Trust Your Eyes (12 page)

“Thomas still memorizing maps for when the big computer virus hits?” Len asked, a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

I was caught off guard. “You know about that?”

“Your dad told me. I guess he needed to talk to somebody about it.”

Slowly, I nodded. Marie said, “Len, don’t bring that up. It’s none of your business.”

“It was. Adam told me,” he snapped at her, and Marie blinked. To me, he said, “Your dad was feeling the burden of it all, you know?”

So everyone seemed to be telling me.

I
tapped on Thomas’s door and opened it far enough to stick my head in. “I’m back.”

Thomas, clicking away on his mouse, traveling with his back to me, said, “Okay.”

“And you’re making dinner.”

That got him to turn around. “What?”

“I thought I’d let you make dinner tonight.”

“I never make dinner.”

“Then all the more reason to start. I got some frozen stuff. It’ll be simple.”

“Why aren’t you making dinner? Dad always made dinner.”

“I’ve got a job, too,” I said. “You’ve got yours, and I’ve got mine. I’ve got calls to make, and I may have to bring back some of my stuff from Burlington—”

“Vermont.”

“Right, from Burlington, Vermont, so I can work here while we sort things out.”

“Sort things out,” Thomas said quietly.

“That’s right. I’ll walk you through it. How to put the oven on, all that stuff. But you’ll need to come down around five.”

I treasured Thomas’s shell-shocked expression as I closed the door.

Almost on cue, my cell rang. It was my agent, Jeremy Chandler, who’d been fielding job inquiries for me for the last ten years.

“I’ve got three jobs here for you but it’s not like the Sistine Chapel is asking you to paint a ceiling and you’ve got forty years to do it. These are magazines and one Web site, Ray, with deadlines. Looming deadlines. If you can’t do the work, I need to know now so I can farm these jobs out to other artists who, while not nearly as gifted as yourself, are clearly much hungrier.”

“I told you, I’m at my father’s place.”

“Oh shit, yeah, I forgot. He died, right?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what he did.”

“So, the funeral and all that stuff, is that over?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll be back in your studio when, exactly?”

“I have some stuff to deal with, Jeremy. I might have to set up a makeshift studio here temporarily.”

“Good idea. Otherwise, I’ll have to get Tarlington for these illustrations.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “The guy paints with his feet. His Obamas look like Bill Cosby. Every black guy he does looks like Bill Cosby.”

“Look, if you can’t take the job, you don’t get to criticize. Did I tell you, I heard from Vachon’s people?”

“Jesus.” Carlo Vachon, a noted Brooklyn crime family boss, was facing a slew of possible indictments on everything from murder to unpaid parking tickets. I’d been commissioned by a New York magazine to do a drawing of him in which I’d exaggerated all his physical features, particularly his girth, as he held a gun to the Statue of Liberty. In my version, she had both her arms in the air.

I was breaking out in an instant sweat. “Is there a hit out on me?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Apparently he loved the illustration and he wants to buy the original. The thing is with these mob guys, they love the attention, even when it’s not exactly positive.”

“You have the original?”

“I do.”

“Send it. No charge,” I said.

“Done. But that’s not even why I called.”

“What is it?”

“There’s a new site about to start up. It’s got backing from some very big people, and they want to take on HuffPo, but they want something different, and I said to them, what about an animated political cartoon, kind of like those ones on
The New Yorker
Web site. Ten seconds long, but the animation is actually kept to a minimum. You create movement by panning across the image and—”

“I get how it could be done,” I said. “You mentioned me?”

“I didn’t even have to. They came to me. This woman who’s setting it up, her name’s Kathleen Ford. Got financial backing like you wouldn’t believe. Lots of media money. She wants to have a sit-down with you ASAP.”

“Okay, but right now I—”

There was a knock at the front door. A solid, purposeful, somebody-means-business kind of knock. I hadn’t heard a car pull up, but Jeremy did tend to talk as though he was trying to drown out a 747, even when there wasn’t one in the vicinity.

“Someone’s here,” I said.

“Ray, this is
huge
. You’ve got to meet with this woman. It’s major bucks.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

I left the phone on the kitchen table and went to the door.

There were two of them standing there on the porch, a black sedan parked behind my Audi, blocking it in, I supposed, should I decide to make a run for it. A man and a woman, both in their forties, both dressed in shades of gray. Both in suits, although his came with a narrow, businesslike tie.

“Mr. Kilbride?” the woman asked.

“Yes?”

“I’m Agent Parker, and this is Agent Driscoll.”

“Huh?”

“FBI,” she said sternly.

THIRTEEN

BRIDGET
Sawchuck believes that if she’s going to have to discuss her situation with her husband’s closest friend and chief adviser, Howard Talliman, it better be in a public place. Maybe he’ll be able to resist the temptation to throttle her if there are witnesses, although she isn’t one hundred percent sure that will save her. She invites him to lunch at the Union Square Café, booking a table for one o’clock.

Talliman has been Morris Sawchuck’s best friend since God was a boy. They went to Harvard together, got drunk together, practiced law together, vacationed together, probably even got laid together on a joint trip to Japan a couple of years after Geraldine died. Howard, very early on, began working behind the scenes on political campaigns—Republican, Democrat, didn’t matter. Only winning mattered. If a hockey player could be traded from the Rangers to the Bruins, then slam his former teammates into the boards, Talliman could formulate strategy for any party that was willing to pay his price. He’s never wanted to be the candidate. He is short and paunchy, and says he has the
sex appeal of a garden gnome, but he knows how to play the political game from behind the bench and turn others into winners.

“You can take this as far as you want to go,” Howard told Morris more than a decade ago. “The only thing that limits you is your own ambition. If you’ve got enough of it, it’ll take you right to the top. But you have to build in increments. A tough prosecutor, then an attorney general—you start drawing a line and see where it takes you. It takes you right to the fucking top, that’s where it takes you.”

Howard Talliman mixes the Kool-Aid, and Morris drinks it.

All the hard work is paying off. Big time. Morris is surely headed to the governor’s mansion, and who knows where the hell he’ll go after that?

As proud as Howard is of shaping his best friend into a political star, it was finding him a new, beautiful young wife to stand at his side during victory speeches that really puffs him up. He’d encountered Bridget at the PR firm he had hired on behalf of another client, a circuit court judge who’d found himself with his nuts in a vise after his son was arrested for running a meth lab out of the judge’s summer place in New Hampshire. The moment Howard saw her he knew she’d look perfect standing next to Morris at every campaign stop across the state of New York. She was sexy in a Michelle Obama–Jackie O kind of way. Statuesque, long neck, nice figure but not too busty. Poise to spare.

Howard, Bridget realizes now, maneuvered Morris and her together without their even knowing it at the time. He brought her in to organize that kids’ baseball diamond fund-raiser, which put Bridget and Morris together at the same place at the same time. Howard made the introductions, whispered into each of their ears that the one was interested in the other.

Machiavelli with a little Cupid’s arrow, that’s what Howard was.

But there was something there. Within a week, Bridget found herself sprawled across the backseat of Sawchuck’s limo, belts unbuckling, snaps unsnapping, a would-be governor’s head between her legs.

A lot of fun, even if Bridget has not always been, strictly speaking,
exclusively
heterosexual. But what the hell. Once she found out the kind of life she was looking at, hooking up with someone like Morris Sawchuck, she figured she could play on just the one team forever.

Didn’t turn out to be the case, but that realization didn’t dawn on her until after she and Morris were married.

Not that Allison was her first time falling off the hetero wagon. But she was the first one Bridget had slipped away with for a few days. She didn’t consider it serious, and Allison didn’t appear to, either. Bridget hadn’t used her real name—made sure Allison never saw her passport—and stuck with the oversized sunglasses and sun hat whenever they were out and about. The truth was, even though people spotted her husband in public and sometimes even asked for his autograph, very few recognized her when she was on her own. Sure, men noticed her, and women, too, for any number of reasons. But people didn’t look her up and down because of who she was, only because of what she was: gorgeous.

And now Bridget’s in trouble.

She glances at the café menu, and when she looks up, there he is.

“Bridget,” he says, bending down and giving her an air kiss on the cheek. “You look delicious, as always. Good enough to eat with a spoon.”

“And you look wonderful.”

“Oh please. When I was coming past the bar I heard someone whisper that they just saw Danny DeVito.”

Bridget laughs awkwardly as Howard settles into his chair across from her. She can see it in his face. He knows something is
up. He wouldn’t be where he is now without being able to read people.

Although he never read her right. Not when he met her. If he had, well, they wouldn’t be where they are now, would they?

“We’re going to need drinks, I suspect,” he says. “What will you have?”

“Uh, white wine spritzer,” she says.

Howard’s eyebrows go up. “Things can’t be
that
bad, then, can they? A spritzer? That’s the kind of drink you turn to when your
Times
shows up at the door fifteen minutes late.” He turns in his chair and catches the attention of a passing waiter. “The lady will have a white wine spritzer. Scotch neat for me. So, what’s on your mind, Bridget? I figure you didn’t bring me here to start an affair. I honestly don’t think I could squeeze one into my schedule.” Howard has never been married, and if he has any kind of love life—other than his love for political chicanery—no one is aware of it.

But then, everyone has secrets.

Bridget swallows. “You know I would never do anything to intentionally cause trouble for Morris.”

“Oh my,” Howard says.

“I would never want to embarrass him. Never.”

Howard studies her. “Well, let’s see…” He looks her over, like he’s trying to guess how much Morris spent on her diamond earrings. If he’d guessed twenty grand, he’d have been right, but that wasn’t what he was thinking about. It was what kind of trouble Bridget had gotten herself into.

“It’s money, or it’s sex,” he said. “Or it’s both. There’s really nothing else. No matter what you’ve done, it’ll come back to one or both of those.”

“It’s both,” she says.

“I see,” Howard says. “Just how bad is it?”

Bridget looks down into her lap, then back to Howard. “Bad.” She collects herself. “I’m being blackmailed, Howard.”

“So, there’s the money part. And the leverage your blackmailer has over you, that will be the sex part. Unless, of course, I have this all totally wrong, and you’ve gone and killed someone.”

“I haven’t killed anyone,” she says.

“Well,” Howard says, as the drinks are placed in front of them, “there’s a cause for celebration. Although, I’ve seen people bounce back from murder convictions.” He takes a sip of his scotch and watches the waiter retreat. There is a part of him, Bridget suspects, that’s probably actually enjoying this, because Howard thrives on problems. But if he is enjoying this, she doesn’t think it will last for long.

He asks, “And there aren’t pictures out there of you having sex with a goat or anything, are there?”

“No.”

“Well, anything else should be a breeze to deal with by comparison. Out with it.”

“I had an affair,” Bridget says.

Howard nods wisely, as though he has been expecting this. “We’re talking about something recent, something that has transpired since you and Morris engaged in the bonds of holy matrimony.”

“Yes.”

“Is it over? This affair?”

“Yes.”

“Do I know him?”

Bridget pauses. “No.”

Howard cocks his head slightly. “That was a troubling hesitation, Bridget. It means I may know him, and you’re lying, or you’re responding truthfully in a deliberately obtuse way. Let me see if I can discern which it is.” His eyes bored into her. “I think it’s the latter.”

Bridget says nothing. Howard is, if you can take a step back,
which is rather difficult for Bridget at this moment, amazing to watch.

He keeps his eyes on her another moment, then asks, “Who is she?”

He really is something. “Her name’s Allison Fitch.”

Howard’s eyelids flutter rapidly. It’s what he does when he’s searching through his mental database. “You are right. I don’t know her.” He drinks more of his scotch. “You know, Bridget, you might have mentioned, after I arranged for you and Morris to connect, and I quietly asked you whether there was anything compromising in your history, that you were a muff diver.”

Bridget sits rigidly in her chair and says nothing.

“Did you make it known to this Allison Fitch that you were the wife of a prospective governor, the state’s current attorney general?”

“No. I gave her another name altogether. But she saw me on television, on the news, at a function with Morris, and there wasn’t much to put together after that.” Bridget gives him the
Reader’s Digest
version of the story. Where they’d met, how many times they’d seen each other, the time they’d gone away together.