The Whole Lie (11 page)

Charlene had been gone when I woke up at five thirty. That wasn't unusual—she's a flat-out workaholic and happy to admit it—so there was a chance Sophie hadn't picked up on our fight the previous night.

On the other hand, there was a better chance she had. Hard to slip anything past Sophie. Especially household tension.

Boston.com was up on her laptop. The headline wasn't any bigger than one you'd use the day after World War III. It read:

SAGINAW PHOTOS STIR OUTRAGE

Candidate compared self to Christ during business price war; eager to do “Chain Link Jesus” shoot, editor recalls

In the pic, Saginaw was crucified on his own fencing.

Really.

“Holy shit,” I said. “Pardon my French. They warned me.”

“Who warned you?”

“Saginaw himself, kind of. And my pal Moe. But …
jeez
.”

“Yeah, jeez.”

I clicked the pic to see a bigger version. Technically, it was a stunner: Shot in a field somewhere with a filter that made blues and grays dominate, it gave the impression you were looking at a bruise. I remembered a Minnesota tornado—the sky had been those colors before hell broke loose.

The angle: very low, the photographer belly-crawling to get lots of that bruise-blue sky as a backdrop.

Bert Saginaw had dressed up as Jesus Christ. He'd let somebody shoot
pictures
of him that way. The section of chain link he was stretched out on bore a small but readable sign:

SAGINAW FENCE CO.

FRAMINGHAM, MA

They'd gone the whole nine yards. He wore only a raggy loincloth. His muscles rippled and stretched. It was easy to imagine how proud he'd been in particular of his abs and his lats, the lats showcased by outstretched arms.

I didn't know what tricks they'd used to get his feet off the ground, but they dangled just the way you'd expect.

Saginaw had even tilted his neck just right, looking down, patience and enduring in his eyes. He'd been
into
this photo. He'd gotten
off
on it.

As I turned on my cell, I looked at Sophie. “They'll get creamed for this.”

“And how,” she said. “You might say they'll get crucified, har har.”

My phone began pinging like crazy with texts that had come in while it was shut down.

They were all from Krall or Saginaw. I didn't even read them. It was pretty clear what they were about.

“Looks like you've got a full day ahead,” Sophie said, swooping up her bowl and setting it in the sink. “Speaking of which, what do you think about the new tech?”

I looked up. “What new tech?”

“The one mom and Floriano hired,” she said, shouldering her vintage Boris Badenov backpack. “Tory, I think the name is.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He's not a him,” she said. “He's a her.”

*   *   *

I stiff-armed my new motto—
figure out the blackmail, figure out who killed Savvy
—and barrel-assed down Route 9 to Charlene's office in Westborough. Slammed my truck's door, steamed across a porch that ran the width of the building, shouldered the sticky front door, slammed it, too, made for Charlene's suite.

The office was in a converted Victorian that was painted three colors—all of them period-correct, all of them ugly. Charlene split the downstairs with a pair of shrinks who owned the building and lived upstairs. Everybody who worked beneath the roof was female. I always felt out of place and out of scale here.

Charlene could afford more impressive headquarters in any of a half-dozen nearby office parks. But for the same reason she stuck with her little Shrewsbury house, she kept her staff fishing-line-thin and clung to the Victorian. I thought she ought to move—was pretty sure stubbornness had cost her some opportunities. We'd argued about it, but
she
was underwriting
my
new business, so at some point I'd realized my best bet was to shut up.

Besides, I had to admit Charlene's low-overhead style meant her company was pure value, no frippery or debt in sight. She'd recently turned down a cash offer of $8 million and change from her biggest national competitor.

I whipped open the suite door. Joy, typing away while looking at a stack of forms, smiled big and said hello.

“She here?” I said.

Something in my voice made Joy stop typing and really look at me. “Is everything all right, Conway?” Raising her voice just a little, alerting Charlene behind her heavy four-panel office door.

Joy Cleburne wore her hair straightened and pulled back. The hair was pure black except for a white streak directly over each ear. Damnedest thing. She spent her first fifteen years fearing her father's belt, the next ten fearing her husband's, and another five smoking cocaine to forget them both. Then she cleaned up and pulled her life together. She was Charlene's first hire, Employee Number Two. Her salary was exactly a dollar a year less than Charlene's, which was damn healthy, and she was one of the few who owned points in the company. She could and had run the operation for long stretches while Charlene wooed clients and recruited translators.

Joy had always been kind to me, but I didn't kid myself: She'd set me on fire before she'd let me so much as raise my voice to Charlene.

Charlene slipped from her office. Her clothes—black pointy shoes, black pants, black jacket, light-blue blouse—and the way she closed the door told me there was a client or prospect inside.

“Who the hell's this new tech you hired without telling me?” I said.

“Can we talk outside?”

“I shouldn't have to learn this stuff from Sophie.”

“Can we talk outside, please?” She said it with exaggerated quiet, like a few lemon-puss teachers I had in school. The trick had pissed me off then. Still did. But I fought the red mist, the urge to break something just to be a jerk.

As Charlene whisked past Joy's desk, a look passed between them that pissed me off more. In a glance that lasted less than a second, they fired woman-messages back and forth:

Here we go again.

Is everything okay?

I can handle him.

Why does he get like this?

Tell me about it.

Is he worth it?

We'll see.

Charlene elbow-steered me outside to the broad porch, and I hated the feeling I was being handled, hated how obvious it was she and Joy had talked me over before now.

“You should have called, Conway.”

“Just tell me if it's true.”

“Of course it is. Floriano and I had a tech lined up because we suspected you'd run off and do what you do. Victoria's local, she's ASE certified, and she's young. Which equals cheap.”

“But we
didn't
need her! It's a two-lift shop, and we've got two techs.”

“Do we?” She folded her arms as she said it. “So you're saying I can count on you, what with the passing of Ms. Kane?”

I said nothing. Started to talk, stopped, started, stopped. “I can't just drop it.”

“Of course you can.”

“We covered this last night. It's a Barnburner thing. You know how that goes. You know what it means.”

“I do,” Charlene said. “That's my point.” Then she turned on one pointy shoe and pushed through the door.

It opened right up for her. It didn't stick at all. She must know the trick.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Randall's phone rang through to voice mail the first two times I called. But I knew his ring tone—
We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun
, the old bubblegum song that caught on as his Army unit's motto—would annoy him into picking up sooner or later.

“Sorry,” I said when he did.

“Umph,” he said.

“I'm parked outside Charlene's office,” I said. “I just picked a fight, and I feel like a shitheel.”

“Mmmph.”

“And now I'm sensing you're not alone, and I'm feeling like even more of a shitheel.”

My phone made its incoming-call chirp. I looked at the screen. Krall.

“Gotta pick up the other line,” I said. “What I need you to do, I need you to research Bert Saginaw. They say he blew a couple fortunes before this one stuck. Find out how he made them, how he lost them. 'Kay?”

“Who's on the other line?”

“Krall, the campaign manager.”

“You still working for Saginaw? After what happened to Savannah Kane?”

The question surprised me. I thought Randall knew me better than that. “
Hell
no I'm not working for them,” I said, “if I ever was.”

“You've got two checks from the man in your billfold.”

“Sure do,” I said. “But as of yesterday afternoon, I'm working to find out who killed Savvy Kane. Barnburner once, Barnburner always.”

“And if the path leads straight to Bert Saginaw's front door?”

“Wouldn't surprise me at all. Look, I really need to take this other call.”

I clicked over.

“Where the
fuck
are you?” Krall said. “Where the
fuck
have you been? How many
fucking
messages do I need to leave?”

“I'm in my truck. I'm coming to Cambridge to meet with you and figure out what comes next. But if you keep fuckity-fucking me, I might just pick you up by your throat and pound on you once I get there.”

Krall took a deep breath that just about sounded like a sob. “I'm sorry, okay? Long night into a long morning. Into a long day, no doubt.”

“Thanks to Chain Link Jesus.”

“Drudge put the pics up at nine thirty last night. We've been all hands on deck ever since.”

“Where'd those shots
come
from?”

“Tell you later.”

“They take you by surprise?”

“We knew about them, and deep down I guess we figured they'd come out. But you get in a groove. You tell yourself maybe you got lucky this time. Know what I mean?”

I said nothing.

“Our internals, our eyes and ears, all the anecdotal stuff,” he said, “it's brutal. The Catholics, the oldsters, and all the people who never liked Bert but had a hard time putting their finger on why … well, they can frigging well put their finger on the reason now. Our numbers are dropping through the floor.”

“Go figure.”

“Reason for this morning's messages, there's a big change in plans. Tinker and Saginaw are doing tag-team rallies all day. Maybe she can drag him up. We're not sure, but we've got to try
something.
”

“Doesn't that torpedo Tinker's too-dignified-to-campaign strategy?”

“Bet your ass. But it can work in our favor, too. We're hoping Betsy Tinker Coming Down from the Mountain pushes Chain Link Jesus out of the news cycle. Or at least aside.” Big sigh. “Like I say, we've got to try
something
.”

“Where do I come in?”

“This morning, we're doing our first rally since the Jesus pics. Why don't you come on up?”

“What good will I do Saginaw there?”

“Search me, but it was Bert's idea. And it's his nickel.”

I thought about that. Decided a rally was as good a place to be as any. Randall would do his usual ultra-thorough job researching Saginaw, and I could get my first look at this Betsy Tinker. “Where are you?” I said.

“Know where Braxton is?”

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later I exited I-495, drove west and south on back roads. This was apple country: hills, orchards, farm stands. Nice. Finally hit Braxton, found its newish high school, parked in a nearly full lot. The best parking spots had been swiped by vans from all the local TV stations plus Fox News and CNN.

When I entered the gym, I got my first taste of big-time politics. Uniformed state troopers flanked the double doors. One of them saw something in me he didn't like. Next thing I knew I was being elbow-walked toward a trailer serving as a mobile command post. That was bad: I figured I was in for a credential search and a serious pat down. And once my record came up, I'd be bounced or held.

“Sax!”

I'd lucked out: It was Krall. He nodded thanks to the trooper, who dropped my elbow but didn't like doing it. Then Krall speed-walked us inside the school, fishing out a purple badge on a lanyard, telling me to wear it. “Just in time,” he said at the back of the gym, talking into my ear as a local poo-bah did the world's longest introduction of Betsy Tinker. “Herself is about to descend from the heavens. The people love her.”

He was right about that. The gym was packed, the roll-out bleachers SRO, plenty of homemade signs waving (
CLASS AT LAST, WE LOVE YOU BETS
), the Braxton Bulldogs marching band taking floor space, the media penned off to one side.

The local poo-bah couldn't decide whether he was introducing AC/DC or the pope, so he covered both. About the time even his wife was ready to give him the hook, he finally ran out of dumb things to say and waved an arm at a side door.

In came Betsy Tinker, followed by Saginaw and a few flunkies.

From the way people talked about her, I'd expected a cross between the queen of England and Aunt Bea. This woman was not that. Though, I decided as she walked and smiled and waved, she did have a royalty vibe about her. In a good way. The gracious, gliding way.

She couldn't be ten years older than me. Fit, pretty, shortish hair that wasn't gray or silver or blond—but was somehow all three. She smiled at everyone, and though she seemed to make time for them all, she never stopped moving. That was a skill shared by natural politicians and NASCAR drivers.

Tinker stepped to a miked podium; the others stood in line behind her and to her right, their rear ends brushing one of those hanging pads that prevent basketball players from slamming into cinder blocks.