Frowning, Bridget glanced around the hotel room, then finally stared down at the burgundy carpet. “Oh God, Brad,” she murmured. “I wasn’t even thinking about that. I’m so sorry.”
He put his arm around her. “No, I should be apologizing to you. I keep thinking about what happened to you last night. If you weren’t helping me with this campaign, you wouldn’t have these creeps coming up to your house, peeking in your windows at three o’clock in the morning.”
Brad hugged her, and she held on to him for a moment. Then the phone rang again.
Sighing, Brad got to his feet, went to the door, and called in Shelley, Chad, and Claudio from the hotel’s hallway. Within a few moments, the hospitality suite was under siege again—with phones ringing, people talking over one another, and hotel staff and campaign volunteers going in and out. Then someone let in a few reporters and photographers. “It’s hold-on-to-your-purse time,” Bridget whispered to her assistant. That was their private, not-so-funny joke, referring to a similar scene weeks ago in another crowded hospitality room, where Shelley’s purse had been stolen.
“No kidding,” Shelley replied, under her breath. She had her purse tucked under her arm. “It’s like the ship-cabin scene in that Marx Brothers movie. All that’s missing is the maid and the manicurist.”
Camera flashes were going off. Someone thrust a microphone in front of Bridget’s face. “When you were just kids together, Bridget, did you ever think your brother would grow up to run for senator?” a perky blond reporter asked.
“Oh, as far back as grade school, I figured he was headed for great things,” Bridget responded, putting on a smile. “Brad was always very popular—with everyone. He was president of this and that, captain of practically every team. Even our teachers adored him. I lost track of how many times my teachers asked me, ‘Why can’t you be more like your brother?’ If Brad wasn’t such a wonderful guy, I’d have hated him.”
“And Brad was there for you when your husband left you, wasn’t he?” the reporter asked.
“Um, yes, he was.” Bridget managed to keep smiling. She didn’t want to go into details with this reporter about her marriage failing. Bridget nervously glanced around the crowded room, and hoped the woman would change her line of questioning.
Among all the people, she saw a man standing against the wall—near the doorway. He stared back at her. It was the black-haired man from Olivia’s wake.
The reporter was asking her another question, but Bridget didn’t hear it. She’d locked eyes with the man across the room. He smiled a bit—that too-familiar smile. A chill rushed through Bridget.
Had he been the one peeking into her window at three o’clock this morning? Did he have the same little smile on his handsome face when he was watching her then?
“Bridget?” the reporter was saying. “Ms. Corrigan?”
A camera flash went off, blinding her for a moment.
She rubbed her eyes, then glanced toward the door again. He wasn’t there.
“Are you all right, Ms. Corrigan?” the reporter asked.
Bridget got to her feet, then anxiously glanced around the room. At least twenty people filled the hospitality suite. The black-haired man was no longer among them.
By the darkroom’s faint red light, he studied the sheet of Kodak paper in the pan full of solution. The image of Bridget Corrigan’s face slowly emerged on the white paper.
He’d taken several candid shots of her in the hospitality room, and a dozen more during the luncheon speech. She’d translated Brad Corrigan’s words for the Spanish-speaking attendees, which made up less than 5 percent of this audience. In fact, most of the Spanish-speaking people in the room were on the wait staff. He’d found himself a nice shadowy spot, an alcove near the waiter’s bus station, where he watched the proceedings. He used his telephoto lens to get a good look at her.
Bridget Corrigan seemed uncharacteristically edgy and distracted. She even flubbed a Spanish phrase while translating. He knew, because a couple of busboys laughed quietly, and he asked them why. She kept looking out at the audience, her eyes shifting from side to side.
He had a feeling she was searching for him in the crowd—and the notion amused him.
He took the photograph out of the developing solution, then set it beside the others he’d taken of her today. They were damn good—even better than the snapshot he’d stolen from her dresser mirror while she and her brats were at her brother’s house last night.
Sweeping aside a heavy black curtain that blocked out any accidental light, he opened the darkroom door. He’d left the television on in his studio. They were broadcasting the local news. On his way to the refrigerator, he passed by several of his paintings, his postmortem portraits.
On TV, they were talking about the election: “. . . the latest polls show Corrigan now in a slim lead with forty-three percent of the votes. But Foley isn’t far behind with forty-one percent, and sixteen percent still undecided. Brad Corrigan spoke at a party luncheon today at the downtown Portland Red Lion . . .”
The artist loaded a glass with ice, then poured himself some scotch.
“KJLU’s Paula Dwoskin spoke with the candidate’s sister . . .”
He heard her voice and turned toward the TV.
“Oh, I think my brother will win,” Bridget Corrigan was telling a reporter at the luncheon.
The artist raised his glass of scotch as if to toast her.
“I have to think my brother will win,” she continued. “Otherwise, I’m very afraid about what’s going to happen to this state—to our middle- and lower-income families, our environment, the education of our children, our safety, and our basic human rights.”
She looked amazingly pretty—considering she’d been up all night. He touched his TV screen, caressing her cheek.
“When I think about what’s at stake,” Bridget Corrigan said, “I get very scared.”
At five o’clock on a Thursday morning in early October, twenty-nine-year-old Loreen Demme’s alarm clock went off. She wasn’t accustomed to getting up this early in the morning. But she had promised a friend that she would pick her up at the airport. The flight was due in at 6:10. Loreen crawled out of bed, then put some water on to boil for coffee. She headed back toward the bathroom to brush her teeth, but as she passed by the bedroom, she saw the unmade bed. She was cold and half-asleep, and couldn’t resist just another minute under the covers. One more minute. She wouldn’t nod off. And even if she did, the kettle whistle would wake her up. Wouldn’t it?
It didn’t.
Loreen Demme and two of her neighbors died in the fire. Eleven other neighbors were rushed to the hospital with burns and smoke inhalation. Loreen lived on the second floor of a five-story apartment building. The fire destroyed over half of the El Teresa Apartments’ seventy units, occupied mostly by low-income families. One hundred and ninety-three people were suddenly homeless. Many of them were among Portland’s Spanish-speaking populace.
“Brad wants you to drop everything this afternoon,” Shelley said, leaning against Bridget’s office doorway.
The Corrigan-for-Oregon headquarters used to be a Honda dealership. Two dozen desks for volunteers occupied what was once the automobile showroom. Bridget had one of eight salesmen’s offices—with windows looking out to the main room.
CORRIGAN FOR OREGON
posters and banners were on display everywhere—especially in the huge parking lot outside.
Bridget’s office had an old, beat-up metal desk, a brandnew computer, a framed photo of David and Eric, a philodendron plant, and room for little else. But she loved it.
She looked up from her computer. “What’s going on?”
“You know that apartment building fire this morning?” Shelley asked, folding her arms.
Bridget nodded. “The El Teresa.”
“The gym-cafeteria at Sacred Heart Grade School has been set up as a temporary shelter. They have clothes, cots, blankets, and food for about a hundred people, a lot of them families. A lot of them do not
hable inglés
—if I’m saying that right. They need volunteers to fix sandwiches and serve up dinner this afternoon. Your brother wants to volunteer you.”
“Well, bless his heart,” Bridget said dryly.
“Brad said he or Janice could pick up the boys from school. Meanwhile, he’s trying to round up a camera crew to go over to Sacred Heart . . .” Shelley trailed off as one of the volunteers, Wes Linderman, passed behind her.
Wes was in his early twenties with straight, pale blond hair and the tall, broad-shouldered build of a basketball player. He was also a spy for Jim Foley. Bridget and Shelley had figured him out early in the campaign, but after consulting with Brad, they’d decided to keep him on. They didn’t want any more “volunteers” like Wes infiltrating campaign headquarters. They fed Wes just enough correct—harmless—information to keep Foley happy. And every once in a while, when they wanted to totally mislead Foley about a strategy, Shelley, Bridget, or someone else in-the-know would share with Wes some misinformation in the form of gossip. It worked like a charm. Bridget didn’t like having a Foley spy always wandering around just outside her little office, but at least they had control over the situation.
“Hi, Wes!” Shelley called over her shoulder.
“Oh, hi,” he said, lumbering toward his desk.
“My, what big ears you have,” Shelley muttered under her breath. She stepped inside Bridget’s office and shut the door behind her. “Anyway, Jay Corby is trying to round up a camera crew to go over to Sacred Heart School with you.”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “If Jay wants to send a crew over there to film me volunteering, I guess I can live with that. But I won’t
arrive
there with them, that’s just plain obnoxious. I know where Sacred Heart School is. Do me a favor and find out what time they want the volunteers to come by.”
“Will do,” Shelley said. She glanced out Bridget’s office window—toward the main room full of volunteers. “Hmmm, our pal Wes is at his desk and on the phone already. I’ll bet he’s telling someone at Foley HQ where you’ll be this afternoon. It’s a good photo op. Foley would be a fool to pass it up. Huh. You might just get to serve up some supper with Jim Foley.”
A short, copper-haired dynamo of a woman named Roseann was in charge of fixing dinner for the one hundred recently homeless people. The fifty-something woman made Bridget feel welcome, then immediately got her an apron and put her to work, fixing ham and cheese sandwiches in Sacred Heart School’s kitchen. When the camera crew arrived, Roseann didn’t make a fuss. Bridget insisted Roseann and the other volunteers pose with her in still shots. Later, Bridget also insisted the crew put their cameras in the coach’s office, and help set up tables in the gym.
They broke out the cameras again while Bridget served up the chicken noodle soup. The line for food wound around the gym. It slowed down at her spot, because some people recognized her and wanted to talk. She was also one of the few volunteers who spoke Spanish, so people often stopped to ask her about the food—or about the bathroom and sleeping facilities. Bridget did her best to answer their questions and keep the line moving.
She had served about forty people when Jim Foley showed up—with his own camera crew and a couple of guys in business suits. Foley was dressed in a denim shirt and jeans. He had his sleeves rolled up, ready to go to work. Apparently, Wes had gotten through to Foley headquarters.
Roseann was too busy trying to get the dinner served. So Foley stood around for about fifteen minutes—getting in the way while he discussed something with the two business-types. At one point, they flagged down Roseann and consulted with her.
She broke away and made a beeline to Bridget. “Can you believe it?” she muttered. “They want us to move the entire food table to the other end of the gym, because the lighting is better over there. He’ll
photograph
better over there.”
“What did you say?” Bridget whispered, filling another soup bowl.
“I told the son of a bitch to shut up, put on an apron, and hand out sandwiches—or get the hell out of here.”
Five minutes later, Jim Foley, wearing a chef’s apron, was standing beside Bridget, giving out ham sandwiches. It was Bridget’s first meeting with Foley. She said hello.
He gave her a brief, patronizing smile. “Well, well, we have someone from the Corrigan camp here too,” he said. “Isn’t that nice? Brad sent his sister over. Good to see you.”
Then he tried his charm on the newly homeless. “Hi, Jim Foley, nice to see you,” he’d say, giving some tired, despondent person a wrapped sandwich. Or: “Hi, Jim Foley, God bless,” and, “Hi, Jim Foley, I’m saying a prayer for you tonight.” All the while, flashbulbs popped and video cameras rolled.
Bridget was in no position to criticize. She had a camera crew too. But they hadn’t pushed people aside to get a good shot. And they’d been there for two and a half hours.
“Hi, Jim Foley. Here you go. God bless.”
The plump young Latino woman with the pretty face had two toddlers at her side. She didn’t accept the sandwich he offered. She looked so exhausted, and scared.
“¿Tiene mostaza este sandwich?”
she asked timidly.