Steve Martini - Undue Influence

‘We had an informant. A hanger-on around the fringes of politics in the Capitol.’ She makes a face like this is not someone you would take home to meet your family.

‘This informant saw Jack in some sleazoid bar across the river some time ago. A real dive,’ she says. ‘Not one of the places your brother-in-law usually frequents. We know. We’ve watched him. He was in tow with another man, the two of them talking over a table, guzzling beer.

‘A state legislator in a thousand-dollar suit, Vega stood out,’ she says. ‘The guy, our informant, took notes.’

‘Why would he bother?’

‘He’d been netted in the Capitol probe. A sometime lobbyist, one of the guys who ultimately led us to Jack. He was low on the political food chain and was looking to play, make a deal. He didn’t know what we were doing, but he knew we had an eye on Jack. So among other things he got the license off of Mr. Simmons’ pickup truck. It was in the notes on Jack’s case. We hadn’t pursued it at the time.’

I am sitting, saying nothing. Letting it all sink in.

‘This informant. Where is he?’

‘That’s the bad part. The man seems to have slipped off the edge of the earth. At least momentarily. The agent who was his point of contact hasn’t seen him in at least three weeks. Word is he’s on vacation, but nobody knows where. We’re looking.’

‘And where’s this Mr. Simmons?’

‘We don’t know that either. He gave DMV a false address.’

Wonderful. Having seen him kill once and try on a second occasion, he is probably staking out my house at this moment. I mention this to Dana. She tells me not to worry. They have already thought of this. Agents have the house under surveillance twenty-four hours a day, she says. They are also watching Sarah at school. If Simmons shows as much as a hair on his ass they will take him down.

Then to more professional concerns. ‘This meeting between Simmons and Jack. When did it take place?’

‘I’m glad you asked,’ she says. ‘Five days before Melanie Vega was murdered.’

I am stone cold, the kind of shudder that courses through your body and chills your brain, like a double shot of adrenaline. My theory about Jack has just taken on the flesh of reality.

After meeting in the office, I called it a day and asked Dana to join me for dinner at the house. She is fixing the salad. Sarah is helping, standing on a stool in the kitchen like she used to do with her mother. I cannot help being bothered by this. Thoughts of Nikki and the hole that is left in my daughter’s life. I have my work. Sarah has a lot of loneliness, kids at school who ask why her mother doesn’t come to class on Monday mornings, teacher’s helper, as she used to do. At seven, children don’t have a solid concept of the finality that is death. Sarah is starting to learn, a long, painful lesson.

‘Maybe you’d like to pour the dressing while I toss the salad?’ Dana’s trying to take Sarah under her wing.

‘No. You do it,’ says Sarah. ‘I want to help Daddy with the corn.’

Like most children Sarah takes a while to warm to strangers. She is starved for a mother’s affection, a real hugger. Sarah would spend twenty minutes every morning cuddling with Nikki on the couch in the family room before dressing for school. I have the corner on this market now, giving her what she craves, a father’s love, her last sanctuary against life’s insecurities. Though when my daughter now looks at me, it seems too often that she is measuring me with wary eyes, fearful that I too might leave her.

Sarah holds the bowl while I put the hot cobs of corn in with metal tongs.

‘The steaks will be a couple of minutes,’ I tell them.

‘Quick. We’d better set the table,’ Dana moving toward the cupboards. ‘Show me where they are.’ She looks at Sarah, trying to make this a game.

But my daughter doesn’t budge, instead she is clinging to my side. Since Nikki’s death I have found that Sarah is possessive, of the house and its contents, but most of all of me. She does not like change. The few times I have talked about moving to a smaller place that is easier to take care of, she has thrown a pitched battle. It is as if as long as we stay here, Nikki is present, at least in spirit. It seems that she has taken a turn for the worse now that Danny and Julie are gone. Danny had, at least once a week, and regardless of his father’s objections, slipped by to visit with us, to tease and play with his cousin.

With a little coaxing I finally get Sarah to help with the dishes. She’s in the dining room. We can see her over the pass-through, setting place mats and dishes, mine at one end, her own dish nearly on top of it, and another lonely plate, by itself, at the far end.

Dana looks at me. ‘Now who do you suppose is sitting way down there?’

‘It’s a tough time for her,’ I say. Though I have to admit that at times Sarah is awful. We both laugh.

‘Hey, I understand. She’s a little doll.’

The steaks are well done, we sit down, pour the wine, and Sarah makes a show of grace. It was always her treat when there was company. Ten minutes and Sarah is full. She eats like a bird, weighs fifty pounds, with spindly legs that now represent two-thirds of her height, like a baby gazelle. But she will have two snacks between now and bedtime.

‘Two more bites,’ I tell her.

She argues a little and makes a face. When this doesn’t work, she fills her cheeks and excuses herself, disappearing into her bedroom to play.

‘You’re a lucky guy,’ says Dana.

We talk about children. Dana lamenting that she’s missed her chance, the biologic clock.

I scoff. Somehow I think the only clock that is keeping Dana from having kids is the one that beeps hourly with the appointments of her ambitious schedule. The idle speculation on a judicial appointment, the so-called A-list, has suddenly turned real. It has been whittled down to two candidates, a fifty-four-year-old white male and the woman now sitting across from me at my dinner table. According to today’s paper, their résumés are being shipped to a special evaluation panel for a thorough review of qualifications and background. Word is that Dana has already met the political litmus test. She has the backing of higher-ups in the Justice Department in Washington, and the two United States Senators from this state, both women with aggressive gender programs.

On the couch we’re doing coffee. Sarah is now asleep. My invitation to Dana this evening is only partly social. She would have to be sedated not to sense this.

‘Something’s wrong,’ she says.

‘Nothing,’ I say.

‘What is it?’ She puts her coffee on the table and gives me her undivided attention.

‘I suppose you’re packing boxes in your office,’ I tell her. ‘Doing fittings for a black robe.’

‘Is that what’s bothering you?’

‘Not really bothering me. Just curious.’

‘Ah.’ She gives a knowing tilt to her head.

Now I’m embarrassed. Dana must think I’m part of the testosterone troop, the guys who can’t deal with women in black.

‘You’re thinking it would change things,’ she says. ‘Between us, I mean.’

‘Do you?’

‘I asked you first,’ she says.

I make a face, something thoughtfully Italian, stretching the cheeks a little and shrugging.

‘Actually I think it might be fun. I’ve always had this fetish.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘I’ve always wondered what it would be like to do it to a judge, from behind, up on the bench,’ I tell her.

‘Maybe I won’t allow you to approach,’ she says. Then a smile as she drags a single nail of one finger, like some predatory claw, across the worsted fabric of my thigh.

I clear my throat, hoping that when I speak again my voice won’t be an octave higher. I’m using a napkin to keep the perspiration from being noticeable on my upper lip.