Power Play
Page 99
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Arliss said, “This is not a game of mutual intimidation, Agent Savich. Trust me that you wouldn’t fare well if it were. I understand you have a job to do, that everyone in a case such as this has to be interviewed. My son is not a boy. He is a grown man and he will deal with this. However, you are right. The DNA my son so imprudently provided you will clear him of any involvement.
“What happened this morning is unacceptable. I believe Agent Sullivan understands that. Since I do not wish to deprive Perry of Agent Sullivan’s continued protection, I am willing to let this go for now, with all the assurances you’ve given me. You are all excused. Thank you for coming.”
On their way out, Davis saw there were coffee cups and a beautiful jug of coffee sitting on a low table. They hadn’t been offered any.
Savich was bemused. The secretary of state could have lopped off their heads, but instead she’d backed off.
He wondered if Davis understood how lucky he was.
Natalie Black’s house
Late Monday afternoon
Blessed parked his stolen Honda in the trees down the road from Ambassador Natalie Black’s mansion—and that’s what he’d call it, one of those huge three-storied in-your-face barns of a place they used to build a hundred years ago, with a wraparound porch and so many chimneys and big windows he’d hate to be the one to have to clean them. It was painted blue with brown trim—only two colors. His mama’s big Victorian back in Bricker’s Bowl was painted five different colors she’d picked out herself, and she’d had each color freshened every year. This place wasn’t as nice as his mama’s—how could it be, since it had only two colors and needed a paint job? It had a big, important-looking gate, though, with a call box and a guard’s station, for the big yahoos who lived in this hellhole of Washington. It was easier for them than actually doing something about the criminals who littered the streets. There were cameras, too, he saw, and men in dark suits at the gate and on the grounds. They were there to protect the big-shot ambassador Black, he knew, the woman he’d seen on the TV news shows.
Well, his mama had been a big shot, too, in Bricker’s Bowl, but she hadn’t closed herself in with a fancy high fence and a guard gate. Nope, she’d been welcoming, especially the local folk who had touched up the paint on the house every year, planted her spring flowers, and washed her Cadillac every week, with only a little nudging reminder from Blessed. He remembered the local teenagers, probably there on a bet, to gawk at that awesome house, remembered how afraid they were that they might get caught. He’d always liked that slick of fear he saw on all those faces. He wondered what had happened to his mama’s house. He wondered what Mama’s house looked like now. Were there strangers living there? Or maybe it was dark and moldy now, Grace’s paintings all covered with dust.
The family graveyard behind the house had to still be there. He remembered how quiet and serene it was under its canopy of trees, which always kept the gravestones cool to the touch. Grace should be buried there, comfortable in the black loamy earth with his family, but he wasn’t. Mama wasn’t buried there, either, and that wasn’t right. He missed his family. He missed the cheesecake his mama had served him and Grace every night.
He saw a light blue Ford moving past him. It was the ambassador’s daughter—Perry Black, the sportswriter, and what sort of girl did something like that? He watched her gloved hand reach out, press the intercom button, since the guardhouse was empty. The gates swung smoothly open and the car went through, the daughter giving a little wave toward the camera.
Blessed pulled a bottle of water out of the Honda and drank deep.
He was cold again, even in his beautiful camel coat, and he stuck his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t here for the girl, he was here for Savich. He’d be patient and wait.
Only a few minutes later, he saw the red Porsche, Savich’s red Porsche. He knew they would come. He checked his watch. He had to know how long it would take him to get to Morganville.
Natalie hung up her suit, placed her heels in their box in the closet, and pulled on her sweats. All the interviews here in Washington, then the trip to New York and the appearance at the General Assembly that morning, and, finally, the horrible news that someone had tried to kill Perry last night, had drained her dry. She was exhausted, her brain numb. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, bury herself in a pile of blankets, and escape into blankness. That wasn’t going to happen. She couldn’t fall asleep if she tried. Her brain would squirrel about madly with horrible visions of Perry lying dead, with a killer standing over her she couldn’t make out, only a sinister shadow. She couldn’t stand it.
“What happened this morning is unacceptable. I believe Agent Sullivan understands that. Since I do not wish to deprive Perry of Agent Sullivan’s continued protection, I am willing to let this go for now, with all the assurances you’ve given me. You are all excused. Thank you for coming.”
On their way out, Davis saw there were coffee cups and a beautiful jug of coffee sitting on a low table. They hadn’t been offered any.
Savich was bemused. The secretary of state could have lopped off their heads, but instead she’d backed off.
He wondered if Davis understood how lucky he was.
Natalie Black’s house
Late Monday afternoon
Blessed parked his stolen Honda in the trees down the road from Ambassador Natalie Black’s mansion—and that’s what he’d call it, one of those huge three-storied in-your-face barns of a place they used to build a hundred years ago, with a wraparound porch and so many chimneys and big windows he’d hate to be the one to have to clean them. It was painted blue with brown trim—only two colors. His mama’s big Victorian back in Bricker’s Bowl was painted five different colors she’d picked out herself, and she’d had each color freshened every year. This place wasn’t as nice as his mama’s—how could it be, since it had only two colors and needed a paint job? It had a big, important-looking gate, though, with a call box and a guard’s station, for the big yahoos who lived in this hellhole of Washington. It was easier for them than actually doing something about the criminals who littered the streets. There were cameras, too, he saw, and men in dark suits at the gate and on the grounds. They were there to protect the big-shot ambassador Black, he knew, the woman he’d seen on the TV news shows.
Well, his mama had been a big shot, too, in Bricker’s Bowl, but she hadn’t closed herself in with a fancy high fence and a guard gate. Nope, she’d been welcoming, especially the local folk who had touched up the paint on the house every year, planted her spring flowers, and washed her Cadillac every week, with only a little nudging reminder from Blessed. He remembered the local teenagers, probably there on a bet, to gawk at that awesome house, remembered how afraid they were that they might get caught. He’d always liked that slick of fear he saw on all those faces. He wondered what had happened to his mama’s house. He wondered what Mama’s house looked like now. Were there strangers living there? Or maybe it was dark and moldy now, Grace’s paintings all covered with dust.
The family graveyard behind the house had to still be there. He remembered how quiet and serene it was under its canopy of trees, which always kept the gravestones cool to the touch. Grace should be buried there, comfortable in the black loamy earth with his family, but he wasn’t. Mama wasn’t buried there, either, and that wasn’t right. He missed his family. He missed the cheesecake his mama had served him and Grace every night.
He saw a light blue Ford moving past him. It was the ambassador’s daughter—Perry Black, the sportswriter, and what sort of girl did something like that? He watched her gloved hand reach out, press the intercom button, since the guardhouse was empty. The gates swung smoothly open and the car went through, the daughter giving a little wave toward the camera.
Blessed pulled a bottle of water out of the Honda and drank deep.
He was cold again, even in his beautiful camel coat, and he stuck his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t here for the girl, he was here for Savich. He’d be patient and wait.
Only a few minutes later, he saw the red Porsche, Savich’s red Porsche. He knew they would come. He checked his watch. He had to know how long it would take him to get to Morganville.
Natalie hung up her suit, placed her heels in their box in the closet, and pulled on her sweats. All the interviews here in Washington, then the trip to New York and the appearance at the General Assembly that morning, and, finally, the horrible news that someone had tried to kill Perry last night, had drained her dry. She was exhausted, her brain numb. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, bury herself in a pile of blankets, and escape into blankness. That wasn’t going to happen. She couldn’t fall asleep if she tried. Her brain would squirrel about madly with horrible visions of Perry lying dead, with a killer standing over her she couldn’t make out, only a sinister shadow. She couldn’t stand it.
