Дэвид Балдаччи - Absolute Power

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right, Jack. If this firm were a football team, you’d be MVP or rookie of the year, maybe both.” Jennifer took another drink and slid her arm around Jack’s waist.

“And on top of that, you can now afford to support me in the lifestyle I’ve grown accustomed to.” She pinched his arm.

“Grown accustomed to. Right! Try, from birth.” They stole a quick kiss.

“You’d better mingle, superstar.” She pushed him away and went in search of her parents.

Jack looked around. Every person in this room was a millionaire. He was easily the poorest of them all, but his prospects probably surpassed all of theirs. His base income had just quadrupled. His profit sharing for the year would easily be double that. It occurred to him that he too was now, technically, a millionaire. Who would’ve thought it, when four years ago a million dollars seemed to be more money than existed on the planet?

He had not entered law to become rich. He had spent years working as hard as he ever had for what amounted to pennies. But he was entitled now, wasn’t he? This was the typical American Dream, wasn’t it? But what was it about that dream that made you feel guilty when you finally attained it?

He felt a big arm around his shoulder. He turned to look at Sandy Lord, red eyes and all staring at him.

“Surprised the hell out of you, didn’t we?”

Jack had to agree with that. Sandy’s breath was a mixture of hard liquor and roast beef. It reminded Jack of their very first encounter at Fillmore’s, not a pleasant memory. He subtlely distanced himself from his intoxicated partner.

“Look around this room, Jack. There’s not a person here, with the possible exception of yours truly, who wouldn’t love to be in your shoes.”

“It seems a little overwhelming. It happened so fast.” Jack was more talking to himself than to Lord.

“Hell, these things always do. For the fortunate few, wham, zero to the top in seconds. Improbable success is just that: improbable. But that’s what makes it so damn satisfy ing. By the way, let me shake your hand for taking such good care of Walter.”

“Pleasure, Sandy. I like the man.”

“By the way, I’m having a little get-together at my place on Saturday. Some people are going to be there you should meet. See if you can persuade your extremely attractive Significant Other to attend. She might find some marketing opportunities. Girl’s a natural hustler just like her daddy.”

Jack shook the hand of every partner in the place, some more than once. By nine o’clock he and Jennifer were headed home in her company limo. By one o’clock they had already made love twice. By one-thirty Jennifer was sound asleep.

Jack wasn’t.

He stood by the window looking out at the few stray snowflakes that had started to fall. An early winter storm system had settled in over the area although accumulations were not supposed to be significant. Jack’s thoughts were not on the weather, however. He looked over at Jennifer. She was dressed in a silk nightgown, nestled between satin sheets, in a bed the size of his apartment’s bedroom. He looked up at his old friends the murals. Their new place was supposed to be ready by Christmas, although the very proper Baldwin family would never allow patent cohabitation until the vows were exchanged. The interiors were being redone under the sharp eye of his fiancée to suit their individual tastes and to boldly cast their own personal statement — whatever the hell that meant. As he studied the medieval faces on the ceiling it occurred to Jack that they were probably laughing at him.

He had just made partner in the most prestigious firm in town, was the toast of some of the most influential people you could imagine, every one of them eager to advance his already meteoric career even further. He had it all. From the beautiful princess, to the rich, old father-in-law, to the hallowed if utterly ruthless mentor, to serious bucks in the bank. With an army of the powerful right behind him and a truly limitless future, Jack never felt more alone than he did that night. And despite all his willpower, his thoughts continually turned to an old, frightened and angry man, and his emotionally spent daughter. With those twin beauties swirling in his head he silently watched the gentle fall of snowflakes until the softened edges of daybreak greeted him.

The old woman watched through the dusty Venetian blinds that covered the living room window as the dark sedan pulled into her driveway. The arthritis in both grossly swollen knees made getting up difficult, much less trying to move herself around. Her back was permanently bent and the lungs were dense and unforgiving after fifty years of tar and nicotine bombardment. She was counting down to the end; her body had carried her about as far as it could. Longer than her daughter’s had.

She fingered the letter that she kept in the pocket of her old, pink dressing gown that failed to completely cover the red, blistered ankles. She figured they would show up sooner or later. After Wanda had come back from the police station, she knew it was a matter of time before something like this happened. The tears welled up in her eyes as she thought back to the last few weeks.

“It was my fault, Momma.” Her daughter had sat in the tiny kitchen where, as a little girl, she had helped her mother bake cookies and can tomatoes and stringbeans harvested from the strip of garden out back. She had repeated those words over and over as she slumped forward on the table, her body convulsing with every word. Edwina had tried to reason with her daughter but she was not eloquent enough to dent the shroud of guilt that surrounded the slender woman who had started life as a roly-poly baby with thick dark hair and horseshoe legs. She had shown Wanda the letter but it had done no good. It was beyond the old woman to make her child understand.

Now she was gone and the police had come. And now Edwina had to do the right thing. And at eighty-one and Godfearing, Edwina was going to lie to the police, which was to her the only thing she could do.

“I’m sorry about your daughter, Mrs. Broome.” Frank’s words rang sincere to the old woman’s ears. A trickle of a tear slipped down the deep crevices of her aged face.

The note Wanda had left behind was given to Edwina Broome and she looked at it through a thick magnifying glass that lay on the table within easy reach. She looked at the earnest face of the detective. “I can’t imagine what she was thinking when she wrote this.”

“You understand that a robbery took place at the Sullivan home? That Christine Sullivan was murdered by whoever it was that broke in?”

“I heard that on the television right after it happened. That was terrible. Terrible.”

“Did your daughter ever talk to you about the incident?”

“Well of course she did. She was so upset by it all. She and Mrs. Sullivan got along real well, real well. It broke her up.”

“Why do you think she took her own life?”

“If I could tell you, I would.”

She let that ambiguous statement hang in front of Frank’s face until he folded the paper back up.

“Did your daughter tell you anything about her work that might shed some light on the murder?”

“No. She liked her job pretty much. They treated her real well from what she said. Living in that big house, that’s real nice.”

“Mrs. Broome, I understand that Wanda was in trouble with the law a while back.”

“A long while back, Detective. A long while back. And she lived a good life since then.” Edwina Broome’s eyes had narrowed, her lips set in a firm line, as she stared down Seth Frank.

“I’m sure she did,” Frank added quickly. “Did Wanda bring anyone by to see you in the last few months. Someone you didn’t know perhaps?”