Gail didn’t respond, still waiting for the punch line.
“Then he stuck his fangs in,” Rob went on. “Like a fucking cobra. Oozing sympathy, he immediately said-if not in these words-that this was clearly above the pay scale of a mere governor, and that the DC-Three should be the ones to handle it. It was put way smoother than that, of course, but that was the gist of it.”
“He’s telling us to fuck off and he’s pitching it to our Washington delegation?” Gail asked, baffled. “After he initiated contact?”
“It won’t be that simple,” Perkins replied, not helping to enlighten her. “Or that clear. The punch line, Governor, is that he played us-or me-like patsies.”
He rose to his feet and began pacing the width of the room, still speaking. “Everything we did seemed completely rational and aboveboard-that’s key to any good con. A rich guy approaches through a trusted intermediary, offering financial aid in a time of public need. What do you do? You respond by meeting with his people and asking for details.”
He stopped to address her directly. “But the fix is in from the start. ’Cause it has nothing to do with money. It has to do with politics. I will guarantee you that Scott’s people are reaching out right now to the DC-Three-or, better still, did before our meeting-either telling them that LeMieur has made us an altruistic offer we can’t handle, or that we approached him in desperation because we don’t know what we’re doing, can’t figure out how to work with FEMA, and are running out of ideas.”
Gail blurted out, “But the entire Washington delegation is Democratic, as is the president. What credibility does Scott have, or LeMieur, or any of their pals?”
Rob’s sorrowful smile confirmed what she already knew. “That’s the whole point, Governor,” he said. “You got elected by thumbing your nose at the Democratic machine, including the D.C. contingent. You and Raffner, both. It was a populist fluke; a heady exception to the rule-typical of what can happen in Vermont. But the basics in this state are the same as everywhere else: Money talks, and money talks best to politicians.”
He sat back down. “The capitalists and the DC-Three were blindsided by your election, but when Scott and LeMieur approach them with this fantasy, a number of irresistible possibilities are going to crop up.” He held up a finger. “One, the Holy Trinity will peg this as a far-right capitalist attempt to take a slap at FEMA, them, and the president, and they’ll hold you accountable for having set it in motion.” A second finger went up. “Two, that reaction will justify Scott and company going into a rant and rave about how big government liberals are standing between the little people and an ailing rich guy’s philanthropy.” With the third finger, he concluded, “And three, after the conservatives have used your own party to crucify you, each camp will fuel the fire of public opinion by portraying you as an incompetent neophyte who’s been caught playing out of her league. At which point-given voter fickleness-anything’ll be possible, come the next election.”
He paused just enough to take a breath and added, “Which is why I’m perfectly willing to take the bullet and say it was my idea to approach Scott in the first place, without your knowledge.”
Gail was angrily shaking her head. “Out of the question. I won’t let you do it. This is not a done deal. I will not be outmaneuvered by a bunch of political barracudas. We stuck it to ’em when we won the election; we’ll stick it to ’em on this, too.”
Perkins didn’t respond. He was distracted by whether she was referring to Scott and his cronies-or to the leaders of her own party.
* * *
Joe Gunther rubbed his eyes.
“Am I boring you?” the old man inquired shrilly. “I don’t want to put you to sleep just because I’m trying to save this institution from shutting down.”
Joe blinked at Graham Dee and answered, “No, sir. You are giving me a headache; not putting me to sleep.”
“Well, pardon the hell out of me.”
Joe addressed the utterly useless assistant director of The Woods of Windsor, “Mr. Whitby. I agreed to meet with you and Mr. Dee out of courtesy. I have done so now for an hour and have run out of time and patience. It has been made crystal clear to me that the board, personified by Mr. Dee, is unhappy with our line of inquiry-”
“Unhappy is hardly the word,” Dee began again, before Joe cut him off.
“Be quiet, Dee. Enough is enough. I have listened to you politely. Now you get to do the same. If you interrupt me again, I’m leaving. Do not think for one second that I’m not aware that you asked for this get-together exactly when Hannah Eastridge was called out of town.” He held up his hand to shut down Whitby’s protest. “I don’t want to hear it. I also want no part of your insider politics. A crime has been committed at this facility. We are being unobtrusive, polite, efficient, and working almost around the clock, given the schedules of the staff and residents. If you push me any harder with your complaints, I will fill this place with cops, pull off the gloves, and really give you something to bitch about. And if you’re worried now about bad publicity and losing new applicants-as Mr. Dee has stated several times-then you are on a slippery slope of your own making, gentlemen, not mine.”
Joe rose and headed for the door of Whitby’s office, stopping there to conclude, “This is an official police investigation. Consult your lawyer about what it means to interfere with it.”
With that, he walked out and closed the door behind him, finally releasing the smile he’d been suppressing while watching Dee’s face change color throughout his speech.
* * *
He found Sammie in the break room adjacent to where they’d been conducting most of their interviews.
“Got an aspirin?” he asked her as she was fixing a cup of coffee.
“George Whitby?” she asked, not looking up. “I saw you go into his office.”
“Whitby and Graham Dee. Apparently, we’re ending the world as they know it, putting anyone and everyone under hot lamps and beating them with hoses.”
She dug around in her bag and handed him a small bottle and a glass of water from the sink beside her. “God, if they only knew.”
“Meaning what?” he asked, taking a couple of pills.
“Meaning ninety percent of the people we’ve interviewed so far are loving this. Most of them disliked Marshall, so the gloves are off there, but they dish dirt on each other like nobody’s business. It’s all Les and I can do to keep them on track. If we weren’t so interested in a silly murder of someone nobody liked anyhow-to quote one of them-we’d have a full caseload of extramarital affairs, food thieves from the dining room, old lechers putting their hands where they don’t belong, and a closet full of scofflaws, cheats, tightwads, and tax dodgers. This is like Peyton Place meets Dallas.”
She took a sip of her fresh coffee and raised her eyes at him. “And sex. You should hear about it.”
He smiled at her. “Meaning I should sign up?”
She looked startled and then embarrassed. “Oh, boss.”
He quickly reassured her. “Down, girl. Just kidding. Is Lester with one of them now?”
“Yeah. I was waiting for my next one to show up, so I thought I’d grab a cup.”
“Great. Do you have time to give me a quick breakdown of where we are?”
They’d been given two interview rooms, access to the break room, and a back office they were using for a temporary squad room, to which only they and Hannah Eastridge held the key. Sam now led him there and briefed him on their progress, showing him a chart on the wall listing everyone of interest and how each related to one or more of the others, complete with photographs when available.
Gorden Marshall appeared all alone, near the top, marking the apex of a galaxy of residents, along with a few outsiders Joe recognized, like Michelle Mahoney. Above Gorden’s name was a small cluster of outsiders, including the last Republican governor and other illustrious Vermont politicians and financiers from the past half century. Among those was one of the richest men in the country.