Fever Dream (41 page)
“However, we just received this statement from Leland Sinclair, at his campaign headquarters—”
The report cut to a video of an exhausted-seeming Sinclair, looking defiantly at the camera.
“As I’ve said before, I will not be intimidated by threats or scare tactics. My debate with Councilman John Garrity will take place tonight. The issues that matter to the people of this great state will be addressed in that forum, as has been the case since the nation’s founding. And no criminal or lunatic fringe will interfere with that noble tradition.”
Then, cutting back to the on-scene reporter: “You just heard from District Attorney Sinclair. We look for something similar from John Garrity’s camp. Now, back to the newsroom…”
I clicked off the TV and hurried out to my car.
***
Embedded in typical Saturday night traffic crossing the Fort Pitt Bridge, I kept turning my mind to the events of the past four days. But whether as a result of fatigue, stress or the soul-sapping heat, nothing came together. Made sense. As though, if there
was
some pattern, it was hidden behind a veil. Just out of sight…
The ringing of my cell made me start. I grabbed it up.
“Danny? Dave Parnelli here. Your new best friend.”
“How’s your head?”
“Fine, fuck you very much. I guess you’re headin’ down to the Burgoyne Plaza? I mean, how ’bout that bomb threat at the library? Now
there’s
publicity money can’t buy.”
“I doubt the candidates see it that way.”
“True. I bet Garrity’s still shittin’ his pants. Not that Lee’s probably holdin’ up much better.”
“I guess we’ll find out tonight. At the debate.”
A sour laugh. “Yeah, I can’t wait.”
“You in your car, Parnelli?”
“Just about to get behind the wheel. Why?”
“Why not take a cab, okay? That way, you give our city’s poor pedestrians a chance to get through the evening in one piece. You sound like you’ve had a few.”
Another, deeper laugh. “Ya know, Rinaldi, I still haven’t made up my mind whether I like you or not. Believe me, shitty comments like that don’t help.”
Like I cared. I clicked off.
***
The sky had grown charcoal-black by the time I turned into the parking entrance at the Burgoyne. A sign indicated that the underground garage was full, so I had to take a spot in the open-air spillover lot across the street.
I’d just cut the engine when my cell rang again. To my surprise, it was Harry Polk.
“Harry? You okay?”
“I’m fine, Doc. Why wouldn’t I be?”
I didn’t have time to answer that one.
“So what is it, Harry?”
“Lowrey asked me to call. She’s in with Biegler. But we got some big news. For some reason, she likes keepin’ you in the loop. Me, I don’t get it.”
“What news?”
“The FBI. They found Ronny Baxter.”
I felt myself gripping the phone tighter.
“They found Baxter? Where?”
He told me.
After we hung up, I took a slow, very deep breath.
And stared out at the black, implacable night.
As I strode across the ornate lobby of the Burgoyne Plaza, it occurred to me that I had no idea what was about to happen.
I had a plan, if you could call it that. But the clock was ticking. If the debate turned out the way most people expected, Sinclair’s lead would be insurmountable. He was going to be the state’s next governor.
McCloskey’s governor.
I reached the curving, carpeted stairway that led to the mezzanine and headed up, taking two steps at a time.
Fueled by adrenaline. And a deep, inchoate anger.
Because the pattern had finally come into focus. Clear. Hard-edged. Obvious.
At least, it should have been. But there’d be time to curse myself later. Right now, I had to—
The same young man and woman who’d stood outside the conference hall, checking off names for Sinclair’s fundraiser, were there now. Though both were dressed much less formally. Neither managed that same dazzling smile as before, either. There was instead a real air of tension, of barely contained anxiety, in both our greeters and the other grim-faced attendees joining me in entering the room.
After I was waved in, I headed directly down a middle aisle formed by two long phalanxes of folding chairs, many already occupied. Though, as I’d guessed, the number of empty seats indicated how many of the anticipated audience had been scared off by the bomb threat earlier.
At the far end of the room, a similar dais as before had been erected. Two wood-grained podiums stood at either end of the platform, facing out to the audience.
Neither Sinclair nor Garrity had arrived yet to take their places at the podiums. However, sitting at a long table on the floor directly in front of the dais, were three local journalists—I recognized one of them from the TV news—all poring over their notes for the debate. Readying their questions for the candidates.
Right behind them, a TV crew was positioning cameras, setting lights, and unspooling microphone cords. Prepping for the live broadcast.
I registered all of this in a vague, distracted way, as I did the murmur of the audience and the familiar sight of dark-suited security people stationed at points around the room. I also noted the heavy police presence, the dozen plainclothes officers leaning against the back walls.
This included Harry Polk and Eleanor Lowrey, as well as Lt. Biegler and Agent Alcott. The latter standing near one of the side exits, talking importantly into his cell.
With no time to lose, I gave Polk and Lowrey a quick nod and kept moving down the middle aisle toward the dais. My focus narrowed to the front row of seats, where I found ADA Dave Parnelli, the chief of police, and a half-dozen other city dignitaries. At the far end of the row sat Brian Fletcher and the campaign’s special guest, Treva Williams.
As I drew near, she smiled brightly up at me and patted the empty seat on her other side.
“Dr. Rinaldi!” In her simple skirt and blouse, she looked quite pretty. Well rested. “We’ve saved you a seat.”
At the same moment, Brian Fletcher rose and put out both his hands to clasp my right one.
“I was afraid you weren’t going to make it, Doc.” An easy smile beneath the trim mustache. He wore a new Armani suit, accented by those same gold cufflinks.
No question, this was his night—or at least his candidate’s night—to shine.
“Wouldn’t miss it, Brian.” Taking my seat next to Treva. I leaned in to her, my voice low.
“How are you doing, Treva? I was concerned about you, after the incident at Hilman Library.”
She paled, but only slightly.
“It…well, I admit, I was a little freaked out at first. But I’m fine now. And so glad you’re here with me.”
I nodded and squeezed her hand.
Just then, Dave Parnelli reached across behind two chair backs and tapped me on the shoulder.
“Here I am, Danny. Without leaving a single dead body on the road.”
Even from this distance between us, I smelled the liquor on his breath. So, I could tell, did Fletcher, who leaned back in his seat, flinching.
I spoke across the campaign manager’s body.
“Before you give yourself a medal, Parnelli, let’s see how the rest of the evening turns out.”
Parnelli grinned, flipped me his middle finger, and sat back in his chair. Loosened his tie.
Then Treva touched my forearm, bringing my attention back to her. She peered up at the dais.
“I think they’re about to start.”
I followed her gaze to the curtain at the back of the stage. A crew guy wearing a headset stepped through the heavy fabric. Motioned urgently to the camera operators.
“Looks like you’re right, Treva.” I smiled at her. “But before they do, I just need to talk to Brian for a moment.”
I turned in my chair and took Fletcher’s elbow.
“There’s something we need to talk about. Privately.”
“What?” His brow tightened. “
Now?
This thing’s starting in five minutes.”
But I was already standing. “Don’t worry, it won’t take that long. C’mon.”
Before he could really protest, I tightened my grip on his elbow and pulled him to his feet.
His eyes narrowed to tiny points. But he kept his voice down. A clipped whisper.
“What the hell are you doing, Rinaldi?”
I gave him a tug, pulling him slightly off-balance.
“Just two guys, walking over to a quiet corner to have a private conversation. Okay?”
I didn’t give him time to respond. Moving quickly, my hand still firmly on his elbow, I walked us both over to the service door. The one I recalled from the night of the fundraiser. The door leading to the kitchen.
I pulled him through the door, and then kept us moving across the kitchen. Startled kitchen workers in stained white aprons and wilted chefs’ hats stepped awkwardly out of the way as we passed.
“Goddam it, Rinaldi, this is—”
But we’d already crossed the kitchen floor to where the service elevator stood. With my free hand I pushed the button. The scuffed metal door opened and I pulled us into the small, cramped car.
By now, Fletcher had recovered himself enough to shake himself free of my grip. He straightened, pulling down on his shirt cuffs. Eyes ablaze with anger.
“Listen, Rinaldi, I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing—”
“What am I
doing?
I’m ending this, is what I’m doing.”
“What?”
I put my hands on his shoulders, and slammed him hard against the opposite wall of the car.
Brian Fletcher struggled to get free, his jacket lapels bunched tight in my fists. I widened my stance, leaned in. Pressing him back against the wall.
Frustrated, all he could do was sputter angrily in my face. “You’re out of your mind—!”
“Always a possibility. Still, two things have been bothering me since the night Jimmy Gordon took a shot at Sinclair. Two big questions.”
Fletcher glowered at me, but kept silent.
“I kept thinking about what Parnelli had said later that night. He couldn’t understand, with all that security, how Jimmy managed to get into the fundraiser with a gun. To disguise himself as a waiter and get past the security check earlier that day.”
Fletcher said nothing.
“Then there was Jimmy’s threat, the one he made as the cops were hauling him away. He said that Sinclair would never make it to Saturday’s debate alive. Yet how did Jimmy know about the debate? That there was even going to
be
one that coming Saturday? When you were with Detective Lowrey and me, right before the shooting, you told us that you’d just nailed down the details of the debate. That you’d reached an agreement about the rules and venue with Garrity’s people less than an hour before. So how could Jimmy Gordon, working as part of the kitchen staff since that afternoon, have known about it? Unless
you
told him. He wouldn’t have access to anyone else in the know.”
Still, Fletcher said nothing.
“Know what, Brian? I think you were right when you called it political theater. Because that’s what it was. You sought out Jimmy Gordon and paid him to pretend to try to shoot Sinclair. Because of his public threats against the DA, he made a very plausible assassin. But you never intended for him to kill Sinclair. It was all staged.”
Which finally roused him to speak.
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
“To foster sympathy for your candidate. Better than that, it allowed him to appear brave in the face of that failed attempt. Unwilling to be intimidated. It reinforced the image of him as a tough law-and-order man, willing to risk standing up to criminals.”
“If you say so. By the way, when this little party is over, I’m pressing charges. Assault. Kidnapping.”
“Knock yourself out. But, hell, I have to hand it to you: your plan worked. Sinclair’s poll numbers have been rising, especially among those blue-collar voters you’ve been so worried about. Though I think planting that backpack today at the library might have been overkill. I guess we’ll have to see when the latest polls come in.”
“I guess we will.” A trace of pride in his handiwork slipping into his voice. I knew then I was right.
Fletcher let his shoulders go slack then, as he collected himself. Tried to regain some composure.
I moved on. “Once I realized that you’d staged the attempt on Sinclair’s life, everything else kinda fell into place. It was you all along. Had to be. That’s why Wheeler Roarke didn’t know who I was talking about when I mentioned Evan McCloskey. Roarke didn’t work for McCloskey. Never even heard of him. He worked for
you
.”