The Committee (18 page)

Tony's office was more of the same—stark, beige with few furnishings. He took the seat of power behind the desk and motioned for Gideon to sit in one of the two chairs positioned in front.

“I really only have a few minutes,” Tony said, minus the charm, “so let's get right to it.”

“Yes, of course.” Gideon decided to waste no time bringing out the big gun. “Are you familiar with Michael Kenigrant of KeyCorp Development?”

“Yes,” Tony replied cautiously.

“Of course you are. The city has bought a number of properties from him. Is that correct?”

“Correct.”

“Now help me understand something. I can't find any public records showing Michael Kenigrant exists. Birth certificate, driver's license, passport, school records . . . nothing. It's an unusual name, and, I tell you, Tony, I'm stumped. Can you explain that to me?”

Tony's face showed he now realized his original suspicions about Gideon were accurate. Why else would a national reporter with a reputation for investigating scandals show up unannounced on city hall's doorstep?

Tony leaned forward. “What is this
really
about, Mr. Truman?” he asked.

“By your reaction, I think you know what it's about.”

“No, I'm sorry, I don't.”

Gideon decided to take the risk of showing his hand early. Tony's inability to hide his emotions reduced it to a calculated risk.

“This is about Sheridan Hardaway. He's Michael Kenigrant, isn't he?”

Gideon estimated Tony blinked his eyes eight times in four seconds.
Poor guy should never play poker,
he thought.

Tony stood from the desk and said, “I don't know what you're talking about. This interview is over. Now if you will excuse me, I really am very busy.”

“Does Camille know?” Gideon pressed hoping for more involuntary responses from Tony's eyes. “Either you can tell me, or she can because I am going to ask her.”

“You are terribly mistaken, Mr. Truman. Now please leave.”

“Is the land in Playa del Rey going to be the next deal? Is that why Mayor Hardaway wants to build the new stadium, because she and Sheridan stand to make millions?”

“If you don't leave right now, I will have my assistant call the police.”

“Police?” Gideon laughed. “I think the last people you want to come in here are the police.”

Tony walked aggressively around the desk and stood over Gideon.

“You really should talk to a doctor about that nervous eye twitch,” Gideon said as he stood. “It could be a sign something else is going terribly wrong and,” he added, “in this case, I think that may be the case.”

Gideon took an aggressive step forward. “You've answered all my questions, Tony. Please tell Mayor Hardaway I'll be in touch.”

“Juliette,
mon chéri,
do not for one moment believe I support the institution. It is an abomination before God, and I am sure our children and our children's children will pay the price for our shameless inhumanity. But what you propose is madness. How can I . . .” he paused as the candle sputtered and sparked, then burst into a robust flame.

 

 

Camille placed the leather box in her lap and avoided eye contact with Gillette. She could almost smell Sheridan's cologne as she held the case and heard his voice softly saying, “I love you, baby.” He made love to her body like no man before. He ran her bath after a day of being battered and bruised in her rough-and-tumble world. Yes, it began as a marriage of convenience; a pretty face behind the powerful woman, a prop on the stage of her life. But, somewhere along the way, she fell in love.

Somewhere between
“I do,”
and
“I don't know what I would do without you,”
her pragmatic plan morphed into passion and pleasure. But was it enough to forego access to the top office in the country? Was the ecstasy satisfying enough to sustain her in the days to come when remorse would surely haunt her? Would his tender kisses, at just the right spot on the nape of her neck, provide adequate comfort when regret came to call?

The answer to all the questions was clearly no, but Camille couldn't bring herself to cross that line. She needed him much more than even she had realized. Could she do it alone again? Who would stroke her hair on lonely nights? Who would tell her, just at the point of defeat, “Fuck'em all, baby, you can do it without them”?

But the betrayal and deceit, could she ever forgive that? The lies remained lodged in her back like poisoned daggers as she sat in front of the silent Gillette Lemaitre. How could the man who gave her so much pleasure serve an even greater portion of pain? He removed a piece of her heart with surgical precision and fed it to her daily, masked by the sweet tastes of honey and wine.

Camille guided herself systematically toward the inevitable conclusion. No, the ecstasy was not sufficient. Her neck would have to sacrifice the warmth of his kiss. She would have to remind herself to, “fuck them all,” and no, forgiveness was
not
an option.

Camille lifted the case from her lap and handed it to Gillette.

“Are you sure?” Gillette asked softly.

“Yes,” Camille said, tentatively considering the need to revisit the question. Her answer came quickly. “Yes, I'm sure,” this time with more conviction.

“Then come with me.”

Gillette placed the contents of the box on the dining-room table, along with the candle. A spray of sparks burst from the unlit wick each time she removed an item from the box. Louie looked on attentively from his perch, his head turning curiously from side to side. The room was almost completely dark as dusk arrived unannounced.

“Sit there,” Gillette said, pointing to the chair at the opposite end of the table. “This time we're going to do it together.”

Camille tensed at the notion. “I can't,” she said softly.

“That was not a request, my dear. Sit down,” Gillette said firmly.

Camille pulled the wooden chair from the table, causing the legs to screech against the hardwood floor.

The first item was a little round pillbox with a hinged top. Gillette opened it and saw a jumble of black hair clippings. “Excellent,” she said. “This will do perfectly.”

Camille asked Sheridan repeatedly to clean the sink whenever he shaved the beard he occasionally grew. “Honey,” she called out to him on numerous mornings, “please clean the sink after you shave. There's hair everywhere.”

“Let the maid do it. Give her something to complain about.”

On this particular morning, Camille functioned as the maid and swept the coarse black hairs into the little pillbox and placed it into the leather case.

Gillette then removed a folded card made of roughhewn paper from the box. The edges were jagged, and the surface was a porous sandy brown with specks of lavender and rose peddles.

“My Dearest Camille,”
the card read.
“As a great poet once said, you are the sunshine of my life. That's why I'll always be around. You have made me the happiest man in the world by agreeing to be my wife. I will love and protect you until the day I die.”

 

The last was a photograph Camille took of Sheridan on a trip to the Bahamas. The shirtless man stood proudly in the sand with the powder-blue water of Gold Rock Beach in the background. It was only last year the couple walked barefoot and hand-in-hand along the secluded shore, bathed in a shower of warmth and light, not another soul was in sight.

“We should move here when we retire,” Sheridan said with the water lapping at their feet. “Just you and me. We'll live in a little shack right on the beach and eat lobster fresh from the ocean every day.”

Was it then she fell in love with Sheridan? She would never leave the United States, and shellfish made her break out in hives. Living in a shack wasn't included in her life's master plan. But the idea he would suggest doing all those things with her, so many years in the future, served to remove yet another brick from the wall built around her heart.

Gillette passed Camille a box of wooden matches. “I want you to picture Sheridan in your mind,” she instructed.

Camille closed her eyes.

“Do you see him?”

“Yes,”

“Good. Now, light the candle.”

Camille opened the matchbox and removed a single spindly stick.