Arturo watched for a moment, then said, “Can you babysit Topper for a couple nights? I have to fly to L.A.” “Shouldn’t be a problem.” She opened her door and Topper stepped in, circled up on a braided rug in front of the couch as though he already knew the drill.
“Pawn him off on Rainie downstairs if you end up on some callout. Any chance you’re up for garlic-encrusted rack of lamb?”
“Hmm, let me think about that.”
“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes,” he said. “And bring the dog.” He shut the door, leaving Sydney and Topper to themselves. She tossed her keys onto the table by the door, glanced at the envelope containing her father’s photo and the letter, and told herself she’d look at it tonight when she got back from the rally. Right now she wanted nothing more than to relax, put everything that happened today, yesterday, all of it out of her mind. She sank into the couch, laying her hand on Topper’s head. “Long day at the office,” she said.
Topper said nothing.
She loved that dog.
Senator Gnoble glanced around the festivities held at the area skating rink, watched the dozen or so kids trying to do the limbo, of all things. “For God’s sake, were there no amusement parks open? A zoo?”
“In the fall? Too cold. Turnout would be low,” Prescott said, double checking his clipboard, making sure he hadn’t forgotten to call anyone. “And remember, it’s all about photo ops. This way we get a guaranteed crowd with kids in the picture. And it’s in the middle of your home territory and close to your targeted families.”
“We could’ve done better than this, surely.”
“Right now your biggest supporters are the local police unions. Much easier to get them and their kids here in a show of support. And it was the only thing we could find at the eleventh hour, never mind that it is several hundred thousand dollars less to rent this and open it up to the public than Great America.”
“Don’t expect me to put on skates.”
“Not even for the hokey pokey? Might make the front page.”
“Speaking of the press, who showed?”
“Still waiting on the Chronicle. And that one we definitely want. After the way they painted you in that death-penalty case article involving Wheeler and your friend Kevin Fitzpatrick, we need a kinder, gentler image. You’ve already got the conservative vote. Now I’d like to get the bleeding liberals in the city to buy in.” He nodded toward the lobby. “Speaking of targeted families…”
He saw Gnoble glance at the area that appeared to be used for birthday parties and the like, where Sydney’s mother, Mary Fitzpatrick-Hughes, sat helping to tie the skates of Sydney’s half sister, Angela Hughes. No sign of Sydney, yet. Come to think of it, no sign of Gnoble’s wife…
Gnoble started toward them. Prescott followed, getting in one last instruction. “Think camera angles.”
He was pleased when Gnoble fixed a broad smile on his face, calling out, “Mary? Tell me that’s not the baby, Angela? I didn’t even recognize her.”
“Mom, can you tell him I’m not a baby?”
“Honey…”
Angela gave an exaggerated sigh, leaned toward her mother, and in a rather loud whisper, said, “Do I call him Uncle Don or Senator Gnoble when we’re in public?”
“Angela, please,” Mary Fitzpatrick-Hughes said, with an apologetic look toward Gnoble as she smoothed the child’s blond curls back from her face. Prescott made a mental note to ensure this child was rounded up for photos. Perfect face. Angelic.
The child stood, held out her hand. “Thank you very much for inviting me.”
Gnoble shook hands, smiled. “Have a good time.” She skated off, and he turned to Mary with a look of concern. Prescott tried to maintain a discreet distance, while still being able to hear what Gnoble was saying. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine, Donovan. It’s good to see you.”
“You too. And Sydney? Is she coming?”
“She might be delayed. But she said she would.”
“And Jake? How is he?”
“Fine. He had to run a couple errands, but he’ll be by as soon as he can get here.”
“Good, good. I look forward to seeing him again.”
The damned press had finally gotten their act together, a few of them heading their way with cameras at the ready, and Prescott gave a discreet cough, alerting him to their arrival. Gnoble clasped Mary on her shoulder, stepping just close enough to imply concern, and Prescott kept his expression somber as he listened in. “Tell me how you’re really doing? Today of all days. Twenty years…”
She took a deep breath, tried to smile, and when the flashes went off, Prescott could’ve sworn her eyes were glistening with tears. It was a perfect shot, and truth be told, he was impressed at Gnoble for instigating it. “I try not to think about it. Some days it’s easier than others. Today’s not one of them.” “I’m sorry,” Gnoble said, before letting go. “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through these past two decades.” A moment of silence, and then he glanced toward the skating floor. “Cute kid. I can’t believe how big she’s gotten.”
“Eleven in a few days. We’re going to have cake. You should stop by,” she said.
Prescott happened to look toward the lobby just then, saw the arrival of a tall, thin young woman. At last. Sydney Fitzpatrick. She did not, however, look happy to be there. When he chanced to catch Mary’s expression on seeing her older daughter, he realized something was up. Even Gnoble saw it, because he asked, “Mary, what’s wrong?”
She looked away, and the tears Prescott thought he imagined were definitely there, ready to spill. “It’s Sydney. She went to San Quentin.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She went to see him. Wheeler. You know she’s been talking about doing it for years.”
“I thought when I’d called her that she’d changed her mind.”
“She didn’t.”
“Oh my God. Mary. I’m sorry.”
She tried to smile. “It’s fine. I just don’t understand why.”
“Maybe I should talk to her again.”
She nodded, then turned away.
“Prescott, take Mary to have some of that wonderful punch.”
“Right this way, Mrs. Fitzpatrick-Hughes.”
Gnoble left them, walked toward the lobby, and it was everything Prescott could do to settle Mary in with a paper cup filled with punch, seat her at the tables, then hurry toward the lobby to make sure he was kept apprised of their conversation. Lucky for him the senator was waylaid by several well-wishers, and by the time Prescott arrived, Gnoble was merely greeting her. “Sydney? How’s the FBI treating you?”
She held Gnoble’s gaze. “I don’t appreciate you using my father’s murder for your campaign, Senator.”
“Senator? What happened to Uncle Don?”
“The Uncle Don I used to know would never have used tragedy for personal gain.”
Goddamned Chronicle, Prescott thought, as Gnoble said, “That wasn’t me, you have to believe it. They’re out to sell newspapers, and took everything I said out of context.” She said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes. This was not something Gnoble was going to be able to fix so easily. “I heard you went out to the prison today. Your mother’s extremely upset,” he said, just as his wife, Marla, walked up to take her place at his side. Tall, thin, her blond hair swept up in a chignon, she gave Sydney a warm but neutral smile, no doubt picking up on the tension.
“I did go,” Sydney said.
“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to go? What happened?”
She held Gnoble’s gaze, her mouth pressed together as though trying to decide if she should even answer. And finally, “No, you agreed I shouldn’t go. And it wasn’t your decision to make. So I went. And he says he’s innocent.”
“They all say they’re innocent. It’s called self-preservation.”
She looked away. “I think I believe him.”
“Believe him? Why?”
“He knew things. Things that wouldn’t make sense to anyone unless they knew my father particularly well.”