Frames Per Second (24 page)

“You’re lying.” The senator’s voice was harsh, but Ben could read the uncertainty in the man’s eyes.

“I’m not,” Ben said, mildly. Not that he felt that way inside. The shot
did
look like it came from Peter’s series.

“When did you get this?” Ben asked. “And how?”

The senator’s stared at him, clearly debating whether or not answering would be participating in a charade. “In my mailbox at the town house. Marked ‘Personal.’ After I got the call.”

“What call?”

“Your
call. Or your buddy’s. Whoever ‘we’ is.”

“What’d he say?”

“That I’d been indiscreet and he had a picture to prove it.”

“How’d he get through to you?”

“Told my secretary he was Senator Atkins from Missouri. So naturally, I took the call. Said that I should go downstairs and open my own mail to find out what he meant.”

“Was this before or after Lucien and I interviewed you?”

“After.”

“How long after?”

“Three days,” Cheever said. “What’d you want to do, look me in the face first? See if I’d fold? Well, I won’t.”

Ben took his calendar from the wall and tossed it onto the senator’s lap. “Show me.”

Cheever sniffed, and then studied the calendar. “Right here,” he said.

Ben looked over his shoulder. The senator’s forefinger was resting on the date two days
after
Dawson had been waiting for Ben in his apartment.

“You’re sure?” Ben said.

“Positive.” Cheever fumbled inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a leather day timer. “See, right here. I had two speaking engagements the day before. I was in the office this day, and that’s when he called.”

Ben leaned forward. “There was a man waiting in my apartment who tried to kill me—and then tried to burn every photograph in those file cabinets, Senator. What do you know about that?”

Ben had been reading people’s faces through the lens for years. Reading fear, anger, happiness—and reading the truth and lies. There were all sorts of ways to lie. The bad ones shifted their eyes away and made deprecating gestures with their hands, their bodies denying the truth of their words. Or they took on an overly casual tone and delivered pat, well-thought-out answers with honeyed sincerity to every question.

The good ones could look you straight in the eye and with a catch in their voice tell you a whopper that was full of the details and inconsistencies that were often representative of the truth.

Because Cheever was a politician, Ben expected him to be good.

But when he saw the senator’s reaction, Ben decided abruptly that he might be actually hearing the truth. There was a sudden sallowness behind Cheever’s ruddy skin, something that was probably impossible to fake. A blank look crossed his face, and he said, “Oh shit, this can’t be getting worse. Somebody tried to
kill
you?”

“And burn all my pictures,” Ben said. “So who’d you tell that you had a little indiscretion problem?”

“No one! Besides, you said this happened two days
before—
I didn’t even
know
I had a problem then.”

Ben looked at him skeptically. “Even so, you’re telling me that you don’t have anyone assigned to your security that you could turn to with something like this?”

“I do. Brad Cole. But I wasn’t going to get into that with him. Then
he’d
own me. Anyone you tell owns you.” The senator’s eyes flashed. “You may think it’s a joke, but I’m an honest man. As honest as I can be and still get the job done. Either you or I worked it out between us, or I was going to tell you to screw.”

Ben considered the senator. He was sobering up fast.

Cheever winced when he looked out at the sunlit balcony. “Jesus, my head hurts.” He looked over at Ben ruefully. “You really didn’t take that photo, did you?”

Ben shook his head.

Cheever laughed, shortly. Without mirth. “God, I’ve just dug myself a deeper hole here, haven’t I?”

Ben ignored that. “Tell me something. Did you ever hear from Peter on any of the photos? Not just this one, but the others, the ones Lucien and I showed you.”

Cheever shook his head. “I told you, I thought you had taken them. First I saw of them was when your reporter laid them out on my table. When Gallagher came to me, he just had rumors. No pictures.”

“Did he say where the rumors came from?”

“Of course not.”

Ben looked at the shot again and then got up and went to his bag and pulled out his file folder of photos. He ran through the ones Peter had taken and the senator lumbered to his feet and looked over Ben’s shoulder while he laid them out.

Ben went through the shots of McGuire. “Do you know this guy? How about these two people with him at the table?”

The senator studied them carefully. He was still swaying on his feet slightly, but his concentration appeared good. “No,” he said, finally.

“You’re sure?” Ben thought there was something there.

“I don’t know any of these people.”

Ben looked at him closely. “The name Jimbo McGuire mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“Because he’s most likely the one who sent a man by the name of Dawson to find a photo in my files and kill me. And when Dawson didn’t succeed, McGuire either killed him or had him killed.”

The color was gone from Cheever’s face now. “You think he’s the one who’s blackmailing me?”

“I don’t know,” Ben said. “It seems like a hell of a coincidence. Do you know Patrick Clooney?”

“Of course I know
of
him,” Cheever snapped. “But I don’t see him here. Don’t tell me you’re setting me up with him now.”

“I’m not setting you up for anything.”

“Oh, you’re a paragon of virtue.”

“Listen, Senator, if I’d been on the shoot with Peter and I’d captured this shot of you and Teri, then Peter and I would’ve been on your doorstep the next morning asking for a quote right before the shot ran. You’re a public figure and got elected largely on the character issue—so that makes your infidelity news. That’s one of the things you signed up for when you ran for office.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Cheever said. “That’s why I’m here now. Either publish the shot or don’t. But I won’t stand for blackmail.”

Ben considered it all while looking at the blackmail picture. “Let’s take this one step at a time,” he said. “I want to look at the negatives for the roll that Peter took. See if this shot is on there and ask a few questions.”

“And then what?”

Ben shrugged. “And then we’ll see. You’ll be happy to know that I lost my job at
Insider.
So I’d have to go out and find a paper to peddle any of my shots right about now.”

“So you’ll keep my secret?” the senator said, incredulously. “You’re not going to publish it?”

“It’s not mine to sell,” Ben said. “Besides, I’m more interested in finding out if this had anything to do with Peter’s death than spilling your little affair.”

“Come on,” the senator said, putting his hand out defensively. “I told you before, I’ve got nothing to do with that. He was killed weeks before I even heard from the blackmailer.”

“That’s a good point,” Ben said. “And everything I’ve seen heads in another direction, anyhow. But if it turns out you do … well, then I’ll be standing at the prison gates with my camera, ready to immortalize Senator Cheever’s first day in hell.”

CHAPTER 27

BEN WAITED IN THE VAN FOR HUEY, THE PHOTO LAB TECH. IT DIDN’T take long: Huey was consistent about his tuna on rye with cheese and bacon. At twelve-thirty, he left the building and started down Boylston Street.

Huey marched along quickly, his shoulders hunched, but his head swiveling from side to side. At lunch hour there were a lot of young women passing by—secretaries, executives. Many of them good-looking, stylish.

Few of them escaped Huey’s scrutiny.

Ben sped a half block ahead and parked. He got out and waited for Huey at the door of the sub shop.

Huey almost bumped into him, so engrossed in trying to look down the blouse of a young woman who was bending over tying her black Labrador’s leash to a parking meter.

“Careful, Huey,” Ben said. “The dog knows what you’re doing.”

The girl looked at the two of them and Huey’s face flushed. He tried to step around Ben, but Ben simply backed up. Huey said, “Frigging snoop. Where the hell did you come from?”

“Just drove up. Thought I’d buy my old buddy lunch.”

Suspicion darkened Huey’s face. “Why? You want kiss up to somebody, go pucker up to your ex-wife. Maybe she’ll get you your job back.”

“That’s valuable career advice, Huey. But I had something a little more specific in mind.”

Suspicion turned to full-blown worry on Huey’s face. Late one night, Ben had stopped back at the office to find Huey rolling a hand truck stacked with boxes of chemicals and photographic paper to his car. Huey had actually shed tears pleading for Ben to keep it quiet, telling a sad tale about how a hooker had cleaned him out and he needed the money to make rent that month.

Ben had finally relented by overseeing the return of the stolen goods and had driven Huey out to a photo supply house in Belmont to observe him buy a month’s worth of photographic consumables out of his own pocket. At the time, Huey had complained bitterly that he was spending far more than he’d ever taken. And he had clearly resented the spot checks Ben had taken on him from time to time.

Yet they both knew that Kurt would’ve fired Huey if he’d ever known.

“I haven’t got time for this shit,” Huey said, trying to push past Ben into the sub shop.

“You will if I have to call Kurt.” Ben eased himself in front of the shorter man. “Then you’ll have lots of time to sit around with me and swap job leads.”

Huey gave a little shrug. “So talk. What do you want?”

Ben smiled at him. “Let me buy you that sub first.” He held the door open and told Huey he could order anything he wanted, as long as it didn’t come to more than five bucks.

They drove down to the waterfront in Ben’s van and parked facing the bay. Huey ate quickly, looking at Ben with his suspicion no less assuaged. But when he finished his sub, he looked calmer. He said, “I gotta get back soon or my ass’ll be fried.”

Ben took Huey’s paper bag, stuffed it into his own, and tossed the ball into a trash can near the window. “Two points,” he said, and then turned his attention fully on Huey. “Tell me about the frame none of us ever saw.”

Huey’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Of Peter’s shots. There was one frame missing.” Ben was disappointed to see Huey look relieved.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Ben stared at him.

“Really, I don’t.” Huey looked damned near happy. “Shit, I thought you were going to hold me up because of that other thing … you know, hold me up for some of my paycheck or something.”

Abruptly, Huey looked worried. Apparently afraid he might have given Ben a bad idea.

“Did you do the printing and processing of both of Peter’s rolls yourself?” Ben asked.

Huey snorted. “The police have been through this, man. I didn’t touch your bag.’’

“I didn’t ask about the bag, I asked about processing the film.”

“Yeah, but I thought you were interested in the bag. Because when Peter came in, he didn’t even know how to get the film out of the camera. This is after the Cheever shoot. He did McGuire the next day.”

“Did he say anything about seeing any other photographers on either McGuire or Cheever?”

Huey shook his head. “We didn’t have long chats, me and Gallagher. I guess I wasn’t his favorite guy. You two Girl Scouts must’ve whispered about my money problems.”

“No, that was between me and you. He probably just didn’t like you because of your personality.”

Huey worked his teeth with his tongue, apparently trying to dislodge some of the sub. “Whatever,” he said, finally. “Peter was just pissed with himself and said he didn’t know why he went through so many pictures so fast. I reset the motor drive onto single frame for him and started to show him how it worked, but he just took the camera and walked away. High and mighty prick.”

Ben could imagine it. Huey wouldn’t have been able to “just show” Peter anything. Huey would’ve been cackling over such a mistake.

“So you processed the roll right then?”

“No, he had me wait until the next day when he came in with the shots of McGuire and had me print all of them up at the same time as five by sevens instead of contact sheets.”

“So it was just the two rolls?”

“That’s right.”

“And you did all the shots on each? All thirty-six?”

“All thirty-six,” Huey said.

“Sure you didn’t miss any? No last frame squeezed on, no thirty-seventh shot?”

Huey looked affronted. “Hey, I know my job. Every frigging frame got a print. That’s what the man asked for, and that’s what he got.”