Flattening the crumpled paper with the heel of her hand, she reread the details and instinctively punched in the code for her voice mail.
“You have seven new messages,” the robotic female voice announced through her speakerphone. The first five were from local maître d’s hoping to get some free press for their restaurants by ratting out who was eating lunch with whom. The sixth was a follow-up call on Alexander John’s art award. And the last…
“Hi… er… this message is for Lisbeth,” a soft female voice began. “My name’s…”
The woman paused, causing Lisbeth to sit up straight. The best tips always came from people who didn’t want to identify themselves.
“My name’s… Violet,” she finally said.
Fake name, Lisbeth decided. Even better.
“I just… I was reading your column today, and when I saw his name, my stomach just… it’s not right, okay? I know he’s powerful…”
Lisbeth mentally ran through every mention in today’s column. The First Lady… Manning… does she mean Manning?
“… it’s just not right, okay? Not after what he did.” She’s careful how she puts the knife in. She knows to punch, but not too hard. “Anyway, if you can give me a call…”
Furiously scribbling the number, Lisbeth flipped open her cell phone and immediately started dialing. Her ears flushed red as it rang.
C’mon… pick up, pick up, pick up, pick—
“Hello?” a woman answered.
“Hi, this is Lisbeth Dodson from Below the Fold — I’m looking for Violet.”
There was a second or two of dead silence. Lisbeth just waited. New sources always needed an extra moment to decide.
“Hiya, honey — hold on one second,” the woman said. In the background, Lisbeth heard a bell chime and the sudden wisp of wind buzzing the phone. Whatever store Violet was in, she just left for privacy. Which meant she was willing to talk.
“This isn’t… you’re not recording this, right?” Violet finally asked.
Lisbeth glanced at the digital recorder that always sat on her desk. But she didn’t reach for it. “No recordings.”
“And you won’t give my name out? Because if my husband…”
“We’re off the record. No one’ll ever know who you are. I promise you that.”
Once again, the line was drowned in silence. Lisbeth knew better than to push.
“I just want you to know, I’m no snitch,” Violet said, her voice cracking. Based on Violet’s inflection and speed, Lisbeth wrote mid-30s? in her notepad. “Understand, okay? I don’t want this. He just… seeing his name in print again… and so happy… people don’t realize — there’s a whole ’nother side of him… and what he did that night…”
“What night?” Lisbeth asked. “What was the date?”
“I don’t think he’s a bad person — I really don’t — but when he gets angry… he just… he gets angry with the best of ’em. And when he’s real angry… You know how men get, right?”
“Of course,” Lisbeth agreed. “Now, why don’t you just tell me what happened that night.”
72
I don’t wanna talk about it,” I insist.
“She was recording the whole time?” Rogo asks, still in shock as his voice crackles through the cell phone.
“Rogo, can we please not—?”
“Maybe it’s not how it looked. I mean, she gave you her car and her phone, right? Maybe you misread it.”
“I heard my voice on the tape! How else could that possibly be read!?” I shout, squeezing my fist around the steering wheel and jamming even harder on the gas. As I blow past the thick twisting banyan trees that shield both sides of County Road from the sun, I hear the shift in Rogo’s voice. At first, he was surprised. Now he’s just hurt, with a dab of confused. When it comes to judging someone’s character, he’s usually a master.
“I told you she’d burn us — didn’t I call it?” Dreidel hisses in the background. His voice is barely a whisper, which means someone’s there with them.
“Did she say why?” Rogo adds. “I mean, I know Lisbeth’s a reporter, but—”
“Enough already, okay? How many times do I need to say it? I don’t wanna talk about it!”
“Where are you now anyway?” Rogo asks.
“No offense, but I shouldn’t say. Y’know, just in case someone’s listening.”
“Wes, you’re full of manure — where the hell are you?” Rogo insists.
“On US-1.”
“You’re lying — that was too fast.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Too fast again. C’mon, Pinocchio — I know the little stutter and stammer when you’re fibbing. Just tell me where you are.”
“You have to understand, Rogo, he—”
“He? He? The royal He,” he moaned, more angry than ever. “Son of Betsy Ross, Wes! You’re going to see Manning?”
“He’s expecting me. Schedule says I have to be there at four.”
“Schedule? The man’s been lying to you for eight years about the single greatest tragedy in your life. Doesn’t that—?” He lowers his voice, forcing himself to calm down. “Doesn’t that let you say F-you to the schedule for once?”
“He’s going to Manning?” Dreidel asks in the background.
“Rogo, you don’t understand—”
“I do understand. Lisbeth made you sad… The Three got you scared… and as always, you’re running for your favorite presidential pacifier.”
“Actually, I’m trying to do the one thing we should’ve done the first moment I saw Boyle alive: go to the source and find out what the hell actually happened that day.”
Rogo’s silent, which tells me he’s seething. “Wes, let me ask you something,” he finally says. “That first night you saw Boyle, why didn’t you go to Manning and tell him the truth? Because you were in shock? Because it seemed that Boyle was somehow invited to that hotel by his old best friend? Or because deep in the pit of your chest, no matter how much you’ve rationalized it over the years, you know that before he’s a father, a mentor, or even a husband, Leland F. Manning is a politician — one of the world’s greatest politicians — and for that alone, he’s fully capable of lying to your face for eight years without you ever knowing it.”
“But that’s what you’re missing, Rogo — what if he didn’t lie? What if he’s just as clueless as we are? I mean, if O’Shea and Micah and whoever this Roman guy is — if they’re the ones who sent Nico to shoot Boyle — maybe Manning and Boyle aren’t the villains in all this.”
“What, so now they’re victims?”
“Why not?”
“Please, he’s the—” Catching himself and knowing I won’t listen if he yells, Rogo adds, “If Boyle and Manning were complete angels — if they had nothing to hide and were only doing good — why didn’t they just take Boyle to the hospital and let the authorities investigate? C’mon, Wes, these two guys lied to the entire world — and the only reason people lie is because they have something to hide. Now, I’m not saying I have all the pieces, but just by the lie alone, there’s no way Manning and Boyle are just helpless victims.”
“That still doesn’t mean they’re the enemy.”
“And you really believe that?”
“What I believe is that Ron Boyle’s alive. That The Three, with all their connections, helped Nico sneak into the racetrack that day. That O’Shea, Micah, and this Roman, as members of The Three, clearly have some grudge against Boyle. And for that reason, they’re now doing anything in their power to find out where he is. As for how Manning fits into this, I’ve got no idea.”