Ed Gorman - Blindside

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Just somebody who saw you snapping Waters’ picture.’

‘And you knew Waters?’

‘Slightly. Not very well.’

She managed to get a long cigarette going and took a deep diva-like drag on it. She dispersed it with those rich, erotic lips. ‘All right, you saw me taking his picture. And that’s supposed to mean what exactly?’

‘That’s what I’m curious about. Why you’d be taking photos of Waters, especially since somebody killed him later that night.’

If any of this was intimidating her, she managed to disguise it with her irritated glances and tone.

We listened to the red and gold and brown leaves skitter like forlorn little creatures across the asphalt of the parking lot. Finally I said, ‘I haven’t gone to the police. Not yet.’

‘I want to see some ID.’ The salon seductress suddenly sounded like a cop.

‘If I show you, you’ll know who I am.’

‘Oh, right, I suppose you’re somebody famous.’

‘My name is Dev Conrad. I work for Jeff Ward.’

‘You bastard!’ Her cigarette went flying as she lunged for me, shoving me back into the rear of a parked car.

She wasn’t as strong as I’d thought. ‘I need to figure out if you were just doing some campaign dirty tricks or if you have something to do with Jim Waters’ murder. Since you’re unwilling to help me, maybe your husband can bring me up to date on all this.’

‘Leave my husband alone. He’s got enough problems.’

Odd thing for somebody to say. Her candidate had come from behind to lead us by three points. I wondered what she was talking about.

She smiled. She had lovely teeth and a deceitful smile. It said aw, shucks and I didn’t believe any of it. ‘You caught me.’

‘I did?’

‘I was taking photos of Waters because I was going to send one of our girls to ‘accidentally’ meet him in a bar and get him drunk and see if he’d tell her anything.’

‘A spy operation.’

‘Exactly.’

It was bullshit. Given her fantastic presence I resented her for not being better at the game. ‘Pretty clever.’

‘So you see it’s no big deal. I hope that satisfies you.’

It didn’t, but she was going to stick to her silly story no matter what I said. Detective Fogarty and I could agree on one thing anyway. Something was going on here and so far none of us had a clue except me. I had that DVD. I knew what I’d seen but so far the only clue I had to its meaning was Jeff Ward’s admission that he was being blackmailed.

‘That was the easy part, Mrs Burkhart.’

‘What’re you talking about?’

‘You’re lying and we both know it. I’m guessing you’re involved in something pretty bad — and you’re too scared to think straight.’

I have to admit that her scornful laugh sounded pretty damned confident. ‘Do I look scared? Do I sound scared? The only reason I was leery of you when you started chasing me inside was because I didn’t know who you were. There’re a lot of freaks who hang around political campaigns. I thought you might be one of them.’

The triumph in her voice — the princess of the realm to the commoner — only increased when the side door opened and a woman called out, ‘Mrs Burkhart. We need you inside.’

Her smirk was one of jubilation. ‘I’ll be right there.’ Then: ‘I need to go inside and I’d advise against trying to stop me. I’d hate to call the police and tell them that somebody from the Ward campaign was accosting me.’

‘This isn’t over.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on that. My husband is a very powerful man.’

The woman held the door open for her. Waiting.

‘Tell her you need a few more minutes out here.’

‘I will not.’

I slipped my cell phone from my jacket pocket. ‘You don’t have to call the police. I will. I’m going to take this cell phone and call Detective Fogarty at the police station. She’ll be very interested when I mention that you were taking photos of Jim Waters the day he died. You’ll have to do a lot better with your story than you did with me.’

She gritted her teeth. ‘I’m so sick of threats.’

One more word to add to my Burkhart vocabulary. Problems, threats.

‘I’m also sick of men. Men fuck up everything.’

Somehow I didn’t think she was speaking in the feminist sense. She’d probably run up against a man or men who wouldn’t let her have her narcissistic way. She was an expensive toy for men who could afford her.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on, Mrs Burkhart?’

‘Just wait a minute.’

‘For what? This is getting us nowhere.’

‘I need some time.’

‘That’s up to you, Mrs Burkhart. I thought maybe I could help you out a little. That’s why I stopped by. But I can see you don’t want any help, do you?’

She had a harsh Gucci laugh. ‘How can you say that with a straight face? My God — you stopped by to help me out a little. You stopped by because you want to get my husband in trouble.’

‘If that’s the way you choose to look at it, Mrs Burkhart, that’s up to you. Now please get out of my way. I’ve got things to do.’

She clutched my sport coat. She wasn’t restraining me as much as she was pleading with me. I doubted she played the supplicant very often.

‘Give me until tonight before you do anything, including the police. I have to make some decisions. I’ll give you my cell number. Then we can talk.’

She dug in her purse and extracted a business card. ‘Turn around.’

This was the Mrs Burkhart I’d come to know and love. Barking orders. As she scribbled her cell number on the card she had pressed to my back she kept up a stream of whispered curses. I had the feeling they were aimed as much at herself as at me.

‘There. You can turn around again.’

‘Thank you, Your Highness.’

‘You know, I really don’t like you.’

I took the card. ‘You wouldn’t be surprised if I said the feeling is mutual, would you?’

But she was done with me. ‘I expect you to keep your word.’

I hadn’t given my word but she was so used to getting her way she just assumed I’d pledged undying loyalty to her throne.

By the time I’d backed out and started for the street, she was rushing through the side door and into the maelstrom of the campaign.

I bought a grilled cheese sandwich and a Caesar salad and a beer in the hotel cafe and took them up to my room. I worked while I ate. In addition to interviews the DVD held names of people and places. I needed to verify that these actually existed. In the age of photoshopping you had to check and recheck everything.

The first two names checked out. I found them in the white pages online.

I finished my food. I still had half my beer. I worked on the bottle as I punched in phone numbers. Three rings, four rings.

‘Hello.’ Female. Wary.

‘Mrs Hayes?’

Silence.

‘Mrs Hayes?’

‘Who is this?’

‘My name is Dev Conrad. You don’t know me, but I’d like to set up an appointment to see you.’

Long pause. ‘Those days are behind me. Now leave me alone.’

She slammed the phone with a fury that told me how much she wanted to forget her past and resented — despised — anybody who’d bring it up.

The second number I dialed yielded only an automatic message voice, one of those robots who will someday be our masters. The robot wouldn’t even part with the name of who owned this particular phone number. I left no message.

I called Ward headquarters and asked for Lucy.

‘I was getting worried about you. We hadn’t heard anything from you. Jimmy’s murder has really freaked me out. And I haven’t said “freaked me out” since college.’ I could feel her smile over the phone, a fresh, appealing young woman who just happened to be smart as hell.