Power Play (31 page)

He nodded as he replied, “Seven is okay.” As if I had anything else on my calendar. “Where?”

“O’Brian’s Irish Pub,” Glynis answered. “On Maple Street.”

“Okay. Seven o’clock.” As he hung up, Jake wondered why Agent Mankowitz would want to eat at an Irish pub. Then he thought about how Younger would react to his having dinner with Glynis again—even with an FBI agent as a chaperone.

The pub was crowded and noisy when Jake arrived, nearly ten minutes before seven. People were piled at the bar three and four deep. Irish ballads were bleating out of the speakers in the ceiling, the volume way too high for Jake’s comfort. The waitresses and barmaids were dressed in off-the-shoulder blouses and kelly green skirts: the management’s idea of what Irish lasses wore, Jake reasoned.

He asked the head waitress for a booth, was given a buzzer and told to wait either outside on the sidewalk or at the bar. Jake squeezed through the crowd at the bar and spotted a bottle of Negra Modelo among the display behind the busy barmaids. Mexican beer in an Irish pub, he thought. The evening was filled with incongruities.

The buzzer went off when he was halfway through the dark beer, and as Jake carried his glass to the head waitress’s station, Glynis came in the door, looking fresh and hopeful. She was wearing a coral red patterned summer knit dress, sleeveless, knee-length.

Jake smiled at her, although he couldn’t help looking past Glynis to see if Tim Younger had followed her.

“Is she here yet?” Glynis asked, smiling expectantly.

Jake shook his head. “Not yet.”

A waitress led them through the noisy mob thronging the bar to a booth toward the rear of the room, near the double swinging doors of the kitchen. Jake could smell corned beef and cabbage whenever a waiter pushed through the doors.

A short, chubby woman in a dark pants suit and starched white blouse came to their booth. Her face was round, framed with short-cropped dark hair. The jacket of her suit hung open. Jake wondered if she could button it over her ample bosom.

“Glynis Colwyn?” she asked, in a crisp, no-nonsense voice. “I’m Special Agent Mankowitz.”

Jake half rose from behind the table as Agent Mankowitz slid in beside Glynis. “You must be Jacob Ross,” said the FBI agent.

A real detective, Jake thought as he took her proffered hand. Her grip was strong, firm.

“Now then,” said Agent Mankowitz, “I’ve been assigned to look into your allegations of murder associated with drug trafficking and money laundering.”

“Good,” said Glynis.

“So why don’t you tell me what you know.”

Jake sat as Glynis explained about their suspicions that the murders were a cover-up for narcotics and gambling operations. She was interrupted by a waitress who took their orders for drinks: chardonnay for Glynis, iced tea for Mankowitz. Jake nodded when the waitress asked if he wanted another beer.

Mankowitz listened without comment, without even nodding. The waitress brought their drinks and handed them stiff oversized menus.

“… And that’s about it,” Glynis finished. Looking across the table at Jake, she added, “Unless you have something more.”

“Just that all three bodies have been cremated, so you won’t be able to get much forensic evidence,” Jake said.

Mankowitz smiled condescendingly, then took a careful sip of her iced tea. “Forensic evidence is important on television shows, Mr. Ross. In the real world…” She shrugged.

“That man Perez as much as admitted that Professor Sinclair and his wife were murdered, along with Dr. McGruder.”

“Your word against his,” Mankowitz said.

Jake pointed out, “Perez also said he could leave the state, maybe even leave the country.”

“It’s not much to go on,” the FBI agent said. She picked up her menu and began to study it.

“I know we don’t have any firm evidence,” Glynis admitted, “but doesn’t it seem obvious to you that they were murdered?”

Mankowitz put down her menu and turned in the booth to face Glynis. “Ms. Colwyn, to begin with, murder is a state or local offense, not federal. We’ve known for some time that the gambling casinos are used to launder narcotics money, but that gets us involved in the tribal governments of the Native Americans who own and operate the casinos.”

“They’re operated by people from Las Vegas,” Jake said.

Ignoring him, Mankowitz went on, “There’s not much we can do about this, except add your suspicions of murder to a file that’s already pretty damned thick.”

“But Senator Leeds is involved!” Glynis insisted.

Mankowitz gave her a look that was little short of disgusted. “Yeah, open an investigation on a United States senator. During his reelection campaign. That would be a swell career move for me.”

Jake said, “But you’re missing the point. Why did they have to murder Sinclair and his wife? What’s the connection to their drug and gambling operations?”

“Look,” Mankowitz said, her dark brows knitting, “I’m just a very junior player here. I’ve only been in the field a few weeks and this is my first assignment. My boss told me to listen to what you had to say and report back to him.”

“And then?” Glynis asked.

Mankowitz shrugged again. “That’s up to my boss. But going after a U.S. senator? Get real.”

Jake looked at Glynis. “Now you know why they keep Leeds on their payroll.”

Glynis nodded glumly. They ate dinner in almost total silence. Someone started singing Irish ballads to a guitar accompaniment as they finished their meals. Jake was glad to get up and leave.

Glynis looked close to tears.

LABOR DAY

Jake didn’t see Glynis at all for the rest of the month. As Labor Day approached he thought about inviting her to the big rally that Amy was planning for Tomlinson. He told himself he wasn’t afraid of Younger, and if he wanted to invite Glynis to the rally, she could always bring Tim along if she chose to.

He hoped she wouldn’t choose to.

But somehow or other he kept delaying his call to her. She’s not interested in me, Jake told himself. And after that fiasco with the FBI she doesn’t even want to talk to me, most likely.

Tomlinson’s poll numbers hovered five or six points behind Leeds’s. In the words of the local news media, “Senator Leeds has a slim but comfortable margin over the challenger.” Not a hint that Leeds was tied to organized crime, to drugs and gambling and murder.

The MHD issue dwindled to a minor affair. Tomlinson’s support from the mining industry and the environmentalists couldn’t overcome Leeds’s backing by organized labor and the state’s political machine. Jake tried hard to wheedle money out of the electric utility people, but their support was little more than a public relations gesture.

A second debate between the candidates was scheduled for the Saturday after Labor Day, but the two campaign staffs were at loggerheads as to where the debate should be staged. Tomlinson wanted a venue that couldn’t be packed by Leeds’s cadres of union people. Leeds wanted an outdoor setting, where thousands of people could pour in.

It was during an all-night planning session with Tomlinson’s staff that Jake blurted, “Why don’t we hold the debate in the planetarium?”

They were meeting at Tomlinson’s campaign headquarters, a former supermarket in the heart of the capital city that had been closed for more than a year. The owners had been happy to rent it to the candidate for little more than a song. The floor was now covered with desks, each with its telephone and computer, all unattended, so late at night. The walls were plastered with huge posters of Tomlinson, smiling confidently.

Jake wished that Tomlinson looked that confident in reality.

Amy Wexler gave Jake a quizzical look. “The planetarium?”

Before Jake could reply, one of the aides shook his head. “Too small. Leeds won’t go for it.”

There were an even dozen of them sitting around a long table in the middle of the cavernous room. The high overhead lights glared on the rows of empty, silent desks.

Jake countered, “The planetarium can seat two hundred and fifty people. And it’s got TV links to the rest of the museum. We could even pipe the debate live outside, to the park. You could accommodate a thousand people or more out there easily.”

Amy looked at him thoughtfully. “You know, that might work. Leeds claims he supports education—”

“He supports the teachers’ union,” one of the aides grumbled.

“Staging the debate in the planetarium,” Amy continued, “might appeal to him. The education angle.”

“It’s worth a try,” said the young man in charge of Tomlinson’s news media relations.

It was nearly one
A.M.
when the meeting finally broke up. Amy walked with Jake out into the dark parking lot behind the former supermarket.

“That was a good idea, Jake,” she said.

“Thanks.”

The other staffers were heading for their cars. Amy walked beside Jake as he went toward his Mustang.

“It’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to be alone together,” she said.

In the shadows of the parking lot, he couldn’t make out the expression on Amy’s face, but her voice sounded light, almost amused.

“Yeah,” he replied, uncertainly.

“I’ve neglected you, haven’t I?” she murmured.

“Yeah,” Jake repeated.

“I’ve been awfully busy with the campaign and everything,” Amy said.

“And everything,” Jake muttered.

“He needs me, Jake,” Amy said, her voice suddenly pained, urgent. “He comes across so strong and confident in public, but he’s tired of it all. It’s so demanding! He’s exhausted.”

Jake said nothing.

“I mean, there are times when I think he’d like to give it all up. He never wanted to go into politics. It’s his father, his father’s pushed him into this. That old man thinks his family ought to run the world.”

“So he needs your help,” Jake said.

They had reached Jake’s Mustang, parked under one of the light poles. A swarm of insects danced in its feeble light high above. Jake saw that Amy’s silver BMW was parked next to his own car.

“He needs your help, too,” Amy replied. “He needs all the help he can get.”

With a weary sigh, Jake said, “I suppose he does.”

“I need to talk to this graduate student of yours,” Amy said, her voice suddenly strong, firm.

“She’s not
my
grad student,” Jake said, thinking, Truer words were never spoken.

“I’ve set up an interview with a political blogger and she—”

“No!” Jake snapped.

Surprised, Amy said, “What do you mean, no?”

“It’s too dangerous. I don’t want her to be at risk.”

“Jake, from what you’ve told us they already know who she is.”

“Yeah, but as long as she stays quiet she’ll be okay. No interviews. No public appearances.”

“They won’t show her face.”

“No.”

“Jake, we
need
her to make a statement.”

“For your whispering campaign.”

“You make it sound dirty.”

“Isn’t it?”

“And murder is okay? You’re willing to let them get away with murder?”

He had no answer for that.

Stepping closer to him, Amy said, “All right, if you want to be so protective of her, would
you
talk to the blogger?”

“Me?”

“You won’t be named. Nobody will see your face or know who you are. All you have to do is say you think that Professor Sinclair and his wife were murdered and Senator Leeds is part of the cover-up.”

“That’s libel, isn’t it?”

She laughed. “You can’t libel a politician.”

Thinking of Perez and Monster, Jake said, “No way, Amy. I won’t be part of it.”

She rested her hands on his shoulders and looked up at him, her cool hazel eyes glinting in the wan light. “Jake, you do want Tomlinson to win, don’t you? You do want MHD to succeed?”

“Not like this.”

“It’s always like this, Jake,” Amy said. “Politics is hardball. The softies lose.”

He could feel the warmth of her, see the promise in her eyes.

“I’m sorry I’ve neglected you, Jake,” Amy said, her voice softer, almost sorrowful. “I’ve missed you. But we’re together now. Tonight I’m all yours.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow you get interviewed for the blog.”

Jake nodded and kissed her. So she lets me screw her if I screw Leeds, he thought. That’s politics.

INTERVIEW

Jake spent the night at Amy’s apartment and enjoyed every moment of their time in bed together. In the morning they showered together and she treated him to oral sex while the steaming hot water sluiced over their naked bodies.

All the while a voice in the back of his mind was telling him that she was buying him, getting him to do what she wanted by giving him what he wanted. And Jake wanted it. His body took control of his brain, instinct over intellect, need over knowledge. You think with your balls, Jake berated himself. You know she’s been sleeping with Tomlinson. But that didn’t stop him.

And what about Glynis? he asked himself. How would she feel if she knew you were sleeping with Amy? Hell, she must know already. And she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care what I do. Why should she? I don’t mean a damned thing to her.

After a quick breakfast in the apartment’s minuscule kitchenette Amy made a phone call, then announced, “It’s all set. He’ll see us at nine thirty.”

Jake realized it had been all set up from the night before, maybe even earlier.

Jake followed Amy’s BMW to the other side of the city, a run-down street near the interstate, where trucks rumbled along the elevated highway past rows of five-story apartment buildings, gray bricks grimy with soot.

The blogger turned out to be a badly overweight young man with a two-day growth of ginger-red beard on his round, many-chinned face. He reminded Jake of an orangutan, with cheek pouches and sad, heavy-lidded eyes. He worked out of his basement apartment, a one-room lair with a single window set up by the ceiling, curtains pulled shut, although Jake could see through the slit between them the hubcaps of a car parked at the curb outside. The place was dark, damp. It smelled of perspiration and stale pizza and soy sauce. The sofa bed was open, sheets rumpled and soiled-looking. The rest of the furniture looked like junk recovered from a flood or a secondhand sale. A table by the sink was littered with cardboard food containers.