The little dig. It’s almost impossible to resist. You’re in a war. You’ve convinced yourself that the person you’re running against takes calls from Satan at least four times a week. The mere mention of his or her name unhinges you and your knife appears in your hand. This is all internal. In public you need to present yourself as rational and professional.
‘I was wondering if I could speak with Mrs Burkhart.’
The narrowed eyes, the second-thought reassessment. She had to be thinking that maybe Melanie was correct after all. Maybe I was a reporter trying to sneak past the guards to try to humiliate Mrs Burkhart in an interview.
‘Do you know Mrs Burkhart?’
‘Not really. But she was taking some photographs and I wondered if I could get some copies of them.’
‘Some photographs? I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
She appeared in the rear of the factory-like room. Even from a distance she was as imperious as a Hollywood goddess.
‘Mrs Burkhart!’ I called and started moving fast up the center of the aisle.
‘Please, Mr Ketchum. You shouldn’t-’
But I was pounding up the aisle in long strides. Mrs Burkhart was paying no attention. She hadn’t heard me call her name above the din.
When I reached her, she was just about to walk through the door she’d just come out of. ‘Mrs Burkhart! Mrs Burkhart!’
She turned. She was a gorgeous, golden animal kept gorgeous by an army of men and women whose job was to help her defy age and fashion. Her face had the wisdom of carnality in it, that immortal knowingness of how to please and control men. Even the brown eyes, no doubt courtesy of contacts, had a golden glow to them. Those eyes assaulted you. Today she wore an emerald suit of silky material that swept the long, lean lines of her body with a true majesty. In addition to sexuality she also radiated strength and health. I wondered if she’d try to beat the shit out of me. I was sure she had it in her to try.
‘Is there something I can do for you?’ She had to be careful. I was a peon but maybe I was a connected peon and maybe my connection wouldn’t appreciate her pissing on me. Of course she couldn’t quite keep the disdain from her tone.
I got close to her and said, ‘I saw you taking pictures of James Waters. I’d like to know why you were doing that.’
She touched her hand to her handsome bosom. Before she could speak, Mrs Hawthorne, breathless, arrived.
‘I tried to stop him, Mrs Burkhart. But he got ahead of me.’
Mrs Burkhart’s eyes scathed the well-fed body of her employee and said, ‘I suppose you did your best, Mrs Hawthorne. You should get into that exercise class I keep telling you about. I go three times a week and I don’t even need it.’
Mrs Hawthorne’s eyes showed real pain. Humiliation, I guessed. This was the second time I’d been forced to feel sorry for her and I didn’t even like her.
‘So it’s all right if he stays?’ she said.
‘I’m sure I can handle this, Mrs Hawthorne. Thank you so much for your usual help, though.’
Mrs Hawthorne, whipped, looked at me then lowered her head, turned around, and headed back to the front.
‘Maybe slapping her would’ve been kinder than what you did.’
The golden eyes shimmered with royal anger. ‘I don’t know who you are but I already don’t like you. We’ll go outside to talk and don’t say another word till we get there.’
She led the way to a side door and to the chill, gray day. Her perfume was so seductive I felt a need to touch that Cleopatra flesh of hers. Though her hair didn’t look overly lacquered, the blonde perfection of the chignon was not ruffled by the wind.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Just somebody who saw you snapping Waters’ picture.’
‘And you knew Waters?’
‘Slightly. Not very well.’
She managed to get a long cigarette going and took a deep diva-like drag on it. She dispersed it with those rich, erotic lips. ‘All right, you saw me taking his picture. And that’s supposed to mean what exactly?’
‘That’s what I’m curious about. Why you’d be taking photos of Waters, especially since somebody killed him later that night.’
If any of this was intimidating her, she managed to disguise it with her irritated glances and tone.
We listened to the red and gold and brown leaves skitter like forlorn little creatures across the asphalt of the parking lot. Finally I said, ‘I haven’t gone to the police. Not yet.’
‘I want to see some ID.’ The salon seductress suddenly sounded like a cop.
‘If I show you, you’ll know who I am.’
‘Oh, right, I suppose you’re somebody famous.’
‘My name is Dev Conrad. I work for Jeff Ward.’
‘You bastard!’ Her cigarette went flying as she lunged for me, shoving me back into the rear of a parked car.
She wasn’t as strong as I’d thought. ‘I need to figure out if you were just doing some campaign dirty tricks or if you have something to do with Jim Waters’ murder. Since you’re unwilling to help me, maybe your husband can bring me up to date on all this.’
‘Leave my husband alone. He’s got enough problems.’
Odd thing for somebody to say. Her candidate had come from behind to lead us by three points. I wondered what she was talking about.
She smiled. She had lovely teeth and a deceitful smile. It said aw, shucks and I didn’t believe any of it. ‘You caught me.’
‘I did?’
‘I was taking photos of Waters because I was going to send one of our girls to ‘accidentally’ meet him in a bar and get him drunk and see if he’d tell her anything.’
‘A spy operation.’
‘Exactly.’
It was bullshit. Given her fantastic presence I resented her for not being better at the game. ‘Pretty clever.’
‘So you see it’s no big deal. I hope that satisfies you.’
It didn’t, but she was going to stick to her silly story no matter what I said. Detective Fogarty and I could agree on one thing anyway. Something was going on here and so far none of us had a clue except me. I had that DVD. I knew what I’d seen but so far the only clue I had to its meaning was Jeff Ward’s admission that he was being blackmailed.
‘That was the easy part, Mrs Burkhart.’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘You’re lying and we both know it. I’m guessing you’re involved in something pretty bad — and you’re too scared to think straight.’
I have to admit that her scornful laugh sounded pretty damned confident. ‘Do I look scared? Do I sound scared? The only reason I was leery of you when you started chasing me inside was because I didn’t know who you were. There’re a lot of freaks who hang around political campaigns. I thought you might be one of them.’
The triumph in her voice — the princess of the realm to the commoner — only increased when the side door opened and a woman called out, ‘Mrs Burkhart. We need you inside.’
Her smirk was one of jubilation. ‘I’ll be right there.’ Then: ‘I need to go inside and I’d advise against trying to stop me. I’d hate to call the police and tell them that somebody from the Ward campaign was accosting me.’
‘This isn’t over.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on that. My husband is a very powerful man.’
The woman held the door open for her. Waiting.
‘Tell her you need a few more minutes out here.’
‘I will not.’
I slipped my cell phone from my jacket pocket. ‘You don’t have to call the police. I will. I’m going to take this cell phone and call Detective Fogarty at the police station. She’ll be very interested when I mention that you were taking photos of Jim Waters the day he died. You’ll have to do a lot better with your story than you did with me.’
She gritted her teeth. ‘I’m so sick of threats.’
One more word to add to my Burkhart vocabulary. Problems, threats.
‘I’m also sick of men. Men fuck up everything.’
Somehow I didn’t think she was speaking in the feminist sense. She’d probably run up against a man or men who wouldn’t let her have her narcissistic way. She was an expensive toy for men who could afford her.