Stranglehold (11 page)

She gathered herself in a self-conscious way. She stood up, drew her hands down her cheeks to dry her tears, then walked around in tight little circles taking deep breaths. People going into the station gawked at her, of course, but if she noticed she didn't seem to care.

Then she came back and sat down and said, “You need to talk to Susan Cooper. I wasn't supposed to mention her name, but right now I don't know what else to do. They usually send me out of the room when they talk. But I think I've pretty much figured out who she is.”

“She's his mother.”

“How did you guess? They don't look alike at all.”

“She's taking a lot of risks. And hurting her campaign. She wouldn't do that unless she was really involved with Bobby in some way.”

“One night Bobby was crying and she was holding him and rocking
him back and forth like a little child. That was when I knew she was his mother. But he won't talk about her to me. And he won't talk about Craig, either.”

“Who's Craig?”

“I'm not sure. But he scares me. And sometimes he gives Bobby money.”

“What's he look like?”

“He has red hair for one thing. He's big, too. And he always—I don't know how to say it—it's like he's always ready to explode. That's why he's dangerous.”

“Do you know his last name?”

“I only heard it once. Craig Donovan, I think.”

“And Bobby won't talk to you about either of them?”

“He just says we're going to have some serious money pretty soon. That's how he always says it, ‘serious money.' But when I ask him, he says I'm better off not knowing and that I'd just worry if I knew.”

“C'mon,” I said.

“Where're we going?”

“I'm going to find you a decent motel. I'm hoping Jim Shapiro can get Bobby out pretty soon.”

“Really?”

“Jim's good. And if all they have on Bobby is that he was seen running from Monica's room, I doubt they can hold him much longer.”

It was nice to see her smile.

David Manning was climbing into his shiny, new silver Aston Martin convertible when I pulled into the headquarters parking lot. He wore tan slacks and a navy-blue blazer over an open-collared white dress shirt. He might have passed for dapper if his face wasn't so drawn and his glance so tired. When he saw me he reversed course and came out of his car.

“Morning, Dev.”

“Morning, David.”

“Just stopped by to see if my wife had turned up yet.”

“She's not inside?”

“No. And nobody seems to know where she is, either.”

The side door to the headquarters opened. Doris Kelly emerged and started walking toward us. Her pale blond hair caught the sun. In her shy way, she was a compelling woman, one of those quiet ones who become more interesting the longer you're around them.

“Sorry I kept you, David. I just wanted to call and see how they were treating my mother at the nursing home. She just moved in yesterday.”

“That's fine, Doris. How's she doing?”

“Well, so far she likes it.” The shy smile again. “Of course, it's just been twenty-four hours.” She turned to me. “I guess they're having trouble finding Susan again.”

“That's what David was saying. Was she home last night?”

“Got home late,” David said. “I waited up for her till about two and then just went up to bed.”

“You really need your sleep, David,” Doris said. “You work so hard.”

He laughed. “She not only helps me at the foundation; she's also my substitute mother.” He touched a gentle hand to her shoulder. “Don't worry, Mom. I get plenty of sleep.”

“But Susan did come home, David?” I asked.

“Yes. I'm not sure what time. But she was there when the maid served breakfast. She told me she was at Jane Clarke's after the fund-raiser.”

“I guess I don't know that name.”

“Her best friend for years. They were inseparable for a long time. They had a little falling-out. Now they're close again. She probably would have said more, but then Natalie came downstairs.”

“It didn't go well?”

His mouth tightened. “Natalie started in on Susan about how she's been doing this wrong and that wrong. You know Natalie when she gets going. I tried to get her to back off a little. . . .” The way his voice trailed off indicated that he hadn't had much luck. But then I'd seen him with Natalie. He was her prisoner, but instead of a gun she wielded a checkbook.

Doris's blue eyes narrowed. “They're always putting you in the middle, David.”

He smiled at me. “My defender here.” He checked his watch. “We've got a meeting at the foundation in fifteen minutes. We need to get going.
I'm sorry this campaign seems to be coming apart for you, Dev. But I think Susan will come around. She usually does.”

The word that stayed in my mind was “usually.”

Inside, Kristin and Ben were both on their phones. I sat down at a free computer and started checking my e-mail. I decided against sending money to a Nigerian prince who promised to swell my bank account into a fortune, against purchasing a “male enhancement” drug that would make me the envy of all the guys in the locker room and ensure that the ladies would be lined up around my block, and against signing a petition to investigate our current president to see if he was an extraterrestrial. After that I logged on to the Web site of the local newspaper and saw a photograph of Greg Larson. The headline read
CONTROVERSIAL POLITICAL CONSULTANT QUESTIONED BY POLICE.

Now I was sure Bobby would be back on the street sometime today. If the police were talking to Larson, then something must have happened to make him seem suspicious to them. There had been rumors for a year that Larson and Monica no longer got along. The story on the Web site indicated that they were in Aldyne because a political magazine wanted to do a lengthy profile of them. And this was a congressional seat that their party definitely wanted to win. The piece said they'd been here for five days.

I didn't see who walked in the door because I was busy on the computer, but when I heard Kristin say, “Thank God,” I knew it had to be Susan.

“Morning, everybody. I thought I'd get a workout in before the day started. I'm ready to go to the luncheon, Kristin, if you are.”

I logged off the computer. By now Susan was walking to the coffeemaker. She took it black. She wore the usual impeccable suit—this one
in dark brown—and two-inch heels. She must have sensed me watching her, because when she turned around she had her smile prepared and it was a good one. You couldn't go wrong with that smile. It made me reconsider sending off for that male-enhancement deal.

“Morning, Dev. Everybody seemed to have a good time last night.”

“Yeah,” I said, “except Monica Davies.”

She was way too good at covering herself to do anything dramatic. But it was there in her eyes, tiny pinpoints of panic when the name came up. Bobby Flaherty to Larson to Monica to Susan Cooper. And now another name, the red-haired man, Craig Donovan.

“Well, as much as I disliked her, I didn't want her to die, Dev. I'm not very good at playing God.”

“Somebody sure as hell was,” Ben said, heading for the coffee himself. “Crushed her skull.”

“The police are questioning Larson,” Kristin said. She stayed at her desk. “The tabloids are going to go crazy.”

“I wonder if they'll start looking into all the rumors about those two,” Ben said. “You know, that Georgia congressman they worked for that time basically said they were blackmailing him. But then he shut up all of a sudden.”

“He shut up because the party got to him,” I said. “The same way we've gotten to a few of our boys sometimes. Nobody wants the kind of investigation that would lead to. The congressman got elected, his kid got a cushy lobbying job in Washington, and for dropping his charges they helped him set up one of those nonprofit foundations where a good ole boy can get rich if he's careful.”

“Yeah,” Ben said, “standard operating procedure in Washington.”

“Including a lot of our own people.”

Ben laughed. “You know, sometimes I swear you're a spy working for the other side.”

“I just want to keep reminding myself that we're just about as dirty as they are.”

“Just about. But not quite.”

“We've sure had our moments, Ben.”

He smiled. “Yeah, but we don't talk about them.”

Kristin was putting on her coat. Her red hair was more vivid than ever. She had a hard time not looking glamorous.

“We'll see you in a while,” Susan said, still treating me to that bullshit smile. She had to be wondering how long she could elude me. I was starting to wonder the same thing.

When they were gone I asked Ben, “You ever meet a friend of Susan's named Jane Clarke?”

“Oh, yeah. Couple times. Very nice woman. Why?”

“I think I'll go see her.”

“Susan said she took back her own name after she got divorced. She should be in the phone book.” He picked up the local one and handed it to me. “I should tell you, I had a crush on her for about three hours one night when we all went out to get pizza.”

“Three hours,” I said. “That's a record for you, isn't it?”

Ben laughed. “Almost.”

The area the Google map directed me to had the look of a movie set. The McMansions were set against a couple of miles of autumn trees, blazing with the ironic beauty of death. Behind them ran the river and on the far side of the water there were hills packed tight with more trees. The pretentiousness of the houses intruded on the natural splendor. The streets and the false fronts could deceive the movie cameras but not the closer scrutiny of a passerby. I had the same feeling here, the stagey boastful way these homes presented themselves suggesting an emptiness inside.

Jane Clarke's house was either a Spanish-themed Tudor or a Tudor-themed Spanish hacienda. Both styles fought for dominance. The long
rolling lawn was mostly topsoil, and the few trees looked as if they wouldn't be mature even by the end-time, when God or George W. Bush came back to take care of us once and for all. I thought of a story about some rich Southerner who'd built a huge McMansion that closely resembled the White House. It even had an oval office. I assumed Jane Clarke's house would have at least six bathrooms, with plasma TVs in at least two of them.

The doorbell resonated throughout the house. It was a full minute before I heard footsteps, tiny ones, working their way to the door. I wasn't sure why she looked familiar, but she did. She was attractive, dark-haired, and shiny with sweat. She was Susan's age, no doubt, early forties. Her white T-shirt and red shorts looked damp. They also were filled out so well, I'd doubtless be thinking of her throughout the day. “Oh, great. A good-looking guy finally comes here and I'm all sweaty from the stationary bike.” She had a nice big inviting smile. “Hi, Dev. I saw you at the fund-raiser. Susan pointed you out.”

“That's right. That's why you look familiar. I saw you with her.”

She opened the door wider. “I've got coffee on in the kitchen. Go pour yourself a cup. I'll take a quick shower and then we can talk.” As I stepped into the vestibule, she said, “You're worried about Susan and I'm worried about Susan. But I won't tell you anything that will hurt her.”

The kitchen was big enough for a small restaurant: hardwood flooring like the entire downstairs, two refrigerators, a butcher-block table that could have accommodated a cow, two sinks, two stoves, and an espresso machine. There was a built-in coffeemaker for those pedestrian thinkers who didn't want espresso and the inevitable wine storage units. I got myself some coffee and sat in one of the chairs by the huge window that overlooked the russet-and-gold hills behind the house. Spread across the table in front of me were pages of houses that some Realtor had provided. The houses were the kind I liked, old-fashioned with porches and venerable trees and sidewalks, homes likely built in the boom after the big war.

She burst into the kitchen saying, “Sorry I took so long.”

“I watched the clock. Less than ten minutes.”

“That's why my hair's still wet.”

I watched the way her backside moved when she poured coffee. She had a sweet little bottom and short but graceful legs. I liked her a ridiculous amount.

When she sat down across from me, she said, “Is it all right if I take this towel off my head?”

“Sure.”

She patted the towel on her hair one last time and then swept it away. In the light now I could see the wrinkles around her mouth and hazel eyes and the tiny point where her nose had probably been broken a long time ago. But to me she was all the more appealing for the wrinkles. I was at the age when I wanted women who were at least as road-tested as I was. She took a sip from her coffee and sat back and smiled. She'd changed into a pink top and jeans, and somehow the pink made her smile even more fetching.

“Couple things first,” she said. “I hate this house, in case you're wondering. This was my husband's idea. He was in a dick-measuring contest with all the other lawyers in his firm. He left me because my warranty had expired. He met a lady lawyer at a convention in Chicago. She's beautiful, so I can't blame him there. But, of course, I
do
blame him. I used to hope there was a little gallantry left in this world, but my husband proved there wasn't. He handled the whole thing very badly. But I got a decent settlement and I got this house. I'm trying to sell this place so I can move into a house like the one I grew up in. My father was a high-school history teacher. We weren't used to luxuries.”

“I was looking at some of these sheets. Looks like you wouldn't have much trouble finding the kind of place you want.”