Devil's Run (20 page)

The sun had set by the
time Kohl escorted me back to the bar, which was empty. However, a long table
had been added against the windows. On it four silver chafing dishes were
perched over little tins of blue flame.

“The others will join us
soon,” said Kohl. “Please wait here.”

Boyd entered as Kohl
turned to leave. He’d changed into a tuxedo. His eyes were slightly bloodshot
and there was a sheen of sweat on his face.

“You’ve been gone for
hours,” he said. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, most productive,”
said Kohl.

“Good.” He looked at me.
“Then let’s get you on the next cable car.”

“And miss the party?” I
said. “Not on your life.”

Boyd looked at Kohl.

“Yes,” said Kohl, “I
asked Mr. Craig to stay and have a drink with our guests.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I lack a sense of
humor,” said Kohl.

“He’s German,” I said.

“Austrian,” said Kohl.

“Same difference.”

Kohl opened his mouth to
speak, but was distracted by a burst of conversation. We turned to see Senator
Canfield leading a group into the bar, his wife on his arm. Canfield wore a
conservative dark suit, but Cory was sheathed in a spray on red gown. She lit
up when she saw us.

“Nick! Jeff! Hi!” She
gave me a huge smile and waved frantically.

“Behave yourself,” said
Boyd, under his breath, before making a beeline to the Senator.

Kohl and I followed in
his wake as the three well-dressed couples in Canfield’s entourage fanned out
around him, one pair heading to the bar, the other to the chafing dishes.
Another man in a suit kept station behind Canfield and Cory.

“Senator,” called Tim
from behind the bar, “what can I get you?”

“Oh, the usual, Tim. And
a champagne cocktail for Mrs. Canfield.” His voice, so familiar to me from his
TV appearances, was deep and measured.

“Wait, Tim,” said Cory,
“I’ll take a bottle of Dom Perignon.” Then, smiling at her husband, she said,
“Don’t be a stingy poop!”

Canfield smiled and
kissed her on the cheek. She giggled and danced over to the bar. Canfield
turned to Boyd as we approached.

“Evening, Jeff.”

“Good evening, Senator.”
They shook hands.

Canfield looked over
Boyd’s shoulder at Kohl. “Good evening, Arnold.”

“Senator,” said Boyd,
“allow me to introduce Mr. Nick Craig.”

Canfield gave me a warm,
seemingly genuine smile and shook my hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Craig.”

“A privilege, Senator.
I’ve long admired your political courage.”

“I noticed you didn’t
mention my policies.” He laughed to take the edge off the remark. “Thank you,
though, for the kind compliment.”

The presence of the man
was undeniable. Over six feet tall, he looked fit enough to take the field
again. His handsome, square jawed face, thick head of hair, and easy charm
spawned unending comparisons to John Kennedy and Bill Clinton, but Jack
Canfield was a conservative, the new face of the Republican Party. Although a
devout Mormon, he had married the Roman Catholic daughter of a Cuban refugee.
He embraced some pretty eclectic demographics, so his name was always on the
short list when discussing presidential candidates.

“And what do you do, Mr.
Craig?” said Canfield.

“Mr. Craig is a security
consultant in my employ,” said Boyd, before I could even begin to answer.

“I see,” said Canfield.
He covered his amusement at Boyd’s intervention by turning to the man standing
next to him. “This is my right hand man, Bryce Randolph.”

“Mr. Craig,” said
Randolph, shaking my hand.

“Mr. Randolph.”

“Please, call me Bryce.”

If anything, he was
handsomer than Canfield and nearly as tall, but the checked suit had a sharper,
European cut and his hair made Canfield’s sculpted coiffure look windblown by
comparison. The smell of cologne preceded him like a bodyguard.

“So, Mr. Craig,” said
Canfield. “Security consultant. Were you ever in law enforcement?”

“He worked with
Richard,” said Cory, now leaning against the bar while Tim organized the
champagne.

“Imperatrice? That’s
interesting,” said Canfield.

“Actually, Nick worked
for me,” said Richard Imperatrice.

I hadn’t seen him walk
in. Suddenly he was just there, standing beside Canfield, natty as ever in a
midnight blue tuxedo.

“Good evening, Rich,”
said Canfield, shaking hands. “Small world. Was this at Customs?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Nick was one of our top
investigators,” said Imperatrice. “Drug smuggling was his specialty.” Canfield
looked at him. “Uncovering it, I mean.”

“So, how do you two know
each other?” I asked.

“Oh, I’ve known Rich for
years,” said Canfield, “from my time in the House, back when he was still with
Customs. He’s been a friend and consultant for many years.”

“And now he works for
your wife? Any conflict of interest there?”

“Craig!” said Boyd.

“It’s alright, Jeff.
That’s a legitimate question and Mr. Craig is not the first person to raise
it.” He looked at me, completely relaxed and sincere. “I maintain a strict
firewall between my responsibilities and my wife’s business activities.
However, I do call on Rich from time to time, because I value his opinion on
matters involving border security and law enforcement.”

“Uh-huh.” I turned to
Imperatrice. “Mixing with the high and mighty. Guess that proves what they say
about cream and bastards.”

I saw Boyd glaring at
me, but Imperatrice just smiled.

“I sense you two did not
always see eye-to-eye,” said Canfield.

“Not more than once or
twice a year,” I said.

Canfield was unruffled.
“I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that.”

“As long as you’re
sure.”

The pregnant silence
that followed was broken by a blur of red signaling Cory’s return. She had her bottle
of champagne in one hand and four flutes in the other.

“Hey, Nick, want some
champagne?”

“I’ll stick with a
beer,” I said, pointing over at the bar. “This is probably an ideal time to go
get it.”

I went to the bar and
asked Tim for a Smithwicks. A busy man, he provided it without chit chat. When
I turned, Boyd was standing back at his table and motioning me to join him.
Canfield was deep in conversation with one of the couples, so I walked over to
Boyd.

“I told you to behave
yourself,” he said.

“Have you met me?”

“Son of a bitch,” he
said. “Just be on the next cable car.”

He walked away. I turned
to the windows and watched my reflection sip beer. Cory Canfield’s reflection
appeared next to mine.

“What’s wrong with me
that I’m the only one that seems to like you?” she said.

I turned to her. “I’d
like to say you are an exceptional judge of character.”

She screwed up her face.
“There’s a ‘but’ in there, I think.”

I shrugged. “My wife
used to tell me I was a miserable prick.”

“Used to?”

“She died.”

She looked genuinely
crestfallen. “Oh, Nick, I’m so sorry.”

“It was a long time
ago.” That felt like yesterday.

“Why do you hate Rich
Imperatrice so much?” she said, glancing over at the little group formed around
Canfield.

“Hate is such a strong
word. Let’s just say I have little time for smug, arrogant, ladder climbing
weenies whose only concern is who they can screw over to get their next
promotion.”

“Well,” she said,
laughing, “I’m glad you don’t hate him.”

I laughed, too. We
clinked glasses and drank.

A few more people
entered the bar, led by Herr Kohl. It appeared to be a contingent of local
VIPS. Among them was my breakfast companion, the Chief of Police. Only now she
was in the blue dress I’d seen at the skating rink, hair done up nicely and
makeup expertly applied.

Bryce Randolph sidled up
alongside the Senator and whispered something in his ear. As he did so, he
rested his hand lightly on Canfield’s forearm. Canfield nodded and looked over
at the new arrivals. As he turned to move towards them, Randolph’s fingertips
trailed lightly down Canfield’s sleeve and brushed across the back of his hand.

“What’s up?” said Cory.

“Sorry?”

“You were frowning.”

“Was I? It was probably
Herr Kohl.”

She giggled. “I know, he
looks so mean.” She touched my arm. “But, he’s a sweetheart, really. Such a
dear.”

“It’s good to be you,
isn’t it,” I said, smiling at her.

She looked at me to see
if I was teasing her. “Yeah, I guess it is!” She laughed and we touched glasses
again.

“It looks like the party
is here,” said Catherine Masterson. She held up her own flute of champagne and
we toasted with her.

“Hey, hi Catherine,”
said Cory. “How are you? Oh, meet Nick Craig.”

“Good evening, Mrs.
Canfield. And Mr. Craig and I have already met.”

“Really? And call me
Cory, I’ve told you that. I hate ‘Mrs. Canfield’. Makes me sound like some old
lady.”

Catherine smiled. “Okay,
Cory. I’ll remember that.”

“Great.” She waggled her
glass. “Need a refill.”

“Allow me,” I said.

“No, no, no. You stay
here and talk to Catherine. I’ve got to mingle anyway.”

She bustled off in the
direction of the bar.

“That woman is a force
of nature,” I said.

“She is that. Rather
beautiful, too, wouldn’t you say?”

“Is she? I hadn’t
noticed.”

“Really? You might want
to wipe the drool off your face.”

“Okay, I admit it, she’s
one hot tamale.”

“Be careful you don’t
burn your hands. Or some other part of your anatomy.”

I smiled at her.
“I only have eyes for you, Chief. You’re quite the sight, all
fahrpitz
.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Yiddish. Means
dressed up.”

“I see. I’ll take that
as a compliment. You, on the other hand, look seriously underdressed.”

“It was a last minute
invite.” I stepped back and gave her a head to toe appraisal.

“That’s subtle,” she
said.

“I’m trying to figure
out where you’re hiding your gun.”

“Start some trouble and
you’ll find out. Besides,” she said, pointing at Cory, “If I were you I’d be
more interested in figuring out where she was hiding that camera.”

“Hey, you two!” It was
Cory again, and indeed she had her camera out.

“Uh-oh, picture time,”
said Catherine, under her breath.

“Move closer together,”
said Cory, motioning with her hands. “No closer. Better. Now smile.”

I moved close to
Catherine, who smelled really nice. The camera flashed and whirred. All I saw was
blue dots for a few seconds. When vision returned, Cory was looking down at the
camera. Her head down posture gave me a seriously stimulating look at her ample
cleavage.

“Wow, you two make a
really cute couple!” she said, holding the camera up to show us the LCD panel.

I looked at Catherine.
“It’s fate.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I’m going to get some
more pictures,” said Cory. She went over to the others and began arranging
poses.

 “So what’s going
on here?” I said to Catherine.

“Little reception and
dinner for the town fathers. Keep everybody happy and feeling like they’ve got
a say in the matter.”

“Sounding a bit cynical
this evening. What happened to the civic cheerleader of breakfast?”

“Tired. Been a long
day.” She took a drink. “They get whatever they want so long as the money keeps
flowing in. It’s as if the zoning laws were written in pencil just in case they
need something changed.”

“Have some more bubbly,
you’ll feel better.” I pointed at the other new arrivals. “Who’s who?”

“The blue blazer is the
Mayor, Dave Spencer.”

“The guy with the douche
bag beard?”

“I believe it’s called a
Van Dyke.”

“Potato, patata. Wait,
Dave of Dave’s Hardware?”

“The very same. He likes
to be called Mayor Dave, by the way. His wife is the frilly dress. The one in
the cheap suit is the EPA site administrator. Then we have the manager of
Spanish Mountain and his wife, and the head of the city council. She’s the
older woman in the black dress. Her husband is the bald, lost looking one with
the plateful of shrimp.”

“Your husband couldn’t
make it?” I said, as innocently as I could.

“I’m not married.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Do you?”

Mayor Dave came over,
beaming. “Chief Masterson, don’t you look wonderful.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mayor.
May I present Mr. Craig?”

The mayor grabbed my
hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “Great to see you!”

“Nice to meet you, too,
your honor, but in the interests of full disclosure, I’m not a constituent.”

His smile decreased by
about thirty percent for a moment, then widened again to full beam. “Well,
welcome to our little town.”

Behind him I saw Kohl
drifting in our direction, hands behind his back, his bright eyes moving like
searchlights.

“I passed by your store
the other day on my way into town,” I said to Mayor Dave. “Things seem to be
going well.”

“Very well, thank you.”
He puffed with pride. “Our town is going places.”

“It must be to judge by
that addition you put on.”

“I had to, we needed the
room. Lots of construction around here. Not right now, of course, what with the
snow and all.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Tell you the truth, this place
keeps me going in the winter.”

“Really? How so?”

“Takes more than selling
snow blowers and space heaters to keep a store our size going. That hydroponic
garden of theirs keeps me in the black.”

“In what way?”

“They go through a ton
of piping, and chemicals, and fertilizer, I’ll tell you.”