“Steady work between high-profile murder cases.”
“I see.” She wasn’t buying it, and the tone of her voice was her way of saying so. “But this is just a contract, right? Just a client? You’re not becoming a state employee.”
“And leave behind this dynamic private practice I’ve built up?”
“Hey, listen.” She pulled her oversized sweatshirt over her knees. “Christmas. What do you have going on?” She always did this, since Talia’s death, asking after me but in a casual way that tried to deflect her concern.
“I might go down to see Pete. Otherwise, I don’t know. You?” I passed her the bottle.
“My family’s coming. My parents and my brother’s family. I think it’s more an intervention than Christmas dinner.”
“Ah,” I said. “You’re over thirty, and not even a boyfriend, Ms. Tasker.” Shauna grew up on the city’s south side, like me, though we didn’t meet until college. I couldn’t even call myself Catholic compared to her. Her parents were outfitting her for a nun’s habit when she informed them she was heading to law school. She never told them that I was her roommate in college. They wouldn’t have survived it-dual coronaries within minutes of each other.
“Anyway, I could use a lawyer for the interrogation,” she offered.
“I’ll pretend to be your boyfriend. We’ll say we’re living together.”
She laughed, but the offer still stood and I hadn’t answered. “Maybe,” I said. “Thanks.”
She let it go, nodding toward the iPod resting on her stereo system. “You can’t group them by twos the way you’re saying.”
“Sure you can. Murmur and Reckoning, obviously. Fables and Pageant, when Michael started feeling confident in his voice.”
“He wasn’t confident in his voice during Reckoning? Ever heard ‘South Central Rain’?”
“An anomaly.” I took the wine from her. We’d had this debate over R.E.M.’s music since State. She had trouble admitting she was wrong. I was fortunate not to have that problem, because I was always right.
“You know, Lynette asked about you the other day,” she said.
“Lynette from law school? Jewish girl with the nice rack?”
Her head fell back, resting on her shoulders. “Why are men such single-cell organisms?”
“You like us that way, Tasker. You can manipulate us and turn us into groveling dogs.”
She smiled, still looking up at the ceiling. “That’s true. We can.”
She didn’t move, but I felt her eyes fall on me. She was constantly poking around with this kind of stuff, gauging my progress. She wasn’t lying, I suspect; Lynette from law school probably had made a comment, but Shauna chose her words carefully and wouldn’t have mentioned it unless she’d had a reason.
I loved Shauna. The way she watched over me, while challenging or insulting me in the same breath, was downright touching. But sometimes her protectiveness landed the wrong way, like an off-color comment made in mixed company. The slow unraveling of my senses, as the second bottle of Cabernet lay empty on the carpet, on this particular evening put me into the early stages of edgy belligerence.
“Next topic,” I suggested.
“I’m drunk is the next topic.” Shauna eased herself down to the carpet. “On a weeknight.”
“There, there, pet.” I stroked her hair. I played some of my early favorites-“Harborcoat” twice, then “Wolves, Lower”-and Shauna grew quiet, her body rising and falling with ease.
“Next year’ll be better, Jase,” she mumbled. I’d thought she was down for the count. I tried to coax her up and, failing that, lifted her up and carried her to her bedroom. She smiled and moaned with pleasure when her face touched the cool pillow. Moments later she was in a deep slumber. I kissed my hand and planted it on her forehead, then went back to the living room and played the same songs all over again.
18
The following week, I reported for duty at the state building. An efficient older woman showed me into a small office that I’d be able to use. She showered me with forms to fill out and various bureaucratic idiosyncrasies (I had to take an ethics test; I had to promise to disclose any securities I might sell) and left me for a couple of hours. I had about twenty questions about what I was filling out, but I just did the best I could, or left something blank, figuring they knew where to find me if there was a problem.
The last document I came upon was a confidentiality agreement. I had to swear that I would keep all official business confidential, and that I would not remove any items from the state office. It put a little acid into my stomach to sign it, but it made sense that an office that oversaw hundreds of millions of dollars in state contracts might want to keep the wall up at all times.
The day before, I’d put in a call to Jon Soliday, a lawyer I knew in state government. He was the lawyer for Senate Majority Leader Grant Tully, his lifelong friend. Jon was one of these friends of a friend, but he’d always seemed like a pretty straight-up guy. More recently, I’d come into contact with Jon by virtue of Hector Almundo’s prosecution. Nothing hot and heavy, just some general background information from Jon about things the senate did, and some questions he’d had for me, always deliberately vague. I’d sensed that Jon hadn’t wanted to get too close to the hot iron. I’d also sensed that, as professional as Jon tried to keep it, Hector Almundo hadn’t been his favorite senator.
We met for lunch at the Maritime Club, an old boys’ club just a few blocks south of the state building. His hey-how-are-you was overly punctuated, given the circumstances, and I thanked him for the note he’d sent after Talia’s car accident.
I liked Jon, because he kept most of his thoughts to himself, and when he spoke, he had a good reason. I’d first met him several years ago, and compared to then, he’d showed some signs of age-more wrinkles carved in his forehead, more snow at the temples-but otherwise hadn’t changed a bit.
“So what’s this opportunity?” he asked me, as he worked some Caesar dressing through his salad with his fork. I can’t do that, the salad thing. It’s not just a philosophical opposition, although that’s part of it; roughage just doesn’t fill me up.
“The Procurement and Construction Board,” I said. “I have a contract for legal services.”
He paused for only a moment, long enough for me to see that I’d struck a chord. With a poker face, eyes diverted, he asked, “Is that something you’ve already accepted?”
I almost laughed. He’d already given me the answer I’d sought. He didn’t want to shit all over my “opportunity” if I had already signed up. If I hadn’t, he was going to warn me off. “Give it to me straight,” I said.
“I’m not sure I’m the right person to do that.” He smiled. “Our current governor and the legislature aren’t exactly the closest of friends.”
Thinking back, I guess I’d read something along those lines. I didn’t follow local politics all that closely, though representing a state senator had attuned me slightly more. The media, always more interested in the conflict than the policy, had covered the fight this past year between the governor and both the house and senate-but especially the senate, and especially Jon’s boss, the senate majority leader, Grant Tully.
“The straight scoop, Jon. Please. I’m no partisan. I’m just a lawyer.”
“Carlton Snow is an idiot.” Jon opened his hands. “That straight enough?”
“Go on.”
“He was the city clerk here-meaning you got your marriage license from him-who somehow managed to finagle his way into the nomination for lieutenant governor and then, by some God-forsaken twist of fate, actually won. And then he fell ass-backward into the governor’s mansion when Lang Trotter went federal on us. I mean, Snow has absolutely no idea what he’s doing, but he thinks he’s going to be president some day.”
Hector had said the same thing, the presidential ambition. “So-”