Trust Your Eyes (10 page)

There were stories. And puzzlement. Katherine was beautiful, and Geraldine had been a stunner as well. Why was it always the guys with gorgeous wives who ended up looking for something else?

Sawchuck never dignified the rumors with a response. He settled into an appropriate period of mourning, threw himself into his work as a prosecutor. He garnered a lot of attention, going after crooked union bosses, Russian mobsters, a gang of child pornographers. Of the last, Sawchuck reportedly said if he could find a way to get them strung up by their nuts in Times Square, he’d do it. Scored him points, although, according to one pundit, it would lose him the child pornographer vote.

Several death threats were made against him. He reportedly now carries a concealed weapon whenever he is out.

A couple of years after Geraldine’s death, he was spotted occasionally with a number of different, and very attractive, women. He got his picture in the papers at play openings, fund-raisers, political functions, usually with someone different on his arm each time. Some talking heads expressed concern that his eye for the ladies might, at some point, prove a political liability. Everyone admired a player, to a point, but players had too many secrets that could rise to the surface and embarrass them later. Like that old Italian president with his harem of strippers, although that guy, man, he made philandering an Olympic sport. Those same pundits said that before Sawchuck pursued his
ambitions for higher office, he’d have to settle down, or at least appear to.

And then came Bridget.

A onetime fashion model with jet black hair who stands five-ten in her stocking feet—she has a passing resemblance to Allison herself—she works for a prestigious public relations firm with offices in SoHo, London, Paris, and Hong Kong. She had organized an event to raise funds to build a kids’ baseball diamond in an underprivileged area—a favorite cause of the attorney general’s—and they appeared to hit it off from the get-go. A whirlwind courtship—as they say—followed, and before some kid who doesn’t have enough money for breakfast can run to first base, the two are engaged. Three months later, they’re married.

Sawchuck, Allison’s research finds, has powerful friends from across the political spectrum, but the majority of them are on the right. He knows two former vice presidents, one Republican, one Democrat, well enough to have them to dinner at his home whenever they’re in town.

Oh, and there’s something else that’s of particular interest to Allison. The dude is loaded.

Estimated worth falls into the “holy shit” category. Most of it inherited. You don’t make that kind of money working for the state, unless you are very,
very
dirty, and there’s nothing to suggest Morris Sawchuck is, even if his closest friend and adviser, Howard Talliman (nickname: Howard the Taliban) has been known to cut a few corners here and there. Morris’s father, Graham, had been a big-time real estate developer and owned a couple of dozen skyscrapers in Manhattan. Sawchuck inherited the business when his father died, which is now run at arm’s length to avoid any allegations of conflict of interest. Sawchuck doesn’t mind having property and more money than anyone like Allison can even imagine, but what he really craves is attention and influence and the high profile, and he’s found the best way to get it is
through the relentless pursuit of those who break the law. Everybody loves a crusader.

Allison jumps from Web page to Web page, finding more information about how much money Sawchuck has. Millions, for sure, if not billions.

It’s enough to make one’s head spin.

Looks like she might be able to get what she needs to pay back Courtney, and buy herself a new pair of Manolo Blahniks, too. Girl always needs new shoes.

SHE
paces the apartment for the better part of an hour, practicing what she’s going to say. She doesn’t want it to sound like out-and-out blackmail. What she’s really looking for is a loan. Except, unlike most loans, this would be one she gets to pay back on the installment plan. Payments stretched out over, say, the next couple of thousand years. So, okay, maybe it’s more like a gift she’s seeking. But is that such a big deal? All that money, how big a deal can it be to throw a few thousand her way? And Allison can return the favor. No doubt about it. Allison knows just the right way to show gratitude. And not by putting her mouth in some special place to make someone happy.

She can show gratitude by keeping that mouth shut. That’s her way of saying thank you.

She can decide not to go to the
Daily News
or the
Times
or the
Post
. Or one of those TV shows, like
Dateline
.

Won’t that be a nice thing not to do?

Because something like this, coming out, well, that’s not going to help Mr. I-Want-to-Be-Governor one little bit.

Maybe she’s not even going to have to get to that point. She won’t have to mention the newspapers or the TV shows. Maybe she’ll have a check in her hands seconds after she says the words “I know who you are.”

Allison picks up her cell, starts to enter in the number she was given, then stops. Her heart is pounding. Making up stories to get money out of her mother, that’s one thing.

This is something else again.

This is what happens when a girl leaves Dayton for the big city.

“HELLO?”

“It’s me. It’s Allison.”

“What—Allison?”

“Yeah, Allison. Remember me?”

“Of course I—look, I really can’t talk now.”

“We need to get together.”

“This isn’t a good time.”

“I saw you on the news.”

“You—what?”

“I had no idea. No idea at all who you are. How’d you forget to mention something like that? First, that you’re married, and second, that—”

“Look, Allison, I’ll try to give you a call in a week or two. There’s a lot going on right now. If you saw the news, you know things are starting to heat up in the campaign and…and…there are other problems. A possible investigation of—”

“You remember where we first hooked up?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Be there at three. Before it gets busy, and you can still make it to Lincoln Center or Broadway or whatever thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner you have to go to tonight.”

“I can’t meet with you. We can’t—I’m really sorry but we can’t be seen together.”

“Three o’clock.”

“Jesus, what the hell is this about?”

“Well, I can put your mind at ease about one thing. I’m not pregnant.”

BY
half past two, Allison’s at a Gramercy Park bar, around the corner from that place where O. Henry wrote “The Gift of the Magi.” Manages to get the same booth they shared on their first date. Date? Was it really a
date
? Doesn’t “date” imply some kind of adherence to social convention? “Clandestine meeting,” maybe? What’s that old-fashioned word, again? “Tryst?”

She orders herself a gin and tonic, keeps an eye on the door. She’s still rehearsing what she’s going to say, although she wonders why she’s bothering. Despite all the time she spent practicing her lines before making the call to set up this meeting, once the ringing stopped and the cell was answered, she started saying the first thing that came into her head. Winging it. Including that line about being pregnant, which, she has to admit, was pretty goddamn funny.

At three o’clock, right on the dot, someone walks through the door, sees Allison in the booth.

It’s not Morris Sawchuck.

It’s his wife, Bridget.

She doesn’t look like the Bridget Sawchuck Allison saw on the news. She has her hair wrapped up in a red and black scarf Allison is guessing is Hermès. She’s wearing sunglasses that cover up half her face.

But it’s her, all right. The attorney general’s hot little wife. Strutting in on her three-inch heels, hands tucked into the pockets of her trench. Turning a few heads as she walks past the bar. But not getting recognized. She’d turn heads whether you recognized her or not.

Bridget Sawchuck walks straight to the booth where Allison’s sitting, slides onto the leather seat across from her.

“You look like a freaking spy,” Allison says, grinning.

“I only have a few minutes,” Bridget Sawchuck says. “Why the urgent meeting?”

“Like I said to you on the phone, we’ve got some things to talk about.”

TEN

“I
don’t want you think I’m the sort of person who gets caught up in titles, but what will mine be?”

“Gosh, I don’t know. I must admit, I haven’t really put my mind to it. Do you have any ideas?”

“Assistant director. Not of the entire agency. But of the division I work for.”

“What about Assistant Director, Mapology.”

“Mapology?”

“That was just off the top of my head. I’ll come up with something better. And we need to talk about an office.”

“I won’t need an office, Mr. President. I’ll work from home. I like working from home. My brother is living with me now, and my computer is here.”

“Yes, but don’t forget, once the catastrophe hits, you may be reduced to paper and pencil, or pen. This virus, or whatever it is, will render computers obsolete. You’re going to need lots of big tables, lots of flat space to lay out the maps you draw for us.”

“I could put them on the kitchen table, and the living room floor.”

“Is your brother going to be okay with that?”

“I hope so. He’s like our father. Always trying to get me to do things I don’t want to do. My dad, he made me very angry sometimes. Have I mentioned that?”

“Yes.”

“I feel bad about what happened to him.”

“He never understood the importance of your work. What about your brother? Is he getting in the way of your progress?”

“No. I told my doctor about him, and she gave him some pills. I told the doctor she could tell him about what I was doing.”

“Do you think that was wise?”

“He’s my brother. I’d told my father, too. And besides, if you need me for an emergency, like, right away, he’s going to have to know what I’m doing. There could be another earthquake, or a tsunami.”

“If you think it’s okay to tell him, then fine.”

“And you’re sure you don’t mind my communicating with you directly? I’ve always admired you. At first I was dealing with CIA director Goldsmith, but then he had to resign after all that trouble, and then, as of course you know, he killed himself, and so I thought it just made sense to talk to you.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

“That’s good, B—. Oh, you know what I almost did? I almost called you Bill.”

“Hell, that’s okay. That’s what everybody calls me. We’re becoming good friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes. Yes, we are. I’ll send you another e-mail report later today. Take care.”

ELEVEN

DAD
didn’t worry about leaving Thomas on his own, and neither did I. While my brother had a number of odd notions and peculiar habits, there was nothing to suggest he was a threat to anyone, or himself. He’d never exhibited any suicidal tendencies, nor had he ever attacked anyone. My father would leave Thomas when he drove into Promise Falls to buy groceries or run other errands. And, as Harry had pointed out, to sit in the diner, order a cup of coffee, and stare out the window.

I’d left Thomas home during Dad’s funeral when he refused to attend. While that had really pissed me off, I wasn’t worried that he’d get into any trouble while I was gone. The one apparent benefit of spending all his time in his room, going on his virtual tours, was that he didn’t get into any mischief. What could happen to him staring at those screens all day, with the possible exceptions of eyestrain or repetitive stress injury to his mouse-clicking wrist?

So I didn’t have any qualms, later that afternoon, telling Thomas I was going to be out for a while. “I’ll bring back dinner.”

“KFC,” he said, his back to me as he advanced up some street in Bolivia or Belgium or who knew the hell where.

“I can’t eat that stuff,” I said. “I was thinking I’d grab a couple of subs.”

“No black olives,” he said, his eyes never leaving the screen.

I had the Audi parked in the
Promise Falls Standard
lot fifteen minutes later, a couple of minutes after four. I was afraid I’d be keeping Julie McGill waiting in the lobby, but she wasn’t there when I went in. I’d have asked the person at reception to let her know I was there if there’d been anyone at reception, but there was only a phone on the desk inviting me to dial an extension, a list of them taped to the desk beside it.

I was looking up her name when I heard a series of speedy clicks on a set of nearby stairs.

“Hey,” Julie said. “I see you’ve met the receptionist.”

She said the closest place to grab a beer was Grundy’s, a place that was new since I’d left for Burlington. Which still meant it could be more than a decade and a half old. She was dressed in black boots, jeans, a men’s white dress shirt with button-down collar, and a well-worn black leather jacket. An oversized black purse that looked like it could hold little more than a jackhammer and half a dozen cinder blocks was hanging from one shoulder, making her walk slightly lopsided. Her black hair had half a dozen gray streaks that did not appear to have been put there on purpose.

We grabbed a booth and Julie’s purse made a thunking sound as she dropped it next to her.

“I carry around a lot of shit,” she said. She held up a hand to the waitress, caught her eye, and smiled. “Hey, Bee, my usual and something for the lady.”

Bee looked at me. “I’ll have whatever she’s having,” I said.

As the waitress walked away Julie said, “Again, sorry about your dad. But it’s good to see you. Long time.” She smiled.

“Yeah,” I said. There was something in Julie’s voice that suggested we had some kind of history.

Her face broke into a grin. “You don’t remember.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I smiled and said, “I was going to try to bluff my way through something but thought better of it. You look like someone who’d be hard to put one over on.”