“Maybe you know her as Andrea Lowry.”
“I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
“I’m referring to the onetime, illicit relationship between Ms. Lowry nee Willett and the congressman.”
“There was no relationship.”
“I’m afraid there was, whether you know it or not. And maybe you don’t. It was well before your time. What are you, like, fourteen years old?”
“Insults won’t get you anywhere.”
“How about threats? Either I meet with the congressman or I track down a real reporter and do my talking to him.”
He gave her a shrewd look. “Your career depends on keeping a low profile. You’re not going to get yourself in the headlines.”
“I’m more than happy to be the anonymous source behind the scenes. Just think of me as Deep Throat.” Abby frowned. “On second thought, I want a different nickname.”
“It would be a serious mistake to go that route, Ms. Sinclair. The congressman is not somebody you want to cross.”
“Why not? Will he send some of his motorcycle compadres after me? Or does he only use the Scorpions when getting reacquainted with old friends?”
“You’re raving.”
“I guess you won’t mind my raving to the press. Here’s the bottom line, Kip. You don’t run this show. I do.”
Stenzel hesitated, his face a tight mask. Then he turned to the two cops. “Did you pass the metal detector over her?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Do it again. Slowly.”
The cop with the wand frowned but did as he was told.
“Afraid I’m packing heat?” Abby asked Stenzel, smiling.
“I’m just taking every precaution… Ms. Klein.”
“We can’t be too careful where the congressman’s safety is concerned.”
“No. We can’t.”
The cop confirmed that she was clean.
Stenzel nodded curtly. “Come along.”
Abby was right behind him. “Kipster, you couldn’t lose me now.”
35
Reynolds’ house was a massive modernistic pile. Twenty-foot ceilings soared over marble floors. Walls of glass let in the abundant California sun.
“Nice place,” Abby observed. “I’m surprised your boss can afford it on a public servant’s salary.”
Stenzel caught the implication. “If you’d done your homework, you’d know that Mrs. Reynolds is quite well off.”
“The boy from the barrio married money? I didn’t catch that detail on his Web site. Maybe it doesn’t go so well with his rags to riches story.”
“The congressman and his wife have a wonderful marriage. They recently celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.”
“So I guess she didn’t hold his indiscretions against him? Or more likely, she never found out.”
“I find you tiresome, Ms. Sinclair.”
“Yeah, I’m a real pain in the ass.”
They passed a game room and a small but well-equipped gym. He led her through a solarium and into the backyard. The yard wasn’t huge, most of the property having been taken up by the house, and the square footage available for Reynolds’ guests was further diminished by a swimming pool that simulated a tropical lagoon, complete with waterfall. The guests were crowded around the pool, doing their best not to fall in while they picked at plates of food. Abby was reminded that she hadn’t eaten today.
A knot of visitors had formed around a well-dressed lady of Reynolds’ age, recognizable from her photos on the Web site and in the L.A. Times article. Nora, his wife. Nearby, Reynolds’ assistant-his constituent services coordinator, Rebecca, or as Abby called her, Moneypenny-was chatting with an earnest man who seemed in need of a favor from the congressman. Rebecca seemed a little overdressed for a summer day; she was showing hardly any skin at all.
Stenzel proceeded to the far end of the yard. There the crowd parted to reveal His Excellency in front of a monstrous gas-powered grill. He wasn’t actually flipping or serving burgers, and Abby was a little disappointed about that.
Reynolds was in his element, surrounded by well-wishers, the center of attention, radiating authority, accepting the adulation of the wealthy and influential. Then his gaze flickered in Abby’s direction, registering her presence, and something in his eyes told her it was a pose. Reynolds was scared. His hold on power was threatened, and he could see it slipping away. Beneath the facade of self-assurance she read fear, desperation, vulnerability.
That was good. She could work with that.
“I was wondering if you would actually be here,” he said quietly as Abby moved alongside him.
She smiled. “No, you weren’t.”
Reynolds glanced at Stenzel. “Take her to my office. I’ll be inside in a minute.”
Stenzel ushered her away. “Hold on a sec,” Abby said. She grabbed a plate and loaded it with chicken and potato salad, then found some plastic cutlery and paper napkins. What the hell, the food was free and she was hungry. Plate in hand, she followed Stenzel past a garden of hydrangeas, sea grasses, and bird-of-paradise, and back inside the house. Down a short hallway was a small office with oak shelving and paneled walls. It occurred to Abby that being out of public view was perhaps not the best idea, under the circumstances.
“By the way, your rent-a-cops will remember me,” she told Stenzel. “If for some reason I don’t leave this party, there’ll be an investigation, and you’ll be the first one questioned.”
“Are you always so dramatic?”
“Most of the time.”
“If you’re worried about your safety, I’d advise you to walk away from this situation right now.”
“Sorry, Kip. No can do.”
“I’ve given you fair warning.”
“You’ve been more than fair,” Abby agreed.
“Then I won’t consider myself responsible when they zip you up in a body bag.”
There had to be a great comeback to that, but offhand Abby couldn’t think of one.
Fortunately she didn’t have to. Reynolds stepped through the doorway, shutting the door behind him.
Abby took a seat and started on a chicken wing. “Nice little get-together,” she said. “Few hundred of your closest friends?”
“My biggest contributors. Which amounts to the same thing.”
“Somehow I find that sad.”
“You know what Harry Truman said. If you want a friend in Washington, buy a dog.”
“That’s the second Truman anecdote I’ve heard from you. Are you just wild about Harry?”
“All politicians admire Truman,” Reynolds said as he rounded his desk and sat in a plush leather chair. “You know why?”
“Enlighten me.”
“We like him because he was always underestimated. The party bosses thought they could control him. The pollsters thought he couldn’t win in ’48. He was dismissed as a mediocrity. And now he’s an icon.”
“So he gives hope to all the other mediocrities in politics?”
“That’s a cheap shot, Sinclair. I’m starting to lose my respect for you.”
“You had never mine to begin with.”
“What is it you wanted to say?”
Abby looked up from her lunch and focused her stare on Stenzel. “Privacy, please?”
He started to protest, but Reynolds cut him off. “Wait outside, Kip. Tell the folks I’ll rejoin them in a minute.”
Stenzel opened the door, then turned back. “She’s not wearing a wire. I had security check her twice.” So that was the reason for the do-over.
Reynolds nodded, and Stenzel was gone, the door closing after him. With his campaign manager out of the way, Reynolds seemed more relaxed. He rose and moved to a liquor cabinet. “Drink?” he asked, sounding almost cordial.
“If you can make a New Year’s Rockin’ Eve, I won’t turn it down.”
“What the hell is that?”
“My own invention. Splash of rum, splash of gin, splash of vodka, splash of tequila, splash of rye, and a soupcon of carrot juice.”
“Sounds god-awful.”
“It really is.”
Reynolds poured himself a Scotch, fixing nothing for her. She contented herself with the chicken. It was a little overcooked, but you couldn’t beat the price.