Читать книгу Let Justice Descend - Lisa Black - Страница 13

Chapter 5

Jack and Riley went to find Kelly Henessey at the Republican National Committee office to ask, among other things, if anyone knew the name of Diane Cragin’s niece. Jack had even Googled his way to the senator’s website while Riley drove, but it did not mention any family members by name, saying only that Diane Cragin was “a mother” and that she “had family in Cleveland.”

“Maybe she wants to protect their privacy,” Riley suggested.

“That’s a charitable view.”

“I’m a charitable guy. Full of faith and hope. These days, even chastity,” he added, clearly unenthused about this last bit.

“What happened to . . . um . . .”

“Marcia. Wasn’t going to work. I got tired of catering to her while she catered to her loser son.”

“Oh. I noticed you—” He stopped.

“Noticed I what?”

“Looked like you lost a few pounds.”

“Oh. Yeah . . . weird, I guess, how that works. When I’m not seeing someone I have the time to eat less restaurant food, get plenty of sleep, work out once in a while. I thought men were supposed to be healthier when they were in a relationship. Not that it matters, since I don’t have much of a choice.”

“That’s too bad,” Jack said, trying to convey sympathy and loyalty as well as a complete lack of necessity to hear anything more about the situation.

“Not you, though, huh?” Riley said.

This startled Jack away from his Googling. “Oh. Um. Gardiner talked?”

“Have you ever known Rick Gardiner to keep a secret?”

Riley referred to the knowledge that Jack and Maggie were sleeping together—which they weren’t, not in any way, shape, or form, but Maggie had decided to tell her ex-husband that in the hopes it would explain the private conferences she and Jack occasionally engaged in. She had also hoped it would prompt Rick to avoid any thought or mention or especially investigation of Jack, and by extension Maggie. This had seemed like a good idea to her, because sleeping together was not illegal, whereas covering up a murder quite definitely was.

She had apparently miscalculated. Embarrassment or distaste had not caused Rick to keep the information to himself—obviously—and he may not have stopped digging into Jack’s past.

In the meantime, he would have to smooth this over with Riley. Unwritten rules forbade holding out on your partner, particularly when it involved good gossip. “I should have clued you in.”

Riley lucked out with an open meter space on Huron and killed the engine. “No problem,” he said, meaning it clearly was.

They climbed out of the unmarked vehicle and walked up the alley between the Halle Building and the Cleveland Athletic Club. Halle’s department store had been an elegant institution for 91 years, expanding beyond Cleveland to several other states. It had also become the namesake of Halle Berry. Johnny Weissmuller, Tarzan to fans, had once set a world backstroke record in the Athletic Club’s pool. The buildings had more than 200 years of experience between them but did not impart any of that wisdom to Jack, who struggled to find his words. “I was going to tell you, but it’s . . . new.”

“No, it’s not.”

They had emerged onto Euclid Avenue but now Jack froze, blinking to adjust from the dimness of the alley and the inexplicable certainty of Riley’s pronouncement.

Riley noticed, and explained: “It’s hardly a surprise, pal. I saw this coming from the minute you two met.”

“What does that mean?”

Jack’s partner sounded almost grim. “It means that when you two are together, it’s like no one else exists.” Riley pulled the glass doors and stepped inside, but returned to the street a second later. “You coming?”

Jack pulled himself out of the stupor into which this observation had thrown him and entered the building in silence.

It wasn’t hard to locate the Cuyahoga County division of the Republican Party, since the window wrapping of two large panes facing Euclid advertised its presence. Once past the spacious marble lobby with its bank of brass elevators and soothing fountain, the party rooms were cramped and utilitarian. Old desks, lots of filing cabinets, one large conference table that seemed to be used for storage and stuffing envelopes, and a dry-erase board large enough for a high school classroom were crammed into the wide main area. Jack smelled both dust and sweat, as well as day-old pizza and fresh coffee.

They were told by a short, effusively polite girl in very pink lipstick that both Kelly and Raymond Stanton were on a conference call and would be with them shortly. Jack could see the truth of this, since he could watch both through the glass of a meeting room. They were at a long table surrounded by agitated men with loosened ties and women with harried expressions. Kelly took notes on a legal pad, not bothering to sit. Stanton dictated, and several other people gave their input. Kelly would write a few words, say something, there would be more discussion, and finally she would write some more. No one seemed to be arguing, not too bitterly, but they all seemed very, very stressed.

The polite girl offered them coffee, told them the police were all heroes, and added with a pink-smearing sniff how they reeled in devastation by the loss of Diane, a great American who cared deeply about—but someone called her away to deal with poll results so they never learned what Diane had cared so very deeply about. They were left to cool their heels on a worn leather sofa next to a woman Jack tended to avoid when possible—the intrepid Cleveland Herald reporter, Lori Russo.

Not that there was anything unpleasant about Lori Russo, a beautiful blond mother of two, other than being the only member of the news media who hadn’t given up on the vigilante case. The series of murders earlier in the year had claimed the lives of some of the city’s worst offenders, murdered by the same person.

That person had been Jack.

So he wasn’t crazy about Lori Russo’s admirable work ethic.

“Detectives!” she greeted them. “Care to make a statement to the press?”

“Sorry,” Riley said, sounding genuinely regretful. “Not yet. Too early. What about you? Find out anything you’d like to share?”

“Only that she’s dead. That’s all I’ve been able to get out of anyone here so far. They told me they’ll have a release in less than a half hour. I gather that’s what they’re working on, and maybe a further statement on who is going to take her place in the election.”

Inside the conference room, Kelly opened an electronic tablet and showed it to Stanton. Its screen made him blanch. “Before her body cools?” Riley asked.

“The election is the day after tomorrow and we’re in a heavily Democratic area. I’m surprised they haven’t burst into tears of frustration.”

Riley sat next to the reporter—and why not, currently down a girlfriend as he happened to be—but she patted the sofa on the other side of her. “Have a seat, Detective Renner. Rick Gardiner tells me you’re taking over the vigilante killer investigation.”

He said yes, he was, then looked away and hoped she would be more interested in political assassination than months-old unsolved murders.

“He told me that was because you had some sort of history with the case. Followed the guy from Chicago and maybe some of the cities I had researched before that—Atlanta and Phoenix.”

“Thank you for your help.”

Flattery didn’t distract her. “Not that you needed it if you already knew all that. He says you’ve been working on it for years. Obsession is the word he used.”

“I’m not the obsessive type,” he said, knowing that of all the lies he had told, that one had to be the most egregious.

Riley pointedly left Jack on his own. He couldn’t have felt much obligation to run interference for a partner who hadn’t even told him he had something going with the hot forensics girl.

Jack watched the conference room door, hoping someone—anyone—would emerge to distract Lori Russo and then tell him something helpful about Diane Cragin.

But Lori pressed: “How’s that investigation going? Anything new you can tell me?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“When I do”—he forced a smile—“you’ll be the first to know.”

Her eyes widened, and she didn’t seem the least reassured. Even Riley looked at him strangely. His reassuring smile must need work, because Lori Russo froze and perceptibly shrank a bit, like Red Riding Hood recognizing wolf teeth under her grandmother’s cap.

An uncomfortably apropos analogy.

“What’s that?” he asked in desperation, pointing to the large dry-erase board. A list of names ran down one side of a casually drawn grid, followed by a column for district numbers. After that, a column labeled only with a dollar sign listed numbers. These had obviously been sponged off and rewritten until neatness no longer counted. Round dollar amounts only, no cents, ranging from $2,681 to $800,000 plus. Next to the name Cragin someone had written 769,422.

Riley ignored him, but Lori said, “Money. It’s how much each member has raised and provided back to the party.”

“They keep that on a board?”

“Fund-raising is a huge part of each candidate’s job,” she told him with slightly mocking sincerity, her equanimity restored. “How can they effect any change in this country without funding to get the right people elected?”

“How indeed?” Jack tried a more relaxed smile, and since it didn’t seem to horrify anyone, he continued: “Ohio has two senators and, what, fifteen representatives?”

“Sixteen,” Riley said, and blushed when Lori rewarded this apt reply with a smile. “But four are Democrats.”

“There’s more than thirteen people up there.”

Lori said, “Those are the people who, in some way, represent the citizens of Cuyahoga County—from the governor to the state auditor to county councilmen to common pleas court judges. Basically anyone who lists a Republican Party affiliation on their campaign literature.”

“The amounts vary quite a bit.”

“Well, what a candidate can reasonably do depends on their district’s socioeconomic makeup, the percentage of party members in their populations, how long the person’s been in office, how many national or local events they have. And some simply don’t need a lot of money. When Cuyahoga used to have a coroner instead of a medical examiner system, our coroner never spent a penny to run for the office, because she never had an opponent. But a campaign for governor can run into the millions, easy.”

“So you’re on the political beat now?” Riley asked her. “I thought you were on crime.”

“Everybody’s on everything in today’s world of journalism. It’s the new cruelty.”

Riley, the guy currently down a girlfriend, took over the conversation, which suited Jack fine. At least it had gotten Lori Russo away from the vigilante murders. The activity in the conference room had cooled physically but not emotionally. A few members of the group had sat down but appeared to be throwing mental daggers at each other over the chipped Formica. Kelly’s expression of desolate worry hadn’t changed. Stanton had turned his back to them all and now watched Jack watching him through the glass.

Riley said, “Why do they post it like that? I mean, why would the common pleas judge care how much the state auditor has raised? They’re in completely different races. And why is Smith up there? His term isn’t going to be up for another four years.”

“Ah, you’ve hit on the heart of it, my friend,” she said, glowing with the thrill of a good tale. “That’s the dirty little secret that the parties never talk about, because this board isn’t for the politicians to keep track of each other. It’s to remind the politicians that the party is keeping track of them. That isn’t the money that they’ve raised for their own campaigns—it’s the portion of the money raised for their campaigns that they have kicked back to the party. And you can bet there’s a similar board over at the DNC. I know, because I’ve seen it.”

Jack stared at her in confusion. Riley just stared at her.

Her hands tumbled over each other as she tried to explain. “Have you noticed that political parties pester you for contributions all the time now, not only for a month or two before an election? I remember bawling a kid out for calling me after election results had barely been tallied, but I’ve since stopped arguing. Parties fund-raise all year, every year. So these office holders or candidates or whatever are expected to raise money all the time, election or not, whether they need it or not.”

“Why?” Riley asked, but she had already continued.

“Established incumbents, especially ones from districts where the vast majority of the citizens are one party or the other, can raise money the most easily and need it the least. If you’re the Republican candidate in a district that’s eighty percent Republican, you’re going to win—once you get past the primary. You don’t need to campaign at all, pretty much. But they spend as much time passing the hat and hosting thousand-dollar-a-plate dinners and calling their friends and supporters as the guy who’s a newbie in a swing district. Ask me why.”

Jack felt sufficiently intrigued to turn away from the conference room. “Why?”

“Because no one turns down money,” Riley guessed.

“Exactly. Because they can and because they want to.” She gestured toward the board. “The more money you give back to the party, the more powerful you become, and the more you’re expected to give, and on and on in a circle. It’s pay to play to the nth degree.”

Riley asked, “What does the party do with it, other than use it for their campaigns?”

“That’s the sixty-four-million-dollar question, isn’t it, detective?” Lori asked, making Jack’s partner blush again. “They use it for paying the rent on this place, I’m sure, and paying their salaries, and buying air time and campaign literature for that newbie in the swing district who needs a boost. They recruit candidates when necessary. They throw big-ticket fund-raisers to drum up even more money. Beyond that, I would really like to know what they do with it. That’s a story I’ve been working on for a while, but if you thought the vigilante killer could make like a ghost, the party accountant could give him a lesson or two.”

“Is this legal?” Riley asked.

“Sure. There’s nothing wrong with shifting money around when you’re all in the same club. If you don’t want to do it, don’t be a member of the club.”

This presented Jack with a new theory about the money in Diane Cragin’s safe. Perhaps that had been funds she should have given to the party headquarters and hadn’t. Skimming from the top—something that had gotten people killed since money was invented, and probably before that. “What if someone wants to be a member but wants to hang on to their funds at the same time?”

“They can,” she said. “There’s nothing that says they have to give a certain amount back. They can keep every penny they raise if they want to.”

“But—”

“But you’d better not need the party’s help for anything, ever. If your opponent launches a smear campaign against you and you need some slick TV ads, don’t think the party’s going to give you the funds. If you’re, say, a judge and you want to run for state treasurer, don’t think you’re going to be the party’s candidate for that position. They’ll have already picked someone, and you can run as an Independent if you want to, good-bye and good luck. And if you want a seat on the Ways and Means Committee or Armed Services, forget it. You’ll be lucky to be a junior on the Joint Committee on Printing. How do you think senators and congressmen get assigned to a committee in the first place? The party’s steering committee portion those slots out as they see fit. If you get a plum spot on Foreign Affairs, you’ll be expected to produce more funds than your colleague with a seat on some low-profile thing like Education Workforce.”

“I see,” Jack said. “Hence the board.”

“The wall of shame.”

“Or extortion.”

Riley said, “It’s like we’re back in Stalin’s Soviet. The party is everything, controls everything, dictates everything, and if you’re not in a good position within the party, you’re nobody. Except that instead of one party, we have two.”

Jack glanced at his partner, figuring his mind had formed the same theory about the murder. But how to prove it? Someone, somewhere, must have kept a tally of how much Diane Cragin had raised and how much she had returned to the party and how much she should have returned to the party—unless Diane kept the only sums and that information rested inside her laptop or her phone. But maybe she had been too busy for that and those accounting duties fell to her girl Friday, the hardworking Kelly Henessey.

Lori said, “But back to the vigilante murders. How’s that going? Last time I talked to Rick Gardiner, he had spoken to the Phoenix PD but hadn’t gotten anywhere.”

Not getting anywhere could be described as Maggie’s ex-husband’s modus operandi, but that didn’t comfort Jack now. Officially the investigation of the murders that Jack had committed had been turned over to Jack—a good thing—but Rick had not given up on ferreting out Jack’s connection to them. A bad thing. Maggie had thought that telling him of their fictitious love affair would get Rick to avoid them both, but it had only given him more incentive to deconstruct Jack.

But it sounded as if Rick had at least stopped talking to Lori Russo. Perhaps he had finally figured out that the happily married woman would not be slipping him any benefits in return for a story.

Jack said, “No. Dead end.”

“What about the murders in Chicago and Atlanta?”

If he could feed her enough tidbits—fake tidbits, of course—it would keep her from digging on her own. Especially since they currently had a juicy political assassination to keep her busy. “I’m going back and starting from scratch on those. It’s difficult in Chicago because they have more murders than they know what to do with.”

Lori said, “I wish I could help, but we’ve been so busy with this election coming up.”

He made a sympathetic grunt. At least she hadn’t found the murders in Atlanta and Minneapolis. He needed to keep her away from Rick Gardiner. It would be nice if he could keep everyone away from Rick Gardiner.

“But I may be able to get to Phoenix early next month.”

No, no, no! “Really?”

“The paper is planning a big spread on the immigration crisis, and my editor wants to send someone to Yuma, visit the border, check out the Minutemen and plans for the wall and what all. I’m hoping to get the assignment—it’s practically unheard of for the paper to pay for travel these days—and if I do, I could take an extra day and go to Phoenix. It’s only three and a half hours away.”

He schooled his voice to sound casual, and thought he almost succeeded. “What will you do there?”

“Line up appointments with the officers who worked the cases I found. I know you said they weren’t connected, but it would still make an interesting sidebar to the story. Maybe it’s a national phenomenon. Lawlessness picks up in times of cultural stress, and Lord knows we’re stressed.”

His adopted name couldn’t get him in trouble in Phoenix, but he knew of at least three places in the police station itself with his picture displayed. All he needed was for Lori Russo to walk by, glance around, say to her escort Gee, I know this guy, and Jack’s current world would disintegrate. He’d have to be out of the city with no trail left by the time she landed at Hopkins International. Go to his house long enough to pick up the go-bag and the cash, grab Greta, and head for some part of the country he’d never been to before. Don’t hesitate, don’t look back, don’t repeat the same mistakes. Don’t ever see Maggie Gardiner again.

Maybe the paper’s budget would prove too tight. Maybe.

He really needed Lori Russo to not visit Phoenix, Arizona.

Diane Cragin’s chief of staff rescued him by emerging from the conference room and waving the cops toward her.

“Thanks for the lesson,” he said to Lori Russo. Might as well stay on her good side.

“Don’t mention it. Just keep me up-to-date on your hunt for the vigilante killer.”

“I will,” he lied, and walked toward Kelly Henessey.