“Francisco didn’t have something that I do. A friend like you.”
The 10:00 A.M. sun leaked meekly through the morning haze, warming the bayfront sand in front of Becky’s house, where a volunteer crew of cleanup workers wearing FLYNN FOR MAYOR T-shirts had been employed by the candidate to coincide with the arrival of reporters at her press conference.
Jim stood with his back to the hedge of oleander that protected Becky’s front yard from the usually tourist-laden sidewalk. The thought crossed his mind that he had hunkered against this same hedge years ago to ID one of Becky’s lovers. He watched the cleanup crew dumping dead fish into burlap bags. The press conference was already in progress behind him, questions and answers at rapid-fire.
— Why did you take on the Goins case?
— It isn’t a case yet. I’m trying to keep a miscarriage of justice from happening. Horton Goins is innocent and I can prove it if I have to.
— Who killed Ann Cruz?
— That’s for the police to determine. My job is to protect the rights of a twenty-four-year-old man who’s being hunted down for something he didn’t do.
— What about what he did in Ohio?
— What he did in Ohio was nine years ago.
— The police have photographs of Ann, taken by Goins.
— Taking candid photos of various subjects has long been the photographer’s stock-in-trade. Goins has been an enthused amateur photographer for five years. We’ll show those pictures for what they are: pictures of a pretty girl taken by an admiring young man. The police also found pictures of boats, local landmarks, kids, sea gulls, houses, tourists, dogs, sunsets, and waves. I haven’t read a single word about those in the papers you publish, or seen a mention of it on the shows you produce.
— Miss Flynn, this move to represent a defendant—
— A suspect.
— before he’s even arrested or charged, is going to be construed by some people as a publicity move to promote your campaign.
— That’s exactly what it is. Part of my promise as a candidate for mayor of this city is to see that the innocent are protected, the guilty punished, and Horton Goins isn’t tried for a crime he didn’t commit.
— Why attach yourself to such an unpopular issue?
— If it’s so unpopular, why are all you here?
— Do you have inside information on the murder — being linked to the victim yourself?
— Yes. And I wasn’t linked to her. She was the best friend I had in the world.
— What is this information, generally speaking?
— I won’t speak generally.
— Anyone can make promises, Miss Flynn.
— That’s why I’d rather speak specifically, Marcia. We have evidence showing that Ann Cruz was being harassed by an employee of Cheverton Sewer of Newport Beach.
— What evidence?
— I won’t say until we have the man identified by name. That will be shortly — within the next forty-eight hours.
Good Christ, thought Weir. Shut up, Becky. You’re only driving him underground. The idea came to Jim that Becky would pillory Cantrell whether they had enough to question him or not.
— Harassed in what way?
— He followed her, wrote her suggestive letters, sent her certain gifts, possibly confronted her bodily.
— Killed her?
— That’s for Assistant District Attorney George Percy and Brian Dennison to discover.
— You don’t agree with the way the chief of Newport Beach Police has handled this?
— I don’t agree with the way he handles anything. Look out at that bay. Thousands of dead fish, hundreds of dead birds, water so poisonous that the sharks can’t even swim in it. Brian Dennison has a Toxic Waste squad of one officer, who works part-time only, who is paid almost nothing for his efforts, who has to furnish his own boat. The boat blew a gasket, then a rod, on a toxic-spill patrol a few nights ago. The bill is going to run about twelve hundred dollars, and not a penny of that is coming from Chief Dennison’s department or the city of Newport. I’m making arrangements to pay it myself. At the same time, Brian Dennison has requested funds for ten new patrol units, eight more officers, a new computer network for the station, and more sky time for that five-hundred-dollar-an-hour helicopter he likes so much. He’s got six point five million dollars in lawsuits pending against his department for brutality charges, a great many of which were brought by people who live in this neighborhood, grew up on this peninsula, and contribute regularly to the health, welfare, and character of this city. I believe that Brian Dennison can run his department any way he wants, but I do not believe for a moment that he should apply his dubious talents to guiding this city. Here, I’d like to show you something. This is Art. He’s a little western gull who ate enough trichloroethane to make him good and sick; maybe he’ll even die.
Jim peeked backward through the hedge and saw Becky coddling a sea gull. She stroked the bird’s body, then held his blinking, astonished face up to the cameras. Becky’s shamelessness had never lost its ability to surprise him, even though she’d learned most of it from Virginia. Maybe that’s why men marry their mothers, Jim thought.
— My volunteers picked him up yesterday, huddled against the seawall right out front. This is what I’m talking about when I say we’ve got to manage the growth in this county, and start to take care of what we’ve got left. We all know that we didn’t inherit this place from our parents; we’re borrowing it from our children. Until Art can swim in Newport Harbor and eat his fish without getting sick or dead, I think we have work to do. Brian Dennison’s campaign is bought and paid for by C. David Cantrell and the other big developers, people who believe that the first responsibility of this land of ours is to bring them huge profits. Developer Kathryn Thompson recently threw up a new mass-produced housing tract, named it the Laguna Audubon after courts decided she could appropriate that naturalist’s name for her own marketing concerns. She used Laguna Beach’s name, too — her Laguna Audubon isn’t even in Laguna. Ms. Thompson named the streets in her development after birds. And, of course, Ms. Thompson assigned a “theme bird” to each phase. Wipe out the birds, name housing after them. That, in my mind, is the kind of arrogance that typifies the development cartel.
— Why don’t you debate with Dennison?
— Ask him. He’s the one who refuses. Thank you, that’s all. I’m going to get out the eyedropper and give Art here a bite to eat. I’ll keep you all informed on these issues.
Weir listened to the communal grumble as Becky’s front door slammed shut. He started for the gate, feeling an inclination to strangle her. A handful of print reporters hustled down the sidewalk for the nearest telephones. A couple of television crews shot Becky’s cleanup crew loading up dead animals on the bayfront, cutting in front of each other for the best angles.
“Comment for Channel Five, Mr. Weir?”
It was Laurel Kenney, looking lovely in her usual pinched way. She leaned her microphone toward Jim’s face. The minicam operator behind her aimed his lens at Weir like some giant mechanical eye.
“None at all.”
“Is Becky Flynn making a campaign issue of the death of your sister?”
“Say what you think.”
“I asked what you think, Mr. Weir.”
“I don’t think there’s anything I can say right now that wouldn’t be construed the wrong way. No comment.”
“Are you and Becky Flynn still personally involved?”
Three or four bodies moved around Weir; notebooks flipped back open; cameras clicked and strobes flashed; another minicam pressed in, red light blipping. Laurel positioned the microphone closer to Jim’s mouth. “Are you and Becky Flynn still romantically linked, Mr. Weir?”