Steve Martini - Undue Influence

‘It must be difficult,’ she says. ‘Raising a child, alone.’

‘It has its moments.’

‘Do you miss her a lot?’

‘Emm.’

‘Oh. Never mind.’ A lot of flailing hands across the table, looks of embarrassment.

‘I’m prying,’ she says.

Then I catch her drift. ‘You mean Nikki?’

‘Yes. But it’s none of my business.’

‘I don’t mind,’ I say. ‘Yes. I do miss her. More than I like to admit. Especially to myself. It’s the thing about the people we know best. The ones we love. We take them for granted. I never realized how much I would miss her until she was gone.’

She nods like she understands. But I can tell she doesn’t have a clue.

‘You spend a lot of time preparing, and then it’s over, you’re alone, and you discover that all that preparation was a waste of time. Because there’s really no way to get ready. No matter how much time you have. In the end there’s just a great big hole left in your life.’

‘It must have been a very special relationship.’

‘I wasn’t a particularly good husband,’ I say.

‘You’re being modest.’

‘No. We had more than our share of problems. My obsession with work. A wandering eye during a period of separation,’ I tell her. I could tell her that more than my eyes wandered.

She looks at me, a little startled by my frankness.

‘But I suppose if the measure of a good marriage is how much you miss someone when they’re gone, then ours was a good marriage.’

I notice that we are no longer making eye contact. It is getting maudlin. A session of true confessions.

‘The story of my life,’ I say. ‘How about you?’

‘Oh. Three years of marriage. No children. One divorce. And for the record, I don’t miss him.’

‘The advantages of dying,’ I say. We laugh a little, but for me it is bittersweet.

We pick up our menus and scan the entrées. The waiter arrives with a list of specials, a dozen more dishes given to us like a pop quiz in physics. We order, and afterward there is small talk, mostly about work. My venue being mostly state and hers federal, there is wide latitude for talk without breaching confidences.

Dana is a comer, on the move. There has been talk of a federal district judgeship, not from her lips, but I have read it in the papers, her name on a short list. She would be the youngest appointment in the history of the district.

I’m cutting a ravioli with the edge of my fork when I finally broach the subject.

‘I’m hearing some rumors,’ I say, ‘about Jack Vega and a federal probe.’

She is good. Her eyes never leave her plate. A face like a stone idol. Not the slightest hint that I have bushwhacked her.

‘Some pretty good sources,’ I say. ‘They tell me that he’s the target of a federal investigation.’

She says nothing, but puts down her fork, wipes her lips with her napkin. I can tell by the look that she’s preparing to stonewall it. I play the trump card before she has a chance to dig herself in deep with any lies.

‘Your man’s wearing a wire,’ I tell her.

Suddenly her look becomes more serious.

‘Who told you that? Have you been talking to Mr. Vega?’

‘We have talked. But he didn’t tell me. He didn’t have to. Jack’s a natty dresser,’ I tell her, ‘and fargos tend to make a bulge. He shot a button — into the next county,’ I tell her. ‘And I got a glimpse.’

‘Oh, shit.’ She’s looking at me from the corner of one eye, like she only half believes this. Then she starts to laugh at the mind picture drawn here, her napkined hand in front of her mouth.

‘You aren’t kidding, are you?’

‘No, I’m not.’ I go along with her, and we both end up laughing.

‘I can’t believe this. What an idiot,’ she says.

‘Well, Jack wouldn’t be my pick for an informant,’ I tell her.

If she thinks he’s bad now, wait until she gets him on the stand. In front of a jury, Jack is likely to possess the credibility of Jell-O — a lot of wiggles and all transparent.

‘You understand I can’t confirm or deny,’ she says.

She already has, but I tell her I understand.

‘Who else suspects this?’

‘Some of the press believe he’s the target of an investigation. They’re just a little behind the curve,’ I tell her. She looks at me, and I can tell she’s wondering how long the secret is good with me.

‘How long has this been going on?’ I ask her. ‘Jack’s part in your investigation.’

‘This is very awkward. You put me in a spot,’ she says. ‘Who would have thought that his wife would be killed in the middle of it?’

‘See it from my perspective. The man’s married to the victim. He’s a principal player. I suppose I could get a subpoena,’ I tell her, ‘but it would be easier for both of us if I didn’t have to.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘On grounds that if Jack was turning state’s evidence in a major federal undercover investigation, it’s conceivable he could have been the target of a murder attempt the night his wife was killed.’

‘You’re not serious?’ she says. ‘It’s only a white-collar investigation.’

She says this like these people are all uppercrust. Like they do all their crimes only with pen and pad, and only on starched white linen.

‘Like none of them ever panic?’ I say. ‘Maybe snuff one another to keep a secret?’

She’s shaking her head in disbelief.

‘The jury would certainly have a right to hear it,’ I tell her.

‘You believe that’s what happened?’ she says.

I make a face. ‘Whether I believe it or not is not the issue. To get a subpoena all I have to do is show relevance. And I think a court would agree that this is relevant.’

‘I should have known better. He couldn’t even turn it on and off at the right times.’ She’s talking about Jack and his electronic hip pad. ‘Half his conversations are things we didn’t want or need. Calls to check on his laundry and have his hair styled.’

‘Sounds like Jack fell early?’ I say.

‘First fish in the net,’ she says. ‘So he got a good deal.’

‘And let me guess. You’ve been turning the screws on him pretty hard?’

‘He folded like a house of cards. Told us things we would never have discovered in two lifetimes. And when he fessed up, he cried like a baby. Seems he was having some personal problems of his own,’ she says.

I raise an eyebrow.

‘Marital,’ she says. ‘I almost felt sorry for him.’

‘And how did you know this?’

‘I can’t say any more. Until I get authorization,’ she says. ‘Do I have your word you won’t say anything to anyone until I talk to my superiors?’

‘I’m not interested in saving Jack’s bacon. But I need to know what’s going on.’

‘Do I have your word?’

I nod.

‘Maybe we can cooperate, wrap up our investigation quickly before you go to trial,’ she says. ‘If we can get indictments, it won’t matter if Vega’s cover is blown,’ she says.

‘Can we meet tomorrow night?’ she says. ‘It’ll give me a chance to talk to my people.’

I nod. ‘Whatever,’ I say.

This is fine with me. I have no stake in Jack. They can have his ass, roast it over an open flame for all I care. What I want to know is what kind of pressure they were putting on him. At this point I have two theories of what might have happened that night, only one of which I have told to Dana.

‘The Resolution Trust Corporation,’ says Harry.

‘What?’

‘The RTC. The agency that took over the bankrupt savings and loans.’

Harry is driving as I am looking at him from the front passenger seat of his car. He is telling me who holds the mortgage on George and Kathy Merlow’s house. Harry’s run up a dead end with the realtor.