by Mark Schorr
He dialed a number.
THREE
As her white garage door went up, Jeanie Hanson saw her husband’s parked 1989 gray Volvo sedan. Strange, since it looked like the lights in the house were off. She carefully pulled her red 2004 Acura coupe into the cluttered two-car garage. She was home early, for her, a little after 7 p.m.
She stretched as she got out of the car, wishing it were with catlike grace, but more with the body of a tired middle-aged woman. She did yoga and Pilates, and exercised at least four times a week. She ate right, took vitamins, and hadn’t smoked in twenty years. Still, just like Brian’s car needed more maintenance than hers, she knew she was valiantly fighting a losing battle. With her hair dyed a light brown, artfully applied makeup, and the right lighting, Jeanie could pass for a dozen years younger than her forty-five, and most days she felt like a thirty-something. Last night, however, Brian had been restless, waking her with a nightmare he wouldn’t discuss. Anyone would be fatigued after a night like that, she told herself.
She felt most youthful with the joy of closing a deal, that final handshake, the papers signed, the smiles exchanged. Or the frowns of the opposition. The spirit was in her blood. Her father had been one of the town’s most successful real estate lawyers. She had put the jugular instinct aside, married a decent man, stayed at home to raise their child. By the time Jeff was entering middle school, she was halfway to her MBA, working through the state university external degree correspondence program. The day he started high school, she’d mailed out resumes and begun networking. Jeanie had thrown herself into work like a Doberman unleashed, rising to become a vice president for operations at Pacific Northwest Bank. It was her father’s name that got her initial interviews. But it was her skill, personality, and determination that made her the fastest-rising female executive within the company.
She dropped her thin, burgundy leather Vuitton briefcase in the usual spot and kicked off her matching shoes. While Brian favored Reeboks, she had thousands invested in Ferragamos and Pradas. For him, Eddie Bauer was fancy shopping, where she would be embarrassed to be seen anywhere less than Saks or Nordstrom. Despite numerous lectures on the importance of dressing for success, which he called “dress to impress,” they could never agree.
“Brian? Brian?”
The lights were off. He was sitting in the maroon Barcalounger that faced the picture window to their small backyard. Staring straight ahead. The view was pleasant, but not spectacular. Layers of rhododendrons and camellias, the bloom long gone, coupled with a few spindly rosebushes. She was scared, then angry. She’d seen him sink into dark moods before.
“What is it, honey?” she asked. “Bad day?”
He grunted assent.
“Let me slip out of this and we can talk.”
He didn’t respond.
In the bedroom upstairs, she undid the strand of Mikimoto cultured pearls from around her neck, then eased off her gray wool, knee-length Armani skirt and matching jacket, silk slip, and nylons. She gazed at herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, knowing the demise of their romance wasn’t due to her physical appearance. She slipped on a puffed red terry-cloth robe with nothing underneath it.
How long had it been since they had been intimate? Several months, at least. Jeanie still found him attractive, though he was a lot hairier and a bit chunkier than when they first met. His moods could go several different ways. Depression, which would last a couple weeks. Angry outburst, which was brief but could lead to a week of bruised feelings. On rare occasions, she could talk and soothe him out of it. But first she had to get over her own frustration with him.
Gliding down the stairs, she remembered how mad her father had been when she brought home a psych tech, “a goon from the state hospital” he had said, after she made the mistake of asking what he thought of Brian. That had only made Brian more desirable. He was a combat veteran with deep-set, brooding eyes, a couple of years drug-free, and the desire to save the world. Oh the passion he’d had, for school, for work, for her. Now, he was on okay guy, but nowhere near as sophisticated as the men she spent her days with.
She knew better than to approach him too quietly. He startled easily and once, on awakening from a nightmare, had grabbed her by the throat. He had let go instantly, but she’d had to wear high turtlenecks for two weeks while the bruises healed.
“Would you like to talk?” she asked, moving closer to him. She sat on the arm of the chair and ran her hand through his hair. Her robe gapped open artfully.
After a long silence, he said, “Just work stuff.”
“You want to tell me?” She began massaging the tight muscles of his trapezius.
“You really want to hear about it?”
“Sure.”
“This client killed herself. She had promise. I thought she was turning her life around. It hit me harder than I thought it would. I had a killer craving.”
“What did you do?”
“Called my sponsor, McFarlane. He agreed to ask his cop buddies a few questions about the death, and meet with me tomorrow.”
“He’s still a policeman?”
“Detective sergeant now. Used to be in homicide and still has friends there. He agreed it was weird that my client had shot herself in the face.”
“You think it wasn’t suicide?”
“I don’t know. Women prefer pills. That’s why women attempt suicide three times more often than men, but men succeed twice as often.”
“Charming,” she said.
“Almost no one shoots themselves in the face. More than three-quarters of the time in the temples, another twenty percent or so in the mouth, the remaining right in the heart.”
“Ecch. Maybe she put it in her mouth, decided not to, then jerked it out but accidentally pulled the trigger.”
“Possible, not probable.”
“You’re sure you’re not trying to find a reason where there is none? I mean, you’d feel better if it was murder, right?”
He didn’t answer.
“It’s too bad, honey. But you know how it is with those people you work with,” she said, rubbing his neck. “What about trying private practice?”
“You don’t understand. I gave her short shrift in my last contact with her. I was distracted, dismissive. She …”
“I know how dedicated you are. For what?” She struggled to control the pressure to speak.
“She deserved more,” he said. “She deserved better.”
“You spend every day wallowing in the sewer of the city. There’s a nicer world out there. Normal people with normal problems.”
“Normal,” he said with a snort.
“We’ve had this discussion before.”
“Right. You’ll be telling me how I could get a doctorate, I’ll tell you it doesn’t pay at my age. You’ll ask where my ambition went, I’ll ask where your greed came from. You’ll talk about the promise I had, I’ll point out that ultimately what I do contributes to humanity, while you profiteer in fancy clothes.”
She pulled her robe tight around her. “Why don’t we save some time?” she asked through clenched teeth. “It’s a big house. We can stay apart and avoid talking altogether.” She marched away.
He opened his mouth, about to speak, but ultimately didn’t.
The next morning in the gym, she used her leftover anger to push herself to new limits. The Metro Gym was the one of the city’s premier places to work out. That applied to muscles, as well as dating, making business contacts, or being seen in the right spot. High-ceilinged, inside a renovated warehouse from the 1920s, Metro had the trendiest machines and the best personal trainers. Even in the locker room there were no funky odors, as if the rich and powerful members didn’t sweat.
After a few stretches she punched in her usual program, electronically tilting the treadmill to a ten-degree angle. A video of a country road played before her, and with arms swinging, she strode briskly, soon feeling her pulse climbing. She didn’t need to check the computer to know she was
above her target rate.
He was a couple of machines over, listening to headphones, working hard. Jeanie had seen him before, many times. She had asked at the desk, telling them he looked familiar, which was true. She had found out he was deputy mayor Tony Dorsey. Then she’d seen him at a couple of zoning board meetings, quiet, in the background, watching. Rumor was that the mayor wouldn’t floss his teeth without checking with Dorsey. He was handsome, a Russell Crowe type, smugly self-confident. Well muscled, with an intense gaze, probably a few years younger than her.
She moved to the free weights and followed her routine, dreading the flabby triceps look. After thirty minutes, she finished with a half hour on a recumbent bicycle. Five minutes into her closing routine, Dorsey began pedaling on the bike next to her.
“Not that crowded today,” she said, telling herself it was an innocuous comment. And even if she got to know him, it would help the bank, she rationalized.
The deputy mayor smiled, simultaneously neutral and predatory. “Yeah.” He had headphones on and was listening to a silver, ultra compact sports MD Walkman. He wore a gray spandex outfit with a black stripe that highlighted his muscles.
They pedaled a couple more minutes. He glanced over again with an all-knowing smile. She enjoyed flirting, particularly with good-looking, powerful men who could help her career. She had never gone further than flirting—the gentle pat on a senior banker’s thigh when he told a risqué joke, the slightly extended gaze into a real estate attorney’s eye when he boasted of closing a deal, the subtle wiggle in her walk when she knew the owner of a mall was watching her behind.
She had seen the change in her mother after her parents divorced. Her mother had gone from being a put-upon hausfrau to a pseudo-socialite. Jeanie recalled the many nights she was left home alone, and heard her mother coming in with a new vulture, eager to peck at her reputation and clear out her dwindling cash.
It was during those long early conversations with Brian that she was able to get perspective. He had been helpful back then, reassuring that he wouldn’t abandon her. Now his leaving probably would be doing her a favor, she mused.
“What’re you listening to?” she asked.
“Seven Habits of Highly Effective People,” he said. “I review it every six months or so.”
She nodded approval. “Stewardship, moral compass, listen to be heard, and all of that.”
He nodded back. They discussed Peter Drucker, Peter Senge, and Tom Peters, theories of knowledge workers, learning organizations and systems, and adaptability.
She got up with a slow sinuousness that she saw he noticed. She moistened her lips ever so slightly, saying, “Boy that juice bar is tempting.”
“Agreed,” he said, as if she had been overtly inviting him.
Sipping overpriced, vitamin-fortified fruit drinks at a small round glass table in the corner, they chatted about mutual acquaintances, acknowledged they had seen each other before at the gym and at meetings.
“I’m surprised you remembered I was there,” she said.
“You’re a strikingly attractive woman,” he said, making it sound more like a pleasant observation than a come-on.
She felt a deep warmth that she knew didn’t come from exercise. His cool gray eyes locked on hers, his lips in a relaxed half smile. “Quite a workout today,” she said, taking a few slow breaths.
“Uh-huh,” he said, nodding slowly. “You know, it’s lucky we met.” The heavy beat of the aerobics-class music thumped through the floor, filling the silence between them. She waited for him to speak, noticing how fine his eyelashes were. His strong jaw bristled with five o’clock shadow, and she wondered how rough it would be against her soft skin. He seemed to be taking his time, enjoying letting her study him.
“That urban growth boundary extension for the Springfield mall, it’s important for the city,” she said. “There’ve been some missed deadlines, procedural hang-ups. It’s a major project. Will mean lots of jobs, will expand the tax base by…” She had eagerly rushed into talking business, realizing how gawky their flirting had made her feel.
He waved his hand, cutting her off. “I’m off duty now. How about we discuss it over lunch, say, this Friday?”
“Uh, I don’t know.”
“Okay. I’ll have my assistant prepare a statement of our concerns. You can bet I’ve gotten a stack of them from environmentalists and some of the old farm families out there. I’ll just fax it over to your office and you can prepare your rebuttal.”
The flirtatious warmth was gone. She recognized the tactic, had seen her father do the same thing during negotiations, go from Mr. Softie to cold-eyed killer when he wasn’t getting his way. The message was clear—lunch or she was just any old constituent with a concern.
“Of course the EIR hasn’t come in yet, and—”
She boldly interrupted him. “You’re right. We shouldn’t be talking about environmental impact reports when we’re supposed to be in cool-down mode. I wanted to say I have to check my calendar. I would much rather discuss it over a nice lunch than fire memos back and forth. Unless you would prefer that?”
He smiled. “A chance for a nice lunch and conversation with a beautiful woman, or sitting in my office making notes on the computer. Tough choice.” He stood up and gently squeezed her shoulder. “I better go take a cold shower.” He paused, making the words rich with innuendo. She could feel the power in his hands and almost expected him to lean over and kiss her. “Call my assistant and set an appointment.”
She sipped her drink until the glass was dry. That would be some lunch. He’d pick the place. Different restaurants had different reputations, nothing to do with the cuisine they served. Power lunch, high visibility versus romantic quiet chat. A place to be seen, or a place to whisper. It would be interesting to see which he would pick.
The deputy mayor sauntered into his office with even more bounce than usual. His assistant, Edith, who had worked for him for a dozen years, noticed and grinned. “Satisfying workout at the gym?”
“Definitely, Edith my dear.” A few years from retirement, she was a career civil servant who knew the best gossip. Efficient and as tightly wound as her bun of gray hair, Edith was his loyal and protective gatekeeper.
Dorsey’s office was dark red wood, and would have been coffin-like except for the huge windows. He kept the thick blue velvet drapes pulled back most of the time, enjoying both the view of the greenery around City Hall Park and any chance at sunlight. He missed the warm climate, but that was another life.
He had eight voice mails and twenty-seven e-mails. Mayor Robinson had a press conference at 1 p.m. on an appointee to the school board getting charged with drunk driving. Dorsey would meet with the press secretary in an hour and prepare the response, then brief Mayor Robinson. Dorsey insisted that the mayor needed to make a statement rather than issue it through his press secretary, to show his concern on this hot-button issue. Robinson had potential. He was known to be tough on crime, and the city’s plunging crime stats had been the subject of national media attention. There had been rumblings of a Senate race.
Edith buzzed him: “Chief Forester—he already called once. Do you want me to take a message?”
“Put him through…. Hey, Chief.”
“How did it go?”
“I got my pulse rate up to one eighty, did twenty minutes on the StairMaster, and bench-pressed three hundred.”
“You know that’s not what I mean. With her?”
“I got the first piece of the pipeline in place. With any luck, before long I’ll be laying some pipe.”
“Don’t let your dick do the thinking.”
“I thought you were a God-fearing man. I’m shocked hearing that sort of language from you so early in the morning.”
“Dorsey, I know about your habits.”
“What, you wish I was like your son? Not interested in girls?”
There was a long silence, and the deputy mayor could imagine the chief’s face reddening. His son was o
penly gay, and the Fundamentalist Christian police chief struggled to maintain control whenever the subject was brought up.
“Listen, Chief, I’ll do what needs to be done with her. I’ve got my priorities right. Which reminds me, what the hell was your guy thinking when he pulled over the mayor’s latest appointee to the school board? Are you a team player or what?”
“Your boy was weaving all over the road. A couple people called 911. There were witnesses when he just about fell out of the car. Blood alcohol was .28. My officers recognized him and tried to smooth it out, but there was a news team monitoring the scanners. They were there within five minutes.”
Dorsey sighed. “Okay. I’ll keep you posted on my progress with Jeanie Hanson. You want the juicy details?”
“No. This was supposed to be a reconnaissance.”
“Well, it could turn into a deeper probe if I’m lucky,” Dorsey chuckled. “And I’m usually lucky.”
“We’ve got an important thing going on here,” Forester said. “We’re taking back the streets, seeing what effective policing can do.”
“Yeah, right,” Dorsey said cynically. “You now what’s driving the change. I got a better idea for you—why not set up a surveillance camera and Jeanie Hanson and I could do a movie like Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson, or Paris Hilton and that guy. Sell it on the Internet to balance the budget. Would you buy a copy?”
Forester hung up. Dorsey set the phone down, grinning. He put his feet up on his desk and gazed at the city flag, the state flag, and the American flag, poking from a heavy brass stand in the corner. Who would have thought he would be where he was a dozen years ago?
Pissing off the police chief was almost as much fun as seducing another man’s wife. It was one of the few pleasures he allowed himself. The late-night club-hopping, speeding around Third World capitals in a Land Rover, the drugs, multiple combinations of flashy female partners, the decadent pleasures of his younger life, were gone. Now he was tied down with a wife, three kids, and a well-maintained house in Council Crest.
