saw his uncle hunched over the table, polishing off a slice of toast.
"Hey, ace," Co
nnor greeted him. "You got down here in the nick of time. I was about to gobble down those amazing pancakes your mom just made you."
Brian dropped his bookbag with a plunk. "I didn't know you were coming today."
"That's why they call it a surprise." Connor tousled his nephew's hair, then patted the cushion of the adjacent chair. "Sit down and talk to me while you eat."
"I've only got five minutes. I get marked down if I'm late." Brian's grin vanished. "I wish it wasn't a weekday. Then I wouldn't have to go to school."
"Ah, that's part of the surprise. I'm not just staying for today. I'm here for a nice long visit."
"Really? How long?"
"Long enough so I had to pack a whole bag of clothes and my laptop. Take a look in the guest room. You'll see my stuff on the bed."
"All right!" Brian celebrated that news by pouring syrup on his pancakes until they floated. "So you'll be here when I get home?"
"I'll do one better. I'll pick you up at school—that is, if it's okay with your mom." Connor glanced quizzically at Nancy, seeking permission.
"It's fine with me," she assured him, leaning over Brian to cut the pancakes into bite-size chunks. "It'll give me a few extra hours at the shop. I need to finalize expenses for the quarter." Nancy owned and ran a small upscale boutique in one of Leaf Brook's prime shopping districts. "So I'll drop Brian at school this morning, then meet you two guys home around five. How's that?"
"Sounds good." Connor was more than pleased with that scenario. He wanted as much time alone with his nephew as possible, so he could figure out exactly what Brian's state of mind was.
"What about Dad?" Brian piped up. His earlier uneasiness returned, and he shot a quick glance at his father, seeking some measure of reassurance. "Will you be late again tonight? Or can you come home for dinner?"
An anguished look crossed Stephen's face, the look of a father who knew he'd caused his child pain. "I'll be home before seven," he confirmed. "Okay?"
Brian's relief was tangible. "Okay."
"Better than okay," Connor informed his nephew. "It'll give you four hours to work up an appetite. And we won't waste a minute of them. We'll go straight to the park after school and practice that running slide of yours so you can reach base without breaking any bones or swallowing an entire infield of dirt. After that, we'll go home and get going on your homework. Maybe we can even help your mom with dinner. Before you know it, your dad will be here. What do you say?"
