Up in Smoke (21 page)

Todd and Bernie both said it was good. Jack and Molly went off to their rooms but Nora, Bernie was sorry to see, stayed. She was not only a personal assistant to Molly, she was a close friend and that gave her the assumption she was part of the core group. Since the Garretts didn't say otherwise, so she was.

“You need to have Molly in it,” Nora said.

Todd hated her. Even without the interruptions, the compulsive talking, the suggestions, he'd have hated her because she was an amateur. Her only claim to a potential fifteen minutes of fame was that she knew Molly Garrett. They'd been friends since college.

She was one of those people who talked all the time and after a while her voice slid under the skin and made you want to strangle her. Repression had them all snarling at each other. Bernie was scared to death of her—because you never knew what she'd do, she was dangerous. She never thought before she spoke. He was afraid she'd sit in on one of their planning sessions and let slip some crucial piece of strategy. She was sulking because she felt she should be the one to leak the Halderbreck-is-stupid bit to the press instead of Cass. In fact, she seemed stupidly jealous of Cass. Actually, stupid was something else she was, and that made her really dangerous.

“Molly could sit on the desk and they could be talking,” Nora said.

To keep himself from strangling Nora, Todd started telling Hadley what to feed the press. In other words how to do her job. Hadley got hot and steamed and started yelling that she was the press secretary, she knew what she was doing. If he pushed her just a little more, she'd quit. Bernie had personally witnessed her quitting four times so far. God knows how many more he may have missed. It was their way of releasing tension, but Bernie worried one time it would go too far and neither one could back down.

“I've got no time for this,” Hadley said. “I've got to get out to the press and explain to them what we'll be doing tomorrow. They get real anxious when they're not in on the program.” Hadley was expert at drifting through the press pool, dropping them bits of information and telling them how to interpret it.

“You have to be careful with that,” Todd said.

“Bullshit,” she shot back. “
You
have to be careful. I'm their pal. I give them lots of help and spread around cheer and kindness.”

“You need to watch what kind of access you give them.”

“Hey! We're doing just fine. Periodically, Jack goes through the press section, says hi, answers questions—”

“Yeah,” Leon perused the pizza box and, after careful scrutiny, selected another slice. “He's a maverick and the stakes are getting high. It might be a good idea if you'd pull him back a little.”

“He wouldn't go for it,” she said. “And right now they like him. As much as they can, since they all tell themselves how objective they are. He treats them well and he's been honest with them, but start hiding him in the crapper and see how ravenous they get.”

“I'm only saying you need to pick and choose. Things are getting hot, and formal interviews need to go to—”

“How many times do I need to tell you I know my job?”

“Yeah, yeah, right. I'm just telling you, start thinking about the California newspapers. “The
Chronicle,
the
Mercury News,
and the
L.A.
—”

“I know, I know.” She made a brushing aside wave as she went out.

“How much we spending on advertising?” Todd asked Leon.

“Well, right now, we got a million and a half, a little more. After we spend that, we're close to the federal cap and we can't spend more until we win the nomination.”

“California's a bottomless pit. We could spend it all just to lose.”

“We don't spend and we can forget about the nomination.”

Bernie went to the kitchen and fished a Coke from the refrigerator. He wasn't tracking with the arguments going on. His mind was on Cass. The Wanderer, as Leon called her. He was worried about her. Popping the tab, he took a sip and went back to the living room.

“What do the polls say?” Todd asked.

Carter, the pollster, waggled a hand back and forth. “Close. Ads will matter, no question.”

“How we doing with ads?” Todd asked.

“Well, in Bill Halderbreck's ads he has all the animation of a houseplant and the humility of a cocker spaniel. And, of course, he's right with you in whatever special interest group you represent. Mention one and he'll step right up there, drop his pants and bend over.”

“Everybody knows that,” Carter said. “Poll on confidence and integrity and Jack runs a little ahead, but you got to remember Halderbreck's a known quantity. Jack's a risk.” Carter leaned back, put his hands behind his head and rested an ankle on the opposite knee. “And, let's admit it folks, Jack has intelligence and confidence bordering on arrogance. That makes people feel inadequate and defensive. We got to make him look smart, but not too smart. The idea of having a smart president is too scary for most folks.”

“We got to make him look like one of the guys,” Leon said, “for the ninety percent of the people who decide their vote from television ads.”

“His parents were farmers,” Carter said. “What's more folksy than that?”

“Why aren't we hammering on this hero stuff?” Leon said. “Use Wakely, for God's sake. He's always around anyway. Get him early in the morning, before he gets too drunk to sit up straight.”

Bernie could hear the frustration in Leon's voice. Jack wanted to remain a private person, but any politician making a grab for the presidency couldn't keep anything private. Anything a candidate wanted to hide, the media was especially determined to root out.

“I think—” Nora said.

Nobody wanted to know what she thought and everybody ignored her.

*   *   *

Demarco happened to be on duty when the 911 call came in. He and Yancy responded to the address given to them by the dispatcher and they were standing in the living room of a plump elderly woman.

“You will check into it, won't you?” Mrs. Cleary pulled her pink fleecy robe tighter around her ample frame and cinched up the belt. “I had went to the kitchen to fix myself some tea and that's when I heard it. Goodness sakes, it sounded like somebody was tearing the house down.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Demarco said. Vera Cleary lived next door to the Egelhoff house and she'd called the shop to report suspicious noises.

Yancy asked. “When was that?”

“It must have been about fifteen minutes ago now.” Hint of reproach that it had taken them so long. “It's stopped by now, of course. But the screams, my Lord, I've never heard such screaming.” She rubbed her hands together anxiously. “And there was all this moaning and crying and sort of mewing sounds, kind of like a kitten, you know? Oh, I just know something is terribly wrong. Will you do something?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Demarco said. Owner of the house murdered, victim's sister missing? Damn right, he'd do something.

“You won't just dismiss it as the nervous ramblings of an old woman, will you? I had gone to the phone when I saw the light.”

Demarco took her story of noises and screams, moans and cries very seriously. She was maybe mid-fifties, a widow, with short gray hair that stuck out in spikes and nervous because of what had happened to her neighbor. Just before midnight, Mrs. Cleary had seen flickering lights inside the house.

“I thought it might be that girl Arlene who calls herself Moonbeam, the silly thing, and didn't think a whole lot about it, but then a little later after that, I heard all this screaming. Like the poor child was being murdered in her bed. And with what happened to Gayle, being killed and put in the car trunk—well, a person just can't be too careful.”

“You did the right thing in calling,” Demarco said.

“There's not supposed to be anybody there,” she said. “With her husband dead and Gayle murdered and the girl missing—now who could be making all that noise and causing flickering lights?”

“Did you notice anything earlier?”

“No,” she said. “But I had went to the market, so I wasn't here to notice.”

“We'll check into it,” Since Demarco was looking for the girl, this story interested him much.

“What do you think?” Yancy said as they tromped next door to the Egelhoff house. “Burglar knowing the place is empty?”

Nothing was flickering inside the house now, it was completely dark. No moans, no screams. “Could be. You check the back, I'll take the front.”

“Right.”

“And take it easy. The girl's still missing.”

“And we don't have the bastard who killed her sister,” Yancy said.

A few seconds later, Demarco heard Yancy on the radio saying no signs of forced entry in the back, the board over the broken window still intact. No signs in the front either. Using the key he'd borrowed from the evidence locker, Demarco unlocked the door. Flashlight in his left hand, gun in his right, he went in fast and low. Living room empty. Table knocked aside. Broken glass on the floor. He listened, then moved into the dining room. Empty. He met Yancy in the kitchen and motioned for him to follow. Demarco went along the hallway. He pointed a finger to the room on the left. Yancy went left. Demarco moved farther along the hallway and slipped into the room on the right. Empty room, neat, bed made, no signs of struggle.

“Clear,” Yancy called. Then, “You might want to see this.”

Demarco went across the hall. Yancy aimed his flashlight at clothes, shoes, books, stuffed animals, scattered on the floor by the closet. Messy kid? Or had something happened here?

“Somebody looking for something?” Yancy said.

“In the kid's bedroom?” Demarco shined his flash around. “What could the kid have?”

Yancy looked through the closet. Demarco went to check the third bedroom and spotted the damaged door at the end of the hallway. Blood was seeping out under it.

“Police! Come out with your hands on your head!”

No response.

“Come out! Hands on your head!”

Still no response.

Demarco backed up, raised one leg and kicked the lock. It gave, but something prevented the door from opening. He threw a shoulder at the door. It moved slightly, but didn't open. Leaning all his weight against it, he peered through the crack.

“Oh, Christ! Yancy, get an ambulance!”

Yancy keyed his mike and relayed the request. “On the way,” he said as he clicked off. “What've we got?”

“The girl. She's been hurt, maybe killed. Lot of blood in there. We're gonna have to take this door off.”

Yancy nodded and went for the garage.

“Police,” Demarco said through the crack, much softer this time. “Where are you hurt?”

No answer.

“Can you move?”

Yancy came back with two screwdrivers and they removed the hinges and took the door off. Yancy flipped on the overhead light. “Oh God.”

“Put your hands in your pockets and don't step in blood,” Demarco said.

Yancy swallowed. “Right.”

A towel lay loose around her neck and the dark wound underneath gaped obscenely.

“You're not gonna be sick,” Demarco said. It wasn't a question, it was an order.

“No.” Yancy shoved his hands in his pockets.

The girl, Arlene—Moonbeam—lay curled on the floor, one arm trapped beneath her body, the other outstretched as though reaching for something. Demarco stepped inside, avoiding blood and touched the fingers of the outflung hand. Cool. God damn it, we're too late.

He tried to find a pulse on the slack wrist and found none. Easing closer, he leaned over in an awkward position and put fingertips against the corner of her jaw. Pulse. Faint. “She's alive! Where the hell is the ambulance!”

Yancy got on the mike and when he keyed off, he said, “Two miles and rolling.”

Demarco didn't like the angle of her neck, but didn't move her. From the linen closet in the hallway, he got blankets and laid them over her.

Two paramedics in navy blue jumpsuits rushed in with a gurney. They snapped a cervical collar around her neck, slapped a bandage on her throat, whipped her onto the gurney and had her in the ambulance in minutes.

“We gotta really pound it,” one of them told Demarco. “She's lost a lot of blood.”

Demarco didn't ask if she would make it. He knew they didn't know.

27

All five people in the room watched with varying degrees of curiosity or surprise as Susan and Parkhurst walked in, except Todd Haviland, the campaign manager, who looked irritated. Other times she'd seen him, he also looked irritated. Maybe irritated was his usual mood. Bernie Quaid, wearing jeans and a black shirt, introduced the other three. Leon Massy, media consultant, sprawled in an easy chair. Oddly shaped man, normal upper body, hugely fat from the waist down, wearing suit pants and a crumpled white shirt with the collar unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up. Nora Tallace, Molly Garrett's personal assistant, perched on the edge of a wing chair, leaning forward like she didn't want to miss anything. Brown hair, mid-forties, makeup perfect, beige slacks and sweater. Carter Mercado, pollster, small, short sandy hair, slumped on the couch with his hands in his pockets jiggling change. Empty dishes, pizza box, napkins, soft drink cans, crushed and dented, and empty glasses all over. It looked like a late planning session that hadn't gone well.

“What can we do for you?” Todd said, short, annoyed, they'd interrupted a busy man and he wasn't going to waste time with them.

“Wakely Fromm,” Susan said.

“What about him?”

“I have some bad news.”

Bernie shot her a look, and even though his face was as impassive as a therapist's she saw a flash of alarm in his eyes.

“What?” Todd said.