Power Play

  “Hi, Barnaby,” Perry said. “We’re here to see my uncle.”

  “Well, he’s resting now, and I think it would be better if—”

  Davis held up his FBI creds.

  “Oh.” He glanced at Perry. “Why are you here with the FBI, Perry?”

  “I’m helping him.” She gave him a fat smile, then introduced the two men, adding, “Barnaby’s been with Uncle Milt for nearly five years now, isn’t that right, Barnaby?”

  “Two months short of five years,” Barnaby said, “but who’s counting?” Davis heard a slight lisp that sounded charming.

  “Please ask him to come out, Mr. Eagan,” Davis said. “I need to speak to him.”

  Barnaby sighed. “He’s very upset, Perry.”

  “Well, so are we all, and that’s why Agent Sullivan is here.”

  Barnaby opened his mouth, then closed it, and Perry realized it wasn’t his sister Uncle Milt was upset about. She searched Barnaby’s ascetic face for a clue, didn’t see any. On the other hand, Barnaby rarely gave anything away.

  “Please fetch him, Mr. Eagan,” Davis said again.

  Davis and Perry were left to admire the lovely Lincoln Suite living room, all blue and gold, with beautiful striped wallpaper on one wall, and blue draperies open to the courtyard below. Davis wondered how much Milton dropped per night on this awesome place to lay his head.

  “Perry.”

  They turned to see Uncle Milton standing in the doorway, looking like a proper Boston Brahmin. His brilliant red hair with threads of white was elegantly styled. He was wearing sharp black trousers, a crisp white shirt, and black leather loafers on his long, narrow feet. He didn’t look at all like he’d been having a nice lie-down. He looked, Davis thought, like he’d made up his mind about something, like a man to lead a mission. Or was this all a part of his professional politician’s bag of tricks?

  “Uncle Milton. This is Davis Sullivan. He’s—”

  Uncle Milt nodded to the man at his side. “Barnaby said he was an FBI agent, but this is the man who was hanging all over your mother at Arliss’s party Tuesday night, dancing with her like they were lovers. I thought they were outrageous—”

  “Actually, sir, I was protecting Ambassador Black.”

  That gave Milton pause, but for only a moment. He shrugged. “I see. Surprising the FBI would condone such behavior, but be that as it may—and I’m sorry to say this, Perry—it would have been more dignified of Natalie to identify him as such at the party rather than give everyone the impression he was something else entirely. But then Natalie loves to take center court.”

  Davis said, “So you don’t believe your sister’s life is in danger, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I don’t think she’s lying precisely about what happened to her in England, no, but I think she might well be exaggerating it. She was very upset about George McCallum’s suicide, of course, and she was being blamed for it. It’s likely she misinterpreted the accident as an attempt on her life, don’t you think? I’m not surprised the press didn’t believe her. At any rate, this has all been very upsetting. To Natalie, to me, to my parents—” By the end of this extraordinary monologue, his Boston accent was flying high.

  Perry interrupted him, her voice sharp, “Of course you’re right, Uncle Milton, my grandparents are very upset because they’re afraid for my mother. They believe her, Uncle Milton. What I don’t understand is why you don’t.”

  Milton ignored this, waved a vague hand around him. “Arliss called me this morning, asked me to convince your mother to resign her post. That is hardly a surprise. Hard as this is for all of us, I do have my own future to think of.” As if realizing how self-serving that sounded, he cleared his throat, backed up, tried for a deprecating smile. “Look, I’m up for reelection, and this sort of scandal—well, it could bury me. It’s best that Natalie resign, Perry, as soon as possible, best for all of us who have supported her. It will give the voters time to forget about all that happened in England before the fall elections.”

  Perry said, “So she should move to Florida, wear sunglasses so the tourists don’t recognize her? Maybe paint caricatures on the beach, or take up windsurfing?”

  There was no humor in Milton Holmes’s eyes as he looked at her. Perry’s sarcasm floated unappreciated and unanswered in the room. She’d brought Milton to a dead stop. So this, Davis thought, was what it was like for a politician to have his guns spiked.

  He said, “Since you mentioned your future in politics, sir, you should know that Scotland Yard has identified the car used to attack Ambassador Black in England. They have the owner in custody. Your voters may soon be seeing your sister as a victim when that crime is solved. So it may be advantageous to you to make a show of acting as the loyal brother supporting his sister through all her travails, always brave and stalwart, always at her back, rather than being seen as the jealous half-brother throwing his half-sister under the bus to protect his own hide.”

  Milton couldn’t seem to take this in. He looked over at Barnaby, who was blinking rapidly, his eyes going from Davis back to his boss. Davis saw the instant Uncle Milt was ready to put him in his place. He drew himself up, pretty impressive, really. “Who cares what the police are doing in England? About what they’re saying, about what they’re now claiming? We’re here, and this mess is here since Natalie brought it all back with her.”

  “I thought the issue was whether she was making it up,” Davis said.

  Barnaby cleared his throat. His head was pounding now. All he wanted was these people gone and a nice dark corner for himself, but that wasn’t going to happen. His primary duty was to protect the senator, and so he did. “Agent Sullivan, Senator Holmes never said that precisely. He’s upset, as we all are, and now you’re telling us that what happened in England, it’s all true? There’s no doubt?”

  Davis saw this interview shortly flying off the rails. He said quickly, “Let’s sit down and talk this out, shall we, Mr. Holmes?”

  “It’s Senator Holmes,” Barnaby said. He exchanged glances with his employer and said, “Please, come and sit here.” He pointed to a blue-and-gold sofa. “Would either of you like coffee?”

  Davis shook his head. Uncle Milton sat in one of the lovely Federal-style chairs, crossed one leg over the other, and assumed the ultimate defensive position—arms crossed over his chest. He was trying to regain control, but Davis saw the wariness in him, and what was this? Perhaps fear? He hoped so. Now it was time to focus that fear. Davis said, “Concerning your reasons for being in Washington since Monday, Senator Holmes. Our office has looked into your finances, the entire family’s finances, as a matter of fact, including all your expenses here in Washington.” He paused to let that fact sink in. “We know you are carrying quite a bit of personal debt. I understand your campaign is in need of money as well, and that you’ve asked your sister for a sizable contribution to your campaign.”

  Davis saw the outrage on Holmes’s face at having his finances laid bare. But he managed to control himself. He said, his voice credibly calm, “Politicians ask many divergent people for money, Agent Sullivan. It is a fact of our political lives.” He shrugged, tried for another depreciating smile. “Unfortunately, my sister doesn’t like my politics, so I had little reason to think she would give me any money.”

  “Perhaps she would because you’re her brother?”

  “No, that has never moved her; nothing moves Natalie when she’s made up her mind.”

  Perry sat forward. “If you’re not here to beg money off Mom, Uncle Milton, then why are you here in Washington right now?”

  Her uncle didn’t meet her eyes. He studied his fine Italian loafers, frowned. Barnaby said smoothly, “The senator is in Washington because he was invited here by very powerful people who would like him to run for the United States Senate. He has appointments”—he looked at his watch in a beautifully studied motion—“very soon now, so the senator cannot give you much more of his time.”

  Perry, no expression on her face, sai
d, “Would these people you’re meeting with still want you to run for the U.S. Senate if you lost the race for your state senate seat in Massachusetts?”

  Milton cleared his throat, said, calm as a statesman, “It would certainly be beneficial were I to run for the U.S. Senate from a position of power.”

  Davis had had enough of the slither and slink. It was time to confront him head-on. He said, “Senator Holmes, don’t you think we should tell Perry what we both know?”

  It was as if an electrical charge passed through Milton. He snapped up straight, threw his head back. “You know nothing I care to hear, Agent Sullivan. There is nothing I have to say to Perry. I want both of you to leave now. I have people to see.”

  “I will show you out,” Barnaby said, and started toward the door.

  But Davis didn’t move, and neither did Perry. He didn’t look away from Milton’s face. “Actually, there is a lot more to your uncle Milton being here in Washington, Perry. He hopes to promise the party power brokers he will have all the money he needs in his campaign coffers, that he won’t need their financial support if they back him as a candidate in two years. You see, your uncle Milton had a plan.” He waited for a moment, but Milton didn’t say a word.

  Davis continued, “Natalie told me he came to see her at the house. He told your mother he would continue to back her publically, give her all the support he could, if she financed his campaign or convinced your grandparents to do it. What was wrong with their helping each other, after all? Otherwise, he told her, he would be more blunt, shall we say, with the press, separate himself from her troubles, cut the parachute lines. His reasoning being that if her own family expressed doubts about her mental health, her truthfulness, where would that leave her?”

  Milton’s face was alarmingly red. Davis hoped he wouldn’t stroke out. He said, “We talked, sir, Natalie and I.”

  Milton roared to his feet. “So Natalie told you! I knew I couldn’t trust her word, even though she promised me she wouldn’t say anything to anyone. She’s always been a liar and a cheat.”

  Davis smiled at him and slouched against the sofa cushions, a ploy meant to enrage. “What she promised you was not to tell your parents, Senator Holmes. That would be too humiliating for all of you.

  “Your mother told me, Perry, that once he’d ended his spiel, she laughed at him, told him to do his worst. She said it was sad, really, that it would end his own career if he tried to disgrace his own sister. She wasn’t sure if he believed her.”

  Perry stared back and forth from Davis to her uncle. She simply couldn’t get her head around his betrayal. She’d always thought of Uncle Milton as pleasant, a bit ineffectual, maybe, rather pompous, and always in the shadow of his sister, and no wonder. Natalie Black’s charm and intelligence shined like a beacon compared to her brother’s occasional flicker. She didn’t want to accept his treachery. It was almost too much to take in.

  She noticed Barnaby from the corner of her eyes. He appeared nailed to the floor, his eyes on her uncle’s face, and she saw the same leveling betrayal in his eyes she knew must be in her own. She said into the cold, deafening silence. “So what you said about Mom to us, you were following your script, to see how we’d react?”

  Uncle Milton stayed silent.

  “No, I wouldn’t say anything, either, Uncle Milton.” Perry slowly rose, stared down at him. She heard Barnaby clear his throat behind her, but she didn’t turn. “Don’t you say anything, either, Barnaby.” She said to her uncle, her voice cold, utterly damning, “You are a pathetic worm, aren’t you? I disown you.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Did you try to run my mother down in Buckner Park? Is it you who have been threatening me?”

  His face was ashen. He stretched a shaking hand out to Perry. “What? What did you say? No, of course not. Because my campaign needs money, you suspect me of trying to kill my own sister, and of threatening you, my niece? The situation is not what you think, Perry, really, it isn’t. Listen to me, you must understand. You know you can’t get elected in this country without lots of money. Of course I need money to run a successful campaign, and you know your grandparents have so much money, more than they can spend. But they refused me, their only son! How many men could get themselves elected to the General Court in Massachusetts as I have? But it wasn’t enough for them.” He paused, panting now, red in the face.

  Milton looked straight at Perry. “Your grandmother told me if I had half your mother’s talent, your mother’s brains, I could manage to back my own campaign, not mooch off them and their friends.” He was still panting, his mouth working, and the words hurled themselves out: “Father told me he thought the whole idea of my running for the Senate was planted by my wife.” He paused, tried to get control, drew in several deep breaths.

  He’d memorized what his parents had said to him, Davis realized, memorized it word for word.

  Amazingly, Milton’s years of training kicked in and his voice sounded more reasoned. “But I would never hurt your mother, or you, Perry. I admire Natalie, always have. It’s your grandparents’ fault this happened.”

  Perry was drowning in his excuses, in his bitterness and rage at everyone she loved, in his inability to take responsibility for what he’d done. Her stomach roiled and twisted. She swallowed bile. Barnaby moved toward her, and she saw his face was leached of color, pale as death. Like hers? She asked her uncle again, “Did you try to kill my mother in Buckner Park? Run her down?”

  “Of course not! Why would I? I don’t even drive in this benighted city!”

  Barnaby cleared his throat, but his voice shook. “He doesn’t, Ms. Black, really.”

  She said, her eyes on her uncle again, a man whose blood she shared, “Uncle Milton, I hope Mother tells my grandparents what you did. I hope they disown you, too.” And Perry marched out the door.

  Davis didn’t say another word, simply followed her out of the Lincoln Suite, down the long hallway to the elevator. There were two couples on the elevator, so they stayed silent. When they reached the lobby, Perry grabbed his sleeve. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “No.”

  She punched his arm. “Why not? You should have given me some warning about what he’d done so I wouldn’t be blindsided—”

  Davis was aware of people looking toward them, so he kept moving. She was right on his heels through the hotel doors and out into the crisp air. Davis breathed it in, smelled the faint exhaust fumes that brushed the air. “I love this city.”

  She grabbed his hand, shook it. “You’d better talk to me, Sullivan, give me a sink-proof explanation, or I’m going to pulverize you.”

  He turned to face her. A thick hank of her hair had come loose from the fishtail braid and lay against her nose. Her eyes were dark with pain. He lightly laid his hand on her shoulder. “If I’d told you, you’d have gone after him the second you saw him. Come on, you know I’m right, you’d never have held it together. And having you with Uncle Milt when I told him was the best shot we had at getting to the truth, if there was a deeper truth and your uncle is involved. But he’s not. Let it go, Perry, let it go.”

  She stared over his shoulder. “I want to kill him,” she said slowly.

  “Then I’d have to arrest you.”

  “He’s a dishonorable toad, and I should throw him into the Potomac with a cement block tied to his Italian loafers. Hey, I could write my freaking blog from jail, no problem.”

  “Still, he didn’t try to run down your mom or threaten you, Perry. He’s all about politics, and he’s neither better nor worse than most of those yahoos in Congress. If you wanted to mete out punishment, you’d run out of cement blocks. All there is to do now is walk away.”

  He was right. She wanted to howl, to scream, but she didn’t. “If you think I forgive you, I don’t,” she said. “I’m heading back to the Post by myself.” She hiked up her computer bag on her shoulder and streaked across the street to the sound of honking horns and a few curses. She yelled over her shoulder, “And I’m goi
ng to buy up all the cement in the city.”

  Davis didn’t move. He watched her until she reached the other side unscathed, got into a taxi that had pulled up, and took off. He was worried, since he didn’t know her well enough to guess how she’d deal with all that rage.

  He was glad he hadn’t told Perry her uncle Milton’s money problems included a lady he paid each month and visited whenever he was in the capital.

  Savich home

  Friday night

  Blessed Backman wasn’t cold, since he’d bought wool-lined gloves as well as a thick fisherman’s sweater at Goodwill to go under the bum’s coat, but he was stiff again in his crouched position, so he stood and stretched. He took several steps toward the house, hugging trees and bushes, watchful for neighbors. Last thing he needed was for the cops to show up again.

  Good thing he’d noticed the Hispanic lady watching him from the house that morning and he’d gotten out of there. It was dangerous to come back, even after dark. There would be cops around; he knew they were looking for him everywhere, and with his photo on TV, he had to be careful. But he couldn’t wait them out any longer. He had to act; he had to get it done so his mother would rest in peace. Was the guardian in his dreams really his mother, that disembodied voice so soft and pure, telling him he would succeed? It gladdened his heart to think so.

  The two of them, Savich and Sherlock, were always together now, and he knew he’d have to take them on together, but he’d wait until they were unarmed, maybe when they were in bed, all comfortable and cozy. He’d have to shoot Savich dead right away, and then Sherlock would be easy. He could have her shoot herself in the mouth, or blow off her own head, but he’d always wanted to strangle her, to see the life fade out of her eyes just as his mother’s eyes had faded to blankness the last day he’d seen her in that god-awful hospital.