Russell Andrews - Hades

"Ellis is gay?"

"Well, yah," she said. "I mean"-and she lowered her voice to finish-"you know, this is a weird place. It's kinda like the army, you know-don't ask, don't tell. It's a real guys' place, so Ellis isn't like some queen or anything. I mean, I don't know if everyone knows."

"But you know."

"I work for him. But even if I didn't, I'd know."

"Because you can just tell?"

"Just like I can tell you're straight." She maneuvered her breasts just a bit so they seemed to jut ahead a little straighter and she smiled at him with her abnormally white teeth. "You know, I kind of like the fact that you're, you know, maybe not in such great shape. I'm not big on the gym rat types. I'm a little bit zaftig myself. Maybe you noticed."

"Belinda, let me ask you something…"

"Sure, you might as well take advantage of me while I'm feeling so blabby." The white from her teeth flashed even brighter. The dark lipstick stain on the upper row made it look as if she'd just bitten into an extra rare and bloody steak.

"Was Ellis ever violent?"

"Ellis? With me?"

"With anyone."

"God, no. Well…"

"What?" he said.

"I never saw him violent. But once he couldn't come into the office, he said he was sick. I went to his apartment to bring him some work and he wasn't sick, he was pretty marked up, you know, like a black eye and some cuts and stuff. I figured it was, well, you know, a rough trade or something like that, but he'd definitely been in a fight."

"Does he have a temper?"

"Oh yeah. He does a lot of yelling and slamming the phone down and stuff like that. But that's not so weird around this place. I mean, you should hear Mr. Berdon sometimes, when he reams somebody out. It's unbelievable. But, you know, I don't want you to get the wrong impression. I mean, Ellis is a fantastic boss. He can be really generous. Like, they don't give assistants BlackBerrys here-it's really weird what they'll cut corners on, you know-and then they'll spend, like, a million dollars on some golf tournament thing…"

"Belinda…"

"But, anyway, Ellis got me a BlackBerry. Like, out of his own pocket, you know. He decided it would be more efficient so, I mean, he paid for an R and W techie to, you know, make all of his stuff work on it and he pays for the monthly bill and everything…" She stopped suddenly and lowered her voice again, this time to a hissing whisper. "Do you think Ellis killed Mr. Harmon?"

"Do you?"

"I don't know. I told you I think he was kind of in love with Mr. Harmon. Why would you kill someone you love?"

Because that someone was married, Justin wanted to tell her. Because that someone didn't love you back. Because that someone was capable of using love to get what he wanted, no matter the cost.

Because it's what people did.

Every minute of every day.

But he said none of that. Instead, he just told her, "Good question."

She nodded, as if acknowledging that her boss was now officially off the hook. Justin realized he wasn't going to get much more out of her, at least for now, so he started to make his move out of the small room but she reached out and put her hand on his arm. He looked down and saw a piece of paper in her hand.

"It's my card," Belinda Lambert said. "It's one of the cool things about this place: even the assistants get business cards." She produced a pen from nowhere and scribbled something on the card. "It's my home number," she told him, "in case you get, you know, some kind of inspiration at night and think of something, you know, you might want to ask me. Even late at night, that's okay with me. I won't mind."

"That's good to know," Justin said.

"Anything I can do to help," she said. "Anything."

When Justin left the Rockworth and Williams building he felt as if he needed a shower. It was a place that was built on secrets and desperation. Not his favorite combo.

But a combo that definitely was capable of leading to a murder, he thought. So as he headed down the street, he called Mike Haversham at the East End station, told him to see if Ellis St. John had picked up a rental car for the weekend. If he had, he told Mike to get the make and plate number and to see if anyone around town had seen it yesterday.

He hung up, thought about Belinda's question to him.

Why would you kill someone you love?

Justin shook his head. He wondered if he'd ever been naive enough to ask such a question.

He didn't think so. But if he had been, it was so long ago that he couldn't remember.

Larry Silverbush dreamed about being governor of the state of New York.

He had all sorts of reasons for wanting the job: he had very strong beliefs about certain things and he knew he could be effective in moving those things-as he liked to put it in his speeches-from the theoretical column over to the reality column. He believed in the death penalty and knew it should be applied in many more instances than it was being applied now. He thought the federal government wasn't doing shit for post-9/11 New York City, and as governor he was determined to get what he knew was not only due but crucial. He had programs to bring business back to the state, and he had well-thought-out plans to reduce taxes and reprioritize social programs and feed money to state schools. Oh yes, Silverbush knew he would make an excellent governor and knew, from deep within himself, that he deserved to hold that office. But mostly when he daydreamed about presiding over the New York state legislature, spending much of his time in Albany, and coming home on weekends to bask in his glory, he always wound up fixating on one thing: a car and driver.

Silverbush hated to drive. His mind wandered; he didn't concentrate, which he knew was dangerous. And he had a terrible sense of direction. He got lost when he was on his own, even when going to familiar places. He had trouble remembering landmarks and street names and, if truth be told, left from fucking right. When he became governor he'd never have to get behind the wheel of a car again. It was a thrilling thought. He'd have someone in a nice black uniform driving him wherever he went. And when he finally stepped down from office, he'd make a fortune in motivational speeches and he would be able to afford a chauffeur all on his own.

That was what he wanted and, all in all, he thought it was a pretty reasonable goal-better schools and someone to drive him to the goddamn grocery store-and that's what he was thinking about as he was stuck in traffic, behind the wheel of his own three-year-old Lexus, on his way to Southampton Hospital to meet H. R. Harmon and get a firsthand view of Evan Harmon's mangled body.

The drive should have taken fifteen minutes, but it took nearly forty as the Montauk Highway was bumper to bumper the whole way, and he had just decided that he wanted his driver's name to be Matthew-not Matt, definitely Matthew-or possibly Roberto; it might be smart to go ethnic-when the district attorney finally pulled into the hospital parking lot. Harmon was already in the lobby, standing by the admissions desk. Not the ideal situation, keeping H. R. Harmon waiting to see his son in the morgue, but the aging politician was relatively gracious about the inconvenience. Silverbush began mumbling something about the traffic, but Harmon waved the apologies away, just saying, "I'd like to see my son as quickly as possible."

The hospital staff was on high alert, and the two men were ushered into an elevator and taken down one floor to the basement. Silverbush could feel the tension and the hesitation in the older man. As they stepped into the morgue room, he instinctively took hold of Harmon's elbow. Harmon didn't acknowledge the support, but he didn't pull away. He stepped forward as if part of a military parade: stiff and erect, his face an expressionless mask.