In This Rain (42 page)

“What’s that?”

“She believed in justice. Tell the truth, she thought, and it’ll all work out.”

“Might be that justice is what she got.”

“Not even close. It still upsets her that it doesn’t work that way. But I’m over it. All I want to do is score and get out. I told Ann, if we can’t get justice we might as well get rich.” Joe hurtled along, following an old engineering school motto: If you can’t blind ’em with brilliance, baffle ’em with bullshit.

“Mr. Cole, I have to tell you, I don’t like the sound of this. It’s clear to me, you got some sort of scheme cooked up. If I’d known what your business was— ”

“That’s why I didn’t say. Mr. Westermann, I’ve been watching the news lately. You’ve suddenly hitched your wagon to Walter Glybenhall’s star.”

“Walter Glybenhall and I have had our differences over the years. But I’ll stand with anyone who’s trying to hold this city accountable for its outrageous actions.”

“Not for free, I’m sure.”

“Now, look here, son! I resent the insinuation! If you’re thinking this office can be bought— ”

“I’m sorry, I mistook you for a politician.”

“You’ve got no call— ”

“Glybenhall’s romance with Charlie Barr came to an abrupt end. I’m sure he’s looking for a shoulder to cry on. You’re a hell of an underdog for the mayoral nomination and your fundraising’s off to a slow start. You need Glybenhall’s money and his credibility in the white community. And he needs yours in Harlem.”

“I’d put it a little different. I’d say Walter Glybenhall and I have discovered a mutual respect as we’ve found ourselves a common enemy— ”

“Charlie Barr?”

“No, this city’s disregard for justice!”

“And the silver lining on that cloud is how it threw you together with Glybenhall, just when you needed each other most.”

“It’s an ill wind, don’t blow someone good.”

“I’m not disagreeing. You’d be a fool to miss the chance to hook up with Glybenhall. And I’ve never heard anyone say Edgar Westermann’s a fool.”

“Through the years, I’ve had people calling me all sorts of hurtful things. And I’ve had many come sit in my office— right where you’re sitting— and think they can con ol’ Westermann, because he don’t get but crumbs offered to him, so he’s grateful for anything looks like a whole slice of bread. So Mr. Cole, come to your point. I’m— ”

“A busy man. Yes, I’m sure you are. And I’m not. I have very little to do these days. Ann’s not busy, either. She spends a lot of time having coffee with friends, now that she can’t work anymore.”

“My sympathy. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings. Now, a bright person could take idleness as a chance to study on their shortcomings, to see how to improve them.”

“Or how to improve their situation and to hell with their shortcomings. Mr. Westermann, sir, unless something’s done about it, Walter Glybenhall is not going to end up with that Block A property in Harlem.”

Westermann eyed Joe. “What do you mean by that?”

“By that I mean Glybenhall’s not the only one who’s mad and he’s not the only one capable of pissing in the punch bowl before he leaves the party. Charlie Barr’s approval ratings are at an all-time low. He’ll never get to be governor.”

“If that’s true it’s because he let Ann Montgomery lead him around by the nose. Or, considering her beauty, by his nether parts,” Westermann retorted.

“Can’t resist a cheap shot at him, can you?”

“Don’t— ”

“Go ahead, I’m not crazy about old Charlie myself. I’m not really fond of any of you. But, Mr. Borough President, you’re my best shot. Over coffee with a friend who still works for the city, Ann found out that the mayor’s planning to give that Block A building site to Ford Corrington.”

“Say what?”

“Garden Walls, Garden Gate, Down the Garden Path, whatever they call it. Hizzoner’s going to announce it at a press conference tomorrow.”

“He wouldn’t dare.”

“He would dare. He’s going to say the city’s looked over Garden Walls’ proposal, liked it a lot, bingo, Harlem’s theirs. The mayor’s calling in favors from Real Property and from Planning, for this.”

“Favors? The man doesn’t dare show his face in public these days. He’s got no political currency to spend. He can’t do this.”

“Sure he can. It’s his way of flipping Walter Glybenhall one last, giant bird. What does he have to lose? He’s going down anyway. This way at least he goes down as Robin Hood. It’ll redeem Ford Corrington in the eyes of the community, for sure. And once it’s done, once a community group including men of the church and local banks and all sorts of popular people have their claws in that site, what are you going to do about it?”

“Me?” Westermann sat up, visibly regrouping. “Well, if this is true, it will be a fine day for Harlem and a new dawning for this community that— ”

“Oh, turn it off,” Joe said. “If Glybenhall gets beat out of Block A, you think he’s going to give a rat’s ass about Harlem? Or your campaign? You’ll have lost him and his support, and Ford Corrington will have made you look like a fool. Mr. Borough President, sir, if you can’t stop this from happening you can kiss your political future goodbye.”

“My political future, sir, rides on the fortunes of the community I serve!”

“Oh. Not on Glybenhall’s money? Oh, well, then, never mind. You don’t need me, I guess.”

“I can’t imagine why you thought I ever did.”

“But you haven’t thrown me out, have you? You want to know. You want to know why I thought that.”

He locked his eyes on Westermann’s. Westermann glared but didn’t look away.

Joe smiled. “There’s a way out. I told you I had information you’d find valuable. That was only half of it. How about I tell you the rest, and you can do whatever you want with it. If it works out for you, I’ll expect to be remembered. If I’m remembered, I’ll forget we ever had this conversation. If I’m forgotten, you’ll be sorry we did.”

“I don’t like to be threatened, Mr. Cole.”

“I don’t know anyone who does. Do you want to hear me out?”

“Well,” Westermann said slowly, “you’re here.”

Harlem: State Office Building

“Walter Glybenhall was having an affair,” Joe Cole said, sitting in front of Edgar’s desk.

Edgar frowned. “Walter Glybenhall’s love for the ladies ain’t exactly news, son. And I can’t see how it’s supposed to help this situation.”

“The woman’s dead.”

“Well, that’s sad, but still

?”

“She was murdered. Her body was fished from the river two weeks ago. Jennifer Eliot, her name was.”

Edgar felt his heart skip. “I remember that,” he said. “Poor child. But you can’t be— you’re not telling me you think Walter Glybenhall killed her?”

“Ann does. She told Glybenhall she did. Personally, I don’t know or care. If it was Glybenhall, there’s no way he’ll go down for murder. But the situation offers an opportunity, if it’s played right. Because Glybenhall wasn’t the only man Jen Eliot was seeing.”

“Really?” Edgar said slowly. “You don’t say.”

“As it happens, Jen Eliot played the field. Dated lots of men.”

“How do you know that?”

“As it also happens, she was a friend of Ann’s.”

“Is that so? Small world, then.”

“Small enough that Jen told Ann about another of her men. Not by name. She wouldn’t tell her friends the names of her sugar daddies if it would make trouble for them.”

“She kept quiet to protect them?”

“Or she got a kick out of having the power to destroy them. Though she didn’t precisely keep quiet. Just kept their names under her hat. But Ann’s been so distracted trying to corner Walter Glybenhall that the penny didn’t drop on who Jen’s other playmate must have been until yesterday.”

“And when it did

?”

“She told me. And I realized we had the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

“And that goose, by name?”

“The goose is Walter Glybenhall. The name of the other playmate is Ford Corrington.”

Edgar could only stare. “I know you’re not serious.”

“Oh, but I am. Jen Eliot bragged she was sleeping with two men who disliked each other, and she was getting a huge charge out of neither of them knowing where she’d been the night before.”

“That doesn’t mean— ”

“She’d said other things, too.”

“Why, that— ” Edgar cleared his throat. “Why

You’re telling me— you’re saying this girl was carrying on with Walter Glybenhall and Ford Corrington under each other’s noses?”

Cole nodded.

“And the police have no idea? Why hasn’t Ann Montgomery gone to them with this information?”

“Who’d believe her? Two weeks late, tangled up with both those men in this other mess?”

“She could go to the press. Reporters feed on scandals like this.”

“Oh, there’s a great idea. ‘Crazy Cop Makes Fresh Allegations.’ Subhead, ‘Further Desperate Attempts to Focus Spotlight on Developer Also Implicate Harlem Community Organizer.’ Come on, Mr. Westermann. What paper would dare print anything unpleasant about Walter Glybenhall these days? He’d slap a lawsuit on anyone who looked at him sideways.”

“Well, I can’t say I don’t think he’s got the right.”

“And I’m sure he doesn’t give a shit what you think. If he murdered Jen Eliot it’s just one more thing he’ll never pay for. But Corrington’s a different story.”

“And what story would that be?”

“Walter Glybenhall had an intimate relationship with this young woman. He must have something in his possession that would amount to forensic evidence. An earring she left behind. Her mascara, her lipstick. A pair of nylons.”

“If this relationship was like you say, I’m sure he does. So what?”

“Where’s your imagination? Mr. Borough President, tell me, how would it look to the community if Ford Corrington’s relationship with this dead woman were known? What would it do to Hizzoner’s plan to give Block A to Corrington?” Cole sat back in his chair as the light began to dawn on Edgar. “And all it would take,” Cole said, “would be for something Glybenhall digs out of his couch to find its way to the azaleas in Ford Corrington’s garden.”

Harlem: Frederick Douglass Boulevard

“I don’t know whether to hope this works or hope it doesn’t,” Ford said into the dim quiet of the Garden Project’s woodshop. “It won’t make me happy to have it proved that people are willing to frame me for murder.”

“If it works it won’t prove that.” Ann Montgomery sat on a workbench, staring through the window. “Just that they’re willing to destroy your reputation.”

From the shadows, Joe Cole added, “Given how Jen Eliot died, all they need to do is connect you up with her. That’ll be enough to stop Charlie Barr from naming you his new best friend.”

“It’s not going to work.” That sour remark came from Greg Lowry, who sat with his feet slung up on a table. “We’re going to sit here like idiots until morning and then I’m going to arrest Montgomery on as many charges as I can think up. And you, too, Cole. Fucking extortion, making me let you in on this.”

*

Montgomery had brought Cole with her in the hour after sunset as they’d arranged. “Greg Lowry’s going to want to throw Joe out,” she’d told Ford. “I’m asking you not to let him.”

Joe Cole had extended his hand to Ford. “I want to thank you,” he’d said. “For not jumping on the bandwagon three years ago. Dolan Construction.”

Ford had taken the man’s hand, but told him, “As I said to Inspector Montgomery, nothing I did back then was on your behalf. My concern was that the focus on you took the spotlight off the larger issue. I can’t say I believed you were innocent.”

Surprising Ford, Cole had said, “I wasn’t. Just not guilty of what I was on trial for.”

When Lowry came he found Montgomery and Cole already seated in Ford’s office. Lowry’s face had reddened and he’d demanded they leave.

“My office,” Ford had said. “My garden. My guests.”

*

The garden on this dark night was a jumble of odd shapes and strange shadows moving restlessly in a rising breeze. The sky had been clouding up all day, and by now it hung thick and low, obscuring the moon. A thin rain started. Cars plowed by on the avenue, their headlights sweeping the plants and pathways, changing the patterns.

Watching out the window, Ford noticed how big the abelia had become and how surprisingly well the crape myrtle against the wall had taken root. He found himself wondering how long it was since he’d sat in the garden. When was the last time he’d walked through just to see the new spring shoots, to admire the summer’s abundance? When had he last pulled a weed or two? He visited to compliment the second graders on their vegetable patch, to attend a senior’s meeting, to sit with a pregnant fifteen-year-old under the grape arbor and tell her somehow, someway, things would be all right. But he always had a meeting to get to, a proposal to write.

In his head he sorted through next week’s calendar, and the week after, wondering— if this crazy scheme worked and he was still in charge here by the end of next week— whether he could cut back a little. Choose a plot near the back and turn over some earth himself. He was imagining the heft of the shovel when Lowry swung his feet to the floor.

Montgomery’s back straightened. Cole didn’t move but Ford felt him tighten.

A figure had appeared at the locked garden gate.

It stood a moment, working with the lock and chain; then it creaked the gate open and slipped through, re-draping the chain to look, from the street, as though it hadn’t been cut.

“Son of a bitch,” Lowry said softly. “What the hell?”

“It’s not Glybenhall,” Montgomery whispered.

“He was never going to come himself.” Now Cole pushed off the wall. “Whoever this is, when he’s trapped he’ll talk.”

In the rainy darkness the shadow was indistinct, but Ford saw that Montgomery was right: it was shorter and wider than Glybenhall would have been. It seemed familiar, something about the way it moved, but in this light that played tricks it was impossible to be sure. They watched the shadow inch along a path and vanish behind shrubs.

“Fuck,” said Lowry. “I do not fucking believe this.” Another motionless moment, and then he started across the room. “You three! Do not come outside until I give you the all-clear. Do not fuck this up for me.” Gun in hand, he eased open the door and stepped into the garden.