While Galileo Preys (23 page)

“Go on,” she said to her husband.

“Okay, so, finally we pull up to the valet. Now I’m sixteen, and I don’t know a valet from a hole in the ground but I’m a bright guy, so I quickly figure out the situation. However, I’m also a gentleman, and this is the junior prom, and Carly McGuiness is smelling like apples, so the valet comes over to my door and says hello and I hand him the keys and I open the door to get out and I walk in front of the truck to go open Carly’s door but the truck is still moving—”

“It’s still moving?”

“It’s rolling forward. Not fast, but enough to be noticeable when it bumps me in the ass.”

Esme knew the story, so she also knew her cue: “Oh God, Rafe, did you not shift the truck into Park?”

She laughed and he laughed and they pulled up another car length toward the Liebs. They were fourth in line now. Overhead the moon-sliver glowed like cat’s eye.

“Well, anyway, so, like a doofus I pretended I’d planned the whole thing and I walked over to Carly’s door and said, ‘The boat’s still moving. Would you like me to carry you across the threshold, madam?’”

“Oh, you didn’t.”

Rafe put up his hand in an oath. “I swear. Fortunately, we were friends, so, after grinding the gearshift into Park, she poked me in the ribs and let herself out of the truck. The valet stared at me like I was from Mars. And that was just the start of the evening.”

“Did you get laid, stud?” asked Esme. That part of the story Rafe had never shared, nor had she ever asked. But she was curious. And right now her husband was so adorable she could have eaten him up with a fork and spoon.

“No.” Rafe’s smile faltered a bit. “Just as I had set my sights on Hannah Draper, Carly had her sights set on Dale Dougherty. The only part of Carly that went to bed with me that night was whatever apple perfume had rubbed off on my cheek.”

Esme caressed the back of his hand. “I’m sorry.” And she was. She made a mental note to buy some apple-scented perfume next time she was at the mall. Someone had a fantasy that needed to be exorcised.

“Good evening,” said the valet, “and welcome.”

There were three valets working tonight. They were professional valets. Esme hadn’t realized such a profession still existed, but they did, and she had helped Amy book them for the fundraiser. They wore matching black-and-gold uniforms that were so starch-stiff they might as well have been made of plastic.

Esme tapped Rafe’s hand and pointed at the gearshift.

“Don’t forget,” she teased.

“Har-har-har.” He clicked off the Prius’s ignition, grandly (for her benefit) shifted into Park, and handed the keys to the valet. Then he climbed out of the vehicle and before Esme could reach for the handle, he was at her door.

“Would you like me to carry you across the threshold, madam?”

She replied with a wink. “Later.”

“Ooh.”

She stepped out of the car and joined her husband on the brick walkway. Rafe unsheathed the invitation from his pocket. Without it, they wouldn’t be getting in. In fact, some gate-crasher appeared to be creating some commotion ahead of them at the front door. A small crowd of rubberneckers had formed, blocking Esme’s view of the action. Suddenly, a cell phone went flying through the crowd and crash-landed right at her feet. The crowd parted for the gate-crasher, as he went to retrieve his broken phone. He stopped, though, mid-reach, and matched stares with her.

“Hello, Esmeralda,” Tom said.

T
om fucking Piper.

The very sight of the man, here, in his hometown, made Rafe want to spit fire. His groin still recalled (with soreness) their last encounter, back in Amarillo, and now he was here, not five feet away, still wearing that dingy black leather jacket—which he probably slept in. As a sociologist, Rafe understood “motorcycle culture.” He didn’t appreciate it, but he understood it. Folks still wanted to be cowboys, but the prairies had all been paved so instead of palominos they had Harleys. It was the fantasy of a child made real by the bank account of an adult. How could Esme ever have admired this fool?

And what the hell was he doing in Long Island?

“What the hell are you doing in Long Island?” he asked.

“Hello, Rafe.”

Tom pocketed his ruined phone and held out his hand.

Rafe stared at it.

Tom turned to Esme. “I called you.”

Rafe turned to Esme. He called her?

“And when I didn’t call you back any of the sixteen thousand times,” replied Esme, “did you think maybe I was trying to say something?”

“How could I know what you were trying to say if you didn’t call me back?”

“We had this conversation. I told you how I felt. I told you what my priorities were.”

“Believe it or not, the reason I’m here is the same reason everyone else is here. I need to speak with the governor.”

“If you need to speak with the governor, why don’t you try calling him sixteen thousand times? It’s your effective M.O.!”

Esme glared at Tom. Tom glared at Esme. Rafe looked around and saw that everyone else on the front lawn—colleagues, neighbors, executives—was ogling the three of them as if they were a zoo exhibit.

Tom must have noticed them too, because he leaned in to Esme’s ear. “Please, dear,” he whispered, “let’s not bicker in front of the snobs.”

He led her to the less populated east lawn. Rafe was torn between wanting to explain the situation to his friends and wanting to follow his wife and her ex-boss. He followed his wife and ex-boss, all the while squeezing the elegant invitation tighter and tighter in his right hand. By the time he reached them, standing in the shadow of the manse, they had already recommenced:

“—don’t care if I’m disappointing you, Tom—”

“I never said you were disappointing me. When something’s obvious, it doesn’t need to be said.”

“You have no right to be judgmental. I nearly died for you!”

“See, and here I thought it was for your country. I like your dress, by the way. I think it costs more than my house.”

“How badly do you want to get into the party?” asked Rafe.

Esme and Tom both glanced at him.

So Rafe continued:

“You said you need to speak with Governor Kellerman. Well, he’s inside that house. Esme and I can get into that house. We’re on the list. We might even be able to get you in the house. How badly do you want us to help you?”

“Lives are in danger,” replied Tom.

“Lives are always in danger. When that bouncer threw your cell phone, it could’ve cracked someone in the skull, given them an aneurysm, and killed them. You’d think the Secret Service would be more hospitable to a distinguished member of the FBI, or was it personal?”

Tom shook his head in disgust. “They’re not Secret Service. Are you kidding? The Kellerman campaign turned down the Treasury Department’s offer of protection. They don’t trust anyone from Washington. They think we’re all in the pocket of the vice president. That’s why they’ve been impeding our investigation. And the higher-ups are too concerned about appearances of impropriety in an election year to do their jobs. So I’m here on my own time. No backup. No warrant. Knowing the one man who can stop Galileo is here. And I just need five minutes of his time.”

“Galileo and Kellerman,” echoed Esme.

“And that brings us back to my question, Tom. How badly do you want to get in?”

Rafe felt his wife’s curious gaze. She had no idea what was going on inside his mind. Sometimes she underestimated him. That was fine. That made moments like this all the richer.

“What do you have in mind?” asked Tom.

“It’s a simple concept. I talk about it in my freshman lectures. It’s called ‘relative value.’ What’s priceless to you may be worthless to me. We got invitations because we belong here. We didn’t have to beg anyone or wash dishes or do anything, really. This party is our reward for being ourselves. You get to travel the country and fight bad guys and feel righteous. That’s your reward. So I guess what I’m asking, Tom, is this—what do you hold dear that you’re willing to give up in order to get what you want?”

Esme opened her mouth, but didn’t say anything. Was she shocked? Confused? This was about her, in its own way, and Rafe was dying to hear her thoughts. But he kept himself in check. He couldn’t show any weakness now. He had to remain in control.

Tom slipped his wallet out of his pocket, but Rafe just knocked it to the ground.

“I’m not asking for money, Tom. Don’t be silly. I have money. What is something you hold dear that I don’t have? What are you willing to sacrifice?”

“I didn’t sacrifice your wife.”

“Didn’t you?” Esme suddenly inquired.

Tom blinked. “What?”

And all of the resentment that had been building inside of her these past weeks just poured out.

“I’m not criticizing you, Tom, but, I mean, let’s be realistic. When you flew me down to Texas, you knew there was an element of risk involved. Don’t get me wrong—I knew it, too. The choice was as much mine as yours. But you were in charge. I was your responsibility. Darcy Parr was your responsibility.”

“Don’t—”

“I’m not blaming you,” she added quickly. “Galileo pulled the trigger. Galileo is the villain. You’re just…the negligent parent who let it happen.”

In that moment, Rafe wanted to kiss his wife so badly, but he just slipped his hands into his pockets. Later. They would celebrate later. “What are you willing to sacrifice, Tom?”

Tom didn’t respond. Esme’s words had knocked the breath from his body. His mind whirred, but his eyes simply gazed into the dark night air.

Finally, he spoke: “Name your price.”

Rafe did. Tom nodded. They left Esme by the side of the house and strolled down the driveway to the street, where the valets were parallel-parking the high-end cars end-to-end. They were running out of room. Rafe and Tom found what they were looking for halfway down the hill.

“Do you have a pen?” asked Tom.

Rafe reached into his pocket. His father had trained him well to always be prepared. Tom unlocked the rear compartment on his motorcycle, fished out a blue piece of paper, and signed along a line on the back. He
returned it to the compartment and almost habitually slid his keys back into the left pocket of his leather coat. But he stopped himself, and instead held the keys out to Rafe.

“What are you going to do with it?”

Rafe pocketed the keys. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe I’ll sell it. I’m sure there’s some Hells Angel who’d love to get his greasy hands on this piece of shit. Or maybe I’ll just keep it in my garage, untouched, unused. Collecting dust. I haven’t decided yet.”

Rafe offered a small grin. He couldn’t restrain himself anymore. Victory—vengeance—was too sweet.

“So,” he said, “let’s get you into this party.”

For expediency’s sake, they decided to avoid the front door. They probably could have talked their way past the bodyguards, but it would have been a long talk, especially given Tom’s recent violent encounter with them. So they decided to try the back.

The back lawn was littered with the nation’s top media reporters and cameramen, noshing on their complimentary burgers. A few gave Esme, Rafe and Tom a passing glance, then returned to their gossiping. The servants were setting up the last of the tables for the speech. Governor Kellerman was scheduled to deliver the momentous address from the Liebs’ back porch at 7:30 p.m. so the cable anchors could provide analysis during their 8:00 p.m. broadcasts. The musical guest—Tom Petty—would be performing shortly thereafter.

Esme, Rafe and Tom ascended the steps of the back porch, passed the podium and flag stands that Kellerman’s advance team had set up, and approached the guard standing by the kitchen door. He was a Nordic fellow—buzz-cut blond hair, frozen blue eyes—and he flashed them the world’s tiniest smile.

“The guest entrance is around front,” he said. His accent was very streets-of-Chicago. So was the C-shaped scar across his left cheekbone. “Have a delightful evening.”

“Actually,” replied Rafe, “my wife here, Esme, is with the planning committee. We just wanted to, you know, avoid the line.”

“I’m afraid this door is closed to guests. Have a delightful evening.”

“Right, but we’re not guests. Like I said, my wife Esme—”

And right on cue, the back door opened and Amy Lieb popped out.

“Esme! Rafe!” She wrapped her arms around them both and planted kisses on their cheeks. “You both look so wonderful!” Amy, for her part, looked wonderful too. She wore a narrow gold dress, and looked very much like a flute of champagne. “Did you just arrive? Everything is going so well!”

“We actually are having trouble getting in,” Rafe answered.

“What do you mean? Your names are on the list.” She turned to the bodyguard. “Their names are on the list. This is Rafe and Esme Stuart. They’re among my closest and dearest friends.”

“Ma’am, we were instructed not to let any guests in through the rear entrance.”

“But they’re not guests. I just told you. They’re friends. Who’s this?” She eyed Tom, who had taken off his leather coat. Underneath he had the common sense to wear a suit, albeit with a tie made out of leather string.

“Tom Piper,” he said, oozing Kentucky charm, and kissed Amy’s hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Tom’s an old pal from Washington,” added Rafe.

“Well, come on in! The more the merrier!”

Amy held open the door, wide enough for all to enter. The bodyguard frowned and stepped aside and Rafe, Tom and Esme strode into the kitchen, where a platoon of hyperactive chefs were putting the final touches on the evening’s gourmet appetizers.

“It smells a little bit like heaven, doesn’t it?” Amy observed. She looked to Esme for confirmation. Esme nodded and smiled. She didn’t say anything. She hadn’t said a word since Rafe had sprung his scheme.

Did she think what he did was right? No. Yes. Maybe. He was her husband. She had chosen him. She had said as much to Tom on the phone. She had made her choice and now she was standing by it. And if that meant Tom got hurt, well, at the end of the day, Tom wasn’t family. Rafe was. For better or worse, as the vows went. Her marriage had been teetering on the brink of something dark and she had rescued it! To be critical of Rafe now would have invalidated all that progress. Even if he deserved her criticism. Even if his treatment of Tom had been nothing more than petty adolescent—

Enough. What’s done was done. Rafe got what he wanted and now Tom would get what he wanted. Everyone would be happy.

“Where’s the governor?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s upstairs with his Special Guest.” Amy let out a sly chuckle. “Even I don’t know who he is. I think it’s going to be General Phillips. But the world’s going to find out in less than an hour, and the news will come from here. From my house. I’m so giddy I could burst! Oh, crap, that reminds me. I was heading outside for a reason. I have an interview with MSNBC. Let me introduce you to Paul Ridgely and then I’m gone.”

Paul Ridgely was the governor’s ubiquitous campaign manager. He was the favorite media surrogate for the campaign, always present with a sound bite. At thirty-one, he was astonishingly young for such responsibility, but in his short career he had already orchestrated three successful senate runs for the Democrats. Plus he was a native-born Ohioan, and that appealed to Kellerman’s loyalists. Amy brought Esme, Tom and Rafe with her through a flurry of chatter and exchanged business cards and into the study, where Paul was entertaining an audience of tipsy businessmen on the art of on-the-road cuisine.

“The secret,” he said, “is starch. Starchy foods fill you up quickly and they absorb alcohol, which allows you to go shot for shot with the town selectman at the local bar. At the end of the night, he’s wasted and you can still walk in a straight line and he’s impressed and there’s another five hundred votes. It’s hard for anyone
to accuse you of being an elitist when you’ve drunk the town selectman under the table!”

The businessmen laughed.

“Paul, these are my dear friends Rafe and Esme Stuart. Rafe is a professor at our college and Esme helped me organize this event.”

“Then I am in your debt,” replied Paul, shaking hands with each of them.

Amy whisked off to her interview just as Paul turned to Esme and Rafe’s un-introduced companion. “And you are?”

Tom held out his hand. “Tom Piper.”

Paul’s grin wavered slightly. “I believe we’ve spoken on the phone.”

“I believe we have.”

The temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” proclaimed Paul Ridgely, “we have with us tonight a special guest! Mr. Piper here is a very special agent with our own Federal Bureau of Investigation. Give him a round of applause!”

The guests clapped their hands. Esme watched Tom shift his balance. He knew where this was going and was not happy. Neither was she.

Rafe, on the other hand, clapped along with the rest. The smirk on his face could have been made of platinum.

“Tell me, Mr. Piper, how does it feel to be a member of such an historically important organization?”

Tom chewed the inside of his cheek. “Let’s talk privately.”

“Ah, see, there you go! With our FBI, everything must be private. Everything must remain opaque. Why is that, Mr. Piper?”

“You know why.”

“I know what you think the reason is,” Paul retorted. “You think the reason is ‘national security.’ That’s why our Federal Bureau of Investigation has spent millions of our tax dollars tracking down enemies of the state like Martin Luther King and John Lennon. That’s why you exerted your authority to extradite terrorists like Charlie Chaplin. It’s too bad you didn’t see fit to use our funding to stop Osama bin-Laden, but I’m sure you have your reasons. You just can’t tell us what they are. ‘National security.’”