Always (32 page)

I went into the guest bathroom shower, not wanting anything from the previous sexcapade to sully the domain of our bedroom. I turned the water up high, in part to cleanse my body, in part to cleanse my mind, and in part to punish myself. I had no hard evidence against my wife. Maybe she was doing something to surprise me as she did from time to time. Maybe she was just getting tired of the noose around her neck. I stood in the shower and cried. It's funny. When I was in my twenties, I would not cry for anything. I could attend a funeral on a rainy Christmas Sunday morning and I wouldn't drop a tear. But after I turned thirty-five, I would cry at the drop of a hat. I could be watching a telephone commercial and from nowhere, I'd begin crying because the mother of three girls had broken a meeting and taken them to the beach. It's the strangest thing. But as I turned off the water and looked at my reddening upper body, I wept again. I mean, outright sobbed.

It was 1:00
A
.
M
. eastern standard time, which made it 7:00
A
.
M
. in Rome. I waited about an hour because I knew her schedule when she traveled abroad. Usually she was up before dawn regardless of the time zone and she would go jogging before preparing for various meetings. I sat reading a book and then I called. And if the air conditioner had turned on at that very minute, the air from it would have been enough to knock me off the bed. The sleepy voice of a man answered her phone.

Washington, D.C.

November 8, 2000

NBS News Studio

2:45
A.M
. EST

“This is Franklin Dunlop, NBS studios, Washington, D.C. According to our exit polls, we virtually have a dead heat
in the now all-important California race. The numbers are as follows: forty-one percent of the electoral vote for Davis, forty-one percent for Steiner, and eight percent for Tom Baldwin.

DAVIS	229
STEINER	233
BALDWIN	126

“After having a comfortable lead in California tonight or I should say this morning, Davis is locked into an all-out battle with Ronald Steiner. The Steiner numbers have gone through the roof and he is polling extremely well in his running mate's city of San Francisco and in Orange County. We would like to swing first down to Miami and our friend Butch Harper, who is doing just an incredible job tonight. Butch, are you there?”

“Yes, I am, Franklin. In spite of the latest numbers, the number of individuals here has been steadily increasing. When I spoke to you before, Franklin, the crowd here was swelling. At this moment it is literally standing room only as several live bands have taken the stage. There is an aura of victory hovering over this room tonight. The faces are expectant, apprehensive, nervously tense, yet jubilant as one of their own is one state away from making history. The balloons are out and will be released, I am told, as soon as the numbers from California are in, and both the candidate and his running mate are waiting in the wings for the moment which will go down in the annuls of time. Unlike in most elections, Frank, few members of the press have been allowed on the candidate's floor. The Democrats have rented out two floors in the hotel. The seventeenth floor is where a private party for the inner circle of campaign officials and their families is, and the floor we are on is open to the public. There has been little if any party mingling. What I mean by that is, individuals with the blue credentials like I am showing you are restricted to this floor, and this floor only. The red credentials, which I am unable to show you, for obvious reasons,
are for the inner circle and their guests only. Tonight the FBI has been very strict about keeping the reds on their floor and blues on ours. This we are told is merely a standard security measure and has nothing to do with the rumored assassination attempt on the Democratic nominee.”

“Interesting stuff there, Butch. Keep us posted. Now we take you to Chicago and Judy Finestein.”

“Thanks, Frank. As you know, we are now reporting outside the Four Seasons Hotel. We are told there are a number of individuals wishing to congregate in a nearby park for what they expect to be a victorious celebration. A number of clergymen started a prayer vigil for the vice president, and we noticed a group of Young Republicans holding up his picture and ironically singing the old Lennon hit “Give Peace a Chance.” There is a lot going on emotionally here, Frank. We're awaiting the latest news on Steiner, we're now looking at the morbid possibility of us electing our first female president, and we're watching closely the results from California. It has been an emotional night, to say the least, for all parties involved.”

“Thank you, Judy, for that report. Now, America, when you return, we here at NBS will be in a position to project a winner in several states and possibly even in California. Whatever you do, don't touch that dial, for tonight one way or another you will see history being made.”

Fountainebleau Hotel

Suite 1717

“Henry! Where you going!” Herbert shouted to his younger brother. “What's going on?”

Henry pushed aside the agent in front of him with a firm thrust and rushed out the door, followed by Penelope and several other staffers. As he ran in a zigzag pattern down the hallway like a running back through the crowd, Henry's mind raced, trying to think of a logical place where Leslie could be. As he headed toward Suite 1717, the wide-eyed
agent in front of the door looked at the crowd approaching him as he spoke into the transmitter on his wrist.

Henry charged past him and into the room, calling Leslie's name, as if there were a possibility whoever searched previously had somehow overlooked her. “Leslie,” he yelled as he trotted into the empty master suite, finding it empty. Then Henry noticed her purse and cell phone beside the bed and froze in his steps.

“What the fuck you mean you never saw them leave? How could anyone get out of this room without you seeing them?” Penelope asked the redheaded, freckle-faced agent.

“Well, ma'am, there were a lot of people in the room at one time. Maybe as many as fifty or sixty. I tried to identify each one, but after a while—”

“Penelope, would you come in here?” Henry yelled as he looked into the hallway and noticed a growing crowd with microphones around his wife's press secretary. Penelope walked into the suite, and Henry closed the door so just the two of them stood in the foyer. “Penelope?”

“Yes.”

“Her purse. It's in the room. Her cell is in there too.”

“Oh shit,” Penelope replied, walking toward the couch and sitting on the arm. “That damn girl ain't going nowhere without her purse or that cell.” Penelope pulled her curly hair back from her face with her glasses, removed her clip-on earrings, and as she massaged her earlobe, said, “Henry, what the fuck's going on?”

“I don't know. I don't have a clue.”

Penelope slid down onto the couch with her elbows planted on her knees and her palms pressed firmly into her eye sockets.

“Penelope? When was the last time you spoke to—”

Looking up, she said, “Henry, when was the last time
you
fucking spoke to her? I'm sorry to be so crass, but enough is enough.”

Drawing a shallow breath and not looking in her direction, he asked, “She told you?”

“That you all have not really talked for two or three days? That you accused her of sleeping with Wolinski? That you
believe the photos exist? That you hung up the phone every time she called your ass tonight? Which one, Henry?
Which
one you referring to?”

Henry's squared shoulders became round as he turned in embarrassment toward Penelope, unable to find the words.

“Yeah, she told me all of that. And you know something, Henry? I seriously doubt she has ever told
anyone
the stuff she told me tonight. Not even her brother. When you're in the public eye as much as you all are, it's hard to trust anyone for fear it'll one day be on the best-seller list. I could tell she had not said anything to anyone, because I could see the weight leave her as we spoke.”

Henry walked over to the couch and sat beside Penelope.

“Give me your phone,” he said softly. Penelope reached into her purse and handed him the cell. “Yeah, Herbert? Listen, the FBI agent who spoke to us earlier? I think he was the chief or whatever. I want to talk to him personally. Okay. Okay. Great. Do me a favor. Call me back on
Penelope's
cell, okay? Thanks, man.” Henry leaned back into the cushions and resumed the conversation. “I never meant to hurt her. It just killed me that morning to hear that guy's voice on the phone when I called her. I have never gotten over it.”

“Henry, I have a question for you. Have you
ever
heard of splicing photos? Like they say the CIA did with the picture of Oswald holding the rifle?
The Globe
and the
Enquirer
have made a living by doing it. If there are pictures, trust me, they are not legit. You are the smartest man I have ever known, and I mean that. But can I give you a little unsolicited advice?” Penelope stared at his profile. “Ever since I have known you, hell, ever since Leslie has known you, you've had one passion. She's a better woman than me because she has accepted that your dream is bigger and more important to you than this marriage. She realizes that's first and everything else is a distant second. But don't you think it gets cold living in your shadow and then getting treated like shit on top of it?” Penelope paused as the words settled. “Now, you know I love you and I always will. You are a
special man. But you've got to trust her and you just can't do her like you've been doing her.”

Henry sat silent, absorbing the verbal bashing.

“And on top of everything else, you told her about the time I blew you? What kinda shit is that? You don't tell your wife a thing like that, Henry.”

Henry looked at Penelope and whispered, “You told her, didn't you?”

“Hell yeah, I admitted to her what happened. I didn't want to get caught telling her a lie on top of everything else that's going on tonight.”

Henry leaned his head back and said softly, “I never told her that anything happened between us, Penelope. I never said a word.” Penelope's mouth fell open as Henry answered her cell phone.

“Ahh, Henry?”

“Yes?”

“I don't know how to say this, but I asked several FBI agents for Agent Mills and Haggerty, and they said that Mills was killed three miles from here several hours ago. And they never heard of a Haggerty.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don't know. They all seem to have known Mills, so I don't think we were wrong about the names.”

“But they were in the room,. . . what, an hour or so ago?”

“I know. I gave them Mills's description, and no one here could place a man like that. I even told them Mills had sideburns, which I thought was a little unusual, and they said that was against regulations.”