Gospel (6 page)

‘What about them?' said Ramirez. ‘This is a Federal matter. It's none of their business.'

‘Maybe so,' said King deciding to try another angle – appealing to the Chief of Staff's priority for ‘damage control'. ‘But didn't the Vice President push for policy changes enabling local authorities to investigate drug-related issues? It seems to me, if we follow a directive from the man who all these people are here to support in the first place, then it will only gain us the respect of . . .'

‘He's right,' said Bryant, turning back to Ramirez, her blunt-cut ash blonde bob tipping slightly before falling back into its perfect, pre-ordained place. ‘It could work in our favour.'

King stole a sideways glance at Ramirez. It was obvious his superior was not pleased.

‘Who's on the ground?' asked Bryant.

‘Well, everyone that matters from the Commissioner down,' answered King. ‘But if you're asking for their best man, it's Mannix, Joe Mannix. He's good, he's discreet, he's . . .'

‘. . . homicide,' finished Ramirez. ‘How is that going to look? The last
thing we need is the local death detective sniffing about in areas over which he has no jurisdiction. We have it covered.'

‘Let him in,' said Bryant, pushing her silky smooth hair behind her ear with a perfectly manicured finger. ‘You can watch him, Antonio. You know the drill, you've played nursemaid before.'

Ramirez was an interesting beast, thought King, willing to acknowledge the rituals of rank but unable to cower to anyone, including the US Chief of Staff. There was part of King that admired him for it, but King also knew his boss's arrogance was grounded in a power that came only with the favour endowed upon him by people like Maxine Bryant – a power few in the White House were willing to challenge.

It was no secret Ramirez was next in line for the top job of FBI Director – the current Director Delgado being considered indecisive, jaded and weak. By all accounts Ramirez would be the first major appointment following the expected return of the Latham administration in November. In fact, it was as if the job was already his and, in King's opinion, this made him dangerous.

Still, Bryant's concession to let the cops in was a small victory. Boston was his city and he liked the idea of having Mannix as confidant on this one. Ramirez would be in control, no doubt about it, but at the very least King had managed to secure himself an ally who was not obsessed with ‘appearances'.

‘We need to discuss the formalities,' said Ramirez, making no attempt to hide his displeasure.

‘Yes,' said Bryant. ‘First things first. I'll speak with the President and then with the Bradshaws. The last thing we need is a leak before his parents are informed. Then I'll need to brief Lindsay Carmichael.' Carmichael was the Vice President's press secretary. ‘Prepare a statement.'

‘Do you want Ms Carmichael to address the crowd downstairs?' asked King.

Bryant stole a quick glance at Ramirez, her eyebrows slightly raised. King could see these two were tight, but he did not appreciate their treating him like an idiot.

‘Special Agent King, in case you have forgotten, the Vice President was my son-in-law.'

‘
I
have not forgotten that, Ma'am.'

The intensity of her glare told him she had noted his intonation, and as she turned towards him, her seemingly calm demeanour did nothing to hide her obvious disapproval.

‘Good. Then you will understand why it is best that I make the announcement myself. The man was family after all, and this . . . this fucking crap that my son-in-law has so kindly dumped us in will look a hell of a lot better coming from the heart.'

The same evening, Los Angeles

‘
N
o!'

‘Rita, listen to me.'

‘No, Robert, I mean
Kevin
. For God's sake, look what this is doing to me. It's been a year and I still can't get your name right.'

‘Rita, you don't seem to understand. We have to . . .'

‘Mommm.'

Rita Walker looked at her husband and saw him cringe. It was no surprise Kevin thought their one and only offspring was a coddled, demanding, self-obsessed, pain-in-the-ass brat, but as far as she was concerned his right to criticise went out the window with his years of work-obsessed absences. If he had been around instead of off fighting ‘the bad guys' for the government, he would know that saying ‘
yes
' was a whole lot easier than dealing with the drudgeries of discipline.

‘
Mommm
. Where is my iPod?'

Chase Walker trudged into the living room from the back patio, his low-slung khaki chinos revealing Calvin Klein boxers at his rather ample waist.

‘Chase, honey,' said Rita Walker, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. ‘Sweetie, I think it's on your dresser, hon, near your new Gameboy.'

‘Find it for me.'

‘Sweetie,' Rita began. ‘Mommy and daddy are just having a little talk and . . .'

‘Get it yourself, you lazy little . . .'

‘
Kevin
!'

‘I hate you,' said Chase to his father, before pushing past him, knocking over the porcelain Dalmatian in the hallway and stomping up the plush lavender carpet stairway to his bedroom.

‘Now look what you've done,' said Rita, a look of distaste trying desperately to crack a wrinkle on her botoxed brow. She waited for the usual retort along the lines of: ‘
I have devoted my life to protecting the youth of this country, and this is the thanks I get . . .'
but all she got was silence.

Something was up
, she thought.

‘Rita,' Kevin Walker began, and she noted his brow was now shiny with sweat. ‘I know how hard this is, but we have no alternative. LA just isn't working for me.'

‘
What?
' she said, lifting her left hand in a theatrical gesture, tossing her bottle-blonde hair over her right shoulder and turning towards the bar to pour herself a drink.

‘Not working for
you
? Well, for God's sake, let's all run pack our bags because LA “
ain't working
” for you. Seriously, Kevin, do you have any idea what you have put us through, all those years of looking after Gavin, I mean, Chase, on my own while you were flying over South America on some exotic covert adventure.'

He let out a sigh and shook his head. Rita took a long swig of the vodka and poured herself another glass.

‘Look, honey, I'm sorry,' he said, obviously trying to calm things down. ‘But you knew what I did when you married me.'

‘Maybe it seemed glamorous at the time – marrying a DEA agent, being part of the mystery, the great woman behind the great man. But what's the point in being married to some big shot Federal agent if you can't tell anyone about it. It's like wearing a Versace blouse without the insignia on the front pocket.'

Another toss of the hair, another swig of the Smirnoff.

‘Anyway,' he said. ‘It may not be up to us. I've been in contact with the Bureau, they think it might be safer if we go somewhere less conspicuous.'

‘LA
conspicuous?
There are nearly four million people in this fucking city, for God's sake.'

‘You know what I mean.'

‘Yes I do and I still say no. There is no way I am moving to some piss-poor midwest town full of Normons.'

‘Jesus – they're
Mormons
, Rita, and maybe that's exactly what we need to do.'

‘No, Kevin. Washington was hard enough. Washington didn't work for
me
, and I put up with it for fourteen years. No, I like LA. This is my kinda town and
we are staying
.'

Rita Walker, formally known as Nancy Doyle, grabbed a cigarette, picked up her glass and walked back through the living room as quickly as she could manage in her high-heeled Escada sandals. Click, click, click across the faux marble floor.

Rita loved a little home-grown drama and finished her flourish by sashaying through the salted glass doors on their back patio, revealing a moonlit view of Redondo Beach and the Pacific Ocean beyond.

She lit the cigarette and waited (as always) for her husband to follow – to apologise, tell her how beautiful she looked, how wonderful she was. But this time she could not hear his steps behind her. He was not sticking to the script.

She turned to see that Kevin Walker, formally known as Robert Doyle, had not moved. He was standing stock-still in the middle of the living room. His eyes glazed, his stance defeated. She felt the panic rise in her throat and immediately tried to swallow it.

It had been a year since her Drug Enforcement Administration Special Agent husband had come home and told her the Colombians had put out a contract on his life and they needed to go into witness protection. She had no idea why, hell, she didn't even know what he did on those cloak-and-dagger missions at that top secret job of his. But the whole change-of-identity thing had chilled her to the bone.

There were times she wished she had married someone with a ‘normal' job. But she had never complained – well, not really – largely because of the money.

Robert was bringing home a packet, more than a working class girl from Tampa could ever have dreamed of, and that was nothing to be sneezed
at. What was it her dear departed mother used to say?
Money doesn't bring you happiness, it brings you fucking bliss
.

So, she had agreed to move (telling herself she had a choice), the lure of LA making the transition that much easier. The house was small, but it was by the ocean, not Malibu but close enough for now. She was driving a convertible, shopping in Beverly Hills and had found a health spa with a six foot, blond haired, male Adonis masseur who gave deep tissue shiatsus that were better than sex.

But Rita wasn't stupid, never had been. And this new look on her husband's face sent a fresh sensation of terror though her veins.
He
was scared,
he
with the big bad job and balls to match.

And then it hit her. This wasn't about the Colombians.
It was about the money
.

The DEA didn't pay the type of cash he was bringing home. Blind Freddy could have told her that, but she'd been happy not to ask the questions. He was up to no good, had been for a long time, and it had finally caught up with him.

The FBI knew about the money. They were on to him. And if they were on to him, they were on to her. She was the one who spent it, after all.

‘Shit,' she said, allowing the lipstick-stained, lady-slim filter to slip from the corner of her collagen-enhanced lips.

‘I'm sorry, Nancy,' he said, from across the living room, not knowing what else to say.

Nancy moved back inside – quickly – the clap, clap, clapping of her heels working double time until she met her husband face to face.

‘I need you to tell me everything, Robert,' she said. ‘Don't leave out a thing.'

‘I
still can't believe it,' said Sara, sitting at David's breakfast table, the early morning sun flooding through the east-facing kitchen window. She was wearing one of his old college t-shirts, her long legs bare, her fingers holding a piece of fresh rye toast.

‘I know,' said David, kissing her on the head as he poured her another cup of coffee, bending down to read the
Tribune
over her shoulder. ‘It's surreal. I didn't know the guy personally but by all accounts he was the genuine article. He was going to be our next President, that much was for sure.'

‘That's what's so amazing, I mean, with his past and all, the people forgave him. They practically anointed him for getting over it.'

‘Well, there's irony for you.'

Sara took a sip of coffee as David sat down across from her.

‘It's weird, don't you think?' she said. ‘All those years being clean. And now, just as he is about to hit the big time, he injects himself with enough pain medication to kill an elephant?'

‘Pressure, I guess.'

‘I guess.' She looked up from the newspaper and smiled.

‘What?' he said, smiling back.

‘Nothing, just you, here. I'm so glad to be back, David. Last night was . . .'

‘Incredible,' he finished. ‘And it doesn't end here. I'm not letting you go anywhere for the next, well, hundred years at least.'

She smiled again and they sat quietly, enjoying the need to say nothing, Sara passing David the front section of the paper as she opened the supplementary pictorial. Her eyes drifted over photographs of a seven-year-old Bradshaw playing little league, Bradshaw accepting some academic award in high school, Bradshaw at Harvard, at his wedding, on the campaign trail. The next page showed pictures of the various luminaries who attended last night's fundraiser: politicians, academics, movie stars, sports personalities, famous musicians. And that's when her eyes settled on Professor Stuart Montgomery and his beautiful wife Karin.

At first she said nothing, not wanting to spoil what was turning out to be one of the happiest mornings of her life, but then she realised love was all about honesty and, when it came down to it, she just needed to know.

‘David?'

‘Hmmm,' he said, swallowing a mouthful of scrambled egg.

‘Did you see her?'

‘See who?'

‘Karin, last night. Did you see her?'

David looked up and she could see his eyes drift to the photograph of the Montgomerys – the caption beneath it naming Professor Stuart Montgomery as Tom Bradshaw's personal physician who ‘attended to the Vice President immediately after his death'.

‘Sara,' he said.

‘No, really, I'm not asking because I am worried. I just wondered if you knew she was there.'

‘No. I didn't know. I didn't see her. In fact I haven't seen her in over ten years.'