Gospel (20 page)

‘The nuns are good people. I got to know them pretty well when, well, they were good to me so I've been good to them, and now they're being good to Rita Walker. I've called a few retired buddies who are more than happy to play security guard at least for the short term, but eventually we'll have to move her to a safe house depending on what she knows, or more specifically what she is willing to tell us.'

Croker lifted his eyes from his dwindling beer as he said this and Joe knew he was checking if, after hearing the whole story, Detective Mannix was ‘still on board'.

‘You want me to come with you,' said Joe at last. ‘To try to find out what this woman is hiding, why there's a contract on her life, and how the hell it ties in with the death of the second most powerful man in the country.'

‘Well, I figured that . . .'

‘How soon can you set it up?'

‘Already did. Tomorrow morning at eight.'

‘All right Detective Croker,' said Mannix, downing the rest of his drink. ‘Show me to the closest hotel so I can get some sleep. Something tells me tomorrow is going to be a very long day.'

I
t was a fact, Maxine Bryant knew, that after the front page, and the section covering sports, the most read section of a newspaper was the gossip column. Of course few liked to admit they enjoyed a daily dose of dirt with their doughnuts, but there was a lot to be said for the concept of ‘guilty pleasures', especially in the lives of the nine-to-fivers who would grab a little spice any way they could take it.

The White House Chief of Staff put down the early edition of the
New York Post
and took a sip of her chamomile tea. Her normally tidy desk was now covered in newspapers from all over the country and, she had to admit, it felt good, familiar, and in this morning's case, victorious.

Maxine Beaulieu had learnt the power of prattle from a very early age. She started her career as a cadet journalist on a small Indiana daily known as the
Fayette Gazette
and, thanks to her quick realisation that scandal was hot, soon surpassed every working hack in the small but competitive office. She was barely out of high school, studying journalism with a major in politics at the University of Indianapolis, and working a part-time shift on the
Gazette
when she started a column known as ‘Guess Who, Don't Sue'.

At first her editor was sceptical that she would find enough interesting scuttle-butt to fill a paragraph let alone a whole column. But Maxine was
one of those girls people found it hard to say ‘no' to – in fact, most folks found it hard to object to
anything
young Maxine Beaulieu proposed, including sharing their confidences, confiding their secrets and agreeing to go ‘on the record' as ‘reliable sources' in a series of daily exposés that soon became the talk of the County. In other words, Maxine soon learned that a carefully worded whisper could create a tidal wave of change if placed in the right column, read by the right people and repeated often enough to make a difference.

She knew it then and she knew it now.

Nothing had changed.

Of course, Connersville, Indiana was a long time ago, before the award-winning
Time Life
reports from Sarajevo, Timor, Kuwait, Cambodia, Afghanistan, Iran and other newsworthy locales, and before falling for the much older Devon Lloyd Bryant, the then US Ambassador to the United Arab Emirates.

When her husband retired they moved to New Hampshire where Maxine gave birth to Melissa and, after her husband's untimely death, fast-tracked her own carefully constructed political career from Governor to US Chief of Staff, and hopefully beyond. But if Maxine had learned one age-old axiom that had stood her well through her entire journey it was to ‘respect the basics'. She took comfort in knowing that after all these years some things never changed and more specifically on this particular occasion, that ‘gossip still kicked ass'.

And so, on this delightfully warm morning, the deep burgundy drapes of her ornate White House office pulled back to allow in the freshness of the early morning breeze, Maxine sipped her tea and savoured the column inches dedicated to Dr Karin Montgomery and her not so respectable past. Maxine's discreet efforts to ‘spread the word' had been more than effective. She now had over fifty influential US newspapers in front of her and every one of them had picked up the story.

‘Listen to this one,' said Maxine to her daughter Melissa who had just entered and now sat straight-backed and cross-legged on one of the office's antique upholstered chairs. ‘“Which dark-haired Latino diva dumped her budding lawyer soon-to-be superstar husband for a famous European surgeon with all the class of a power-hungry alley cat?”'

‘Lovely,' said Melissa, picking at a piece of fresh ripe cantaloupe.

‘And the
Miami Herald
goes straight for the jugular: “There is no doubt Dr Karin Montgomery must be ruing the day she unceremoniously walked out on her College sweetheart and first husband David Cavanaugh. Ironically, in opting for the high-profile Montgomery she left one of the country's ‘most respected' for the country's ‘most wanted'.”'

‘Forgive me, Mother, but I fail to understand your obsession with this woman.'

‘It's simple, Melissa, the trial is taking place in Massachusetts – Boston, the birthplace of independence, JFK's home town. We need the local people behind us. Cavanaugh is a popular man and the locals won't be happy with anyone who dumped him for some foreign political climber.'

‘Really, Mother?' said Melissa, sitting back in her seat. ‘From what I hear Karin Montgomery is a well-liked and intelligent woman. Let's not forget Stuart Montgomery is a very charming individual. He's smart, chivalrous, impressive. I remember when she married him she was considered one of the luckiest women in Washington.'

‘Hmmm, well, not anymore. But I'll grant you she is sharp and attractive, and as such potentially dangerous. The last thing we need is for the press to make a victim out of her. And besides, Montgomery was not a catch.
Tom
was a catch.'

Maxine saw her daughter flinch and realised this may have sounded a little harsh under the circumstances, but she also knew her daughter shared her realistic take on life and was far too practical for platitudes.

‘Yes, he was,' said Melissa. ‘But if I recall, Mother, you did not think so when I chose him over the possibility of running for your old seat of Governor. And then there was your view on his history of drug abuse. I think, at the time, you called him an “
Ivy League gutter junkie
” and spent most of your energies trying to convince me to leave him. As it turns out, of course, I made the right decision for both of us – did I not?'

‘That was before I had all the information.'

‘Tom never lied about his past.'

‘No. What I mean to say is, I didn't realise . . .'

‘. . . that he was clean and had been for years before I met him. And that he had that one in a million, indefinable quality that gave him the ability to win the hearts of Americans like no one had ever done before – except perhaps for Kennedy.'

Melissa looked her squarely in the eye before going on. ‘Tom was the government's ticket to longevity, Mother. And you and the President were happy to ride his popularity all the way to the polls.'

Maxine returned her daughter's gaze and could not help but smile; she was not offended by her bluntness – on the contrary she was proud of it. She may have had her father's innate sense of diplomacy, but she was a fighter like her mother and refused to be patronised. Even as a child she had stood her ground – never raising her voice, never throwing a tantrum, simply reasoning her way out of situations she saw to be ‘unsatisfactory'. There were times when she had wondered if her role as dutiful daughter and then dutiful wife would lull her into the role of the prototype ‘supporter'. But Melissa had chosen her path and fulfilled her obligations with veracity.

‘All right, my dear, point taken, but you and I both know this is no time for hindsight. The race is close and time is short.'

‘Well, then,' said Melissa. ‘You need to announce Tom's replacement.'

‘I know,' said Maxine, pouring them both another cup of tea.

‘Who?' asked Melissa, and Maxine guessed by her expression that she knew the answer before it was even suggested.

‘It was your idea actually,' Maxine said now, lowering her voice. ‘Something you said last week, at the President's Beneficial Dinner, about choosing someone close to home. Someone the people already know and trust. President Latham listens to you, darling. He agrees, as do I.'

‘I see,' said Melissa.

‘You have always trusted my judgement, haven't you, darling? Known that no matter what I take on, I have always had your best interests at heart – and those of Tom Junior and Alicia, of course.'

‘Of course.'

‘I know that public life is a difficult one, but you have perfected being an undying support to people in power to a fine art, and I think, in a way, it defines you – as the special person that you are.'

‘I see,' Melissa said again.

‘Therefore, I feel it only fair to tell you, my dear, that it is highly likely my role is about to change. I am sure I do not need to elaborate. I just wanted to . . .' Maxine stopped there, looking squarely at her daughter, unsure as to how to read her expressionless face, her seemingly calm demeanour.

‘It's all right, Mother. I understand,' said Melissa at last, her voice even, collected, composed. ‘You will do what is best for the Party and I will support you. Believe it or not, there is little that fazes me anymore.'

‘I know, darling,' said Maxine, her voice tinged with a slight sigh of relief – not so much at her daughter's approval, but at her acknowledgement that she would continue to be a visible campaign support. ‘It's in your genes, darling, the ability to see past the obstacles. The strength, the determination, the sacrifice . . .'

‘. . . for the greater good,' finished Melissa.

‘Yes, that's it – the sacrifice for the greater good. That is what democracy is about, after all.'

‘Indeed.'

‘Now if you don't mind,' said Bryant, glancing at her watch. ‘I have a Cabinet meeting in ten minutes and I really need to . . .'

‘It's all right, Mother. I'm leaving. Just . . .'

‘Just what, my dear?'

‘Just remember I am not one of your campaign contributors who need to be mollified by euphemisms. If you want to tell me something, then state it plainly and do not coat your motives in the deceptively sweet syrup of democracy. I know you, Mother. If you want something you will set out to get it, and I have never had a problem with that. But do not waste my time with poorly disguised platitudes. This is me you are talking to and, frankly, I find it insulting.'

‘H
e had a beard.'

‘
What?
' said Officer Susan Leigh, wishing to all hell that Joe Mannix would rescue her from the ridiculous ranting of her partner by walking through the door of Lenny's Diner on the corner of Revere and Hopkins in downtown Roxbury.

‘The perp. He had a beard,' said Detective Frank McKay, swallowing a chunk of stringy bacon before tearing a corner from the greasy cardboard menu and using it to wrestle the gristle from between his teeth.

‘This was Saturday, right? About four. I just took my kids to the movies and I see this guy run around the corner with a ladies' handbag under his arm. So he slows, looking behind him and I step in his face and ask him where he got the nice lavender shoulder piece and he says . . . .'

Blah, blah, blah
. . . Susan Leigh forced herself to tune out. Seriously, the guy knew no restraint. She could drop every hint known to man that she ‘
did not give a shit!'
but on and on McKay would go, regardless, undeterred, like a broken record stuck on the same godforsaken track.

‘Long story short,' finished McKay.

She tuned in again, the irony of his words hitting her smack in the face.

‘He was lying through his teeth.'

‘Because all men with beards are liars,' she could not resist.

‘Well, I am not one to generalise but . . .'

Jesus. It never stops.

Just then the tiny tinkle of the well-used bell above Lenny's Diner door finally signalled Susan's salvation with the arrival of her boss. Lieutenant Joe Mannix had said little on the phone late last night, except that he needed to meet with her and McKay early, before work and away from the office. She hadn't asked why, knowing when (unlike her partner) to shut the hell up, but had been bursting with a combination of curiosity and excitement ever since.

‘Hey,' said Mannix, signalling the fifty-something waitress behind the counter for a coffee.

‘Hi Lieu,' said Leigh, passing him the sugar. ‘I was going to order ahead for you but I didn't know what you . . .'

‘It's okay, Susan,' said Mannix, suppressing a smile. ‘The coffee'll do.'

‘What's up, Chief?' asked McKay. ‘No complaints about the change of scenery, this breakfast special actually ain't too bad, but I get the feeling you got something to say outa school.'

‘Yeah,' said Mannix, taking the coffee from the surly bottle-blonde and downing a gulp before going on. ‘I just got back from a weekend in LA. There've been some . . . ah . . . new developments.'

‘LA?' said Leigh.

‘Don't tell me,' said McKay. ‘This has something to do with Bradshaw.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Knew that one stunk from day one.'

‘What is it, Chief?' said Leigh now perched on the end of the plastic gingham-print bench.

‘I don't think we got the right guy.'

‘No?' said McKay. And Susan noticed he didn't sound surprised.