Private affairs : a novel (77 page)

"I'm asking you to leave. I want to make a telephone call and then I have a great deal of work to do."

"I can't believe you're doing this. I'm trying to help you—you said you wanted help—"

"I said I wanted comfort and support. We don't agree on what that means."

"If you would listen to me—!"

"I listened to you. I'd like to help you feel better about yourself, but I can't—"

'Tee! better about myself! That sounds dangerously close to pity, Matt. And I do not need pity. I do what I want; I'm close to some of the most powerful men in the world; and I do not need pity!"

"Then I'll keep my feelings to myself. But I can't help you, any more, it seems, than you can help me. I wish we could end this with some affection—"

"It's all right, Matt; don't overdo your solicitude. I'm quite able to find affection when I want it." Deliberately, she finished her drink, set the empty glass on the table, and stood. "You'll miss me."

"Yes, I think I might. But it won't change anything." He put his arm around her shoulders, she allowed it to rest there briefly, then turned her back, waiting, and when he held her jacket she slipped it on.

They walked toward the door together; halfway there, she stopped, opened her purse, and pulled out a key on a small ring. "You'll need this for the little woman who cooks your wholesome dinners."

He felt again the desire to comfort her in her vulnerability, and put his hand on hers. But she snatched it away.

"I'm not usually this wrong," she said coldly. "But you fooled us all. Shrewd, ambitious, aggressive Matt Lovell, or so we thought. Instead, you're short-sighted, narrow-minded, self-destructive. . . . My God, what you are giving up! No one will believe it!"

"They'll believe what they want, no matter what they hear." Matt kissed her briefly. "I wish you good fortune, Nicole."

Her eyes glistened; the first time Matt had ever seen her even close to tears. "Matt, call him! Call him tomorrow! He'll understand . . . he'll take you back!"

Matt shook his head and opened the door. "Good night, Nicole."

"I'm thinking of what's best for you!"

He smiled faintly. "If you were, my dear, it would be out of character."

Her tears were gone; the amber of her eyes was cool as she studied him for some last sign that he was wavering. Then she gave the tiniest of shrugs and walked down the short hallway to the elevator. She turned to him as it arrived and the mahogany doors slid noiselessly open. "If you call him, call me right afterward. I'll wait for a little while. Not long, but for a little while."

"Goodbye, Nicole," he said, and in another moment he was alone, gazing at the smooth mahogany surface of the elevator doors.

When he returned to his study, he turned off the light and sat in the darkness. Leaning back in his chair, feet crossed on the window sill, he gazed out the window at the panorama some thirty stories below. Houston: a network of tiny blazing lights, dark patches that were parks and neighborhoods, highways like great desert snakes flung across the sprawling city. In the distance, its windows lit against the star-studded sky, the black Transco Building stood alone, looking across the city at Matt's white, balconied apartment building. His two towers, he thought. Beacons of home and work. Symbols of power, symbols of the huge exciting dream that had beckoned all his life, until Rourke offered to make it come true. Now he'd lost it. He'd left his wife and family behind in the pursuit of it and now all of them, and the dream as well, were gone.

But the longer Matt contemplated it, the smaller the Transco Building looked, like a toy tower in a miniaturized town. And he knew his own imposing building looked as small and fragile from the Transco Building. And the city itself, though he knew it to be a restless and energetic place where fortunes were made and failure was larger than life, looked from his windows like a scale model, wired and motorized to convince skeptics that it was alive: a place where dreams came true.

Images, he thought. Nicole had wanted images. As long as she clung to the arm of a powerful man, or dressed for one or slept with one, she could look in a mirror and believe she was powerful. And real. Whatever was the reality of Nicole Renard, whatever substance she had, she couldn't trust it: she was too afraid of the dark beyond the spotlight that followed dominant, powerful men.

And what about Matt Lovell? he asked himself silently. He'd thought he was fulfilling his own dream, after so many years . . . but all he'd done was replace one father with another: building Rourke's dream instead of Zachary's. He'd thought he finally had everything, and it turned out he'd had only images. A woman whose reality came from someone else. A job with someone else pulling the strings. Newspaper stories writ-

ten from faked reports. Friendships as instant and shallow as conversations on a chair lift.

I've been chasing mirages all this time.

In the city below, tiny cars scurried around the 610 Loop and its branches, whipping around each other to pick up a few seconds here or there. He'd been one of them. He remembered that urgency, like a disease gnawing his insides, making hi m feel he had to go faster and farther, pushing aside anyone who seemed to be in his way. But something had happened to it. It had shrunk. It wasn't overwhelming anymore. It no longer drove him.

Sour grapes, he thought with a smile. Maybe I'm just disappointed at not having what I thought I had, so I tell myself it no longer seems important. Or maybe I'm angry at myself for being fooled by image and mirages. Or maybe I'm sorry. Maybe I think that if I'd taken everything a little slower over the past three years, and looked around, I would have seen what was happening—and maybe salvaged something from it, instead of being left with nothing.

He sat without moving for a long time; he didn't look at his watch. But at last he began to think of all he had to do, and he swiveled and faced his desk. The first step was learning the truth about Nuevo; the second was writing it and publishing it in a way that would clear Elizabeth's name. But it had been a long time since he rolled up his sleeves and plunged into investigative journalism; a long time since he got down to the real work of newspapering. He didn't want to do it alone: he needed a friend.

And he had a friend. Maybe. If he could get in his explanation a lot faster than he had with Elizabeth. He turned on his green-shaded desk lamp, picked up his telephone, and dialed Saul Milgrim's number, at home.

Y

ou son of a bitch," Saul growled into the telephone. "Whatever you're looking for, I don't have it; you picked the wrong— M

"Who's somebody named Bent?"

"What?"

"Bent. Possibly in Houston; more likely in New Mexico. Does it ring a bell?"

Saul struggled between curiosity and outrage. Curiosity won. "Why do you want to know?"

"Chet Colfax wrote the name Bent in the margin of a faked report on Nuevo; I'm assuming whoever he is, he knows about it, possibly even helped write it."

"Faked? Which report?"

"Resettlement help. I just got hold of a draft version and the final one."

"I'll be damned." After a pause, Saul said, "There's a Thaddeus Bent in the New Mexico legislature. Chairman of the State Committee on Land Use and Recreation."

"The one that recommended funding the dam?"

"The very one." He paused again, long enough for his simmering anger

to surface. "Listen, you bastard, you've probably found what I've been scrounging for and I'd give almost anything to see it, but I can't work with you. I have a friend, and you've fucked up her life—"

"Wait a minute; I want to talk about that and don't hang up on me! That's what Elizabeth did, and God damn it, at least listen for thirty seconds! I didn't know Artner worked for the Daily News; I had nothing to do with that rotten story; the first I knew of it was an AP report that I read in Florida; I'm going to write my own version of it when I get the real story; and I resigned from Rourke's outfit this afternoon."

Saul dropped into his desk chair. "Resigned. Why?"

"What the hell difference does it make why I resigned? I'm not there anymore. I'm working on a story. I need help in getting information so I can write it. What else do you need to know?"

"Need? Nothing. Am I curious? You're damned right." He began to draw stick figures on a pad of paper. "Who's going to publish the story when you've finished it?"

"You are."

He grinned. "If I like it."

"If you do the research at that end, I'll make it a double byline. We've never written a story together."

"It's a possibility. And then what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. There are newspaper chains all over the country . . . magazines ... I have to look around. I don't know what I want."

"Did you, with Rourke?"

"I thought I did. It's a long story and I'll tell you some time if you want to hear it, but not on the phone and not now. Saul, I'm asking for your help."

Saul drew a stick figure hanging from a gallows. "No close friends in Houston to help?"

There was the briefest hesitation. "I don't owe you any explanations; I wish to hell you'd stop passing judgment on things you don't understand."

"I understand everything I need to."

"You don't, but I don't give a damn. I want to write a story that will help Elizabeth; if you're really her friend, you'll work with me."

"You're doing it for Elizabeth?"

"Damn it, why else would I do it?"

"Maybe you want to make a name as an investigative reporter. How the hell do I know why you want to write it? You haven't been doing a whole lot of favors for Elizabeth in the last year. Have you talked to Holly recently?"

"No. I'll be calling her tomorrow, and Peter, too."

"She's stopped singing."

"She's what? Stopped? Why, for God's sake?"

"I don't know. I suppose her mother does, but we don't. She withdrew from the senior musical and she stopped her voice lessons."

"I'm going to call her now. I'll call you back after I've talked to her."

"She's not here; Elizabeth took her to Denver for the weekend. Anyway, why bother? Damn it, Matt, stop fucking around; either be a part of that family or disappear. It may not be my place to say it—"

"It's not."

Saul was silent, angry and frustrated. God damn it, who else is there, besides Spencer and Lydia? And they won't tackle Matt; afraid they'll make things worse. But there are limits to what a friend can do, and maybe Vve reached them. "You may be right," he said. He drew a guillotine and a stick figure with its neck beneath the descending blade. "Okay, I'll work on the story with you. To help Elizabeth." And because the damn thing has been driving me crazy since I first heard about it and this may be my only chance to find out what the hell has been going on. "Tell me about the resettlement report. Who faked it? Was it the only one? I saw the others, on jobs and all the rest, and they looked okay to me."

"I don't know about them, yet. When will Elizabeth and Holly be back?"

"Sunday night or Monday morning. I'll tell Elizabeth you called. Now are we going to get to work?"

"Yes. Thanks. First let me tell you about my conversation with Chet Colfax—who's been bugging his leader's office by the way—"

"Rourke's office? I'll be damned. Blessed are the weasels, for they shall use tape recorders to cover their asses."

Matt chuckled. "My God, I've missed talking to you."

"A pity Houston has no telephones. Otherwise you could have called me any time."

There was a pause. "I was talking about Chet, wasn't I?" Matt said evenly. "But maybe I'll start somewhere else, with a small revelation. Do you know who owns ninety-eight percent of Nuevo?"

"Ballenger. And his company. And unknown backers. I checked on him; he couldn't afford to do it on his own, but I couldn't get the names of—"

"Keegan Rourke."

Saul sat very still. "I will be goddamned," he said softly. "Very, very neat. First he buys the newspapers, then the valley, then the resort. And

does he also buy the legislature? To make sure it all goes through without a hitch?"

"It's the kind of thing a thorough man would do. Will you check on Thaddeus Bent? And any others who might have been on the take? I'd look for PAC contributions, trips to Europe, college scholarships for offspring—you know how to look for them. First, let me give you the gist of my talk with Chet; I'll send the rest in a letter. And I want to know what else you got from the scrounging you said you'd been doing."

Heather passed the open door and glanced in. Saul must be talking to one of the reporters, she thought; his voice was intense and involved, as it only was when he talked to a colleague about an investigative story. And the way he was scribbling notes meant it was a big one. Saul looked up and met her eyes. "Matt," he said, his hand over the mouthpiece. "He left Rourke. We're doing a story on Nuevo; it should help Elizabeth." And he returned to his conversation.

Stunned, Heather walked to the desk. "Is he coming back?"

Writing, Saul shook his head.

"Why not?"

But Saul was hunched over, talking. Heather picked up the page of stick figures he had torn off to make his notes. They're all getting clobbered, she thought. Are Saul and Matt going to clobber someone? Or we're going to get clobbered—Saul and I—if Matt does come back and takes our newspaper away from us.

She smiled ruefully. Our newspaper. She was as bad as Saul; loving the paper, wanting to help him run it forever. She looked down at her trim waist. Somewhere beneath that flat, girl's stomach, a baby had begun. If she could have all her wishes, the first would be that by the time the baby was born she and Saul would own the Chieftain. Then she would have put all the pieces of herself together: Heather Farrell Milgrim: wife of Saul Milgrim; mother of Jacqueline or Stephen—both, if she were lucky enough to have one of each; associate publisher of the Chieftain; friend of Elizabeth, Isabel, Lydia, Spencer, Holly, Maya, Peter, the staff of the newspaper, especially Barney Kell, who treated her like a favorite daughter. . . .