12
He was backstage.
All two hundred and forty pounds of him.
Standing with arms crossed over his massive chest, he kept returning to the question: Was the man he was looking at a killer?
Lyle Spencer was listening, somewhat, to the words from the stage. The debate was within his range of vision, forty feet away, but he was experiencing the event on a monitor. You could see the expressions better this way. Lyle Spencer liked expressions, he liked angles of heads, enfolded or dangling arms, hands making fists, hands splayed. As for legs, he liked legs still and legs tapping.
He really liked tapping legs.
In this instance, the kinesic analysis — body language — was tricky. The truth, he suspected, was in camo, as the debate was between two politicians.
Spencer leaned toward the monitor. A man was debating a woman, who was giving her closing argument. Spencer paid no attention to her. He continued to study her opponent, who was on the right of the stage to the audience. Tall, with a build like the former football player that he was (Spencer had done his homework — always). He wore dark slacks and a blue business shirt with sleeves rolled up. No tie. Thick black hair, tousled intentionally, Spencer was sure. He seemed good at cultivating a Look.
Ah, looking earnest and thoughtful.
But was he a killer?
Unlikely, but hardly impossible. When Spencer was upstate, he’d collared murderous grandmothers and kindergarten teachers and a particularly bad minister. They were pictures of innocence. You never really knew until you started digging. And began checking out evasive eyes and, yes, tapping legs.
The site of this verbal fencing match was an august performing arts center on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Onstage were the candidates for U.S. representative for a district that embraced parts of Manhattan and the Bronx: the incumbent, Stephen Cody — the man Lincoln Rhyme had never heard of — and the challenger, a Manhattan businesswoman in her fifties, Marie Whitman Leppert.
Cody jotted a note.
Killer? Not a killer?
Well...
That minister had tortured his victims, killed them and then went upstairs to write sermons that were both poetic and inspirational. Love thy neighbor was a theme. They were quite good.
Applause signaled the end of the opponent’s concluding remarks. Spencer knew little about the woman.
The moderator, a white-haired, red-frocked woman from public broadcasting, said, “Last word to you, Representative Cody. You have one minute.”
“Thank you, Margaret. And thanks to everyone at the Ninety-Second Street Y for hosting this event.” He paused. Dramatic. “Now, this afternoon was supposed to be a debate. That, to me, means give-and-take and addressing one participant’s position with an opposing one. But all I heard was attack, attack, attack. My opponent was quick to point out what she claimed were problems with my proposals. But did she address the dangers and injustices that those proposals are meant to cure? No.”
He turned to the other podium. Close-up, his eyes were fervent. “You attacked my climate change plans but didn’t offer any alternatives — even though, like I proved, according to the experts, half of New York City will be underwater by the end of the century. You—”
The opponent apparently couldn’t restrain herself. “The way you’d pay for it is pure fantasy and—”
“Ms. Leppert. This is Representative Cody’s final statement.”
“You were happy to tear down my proposal for creating a path to citizenship, but said nothing about how you would help the millions of hardworking individuals who came to this country — like your and my ancestors did — to escape oppression and find opportunity for their families. You questioned my plan for free or subsidized tuition for community or four-year college if the students agree to work programs after graduation that benefit society. You said nothing about addressing the obscene wealth disparity like I did, with my three-point tax plan—”
“Which robs the middle class.”
“Please, Ms. Leppert.”
“My opponent talks about her law-and-order record, spending years as a federal prosecutor in Texas jailing cartel members. And I give her credit for that. God bless her for her service. But that job did not prepare her one bit for the problems we face here: throwing first-time offenders for minor drug misdemeanors in prison—”
“Time, Representative Cody.”
“—effectively ruining their lives. Now, on—”
“Representative?”
“On my website, you’ll be able to see in clear, specific detail what my proposals are, which I’ve only been able to sketch out in broad brushes this afternoon. They’ll help everyone — bus drivers and deli counter-people and nurses and businessmen and — women. And if you honor me with reelection, I pledge that I will tirelessly fight to make each and every one of those proposals a reality. Thank you.”
Applause — somewhat louder than for the opponent, though Spencer wasn’t sure. He suspected that most of the audience members were by now thinking of where to go afterward for tea or alcohol.
The debaters shook the moderator’s hand. Leppert walked backstage first, passing by Spencer with no reaction to his presence, and began speaking with a young female assistant, who gushed about her performance in a sycophantic way that Spencer deduced irritated the candidate. Probably soon to be replaced.
After a brief conversation with the moderator, Cody entered the dim, matte-black space behind the stage. He was about as tall as Spencer, well over six feet, but weighed forty or so pounds less. Now that the two politicos were freed of the constraints of behaving in front of an audience, would fur fly in a big way?
But no.
“Got me good there,” Leppert said with a cheerful frown. “Didn’t have my Post Toasties in order on HB three seventeen.”
“Eh. If you had, I’d’ve gone down in flames. Took a chance. How’s Emily?”
“Healed nicely. Thanks.” Leppert grimaced. “Out for the season, though.”
“That’ll hurt more than the wild pitch.”
“Already filling up her schedule with other stuff — which means my schedule. As chauffeur.” Leppert declined the makeup wipe from the intense assistant; a glance in the mirror apparently told her that she’d keep the paint job the pros had done. She picked up a Coach backpack, removed a diamond necklace and ring, and placed them around her neck and on her finger. She had ditched the posh accessories for the debate, and kept fixed the collar button on her blouse, which she now undid.
She had a Look too.
The conversation rolled into the absent pleasantries of a chance cocktail party encounter.
The businesswoman offered a breezy “See you at the breakfast Tuesday.”
“Stab me with a stick,” Cody muttered as she vanished out the door.
Then he turned to Spencer. Cody did snag a makeup wipe and went to work. “Wasn’t sure who you were here to see. I guess I win. Who’re you with?”
A flash of Spencer’s badge.
The representative rolled down his sleeves, pulled on a jacket. He nodded after Leppert. “Did you hear her say ‘Thank you’ at the end?”
“I wasn’t paying attention.”
“I wasn’t either. I don’t think she did, but I did. In public speaking, you’re not supposed to thank your audience. You’re doing the audience a favor by appearing. They should thank you. I keep forgetting.” He grimaced. “I get riled up.”
“You both thanked the moderator.”
“You have to thank the moderator. Even the bad ones.”
“A close race?”