Simple (29 page)

“I'm glad to be working. It's hard wondering what happens next.”

“Have you seen Cal?”

“Yesterday.”

The house is eerily quiet. “Anything you can tell me?” Christie asks.

“He wants me to believe in him. He says there's no way he did it.”

“He's been pretty consistent, then? Since after the night he was arrested.”

“I think so.”

Christie can see she wants to ask him something. “Before you show me in, go ahead. What is it?”

“You being here? Does this have something to do with … with the case?”

How to phrase it? “Peripherally. As we trace the movements of the girl and others who knew her.”

Her face lights. “Is there another suspect?”

“Not at the moment. No.”

“Oh.”

“I'm here to see Senator Con— I just did it again. It's hard to call him mister.”

“It took us all a while to get used to it.”

“He expects me.”

“Oh, yes, he told me. He's in that TV room.”

Christie grimaces. The room is large and unprotected. He won't have the privacy he likes. On the other hand, it is his fault, not calling Connolly to Headquarters to talk. Obliging the noble and not the other way around—that's what he always thought “noblesse oblige” meant until Marina instructed him otherwise. Even now, his definition seems more correct.

When he arrives at the family room, there is Connolly on the phone, looking up to acknowledge him. Various Sunday newspapers are spread on his lap and at his feet.

Connolly ends his call quickly.

“You get several newspapers,” Christie comments.

“I could spend all week trying to keep up. I'll study Philadelphia and a few others online.”

“It's interesting to see another life, how it's conducted.”

“You could sum mine up as ‘talking.' In person, on the phone, at the podium.”

“How are things at the firm this week?”

“People are still devastated, of course. I think we think about it all the time.” Suddenly his tone changes to a more abrupt one. “What can I do for you today?”

“I need to ask you a few questions.”

“All right.”

“Are we private here?”

“I had Monica take the kids out of the house. I could … Just a minute, let me check something.” He gets up and leaves the room, his tall, lanky frame awkward at first, then fluid as he gets his bearings. He is gone for a few minutes.

When he comes back, he says, “Elinor is the only one working today. We have a cookout later this afternoon for about twenty people. She's outside getting the tables ready. I'll be cooking the meats. Elinor and Monica did everything else.”

“I thought you said you had this party last night.”

“Oh, no, that was a whole other thing, more formal.”

“Do you ever get tired of hosting?”

“Yes. Don't repeat that.”

Christie smiles. “I won't.”

Connolly sighs, then waits.

“This will be brief. We've had to check on the movements of Cassie Price as a matter of course.” Connolly visibly blanches. “One thing we know. She is reported as not much of a drinker. Yet she had been drinking fairly heavily the night before she was killed. We were able to trace her whereabouts to a particular bar.”

“How? I mean, no, she didn't seem like a drinker. This is something I didn't know about her.”

“I see. Well, that might lead to my next question. We're tracing a good deal about her movements and who she spent time with. For instance, she often went to motels.”

Connolly looks sick—give him credit for that.

“Witnesses put her in a restaurant with a man having these drinks. Given the rumors at work, we need to know if you were that man.”

“No, I wasn't.”

“Do you know who she was out with?”

“No I do not. Are you thinking that has something…”

“We're thinking nothing except to establish her pattern of behavior, who she was with, who she talked to.”

“Are you saying it wasn't Cal Hathaway?”

“He's part of the whole picture we're establishing. You don't know who she might have gone to motels with?”

Connolly shakes his head.

“I see. I think that might be all for now. I will need to talk to a few more people from your firm. Let me see—I suppose I should just come up to the office. But the one fellow, your campaign manager, is not always up there, not usually up there, and I need to talk to him. Do I have a phone number for him?” Christie looks at various pages of his legal pad. “I probably do, but if you have it handy, that would save me some time.”

“I do. Just so I don't get it wrong, let me go up to my office and write out his numbers. This will only take a second.” He does the gangly rise from the cushy sofa and seconds later can be heard climbing the stairs.

His cell phone is in plain sight. Surely the number is on it—speed dial surely. Mike Connolly is upstairs giving Todd Simon a heads-up.

*   *   *

CONNOLLY WATCHES
from
the front doorway as Christie drives away. He lifts a hand in farewell. Then he goes inside. Why did he not say it was Todd who had the drink? Why did he not admit to being the person Cassie met at motels? The words would not come.

He paces to the back of the house where Elinor has laid out the paper plates and silverware, mustards and other sauces. Her sadness is evident no matter how she keeps at the work. What if Cal didn't do it? Connolly may be a louse in many ways, but he won't let a man languish in prison for the rest of his life if he didn't do the crime.

He has to talk to Todd—all he could manage was leaving voice mail messages on Todd's cell and at his home. He said quickly, “Don't answer a call from anyone until you talk to me.” But Todd has not called him back.

He could have told Christie that Todd is coming to the house for the cookout.

His father, Todd, Haigh, all tell him to be strong. Business as usual.

He's falling into a deep hole he will never dig out of.

Elinor looks up at him. He gives her the okay sign for the good job she is doing.

*   *   *

COLLEEN IS AT HER
parents' door and, turning the knob, finds it locked. She knocks. What is this? They are always home. She peers into the darkened interior at a still life: newspapers, coffee cups, scissors, slippers.

Right. Their car isn't in the driveway either. There is a garage, but it's always used for storage, not for the car. Great. She finally gets a moment for a visit and nobody's home. She should have called. So much for happy surprise. But all is not lost. Her brother lives in the apartment above the garage. He must be home, for the windows are open and there are clattering sounds mixed with the music of a rock group she doesn't know. The entrance to his apartment is an outside stairway that wraps from the side of the garage to an upper door on the alley side. She takes the steps and voilà, the door opens to her turn of the wrist. “It's me!” she announces.

Her brother looks up. “Hey! I didn't know you were coming!”

“I didn't call. I wanted to be a surprise.”

“Like the first time.” He makes a pregnant belly.

“I guess. I've been told we never change.” Then she catches herself. She wants Ronnie to change and she's just handed him a discouragement. “But that of course is not any truer than anything else,” she says awkwardly as he studies her.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. I just had a minute. Where are they?”

“I don't know. I heard the car go about an hour ago. Food shopping I guess.”

“Well, you're here.”

“Here I am.” He inches forward on the sofa. “These are parts to an old CD player. I might get it working for them.”

“Nice.”

“You need anything to drink?”

“You have a Coke?”

“Yep.”

“It's okay. I'll get it.” And she does. One corner of the room is a kitchen separated from the rest of the space by a waist-high wall—good for using as a surface to hold things that are too difficult to carry in one move. Her brother is a fairly orderly housekeeper as divorced bachelors go—not as orderly as Potocki, but then much more depressed than Potocki ever was. His studio bed is put back together, the old mahogany coffee table in front of it. The four chairs are tucked in place under the dining table. “You have two Cokes,” she announces. “Want the other one?”

“Nah. You can have both.”

She looks at him, wondering if maybe he didn't open up his bed at all last night. Between the pop of the tab and her first sip, she manages to ask him, “What's the news? You, I mean. Seeing anyone?”

“No. You?”

“Um … yes.”

“You're not sure?”

“I argued with him today. Maybe he won't be too welcoming when I'm back.”

“Who is he?”

“A guy I work with.”

“Is that okay? I mean allowed?”

“No. It's
verboten.
But human beings, you know, don't follow the rules too well.”

“That's for sure.”

Ronnie was such a lively kid back in the days … She wishes she could get that spirit back for him. He's a pretty good-looking guy, about six feet tall, high forehead, brown hair slicked back—an old-fashioned look, a CEO look, but in his defeat, in his shabby T-shirt and jeans, he is anything but top of the heap. He works at Walmart and smokes a lot of dope. “You think they'll be back soon?”

“Probably. They never go anywhere. Ever. Not to a movie or anything.”

“Hm. As if they knew I was coming.”

He laughs. “Yeah, you are scary sometimes.”

“Ronnie? You remember that time we went on vacation—to Uncle Hal's?”

“Kind of. I mean I don't remember a lot about it.”

“He didn't assault you or abuse you or anything?”

“Christ, no. You know something about him? I mean I was always uncomfortable around him, but no, he didn't touch me.”

“Good.”

“Um, I think I hear you. Is that what you're saying?”

“Yeah, he did. And he was married to an evil woman. She knew it. She let him.”

“I never liked her.” His face worked worriedly. “If he was alive, I'd kill him.”

“Thanks, but I'd be first. And I might opt for torture.”

“What did Mom and Dad do?”

“I never told them.”

“Wow.” He turns this over.

“Until today.”

“Why now, then?”

“I'm on assignment.”

“Thinking about it now, you're bringing it back. He was always hanging around you, right? Those two were both creeps.”

“Yeah. They were.”

“There's the car,” he said. “See, I told you they never went far.”

“I didn't hear it.”

“I'm used to the sounds around here.”

There are overlapping cries of joy outside.
Is Colleen here? That's her car. Hooray. She came to see her old folks.

Out the window she can see her two stringy parents looking up. This in a nutshell is their relationship. She, looking down, is the goddess who bestows her presence and needs nothing. They, her humble servants, want to serve, but briefly—and not get close.

She will make them dislike her this afternoon, but it has to be done and she knows it and has always known it. She knows all the lines. They will drink to buffer the blows, but maybe they will hear her.
Where were you when I was little and growing up—when I didn't know up from down? Why could you never notice things? Why did you dump us with two creeps and pretend not to know what they were made of? Why were your heads always in the liquor bottle? A parent protects. That's what a parent does.

*   *   *

CONNOLLY, MANNING
the grill, keeps looking up, checking his phone, and having distracted conversations with the people who come up to him to watch the ribs and the sausages getting brown. Todd has not arrived yet.

Dexter, the county commissioner, with whom he is friends, is here with his wife and two daughters. So are the head of city council, also a friend, with his wife; a neighbor who is high up in the party with his wife and one daughter; two other prominent party members, one with a teenage son in tow and one with a girlfriend on the way to being a second wife. Of the guest list, only Todd is missing.

Connolly instructs his guests to make the bar their own. It's hidden away outdoors—a small, discreet structure that houses a sink and microwave and refrigerator but is extremely well stocked. “You want me to mix something for you, I'm happy to,” he says.

But most of them dip in for beers or soft drinks. Some take advantage of the pitcher of Tom Collinses.

“Ribs look good,” says Dexter.

“Elinor baked them for hours to get them ready. That's how she does them to get them really tender.”

“Where'd you find her?”

“In my nursery. She's been here for as long as I can remember.”

“That's going some in this world. A person like that, staying in service. I thought those days were gone.”

Connolly doesn't say anything. He's uncomfortable with the whole conversation about service. He's even from time to time tried to think how to do without paid help, but there is no way around it, not so long as he's in this house, at the firm, running for governor.

Finally he hears Todd's voice from the house, rising, cheerful—saying something jovial to Monica and laughing afterward. Did the man listen to his phone messages?

The jolly act continues when Todd comes out to the grounds. He's glad-handing everybody, introducing himself to the ones he hasn't yet met and doing such a good job of circulating that Connolly wonders if he will get a word alone with him at all.

“I have had the laziest Sunday,” Todd tells a few people. “I took the papers out to my yard. I have a hammock strung up. I can almost never get in it without tipping over and breaking a few bones, but I managed to get the balance just right today and the papers put me to sleep … and I didn't want to get up. I mean I woke that little bit a couple of times and thought, No, no, just go back under.”