The woman looked shocked, but then she had an idea.
“I’ll tell you what.
You take me with you, I’ll rat Wendell out.” LuAnne revealed that the man in the picture had talked to Wendell earlier that day. He’d paid the biker to start a fight if Blair and Evan came into Dingle’s looking for him. Gave him five hundred dollars to beat up—but not kill—the two men.
Evan Cade and Blair McCray looked at each other.
That wasn’t all, the biker mama continued. The man in the picture had cut his hair short and shaved, so he looked like a citizen now, and she’d seen him the other day up in Carbondale.
Deena told EuAnne to get on the back of her Harley, and as soon as she complied Deena roared off without telling Evan and Blair where she was going.
Forgot all about her promise to escort them to the highway. The two men didn’t linger. They drove away from the biker bar as fast as the pickup could go, but they couldn’t catch Deena.
Blair McCray glanced back at the bar to see if anyone was taking up the chase.
“Nobody,” he said.
“Good,” Evan responded, holding a hand to his head.
Blair gently probed his own battered face. Then he said, “That fat jailbird biker fuck is called Wendell and he’s making fun of my name?”
Evan offered no reply and the rest of the trip back to Carbondale was made in silence.
All the houses on Lark Lane were dark when Blair McCray pulled up in front of Belle Cade’s home. He turned on the pickup’s dome light and looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror, delicately massaging his swollen nose.
“I might not’ve been Mel Gibson, but my wife always liked the way I looked. What’s she going to think of me now?”
“Maybe you ought to go home to her,” Evan suggested in a woozy voice.
“Just as soon as I find out what happened to Ivar,” Blair responded flatly.
“Still think I did it?”
“I’m keeping an open mind.”
“I saved your ass tonight.”
“You also proved you’re a lot tougher—and meaner—than you look.”
“Only when provoked,” Evan informed him.
“So who’s to say Ivar didn’t provoke you?”
Evan had no answer for that. He gave Blair a bleak look and stepped out of the truck. Misjudging the curb, he promptly lost his balance and almost fell.
“Hey, you okay?” Blair asked.
“What the hell do you care?”
“Maybe I better run you over to the hospital and get you checked out.”
“Forget it. You still think I might’ve killed your cousin. I’ll get my grandmother to take me.” Evan started toward the house, his steps unsteady, still talking but more to himself than Blair.
“Maybe I’ll take my dad’s advice. Go home to California. Sit in the sun. Surf a little.”
Evan bent his knees and held out his arms as if riding a wave. Then he collapsed face first onto his grandmother’s lawn. Blair jumped out of his truck and ran over to him. He was about to pick up Evan and take him to the hospital when he saw lights go on in Belle Cade’s house.
“Oh, Jesus,” he muttered.
“Don’t let that old lady come out with her shotgun now.”
J. D. had been able to fall asleep when he got back to the Refuge, but he woke up early. He’d just finished his shower when he heard the newspaper land outside his front door. He toweled himself off, slipped into a pair of gym shorts, and stepped outside to pick it up.
He went into the kitchen, started a pot of coffee, and turned on the radio to KFWB, an all-news station. He sat at the kitchen table and quickly leafed through the paper. It didn’t surprise him that the rock slide on PCH wasn’t covered; it wouldn’t have been discovered until after deadline. What pleased him was that the paper also failed to report any new developments in the hunt for the man who had shot at Senator Raw-ley in Chicago.
Nor was there any mention of the suspected shooter in Denver.
He was at the counter pouring a cup of coffee when the radio station broadcast the story of a blockage on the coast highway. He turned up the volume.
“A large rock slide closed PCH last night opposite a scenic overlook between Malibu and Point Mugu. Although no temblors of any significance were reported in the area, authorities say a very large volume of earth was displaced and several massive boulders rolled down onto the roadway. One of the boulders struck a passing vehicle.”
The minders or the Mexicans? J. D. leaned in close to the radio.
“Fortunately, it crushed only the back end of the car, and the two men inside, who declined to be identified, were shaken up but unhurt. Crews from CalTrans are busy removing the debris and—” J. D. snapped off the radio. Sonofabitch. Those crewcut bastards had escaped.
He was surprised they hadn’t come after him already.
Just then his doorbell rang.
On the opposite side of the country, the Gardener received word of recent events directly from Harold the Toad. First he heard of Roth and Danby’s miraculous survival, and then he was informed that Evan Cade was in the hospital with a concussion.
The Gardener looked grim.
“Do you have any doubt Cade caused the landslide, Harold?”
“No, sir.”
“Which means that Cade has identified Roth and Danby.”
“He’s spotted them somehow. He shouldn’t know anything beyond that.”
The Gardener’s baleful look said he wasn’t nearly so optimistic.
“This isn’t good, Harold,” he told the Toad.
“Farrel panicking in Illinois and having Evan Cade attacked was a serious mistake. That boy is our primary leverage. We lose him and the entire situation could come undone.”
“Cade is already using lethal force,” the Toad pointed out.
“Yes, but he’s still in the best position to do what we want.”
“One of the things we want, sir,” the Toad reminded the Gardener, “is for Cade to die after he kills Rawley. Right now it appears Roth and Danby are in greater danger.”
The Gardener shook his head in disgust.
“Farrel, Roth, and Danby: They’re all critical to the plan, but… It’s just too bad I don’t have more like you, Harold.”
“Make a jet available to me, sir, and I should be able to handle both ends of the situation.”
“You are a comfort, Harold. Keep a bag packed.” The Gardener paused for a moment’s reflection. Then he said, “If Mr. Cade thinks he’s making us jump, let’s remind him who holds the whip hand.”
As J. D. approached his front door, he had a moment of real regret that he’d thrown Pickpocket’s Glock into the ocean. He just hoped he didn’t get shot through his front door. But when he took a quick look out the peephole he saw Jenny Crenshaw on the other side.
Holding nothing more lethal than a black leather notebook and a large white paper bag.
He opened the door. From the look on her face, she had expected to find him wearing more than gym shorts. But he noticed that didn’t stop her from quickly checking him out.
“I was worried that I might wake you,” she said.
“I haven’t, have I?”
J. D. shook his head.
“I’m awake but unshaved. Would you like to come in?”
She nodded and stepped inside. J. D. closed the door behind them.
Holding up the white bag, she said, “Breakfast.”
J. D. offered his thanks.
“Would you like to eat by the pool?”
“When in California… ,” she responded.
He led her through the house and out to the table next to the pool.
“This is very nice,” she said.
“Thank you. I take it you dropped by so early because you have news.”
Jenny nodded and smiled.
“Great news. I’ve been up all night, dying to tell somebody for hours.”
“Can it wait just a bit longer? Let me slip into a T-shirt?”
Jenny acquiesced graciously. J. D. went inside and when he came back out he was wearing not only a shirt but also pair of walking shorts. Jenny had laid out an assortment of rolls and had brought silverware and two glasses for orange juice from the kitchen.
J. D. sat down, helped himself to a pastry, and asked casually, “Good news?”
“Del’s back in the race.”
J. D. was cutting a cinnamon roll in half to share with Jenny when she told him. He kept his face down, the better to hide his expression.
“I’m just so glad Del didn’t decide to drop out,” Jenny continued.
“It would have been such a letdown for so many people.”
J. D. hated the news, had to force himself to refrain from grinding his teeth, but when he looked up he had his public mask back in place. He handed Jenny half of the roll.
“I just had to share the news with someone,” she added, “and I picked you.”
Which J. D. could see only as Fate mocking him. Telling him he’d find no easy way out of his trap.
“I’m flattered,” he said.
Jenny smiled and then yawned so widely she needed two hands to cover it.
“Excuse me.”
J. D. said, “I have that effect on women: “Not tonight, dear, I’m exhausted
” “Uh-huh. Tell me another one. No, don’t. I’ve got to tell you my idea and then get back to my hotel for a few hours of sleep. Del’s holding a press conference this afternoon announcing his intention to stay in the race.”
“He’s coming back to town?”
Of course he was, J. D. thought. No need to have asked, really. Couldn’t have a tragedy without all the dramatis personae following their charted courses.
“He’s on his way,” Jenny said.
“Now please, before I pass out, just listen.”
She explained how Del had refused to make an issue out of the incumbent’s lack of military service, and even after the smear attempt on him, she didn’t expect him to change that, not directly. But she thought she had a little more wiggle room these days to make the point indirectly.
“I want you and Donnel Timmons to travel with Del. Sometimes you’ll speak to the same audiences he does. Other times you’ll speak to different groups but in the same town where Del will be speaking. This will elevate your standing in the public eye, and one salient point the media is bound to pick up on will be—” “That, black or white, American vets support Del Rawley,” J. D. finished.
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”
J. D. knew he had to be careful here. His real feelings were beginning to seep out.
“I guess it’s sound strategy… but there’s still the matter of Special Agent DeVito
Jenny’s energy had all but dissipated until she heard DeVito name. Then an indignant anger reinvigorated her.
“Don’t worry about him. I’ll take care of Special Agent DeVito
J. D. asked mildly, “Is it really worth the aggravation?”
“I’m going to get Del Rawley elected,” she told him.
“And I could use your help.”
He bit his lip, thinking with black humor that it would be the supreme irony if Senator Franklin Delano Rawley actually needed the help of J. D. Cade to get elected. That his campaign would fail without it. But in the end J. D. shrugged and announced his only real choice.
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
“You’ll be at the news conference this afternoon?”
“Sure,” he said, and produced what he hoped was a team-spirit grin.
Jenny reached out and affectionately put a hand over one of his.
“Thanks. This means a lot to me.” She pushed back from the table and stood up.
“Now I’ve got to get back to my hotel and get a few hours’ sleep.”
“You drove here?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me call a cab or offer you a guest room. Wouldn’t do to have the candidate get back in the race, then have his campaign manager fall asleep at the wheel.”
Jenny considered her options.
“Does the guest room have an alarm clock?”
J. D. said it did.
“I’ll stay here.”
J. D. turned off the phones so Jenny’s sleep wouldn’t be disturbed.
As a token of gratitude, Jenny took J. D. to lunch at the Chaya Brasserie on Alden Drive. Unlike their visit to the nearby Ivy Cafe, they were seated and served without fanfare. Their waitress gave them a bright smile, but no brighter than she gave anyone else.
“You don’t mind not being recognized and fawned upon?” J. D. asked.
“I like my privacy when I can get it,” Jenny told him.
“I’m willing to sacrifice it, though, in order to get what I want. Take a quick look around and tell me what you see.”
J. D. didn’t know what to expect but followed orders. He didn’t see anyone famous. He didn’t see the FBI or Secret Service swooping down on him.
He simply saw a room filled with smartly dressed people… who were wearing FDR buttons. Not all of them, but a lot.
He turned back to Jenny. She was smiling, knowing he’d caught her drift.
“That’s why I work through the night. That’s why I’m willing to sacrifice my privacy when need be. How many people did you see wearing buttons for the incumbent? No, don’t look, I’ll tell you. Eight.”
“Your man wins, hands down,” J. D. told her.
“Oh, the race is a lot closer than that. This part of L.A. is one of Del’s strongholds, but it’s nice to see the faithful making a public statement. It means they’re likely to spread the word to family and friends, and word of mouth is still the most powerful selling tool there is.”
“It doesn’t bother you, the idea that candidates have to be sold to the voters?”
Jenny shook her head.
“I hope it doesn’t bother you, either. Because that’s what I’m asking you to do. Sell Franklin Delano Rawley to the electorate.
Sell the hell out of him.”
Jenny’s aims conflicted so directly with his own that J. D. couldn’t keep a frown off his face. Fortunately for him, she misinterpreted his feelings.
“Look,” Jenny said, “I know the nitty-gritty of politics bothers most people, but try to think of it like this: Del is selling his vision of what the country should be and how hard he’ll be willing to work to achieve that vision, and the people will pay for what he’s selling with the currency of their faith, their trust, and their votes. That’s the deal, and I don’t see anything wrong with it.”
J. D. knew he’d been lucky just now, but he reminded himself that he had a smart woman sitting not three feet from him, watching him closely. If he kept letting his real feelings show, she’d start to see through him. He had to focus on what she was thinking.