They had sent out six hundred flyers with the security-camera photo to the names culled from the guest lists. So far they had received thirty tips. One of them came from a woman who had phoned to say she thought the culprit might be her ex-husband. “He robbed me blind the whole time we were married and lied his way into a big settlement when we were divorced, and he has that kind of pointy chin I see in the picture,” she’d explained eagerly. “I’d check on him if I were you.”
Now, as he leaned back in his deck chair, Si thought about that call and smiled. The ex-husband the woman was talking about was a United States senator.
Sunday, November 5th
75
Jonathan and Grace Hoover were expecting Kerry and Robin around one o’clock. They both believed that a leisurely Sunday afternoon meal was a civilized and restful custom.
Unfortunately, the brightness of Saturday had not lasted. Sunday had dawned gray and chilly, but by noon the house was pleasantly filled with the succulent aroma of roasting lamb. The fire was blazing in their favorite room, the library, and they were contentedly settled there as they awaited their guests.
Grace was absorbed in the Times crossword puzzle, and Jonathan was deep in the paper’s “Arts and Leisure” section. He looked up when he heard Grace murmur in annoyance and saw that the pen had slipped from her fingers onto the carpet. He watched her laboriously begin the process of bending over to retrieve it.
“Grace,” he said reprovingly, as he sprang up to get it for her.
She sighed as she accepted the pen from him. “Honestly, Jonathan, what would I ever do without you?”
“You’ll never have to try, dear. And may I say that the sentiment is mutual.”
For a moment she held his hand to her face. “I know it is, dear. And believe me, it is one of the things that gives me the strength to carry on.”
* * *
On the way over to the Hoovers’, Kerry and Robin talked about the previous evening. “It was much more fun staying at the Dorsos’ house for dinner than going to a restaurant,” Robin exulted. “Mom, I like them.”
“I do too,” Kerry admitted without reluctance.
“Mrs. Dorso told me that it isn’t that hard to be a good cook.”
“I agree. I’m afraid I let you down.”
“Oh, Mom.” Robin’s tone was reproachful. She folded her arms and stared straight ahead at the narrowing road that indicated they were approaching Riverdale. “You make good pasta,” she said defensively.
“I do, but that’s about it.”
Robin changed the subject. “Mom, Geoff’s mother thinks he likes you. So do I. We talked about it.”
“You what?”
“Mrs. Dorso said that Geoff never, ever brings a date home. She told me you’re the first since his prom days. She said that it was because his little sisters used to play tricks on his dates and that now he’s gun shy.”
“Probably,” Kerry said offhandedly. She turned her mind from the realization that coming back from the prison, she had been so weary that she had closed her eyes for just a minute and awakened later, resting against Geoff’s shoulder. And that it had felt so natural, so right.
* * *
The visit with Grace and Jonathan Hoover was, as expected, thoroughly agreeable. Kerry did know that at some point they would get around to discussing the Reardon case, but it wouldn’t be before coffee was served. That was when Robin was free to leave the table to read or try one of the new computer games Jonathan always had waiting for her.
As they ate, Jonathan entertained them with talk about the legislative sessions and the budget the governor was trying to get through. “You see, Robin,” he explained, “politics is like a football game. The governor is the coach who sends in the plays, and the leaders of his party in the senate and the assembly are the quarterbacks.”
“That’s you, isn’t it?” Robin interrupted.
“In the senate, yes, I guess you could call me that,” Jonathan agreed. “The rest of our team protects whoever is carrying the ball.”
“And the others?”
“Those from the other team do their damnedest to break up the game.”
“Jonathan,” Grace said quietly.
“Sorry, my dear. But there have been more attempts at pork-barreling this week than I’ve seen in many years.”
“What’s that?” Robin asked.
“Pork-barreling is an ancient but not necessarily honorable custom wherein legislators add unnecessary expenses to the budget in order to win favor with the voters in their district. Some people carry it to a fine art.”
Kerry smiled. “Robin, I hope you realize how lucky you are to be learning the workings of government from someone like Uncle Jonathan.”
“All very selfish,” Jonathan assured them. “By the time Kerry is sworn in for the Supreme Court in Washington, we’ll be getting Robin elected to the legislature and have her on her way too.”
Here it comes, Kerry thought. “Rob, if you’re finished, you can see what’s up with the computer.”
“There’s something there you’ll like, Robin,” Jonathan told her. “I guarantee it.”
The housekeeper was going around with the coffee pot. Kerry was sure she would need the second cup. From here on it’s all going downhill, she thought.
She did not wait for Jonathan to ask about the Reardon case. Instead she presented everything to him and Grace exactly as she knew it, and concluded by saying, “It’s clear Dr. Smith was lying. The question is how much was he lying? It’s also clear that Jimmy Weeks has some very important reason not to want that case reopened. Otherwise why would he or his people be involving Robin?”
“Kinellen actually threatened that something could happen to Robin?” Grace’s tone was icy with contempt.
“Warned is the better word, I think.” Kerry turned, appealing to Jonathan. “Look, you must understand that I don’t want to upset anything for Frank Green. He would make a good governor, and I know you were talking to me as well as explaining to Robin what goes on in the legislature. He would carry out Governor Marshall’s policies. And Jonathan, dammit, I want to be a judge. I know I can be a good one. I know I can be fair without being a pushover or a bleeding heart. But what kind of judge would I make if, as a prosecutor, I turned my back on something that more and more appears to be a flagrant miscarriage of justice?”
She realized her voice had gone up slightly. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m getting carried away.”
“I suppose we do what we must,” Grace said quietly.
“My thought is that I’m not trying to ride a horse down Main Street and wave to the crowd. If something is wrong I’d like to find out what it is and then let Geoff Dorso carry the ball. I’m going to see Dr. Smith tomorrow afternoon. The key is to discredit his testimony. I frankly think he’s on the verge of a breakdown. Stalking someone is a crime. If I can push him enough to get him to break down and admit that he lied on the stand, that he didn’t give Suzanne that jewelry, that someone else may well have been involved, then we’ve got a new ball game. Geoff Dorso could take over and file a motion for a new trial. It will take a few months for it to be properly filed and heard. By then Frank could be governor.”
“But you, my dear, may not be a member of the judiciary.” Jonathan shook his head. “You’re very persuasive, Kerry, and I admire you even while I worry about what this may cost you. First and foremost, though, is Robin. The threat may be just that, a threat, but you must take it seriously.”
“I do take it seriously, Jonathan. Except when she was with Geoff Dorso’s family, she hasn’t been out of my sight all weekend. She won’t be left alone for a minute.”
“Kerry, anytime you feel your house isn’t safe, leave her here,” Grace urged. “Our security is excellent, and we’ll keep the outside gate closed. It’s alarmed, so we’ll know if anyone tries to come in. We’ll find a retired cop to drive her back and forth from school.”
Kerry put her hand over Grace’s fingers and gav
e them a hint of a squeeze. “I love you two,” she said simply. “Jonathan, please don’t be disappointed that I have to do this.”
“I’m proud of you, I guess,” Jonathan said. “I’ll do my best to keep your name in for the appointment but . . .”
“But don’t count on it. I know,” Kerry said slowly. “Goodness, choices can be pretty tough, can’t they?”
“I think we’d better change the subject,” Jonathan said briskly. “But keep me posted, Kerry.”
“Of course.”
“On a happier note, Grace felt well enough to go out to dinner the other night,” he said.
“Oh, Grace, I’m so glad,” Kerry said sincerely.
“We met someone there who’s been on my mind ever since, purely because I can’t remember where I’ve met him before,” Grace said. “A Jason Arnott.”
Kerry had not thought it necessary to talk about Jason Arnott. For the moment she decided to say nothing except, “Why do you think you know him?”
“I don’t know,” Grace said. “But I’m sure that either I’ve met him before, or I’ve seen his picture in the paper.” She shrugged. “It will come to me eventually. It always does.”
Mondy, November 6th
76
The sequestered jury in the Jimmy Weeks trial did not know about the assassination of Barney Haskell and Mark Young, but the media were making sure that everyone else did. Over the weekend many newspaper columns had been dedicated to the investigation, and every television news program featured seemingly endless scene-of-the-crime coverage.
A frightened witness, whose identity was not revealed, had finally phoned the police. He had been on his way to withdraw cash from an ATM and had seen a dark blue Toyota pull into the parking lot of the small building that housed Mark Young’s law office. That was at ten after seven. The front right tire of the witness’s car had felt wobbly, and he had pulled over to the curb to examine it. He was crouched beside it when he saw the door of the office building open again and a man in his thirties run back to the Toyota. His face was obscured, but he was carrying what appeared to be an oversized gun.
The witness got part of the Toyota’s out-of-state license number. Good police work tracked the car down and identified it as one that had been stolen Thursday night in Philadelphia. Late Friday, its burned-out frame was found in Newark.
Even the slight possibility that Haskell and Young had been the victims of a random mugging disappeared in light of that evidence. It was obviously a mob hit, and there was no doubt it had been ordered by Jimmy Weeks. But the police were unsure as to how to prove it. The witness would not be able to identify the gunman. The car was gone. The bullets that had killed the victims were undoubtedly from an unlicensed gun that was now at the bottom of a river, or would be exchanged for a toy at Christmas with no questions asked.
On Monday, Geoff Dorso once again spent a few hours at the Jimmy Weeks trial. The government was building its case brick by brick, with solid, seemingly irrefutable evidence. Royce, the U.S. attorney who seemed intent on being the candidate for governor opposite Frank Green, was resisting the impulse to grandstand. A scholarly-looking man with thinning hair and steel-framed glasses, his strategy was to be utterly plausible, to close off any alternate explanations for the outrageously complicated business affairs and money transfers of Weeks Enterprises.
He had charts that he referred to with the help of a long pointer, the kind Geoff remembered the nuns using when he was in grammar school. Geoff decided that Royce was a master at making Weeks’ affairs easy for the jurors to grasp. One did not have to be a mathematical whiz or a CPA to follow his explanations.
Royce got the pilot of Jimmy Weeks’ private plane on the stand and hammered at him. “How often did you fill out the appropriate paperwork for the corporate jet? . . . How often did Mr. Weeks use it solely for his private parties? . . . How often did he lend it to friends for their private entertainment? . . . Wasn’t it billed to the company every single time the engines were turned on in that jet? . . . All those tax deductions he took for so-called business expenses were really for his personal joyrides, weren’t they?”
When it was Bob Kinellen’s turn to cross-examine, Geoff saw that he turned on all his charm, trying to make the pilot trip himself up, trying to confuse him on dates, on the purpose of the trips. Once again, Geoff thought that Kinellen was good, but probably not good enough. He knew that there was no way of being sure what was going on in the jurors’ minds, but Geoff didn’t think they were buying it.
He studied the impassive face of Jimmy Weeks. He always came to the courtroom dressed in a conservative business suit, white shirt and tie. He looked the part he was trying to play—a fifty-year-old businessman-entrepreneur with a variety of enterprises, who was the victim of a tax-collecting witch-hunt.
Today Geoff was observing him from the viewpoint of the connection he had had with Suzanne Reardon. What was it? he wondered. How serious had it been? Was Weeks the one who had given her the jewelry? He had heard about the paper found on Haskell’s lawyer that might have been the wording on the note that accompanied the roses given to Suzanne Reardon the day she died, but with Haskell dead and the actual note still missing, it would be impossible to prove any connection to Weeks.
The jewelry might provide an interesting angle, though, Geoff realized, and one worth investigating. I wonder if he goes to any one place to buy baubles for his girlfriends? he asked himself. Who did I date a couple of years ago who told me she’d been out with Weeks? he wondered. The name wouldn’t come, but he would go through his daily reminders of two and three years ago. He was sure he had marked it down somewhere.
When the judge called a recess, Geoff slipped quickly out of the courtroom. He was halfway down the corridor when from behind him he heard someone call his name. It was Bob Kinellen. He waited for him to catch up. “Aren’t you taking a lot of interest in my client?” Kinellen asked quietly.
“General interest at this point,” Geoff replied.
“Is that why you’re seeing Kerry?”
“Bob, I don’t think you have even the faintest right to ask that question. Nevertheless I’ll answer it. I was glad to be there for her after you dropped the bombshell that your illustrious client is threatening her child. Has anyone nominated you for Father of the Year yet? If not, don’t waste your time waiting for the phone to ring. Somehow I don’t think you’ll make it.”
77
On Monday morning, Grace Hoover stayed in bed longer than usual. Even though the house was comfortably warm, the winter cold seemed to somehow find its way into her bones and joints. Her hands and fingers and legs and knees and ankles ached fiercely. After the legislature completed the present session, she and Jonathan would go to their home in New Mexico. She reminded herself that it would be better there, that the hot, dry climate always helped her condition.
Years ago, at the onset of her illness, Grace had decided that she would never succumb to self-pity. To her, that was the dreariest of all emotions. Even so, on her darkest days she admitted to herself that besides the constantly increasing pain, it had been devastating to have to constantly lessen her activities.
She had been one of the few wives who actually enjoyed going to the many affairs that a politician such as Jonathan had to attend. God knows it wasn’t that she wanted to spend hours at them, but she relished the adulation Jonathan received. She was so proud of him. He should have been governor. She knew that.
Then, after Jonathan made the obligatory appearances at these functions, they would enjoy a quiet late dinner, or on the spur of the moment decide to escape somewhere for the weekend. Grace smiled to herself, remembering how twenty years after they were married, someone they chatted with at an Arizona resort remarked that they had the look of honeymooners.
Now the nuisance of the wheelchair, and the necessity of bringing along a nurse’s aide to help her bathe and dress, made a hotel stay a nightmare for Grace. She would not let Jonathan give her that kind of assistanc
e and was better off at home, where a practical nurse came in daily.
She had enjoyed going to the club for dinner the other night. It was the first time in many weeks that she had been out. But that Jason Arnott—isn’t it funny that I can’t get him out of my mind? she thought as she restlessly tried to flex her fingers. She had asked Jonathan about him again, but he could reason only that possibly she had been with him at some fundraiser Arnott may have attended.
It had been a dozen years since Grace went to any of those big events. By then she had been on two canes, and disliked jostling crowds. No, she knew it was something else that triggered her memory of him. Oh well, she said to herself, it will come in time.
The housekeeper, Carrie, came into the bedroom with a tray. “I thought you’d be ready for a second cup of tea around now,” she said cheerfully.
“I am, Carrie. Thanks.”
Carrie laid down the tray and propped up the pillows. “There. That’s better.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Oh, Mrs. Hoover, this was in the wastebasket in the senator’s study. I know the senator was throwing it away, but I still want to ask if it’s all right if I take it. All my grandson Billy talks about is being an FBI agent someday. He’d get such a kick out of seeing a genuine flyer they sent out.” She unfolded it and handed it to Grace.
Grace glanced at it and started to hand it back, then stopped. Jonathan had shown this to her on Friday afternoon, joking, “Anyone you know?” The covering letter explained that the flyer was being sent to anyone who had been a guest at gatherings in homes that were burglarized shortly afterwards.
The grainy, almost indistinguishable picture was of a felon in the process of committing a robbery. He was believed to be responsible for many similar break-ins, almost all of them following a party or social function of some kind. One theory was that he might have been a guest.