Shadow Image (13 page)

“Not till you fill me in,” she said.

“On what?”

“What was I missing in there?”

Christensen didn't know if his hunch was right, but the unassembled pieces of Floss Underhill's life had started to fit together as he watched Doti's guarded reactions. He again considered Floss's suggestive description of Doti, her apparent fascination with the ranch where he now worked, and the winged horse he wore around his neck, as well as the behavior of a man who acted as if he had a secret.

“A possibility,” he said. “Just a theory.”

“Spill.” She revved the engine again, seemingly oblivious to the heat inside the car. Christensen's shirt already was stuck to his back, and his armpits were damp.

“I'm just thinking back to Vincent Underhill's years as governor. Remember the big deal about Floss staying in Pittsburgh?”

Pearson eased the three-on-the-tree gearshift into reverse and let out the clutch. The mighty Special began to move. It bumped through a rut and rolled into the middle of the dirt lot. “Didn't she hate Harrisburg?”

“He served two terms,” Christensen said. “Think about that. Eight years they lived apart.” Dust swirled around the car in a billowing cloud as she stopped and shifted into first. Christensen did the subtraction in his head. “She was probably in her late-thirties.”

“So?”

“Still competing, from what I can tell.”

Pearson looked exasperated. “So?”

If he said it out loud, would it sound ridiculous? “So maybe Warren Doti was the real reason she wanted to stay home.”

Pearson leered. “Lovers?”

“Who knows? They were grown-ups. They must have spent a lot of time together training and competing. Things happen.” He glanced over to gauge her reaction.

Pearson shrugged as she eased the clutch out. The car groaned forward. “Interesting.”

Christensen looked back a last time through the thinning brown cloud, startled to see a tall figure in denim standing at the edge of the parking lot. Warren Doti jotted something on a piece of paper as he watched their car recede. They were half a mile down the road before Pearson gave the clear signal, and they both cranked open their windows and gulped cool air like swimmers too long underwater.

On her previous visits, she'd found the gate stately and secure, a privacy measure she expected from a family of the Underhills' stature. This time, though, she noticed something she hadn't before. In a maple tree just beyond the gate, about halfway up, a video camera mounted beneath a small, shingled shelter swept back and forth across the mouth of the driveway. Another just like it was hidden behind the antique lantern atop the gate's left brick pillar. It was aimed directly at her, or at any driver who stopped in this particular spot. In her rearview mirror, she saw another mounted in a tree across the street, presumably documenting the license plate of any car that approached. It bordered on Nixonian.

If she didn't approach the intercom, just sat there, how long would it take for someone on the other side of the cameras to do something about it? Would they simply offer a crackling, amplified greeting through hidden speakers? Or dispatch Alton Staggers or some other emissary to find out what she was doing there? She wanted to wait, just to see. On the other hand, these didn't seem like the kind of people who enjoyed playing games.

Brenna opened her car door and stepped out, smiling at the pillar-mounted camera about five feet above her head. She blew it a kiss, then pressed the glowing button on the intercom. “Hello?”

The answer came immediately. “Welcome back, Ms. Kennedy.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Staggers.”

“Thanks for your affectation.”

Brenna tilted her head, trying to decipher. After a few seconds of confused silence, he reminded: “The kiss you blew.”

“So those cameras aren't just for show?” she said.

Staggers either didn't hear or ignored the question. “Did I somehow faux pas? I don't have you on today's visitor list.”

“No.” She resisted the urge to speak directly to the maple-mounted camera. “I was out this way and thought I'd stop by. Is the governor in?”

Staggers laughed. “Past or future?”

Before she could answer, the heavy lock on the massive gate buzzed and sprang. In silence, the gate swung slowly open. “Thank you,” she said, waving to the pillar-cam as she climbed back into the car.

Brenna had come for one reason, though she intended to disguise her mission among a number of other fact-gathering chores: She wasn't leaving until she talked to Enrique Chembergo. Staggers and the Underhills had thwarted her attempts to interview the man who said he heard Floss Underhill struggling on the gazebo deck just before she fell. “You don't
have
to defend these people, Bren,” Jim had said the night before. “Are you sure they're being straight with you?”

Vincent Underhill met her at the top of the drive, directing her into a parking spot to the right, standing in almost the exact spot where his son, Ford, had greeted her on the first day she was summoned here. The men seemed to think it a courtesy; she thought it a little weird. She parked next to Staggers's Thunderbird and quickly opened her door, just in case the former governor felt the need to do so. When she stepped out, he stepped forward with an outstretched hand.

“I like your brass, Ms. Kennedy,” he said. His hair glinted like polished silver.

“Sorry for dropping by without notice. I was out this—”

Underhill waved her off. “No, no. I'm talking about Myron Levin's little sneak attack the other morning. Liked the way you handled that. Very professional. Very savvy.”

The man, elected twice by landslides, was remembered not only for setting the state's standard for personal charisma, but for his skillful manipulation of the media. This was high praise indeed.

“Never let them see you sweat,” she said.

“Seriously, very nice job. I just wanted you to know how much we appreciate your work with us so far.”

Brenna closed the car door and pressed a button on her key chain. The Legend's door locks snapped shut.

“I think it'll be safe here,” he said, then winked.

She suddenly felt stupid. The Underhill estate was an electronic fortress in the middle of one of the world's safest communities. There weren't many places in the world where locking your car door seemed downright paranoid, but this was one. “Habit,” she said.

Underhill stepped aside to let her pass, motioning her toward the front door. “Now, to what good fortune do we owe this visit of yours?”

Brenna turned back toward Vincent Underhill, catching him with his eyes on her butt. He looked up without apparent remorse. “Loose ends,” she said.

“Oh?” Underhill seemed to weigh the comment for hidden meaning. “Such as?”

“I need information so we don't get blindsided, and I'm having trouble getting it.”

“Oh, my.”

He walked toward the house. Brenna fell in beside him. “There's a statement, on the record, and it's going to come back and bite us if we're not careful. Something you know Dagnolo or the Rosemond people are going to use if they can. They don't need much to float a rumor in public, something they think will do at least some damage. Unless we can shoot it down before it flies, it could become a problem this close to an election.”

Underhill opened the front door and held it open. Brenna stepped into the rustic foyer. The house seemed bigger and more comfortable each time she walked in.

“Frankly, I'm having a hell of a time getting what I need from your people,” she said. “Phil Raskin. Mr. Staggers.”

“The life-insurance paperwork,” he said. “Phil mentioned that. He hasn't pulled that for you yet?”

“He promised it, but I haven't been able to get hold of him.”

Underhill shook his head. “He's traveling with Ford, you know, crisscrossing the state, one last big push. Allentown, Bethlehem, and Easton yesterday. State College, Lewistown, and Altoona today, overnighting in Johnstown.” He sighed. “Some things about politics I don't miss at all.”

“I've been trying to get in touch with Enrique Chembergo all week as well. Mr. Staggers keeps saying—”

“You've got an interest in public service, Ms. Kennedy, from what I understand.” He looked around conspiratorially, then whispered: “I have highly placed sources in the Seventh Ward.”

Brenna studied his face. Was this a good thing, or a bad thing? Should she be happy her ambitions already were humming along the Democratic Party grapevine, or appalled that word of them traveled so far so fast? “I'm exploring some possibilities,” she said.

“City council.”

She felt herself flush. So much for her private conversation with the ward chairman earlier in the week.

“I've made you uncomfortable,” Underhill said. “I'm sorry.”

“No, no. I expressed an interest, and I guess I shouldn't be surprised that word got around. I'm a big girl.”

Underhill smiled. “Good news travels fast.”

He led her down the hall and into a stunning library across the hall from his study, into the rich scent of leather and old books. She set her briefcase next to an antique liquor cart loaded with crystal decanters, then sank into the cushioned embrace of a solid-oak mission chair.

“Are you set on the council?” he asked.

“How do you mean?”

The former governor poured two fingers of something dark and potent into a cut-crystal glass. He held the decanter up, offering to pour her one as well. Brenna shook her head. “Listening to pothole complaints and whining ward heelers gets pretty old after awhile,” he said. “Ever considered public service at a higher level?”

Maybe she should have taken that drink. “By ‘higher level,' ” she said cautiously, “you mean with the city?”

“The state,” Underhill said. “Harrisburg.”

Brenna met his gaze and held it. He seemed straightforward and sincere. “I'd like working on public policy at that level.”

“It's where people with vision can make a difference,” he said. “You can have a real impact there, make changes that improve people's lives. That appeals to you, does it?”

She nodded. “Of course. But I'm willing to start local.”

Underhill sipped and smiled. “You're playing by the rules, Ms. Kennedy. Rules are for small thinkers. Don't be afraid to rise to the level at which you can be most effective.”

“That's quite a compliment, governor. Thank you.”

Underhill swirled the amber liquid and tipped the glass into his mouth, swallowing with a rasp. “My son is building his transition team, Ms. Kennedy. He's going to need people with your kind of energy, your kind of brass. Is that the sort of thing you might be interested in?”

He said it so suddenly, so directly, she wasn't sure she heard him right. “In Harrisburg?”

“Senior staff, and right now it's wide open. Don't get me wrong, Ms. Kennedy, I'm not trying to run my son's show here. I've just been there. I know what Ford'll be up against. He's going to need someone who knows the players in this end of the state, knows the media, understands politics. I can't speak for him, of course, but we've talked generally about your skills. He's very impressed.”

“Public policy on that level—” Brenna struggled for words.

“Impact, Ms. Kennedy,” he said. “Impact. But I know it's never a simple choice. You have children, I know, and you're, ah, attached? It's Jim, isn't it?”

She nodded, trying to remember how much information about herself she'd divulged during their previous meeting. She didn't remember their conversations ever straying that far into her personal life.

“So the thought of uprooting is probably pretty unsettling.” He winked. “Can't say I blame you. Might make for a few interesting dinnertime conversations, though. Like I said, I've been there. But think about it generally, then maybe you and Ford can talk specifics after the election.”

Brenna stared. The man had just unearthed ambitions she had only begun to admit to herself. He'd somehow peeked into her soul, chosen one of her unspoken dreams, and presented it to her as a gift.

“Senior staff,” she managed, thinking about Jim, the new house, Taylor's dread of the unfamiliar.

“Ford's going to make things happen. I think you'd be a great addition.”

Brenna waited, wondering if Underhill's vague offer might get more explicit the longer she kept her mouth shut. But he said nothing. “Something to think about, for sure,” she said finally.

Underhill checked the gleaming Rolex on his wrist. “Now, I've promised my wife I'd get all my busy work done while she's at Harmony today. If I'm going to keep that promise, Ms. Kennedy, I need to get moving. Did you have something else?”

Brenna felt her brain engage. “Mr. Chembergo,” she said, “the gardener. I still need to talk to him about what he heard and saw out there on the deck the day your wife fell.”

Underhill forced a smile.

“So far Mr. Staggers hasn't been able to put me in touch with him,” she said. “Since he lives on the property, I stopped out to get that resolved. He made that statement to the investigators, remember, and we need to be ready for whatever Dagnolo throws at us.”

Underhill slowly lifted the crystal stopper from the cocktail cart and replaced it in the neck of the decanter. “Anticipating,” he said. “I like that. You can never be too ready when you're dealing with a thug like J. D. Dagnolo.”

“Exactly.”

Underhill picked up the handset of his sleek black desk phone and punched in two numbers. “The library,” was all he said before hanging up. Seconds later, Staggers followed his polite knock through the door. He greeted Brenna with a nod.

“Ms. Kennedy, I believe you've met Mr. Staggers,” Underhill said. “He's much more on top of the household staff changes than I am, so he's probably the person you need to be speaking with about Mr.—” His eyes shifted to Staggers.

“Chembergo,” Staggers volunteered.

“Changes?” Brenna said.

Underhill made a great show of checking his watch again, then moved toward the study door. “If I don't get upstairs, I'm liable to end up getting the Florence Underhill Glare. You
never
want to be on the receiving end of that. It'll melt the elastic in your socks.” He turned to Staggers. “You won't mind filling Ms. Kennedy in?”

“Of course not.”

“What changes?” Brenna said, but Underhill was already out the door in a flash of silver hair and the silent glide of Italian leather on carpet. She wheeled on the security man. “What changes?”

“An unanticipated transition in the household staff,” he said. “It happens.”

“The Chembergos?”

Staggers nodded.

Brenna dropped any pretense of civility. “I still need to talk to him.”

“Be my guest.” Staggers smiled, just enough to infuriate her. “Hope your passport's up to date.”

“Meaning? Where is he?”

Staggers twisted his pinkie ring, then examined his fingernails. He checked his wristwatch. “Guatemala City about now, I expect.”

The answer was as unexpected as it was implausible. Brenna opened her mouth, but all that came out was, “Where?”

“The sprawling capital city of the war-torn Republic of Guatemala, bordered on the east by the Caribbean, the west by the Pacific Ocean and—”

“Cut the geography lesson.”

“Impressive, no? I took this Conversational Knowledge of World Affairs seminar a couple of years ago. Picked up a lot of stuff like that. Ask me about Syria. I know Syria cold.”

Brenna picked up her briefcase and opened the study door.

“Okay, okay,” Staggers said. “The peculiars is what you want.”

“Particulars,” she corrected, setting the briefcase back down.

“Whatever.”

She waited, arms crossed, one foot telegraphing her impatience.

“INS,” he said. “Out of the blue. Wham! Suddenly they're real interested in Enrique and Selena's paperwork.” He shook his head. “Political campaigns are nasty, nasty.”