Someone To Believe In (9 page)

“No, Governor, you’re not.”

“The
governor?”
Aidan asked.

Bailey nodded.

“I’ll cut to the chase. At the direction of
Congress, each state is setting up a task force to recommend how to
spend its allotment of money from Chuck Stewart’s Youth Crime
Bill.”

Bailey had been plotting to get some of its
funds. Was this her opportunity? Her pulse speeded up. “I see.”

“I want you on the task force.”

Yes!
“I’d be
happy to be on it.”

“Good. Our first meeting is in two weeks.
I’ll have my secretary call you with the details but I wanted to
issue the invitation personally.”

Something made Bailey ask, “Governor
Friedman, will Clayton Wainwright be participating in this
committee?”

“Yes, he’ll be New York’s representative. As
I said, one senator from each state will be on each task force.
Then that person will take the recommendation back to
Washington.”

“Shouldn’t Alex Case” —the other New York
senator— “be on this task force? Since Wainwright’s on the parent
committee?”

“Clay asked specifically to be part of this,
and I don’t see any conflict of interest. Regardless, Case is tied
up with some ongoing work with Homeland Security.” A long and
meaningful pause. “Is there a problem with Clay being on this task
force?”

He knew there was. “No, of course not. I’ll
look forward to sparring with him.”

“Not exactly what I had in mind.”

Best to take the bull by the horns. “Surely
you expect some fireworks.”

“What I’d like is a truce.”

Let me come to work with you…We might even
call a truce.

“I’m not sure you’re going to get that.
However, I’ll do my best to be civil.” She said her good-byes and
clicked off the phone.

“What?” Aidan asked.

“Looks like round three’s coming up.” She
explained the situation, excitement pumping through her veins like
a direct shot of caffeine.

“You don’t seem unhappy about working with
Clay Wainwright.”

“Of course I am. The senator’s a pain in the
ass.”

“Uh-huh.” He stood. “Come on, B., let’s go
play with the wild things. Something you’re really good at,” he
added.

“Much to Wainwright’s chagrin.” She wondered
what he was thinking about this turn of events.

FIVE

ALONE IN HIS den in his New York town
house, Clayton stared at the computer screen; its low hum was the
only thing breaking the silence. He was studying a proposal for
the Appropriations Committee to be discussed in September and his
eyes kept closing. It wasn’t that he was tired. He was
bored.
Focus on the committee
,
he told himself. It was in a session of Appropriations that he’d
gotten the Street Angel’s funding stalled for Guardian.

You bastard. Get out of here right now,
Senator. This little experiment is over.

Maybe he should try to contact her again.
They were going to be working on the governor’s task force
together, and Jerry Friedman has asked him once again to come in
peace. Clay had her email address at ESCAPE. He drummed his fingers
on the mouse pad. Hell, maybe she was there. He stifled the thought
that he was using the committee as an excuse to contact her.

Dear Ms.
O’Neil
. Nah, he knew her better than that.
Dear Bailey, I’m sorry our last meeting ended so
badly. I’d hoped we could get to know each other better. I
shouldn’t have made that crack about Lawson
.
Truthfully, Clay had been jealous.

Shit, he sounded like a teenage
boy.
Are we going to be able to bury this
hatchet?
He signed it simply
Clay
and pressed Send, staying online in case she
was at work and responded back immediately.

She did.

Dear Senator, Apology accepted. I lost my
temper with you, too, which seems to happen when we’re in the same
room. I think I need anger management where you’re concerned.

He smiled. Her response was a peace
offering. He typed,
Where are you now? Do
you have Instant Messenger so we can talk live?

A longer wait. Clay got up and went to
the teak sideboard to pour himself a scotch. He appreciated its zip
as he took a swig and chided himself for contacting her. A chime
indicating an answer coming in. He went back to the
computer.
Not a good idea
, was
the message.

He typed and sent,
Please.

Finally, capitulation.
IrishCream
.

He chuckled, and returned
ClayFeet
.

In minutes, he added her to a buddy
list under “personal” and clicked into IM.
How are you?

Tired,
came the
instant reply. This was a lot better. It was like talking to her.
Grinning foolishly, he settled in.

Why?

I couldn’t get Rory to sleep last night.

How late was he up?

Until midnight. I read him five books and
sang an easy eighteen songs.

Without thinking, he said,
I wish I had those days back with my son, Bailey.
Treasure them.

What would you do differently?

That was easy. Be home more.

A long pause.
I’m not home enough.

I have some suggestions that
would keep you home more.
He put in a ☺.

I’m too tired to fight about that,
ClayFeet.

Okay. Do you exercise?

Exercise is highly overrated.

Not if it’s fun.

What do you do to keep in such good
shape?

Hmm. So she thought he was in good
shape.
Racquetball. I’m really
good.

And modest, too.
A long pause.
I used to
play.

When?

In prison.

Clay drew in a breath. Thoughts of her
behind bars made his blood run cold.
I hate
to think of you in prison.
And his own role in putting
her there.

Then don’t. Maybe I’ll challenge you to a
game of racquetball. The winner could compromise on his or her
philosophies.

He chuckled.
You wouldn’t have a chance against me.

Pride goeth before the fall, Senator.

I’m bigger than you are.

I’m smaller and faster. And I pack quite a
punch.

No doubt about that. Bailey, look I...

Suddenly a message came on
screen.
IrishCream has logged off at 12:30
A.M.

What the hell? She cut him off? Or, oh God,
had something happened to her? She was at ESCAPE. He pictured the
area where the building was. The small quarters. Were those locks
effective enough? Damn it, anything could have gone down. He
reached for the phone, angry all over again at her carelessness
about her safety.

TAZ IS THAT you?

A long pause from the interactive network.
The message had come on suddenly when she was talking with Clay.
She’d clicked off her personal IM fast to answer the website
visitor.

Taz, talk to me. I haven’t heard from you in
a while. I’ve been wondering how you are.

She waited, and as she did, the phone rang.
She snatched it up.

“Bailey?” Clay’s tone was concerned. Overly
concerned.

“I’m okay. I got a hit on the website. I
can’t talk.”

“Thank God. I thought something might have
happened to you.” His relieved tone, the intimacy of his voice
across the lines, warmed her.

Because it did, she said, “I gotta go.”

“All right. Stay safe,” he told her.

“I will.”

Just as she hung up, another message came
across the website.

I’m here, Angel.

What have you been up to?

Just been in the mix.
Nothin’ serious.
A pause
. My
old man and me been squabbin’.

What are you fighting about?

He wanted me to knock boots with some jerkoff
he owes money.

Oh, Taz. You don’t have to live like
this.

Thinkin’ about livin’ with my set. We got a
crib...

Uh-oh, if Taz told her where the GGs crashed,
was she legally bound to report it? Damn it, now Wainwright had her
thinking like him!

Before you do that, meet with me. We have a
thing called Face-to-Face. I’ll come with two others. We can just
talk.

Wasn’t born yesterday, lady.

It’s safe, and no one will try to make you do
anything you don’t want.

Snort, snort.

I mean it. Try to believe me. I’m
trustworthy.

Word on the street has it you went to jail
for not blowin’ somebody in.

I did.

Maybe I’ll meet with you. Alone, though,
outta the way.

Should she do it?

She remembered Clay’s words.
How can you risk your life when you have a son
depending on you?

Of course she shouldn’t. But when had
she let that stop her?
Okay, girl. Here’s
the plan
...

By the time she was done, she had a date to
meet Taz. The shrill of the phone into the quiet office startled
her. Bailey didn’t answer it. It was probably the senator, and she
didn’t want to talk to him now. He’d read it in her voice that
she’d just made an appointment to meet with a gang kid alone.

“AND NOW, GIVE a big hand to Senator Clayton
Wainwright, who made this whole project possible.”

Clayton smiled at the woman who introduced
him; she was the manager of Tales for Tots, a new bookstore in
town. When he took the microphone, he said, “I think that’s an
exaggeration, Donna. I helped get some funds for this terrific
place but your committee did all the work.”

The manager wouldn’t be swayed. “You pushed
our grant through, you persuaded a top architect in New York to do
the plans without charge, and you’ve been a consistent moral
supporter during the year it’s taken to get this bookstore
established.”

More clapping. Clay demurred. He’d
wholeheartedly worked on this project to benefit an underprivileged
area of the city and had made a point to attend the ribbon-cutting
ceremony of this very worthwhile venture. He wondered if Bailey
knew about it. If she acknowledged at least some of the good he
did.

Then he wondered why he cared. She’d
disconnected a couple of nights ago when they’d been making some
progress in getting to know each other, and he hadn’t tried to
contact her since.
Concentrate
, he told himself, as he peered out at
the fairly decent crowd of kids, adults, and some of the
press.

In his remarks, he cited the bookstore’s
layout: children’s reading centers scattered throughout, indicating
different topics by various primary colors. There was an adventure
section that sported action figures hovering in the air over the
stacks, pillows and chairs of all sizes. There were similar areas
for nonfiction: trains and race cars acting as seating areas,
trees, rocks, and the like. It was a child’s paradise, designed to
get kids interested in books. The undercurrent of children’s
chatter and excited squeals indicated the level of enthusiasm he’d
hoped for.

As he finished his talk and a crowd
began to gather around him, he had a flash of reading to Jon. When
he was a district attorney, Clay was home more than after he
entered politics, and remembered how his son liked the Grimm
Brothers fairy tales. Karen had said they were too dark, but Clay
had enjoyed reading them, then watching the videos of
Fairy Tale Theater.
A far cry from
the time they spent together—or didn’t spend together—now. Thinking
of their last conversation, a sense of loss ambushed him like an
emotional sniper, setting him off balance for a minute.

I can’t believe you’d do this to me.

I didn’t do anything. I just went to Lawson’s
preliminary meeting.

Going’s enough.
He hadn’t even tried keep the hurt from his voice.

And, as he always did when they argued,
Jon went on the defensive. He’d straightened to his full height and
squared his shoulders.
Worried about the
public’s reaction?

No
, Clay
remembered thinking,
you broke my
heart.

There had been no dinner and a show that trip
for father and son.

He was distracted from his unpleasant memory
by a tug on his suit coat. Looking down, he saw a little
black-haired boy with startling blue eyes staring up at him. “Wanna
read to me, mister?”

Clay grinned. “I’d love to.” Something about
the kid...“Is your mom or dad here? I wouldn’t want them to think
you’re lost.”

The boy nodded. “My uncle’s over there.”

Clay glanced up to see a man with looks
similar to the boy watching them from about fifteen feet away. He
raised his coffee cup in salute to Clay. Ah, he got it.

Squatting down, he faced the kid eye-level.
“Your name wouldn’t happen to be Rory, would it?”

Owl eyes now. “How’d ya know?”

“I met your mom and uncle. And I saw your
picture.”

“Mommy’s got lots of pictures. Uncle A. takes
them.” He held out a book. “Read me this,” he said in the tone of a
child used to being read to.

“Okay. Let me check with your uncle
first.”

Rory grasped on to his hand; his fingers were
a little sticky, and very small. Clay was touched by the
gesture.

When they reached the uncle, Clay extended
his other hand. “Aidan, right?”