But Fred didn’t dissolve into sobbing. He kept talking. “He was gunned down outside the hotel last night, beside his car.”
At least I wouldn’t have anything to do with this funeral. I switched through the network morning shows. Katie and I had compromised; there was a television in the breakfast room, but it was small.
At first it was only on the local news breaks, but then the New York anchors picked it up. No one hesitated to lump everything together.
“A third murder in Governor Harry Bright’s corruption case last night,” one face said to a national audience.
“Possibly the greatest scandal in recent American history,” another claimed.
I called Stan Morton. “I’m not doing an interview today.”
“Huh?” he said. “I don’t even know what day it is. You lose track when you don’t sleep. Did you kill Clinton Grainger?”
“Who’s saying that?”
“Just say yes or no.”
“No.”
“Good. But you’d say that anyway.”
“This is not why I called.”
“The interview. Tomorrow?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Eric must have spent the night, because he wandered in a while later, wearing the work clothes Katie had bought for me, his hair a mess. He stared at the screen and his blurred eyes got big.
“I’ve heard of him. They talked about Clinton Grainger in the newspaper yesterday.”
I played innocent. “Governor Bright is going to miss him.”
Eric nodded. “Yeah. Clinton Grainger is Harry Bright’s chief of staff and main political adviser. He’s been the mastermind behind his whole career.”
I turned from the television to look at my brother.
“What?” he said. “You told me to read the newspapers.”
“Is that what the papers said?”
“Well, sort of. You could figure it out. Did you know him?”
“I met him a couple times.”
“This might… Do you… Do you think it could be the same person who killed Angela?”
The whole huge cloud had at least one little silver lining-that Eric had something besides cars to figure out. “Um… the thought had crossed my mind.”
“Wow. This is big. Do you think it made it into the newspaper?”
“I bet it was too late. And Rule Number 92-don’t believe everything you read in the newspaper.”
“But you said to read it. You own it anyway.”
“That’s why Rule 92 is so important.”
At seven thirty, the governor appeared to make a statement. He was badly shaken, stumbling over his words, his face ashen and his hands trembling.
“This morning I lost a close adviser and a good friend. Clinton had been with me through thick and thin. I often counted on him for wise counsel, especially these last few days. We will all miss him, and I more than anyone.” Even if he’d invited them, none of the reporters would have dared to ask any questions. For the moment he’d score a lot of sympathy points with his voters, but the image of the blank eyes and dead expression would surely haunt him forever.
But many questions-Rhetorical News Anchor Questions- were asked of the viewers. “Will Harry Bright survive this latest blow? Is this murder related to the deaths of Melvin and Angela Boyer? What will the authorities find at the bottom of this affair?” And all the questions were answered with all the standard variations of the Rhetorical News Anchor Answer.
“Only time will tell.”
When Katie arrived for breakfast, I told her I’d be busy being rich and important for the day, and to not wait up.
“This is not a good habit,” she said. “You need sleep.”
“At least I’ve got a reason to be alive.”
“Rosita is planning a nice dinner.”
It is important to keep priorities. “Okay. I’ll try real hard to be here.”
I got to Fred’s office at eight forty. He had not come down from his indignancy plateau, but the first thing he said as I faced him across his desk was completely lucid.
“Be very careful. The meeting with Grainger last night could blow up in our faces.”
“I thought of that,” I said. “Motive and opportunity. But we can’t hide it.”
“It isn’t just that you will be a target for the murder investigation. We will also be vulnerable politically if it becomes public knowledge that we were negotiating with him. Unless… we could use that to our advantage.” He shook his head. There were too many angles for even Fred to work out. He settled into simple fulmination. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Everything is in shambles. Anything could happen right now. Who knows what might happen? Anything. Any single thing.”
“You’re feeling insecure, Fred. You should get therapy.”
“I don’t have time.”
I let him rant for a while. He was a poker shark who’d been dropped in a bridge tournament-it was a new game, he didn’t understand the rules, and he didn’t like it. Right now he was approaching hysterics, and somebody needed to slap him.
Fred’s secretary opened the door. “Mr. Boyer? Pamela called. She wanted to remind you that Detective Wilcox would be by at nine.”
That was the slap. “The police detective?” he said.
“I arranged it yesterday. I wanted to act cooperative.”
“Of course.” He was thinking coherently again. “This will be risky, but I see no other choice. It will be best to get it over with quickly.”
“Would you care to join us?”
“I think I had better.”
Being in an elevator that was trying to lift Fred Spellman to the top of a forty-two-story building also seemed risky, but I saw no other choice. We entered that little room, its door closed on us, and with a mighty effort it began its labor.
“Do you realize the gravity of the situation?” Fred asked.
That was exactly what I was thinking about, except that Fred meant Wilcox.
“Yes,” I said. “This murderer is for real, and so is the investigation. I don’t want to lose control.”
“No one is in control.”
We’d made it halfway. Fred was thinking very hard, and he turned suddenly to face me.
“Do you have an alibi for last night?”
“What?”
“What did you do after we separated?”
“I went home.”
“Last Saturday night, when Angela was shot. Where were you then?”
“On my boat.”
“With your wife?”
“Alone.”
“Don’t answer any questions he asks.”
We made it to the top, and I’d forgotten my worry about whether we would. “I’ll have to answer sometime.”
“Then just be very careful. Speak slowly so I can stop you if necessary.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that that doesn’t matter?” The elevator door opened.
“It does matter,” I said. “Not to the police, but it does matter.”
“Whatever.”
We crossed the lobby and opened the door to Pamela’s office.
Detective Wilcox rose to greet us, we all smiled, and I was reminded again how much I detested him. Or maybe just his mustache. He had a hard enough job, chasing criminals through political minefields. Why make it harder on himself, when a razor would slay that thing in two minutes?
“Please come in,” I said, and we filed into the throne room.
“Thank you for coming,” I said when we were all comfortable. “I guess you’re very busy today.”
“Yes, Mr. Boyer, I am,” he said. “But frankly, this meeting is right at the top of my list.” He looked like maybe he’d been sleeping as much as Stan Morton.
“It’s pretty high on my list, too.” I took a breath and began my official statement. “The last time we met, I was of the opinion that the investigation of Melvin Boyer’s death was politically motivated. I still think it was. Now, however, I accept that he was murdered. I want to cooperate with your investigation. I still don’t trust you, though. Your top boss is Harry Bright, and he’d like to murder me.”
Wilcox took a deep breath. “First, Mr. Boyer, let me assure you that the state police are completely independent.”
“And I completely believe you.”