Welle gives his stump speech about economic freedom and moral decay and the necessity for America to heal itself-blah, blah, blah-then there's a reception line where people who forked over enough dough get a formal picture with the candidate and the American flag. Patriotic music plays in the background. Backs get slapped. Lunch meetings get set"
"That's it?"
"Yessiree. That's our election process. What's so appalling isn't just that it's corrupt. It's also unimaginative. In my mind, there's no excuse for that.
None."
Her cell phone went off as soon as she got into the car. Neither of us could do anything to keep me from eavesdropping.
"Ohhh, Jesus. Whadya mean, where am I? I don't think I have to tell you that anymore, remember. Wasn't that the point of my asking you to leave?… No, you can't go checking the file cabinet for those papers. Your keys don't work in the apartment anymore, anyway. You'll have to wait until I get back… Not long, no. It's business. Business… Whadya mean am I sure? Of course I'm by myself… I'm not doing anything to you… Douglas, I'm sorry, it's just going to have to wait… I don't care; it'll have to wait until I'm back… You should have remembered about it when you packed the rest of your things…… Not my problem… No. I'll leave a message when I get home. Later."
She folded up her phone. I said, "Sorry."
"Not your fault. That was the aforementioned ex. Actually that's wishful thinking on my part. We're separated, not divorced. He's not happy with me.
Apparently I'm not as sweet with everybody as I have been with you."
"Hard to believe," I said.
"We've been separated three months and I feel much better about it when I'm out of the District. For a while I was pretty sure he was following me. I'd go to a bar, he'd show up there. I'd be out with a friend, we'd see him." She shivered.
"Is he a possessive guy?"
"You bet. Jealous. Waste of emotional energy as far as I'm concerned. As if I have any interest in other men. Any."
"Is he violent?"
"Douglas? We're both kind of hotheads. You know? Him no more than me, though.
Maybe less. Stuff gets said. Occasionally things were thrown around. You know."
She smiled but didn't look my way.
"He never actually hit me. And you-you're starting to sound like a goddamn shrink."
"Sorry, it's a reflex. Possessive exes worry me. It's an occupational hazard, I'm afraid."
"Is the air conditioner on high?"
"Yes."
She tugged at her collar and raised her chin.
"I have to admit that he worries me sometimes, too."
"Have you thought about changing your cell phone number so he can't track you down so easily?"
"My life? I need to change a lot of things." She looked out the window.
"And you know what? I think I've just decided what's going to be first." She undid her seat belt, raised her butt in the air, reached under her skirt, and started tugging down her panty hose. A moment later, the act completed, her bare toes wiggling on the dashboard, she said, "Dearest God, that feels good.
Don't you wish it was all that easy?"
The Bonnie Brac neighborhood is a maze of little curving streets. I got lost on the way back to Phipps from the restaurant. Dorothy Levin had no patience for my directional impairment.
"I can't be late, Doctor."
"I'm trying, Dorothy. This isn't my neighborhood."
On my third attempt at finding my way to the mansion, I chanced on the shingled round roof of the tennis house from the rear. I said, "Voila" Dorothy said, "Merde. Finalement." She had finished stuffing her panty hose into the big shoulder bag along with God knows what else. I pulled around to the edge of the driveway that led to a small parking area in front of the building. She climbed out of the car, leaned over, and asked, "You're being straight with me, right?" I should have just said, "Yes." Instead, occasionally forthright to a fault, I said, "I answered all your questions honestly."
She reacted as though I was intentionally screwing around with her. Which, in a way, I was.
"Oh no you don't. What does that mean? How is that different from being straight with me?"
The door to the tennis house flew open. Grateful for the diversion, I said, "I think your prey is about to enter the meadow. A herd of rich white guys over forty-five is approaching downwind."
She didn't even look in that direction.
"They won't bring Welle out that door.
Certainly not first. Not when there's all that money still inside waiting to be caressed. Don't change the subject on me. What are you not telling me about Welle?"
"That's not Welle, right there?" I asked, looking over her shoulder. The man I was pointing at was Welle's size and coloring but his back was turned to us.
The man was speaking to someone still standing in the doorway. I looked around for Phil Barrett, assuming he was never far from Raymond Welle's side. I didn't see a single pork chop in sight.
She turned away from me for a split second, then back. A cigarette had materialized in her hand.
"Where? That guy? It's just some dude in a dark gray suit. They all wear dark gray suits. I don't know… no, that can't be him.
The candidate never comes out of these things first. He still has the damn luncheon to go to."
"Looks like him."
She banged an open hand on the edge of the door and slammed it.
"I have to go.
We'll talk. You and me. We'll talk, count on it."
She was no more than ten feet into the driveway when I saw the first puff of smoke floating up around her head.
Of course, I thought the smoke was from her cigarette.
But the loud crack of a gunshot that immediately followed the puff of smoke caused me to rethink its source. I was sure it came from behind me. I screamed, "Dorothy, get down!"
She spun 180 degrees, bewildered, her hair flying. I yelled, "Someone has a gun.
Get down!" She stared at me as though I were a lunatic. Her eyes shined even brighter than before.
Only a total of five or six people had made their way out of the door of the tennis house by the time the shot rang out. They reacted to the blast by pushing and shoving at each other, scrambling to get back inside the building.
Two of them fell beside the concrete landing as they tried to force their way back in.
I couldn't tell whether the man who I thought was Welle was still outside.
Closer to me, Dorothy finally dropped to a crouch, the damn cigarette glued to her lips.
Another shot cracked the quiet, the slug hitting directly over the top of the door to the tennis house. I saw splintered brick flying. People started screaming, covering their heads.
A man in a distinctive green suit standing near the door yelled, "There!" and pointed right at me.
Behind me, I heard a car engine accelerate gently. I lowered myself farther onto my seat and turned to see a white Ford van pull away from the curb. The vehicle was unadorned and was heading in the opposite direction from mine. The driver was wearing a baseball cap of some kind, left elbow on the sill of the door, a raised hand spread casually in front of his or her face.
Before I had the presence of mind to look at the license plate, the car was around the corner and gone.
I waited for another shot. Nothing.
I spun back toward the tennis house. Three large men in gray suits with weapons in their hands were sprinting at my car.
I heard ravens cawing.
I wondered. Had I just seen the shooter?
Any plans I might have had for the rest of the day were put on hold by the arrival of a diverse group of law enforcement authorities who made it clear that my short-term freedom was dependent on my cooperation with their investigation.
More cops of more stripes than I'd ever seen in one place in my life. I met Denver police detectives, FBI agents, CBI agents, and some Secret Service people who had apparently stopped by just to offer their assistance.
News helicopters started hovering overhead. Microwave trucks from the local TV stations lined the distant perimeter of the neighborhood.