Jonathan Kellerman - Capital Crimes

What a mess- there was a metaphor for you.

Mother’s voice snapped her back to the here and now. Prattling on about dangers lurking around every corner.

According to Lucille, Davida was a major target of every white-supremacist hate group in California, not to mention Bible Belt prolifers, hypermacho antigay farmers from the San Joaquin Valley, and, of course, misogynists of every stripe and gender.

She recalled Mother’s first words after the election results were tallied and Davida’s supporters broke into raised-fist cheers in the social hall of the old Finnish church.

Be careful, dear. Don’t get cocky and think because you can get elected here that you’re really popular.

Mother was being her typical negative self, but there was some truth to her admonitions. Davida knew she’d made many enemies, many of whom she had never met.

“Don’t worry, Mother, I’m fine.”

“On top of that, you work too hard.”

“That’s what a public servant does, Mother.”

“If you’re going to keep such long hours, you should at least be compensated for your efforts. Like in the corporate world. With your experience, you could write your own- ”

“I don’t care about money, Mother.”

“That, my dear, is because you’ve never been without it.”

“True, Mother. Fortunate people go into public service to pay back. Stop worrying about me.”

Lucille Grayson’s look was injured. And frightened. She’d lost one daughter. Survival could be a burden, thought Davida. But she tried to be compassionate. “No one wants to hurt me. I’m too insignificant.”

“That’s not what I saw on TV.”

“They’ll have an arrest soon. Whoever did it wasn’t clever. Probably imbeciles from the White Tower Radicals.”

“They may not be clever, Davida, but that doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous.”

“I’ll be especially careful, Mother.” Davida took a bite, put down the fork and wiped her mouth. “It’s been lovely, but I have piles of paperwork and it’s past nine. I have to get back to the office.”

Mother sighed. “All right. Go ahead. I have to pack up myself.”

“You’re not staying overnight?”

“No, I have a meeting tomorrow morning with my accountant back home.”

“Who’s driving you, Hector?”

“Guillermo.”

“He’s a good guy.” Davida stood up and helped her mother to her feet. “Do you need any help packing?”

“No, not at all.” Lucille kissed her daughter on the cheek. “Let me give you a ride to your office.”

“It’s a beautiful night, Mother. Not too cold and not too foggy. I think I’ll walk.”

“Walk?”

“It’s not late.”

“It’s dark, Davida.”

“I know everyone en route and as far as I know, none of them plans to egg me. You be careful yourself. I don’t like you going home so late. I wish you’d sleep here overnight.”

Not inviting Mother to her own apartment; there were limits.

Lucille said, “ Sacramento is only an hour away.”

Davida smiled. “Not the way Guillermo drives.”

“A shorter journey means less opportunity for problems, dear. You have your business, I have mine.”

“Fair enough.” After bidding good-bye to Mother’s friends, Davida accompanied the old woman out of the dining room and helped her up the staircase to her room. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Mother. And I’ll tell Minette you said hello.”

“But I didn’t.”

“In domestic matters, honesty isn’t always the best policy.”

Walking through the stillness of Berkeley’s business district, a thin fog veiling street signs and darkened storefronts and tickling her nose, Davida jammed her hands into her pockets and enjoyed the solitude. Then the silence got to her and she shifted to Shattuck Avenue, the core of the Gourmet Ghetto. The cafés that lined the street teemed with life. As much a concept as a place, the ghetto featured an architectural mix, like Berkeley itself, that refused to conform to anything resembling a standard. Fussy Victorian morphed to Arts and Crafts California bungalow to Deco to Fifties Dingbat. There were a few nods to the contemporary, but permits were hard to come by and developers often gave up.

Though she’d never admit it to anyone, Davida had long come to realize that Berkeley, like any other small, affluent town, had its own conservative core- change was threatening unless it toed the party line. In this case, the party was hers and she loved the controlled heterogeneity.

Walking with her head down, she trudged up Shattuck, breathing in lungfuls of foggy, saline air. Ducking into her office, she checked the messages on her cell. There were dozens of them but the only one that interested her was from Don. Once upon a time, she had known his number by heart. A lifetime ago.

She hit the green call button. His wife answered.

“Hi Jill, it’s Davi- ”

“I’ll get Don for you.”

“Thank you.” Their typical conversation. Five words from Jill Newell was a discourse. The woman just couldn’t get past her husband’s old high school romance. Davida thought Jill’s pettiness astounding after all these years. Especially considering who Davida was. But forget logic; Jill simply hated her.

Don came on the line. “Congresswoman Grayson.”

“Detective Newell. What’s the word?”

“Actually, I do have some news. We got a couple of eyewitnesses on your egg throwers. Couple of moron brothers, Brent and Ray Nutterly. We paid them a visit at their trailer, which conveniently reeked of weed. They’re spending the night in the slammer courtesy of SPD. We may be able to send them up for six months to a year for what they did to you, but they aren’t going to do any hard time.”

“Tell the DA to go for the max.” Davida Grayson, brand-new convert to tough sentencing.

“Absolutely,” said Don. “Everyone from the chief on down is pissed at them for making us look bad. Toss the capital police into the equation and they’re definitely not winning any popularity contests.”

He lowered his voice. “Davy, I don’t have to tell you this but you know there are others waiting in the wings who are a lot more malicious than those two assholes. Think about hiring a bodyguard.”

“Not a chance.”

“Just until you get further along on your bill. All that walking around- ”

“Exactly. I need mobility and accessibility. Thanks for your concern, Don. Now I have another favor. My mom’s due to come home in about an hour, hour and a half. She’s been looking a little feeble and refuses to have anyone live with her. Guillermo will drop her off but at this hour, I don’t like her being conspicuous. Could you send a squad car past her house just to make sure she’s okay?”

“Not a problem. When are you going to be in the neighborhood? I’ve been thinking about a barbecue.”

“Sounds great, Don, but you know how swamped I’ve been.”

“I know.”

“Say hello to Jill and the kids for me.”

“Didn’t Jill answer the phone?”

“She didn’t seem too loquacious.”

There was a pause before he answered. “That’s Jill.”

After the phone rang three times, Minette picked up the receiver. She was finishing up the last of her bourbon and the smoky aftertaste lingered on her palate. Just as cigarettes had lingered back in the Good Old Nicotine Days.

She stretched on the sofa and caressed her body. Tonight, she had on a lacy red uplift bra, matching thong, and thigh-high stockings purchased at Good Vibrations. She’d looked forward all day to peeling them off in front of her partner. Slowly. Agonizingly slowly.