“Well, this guy is your million-dollar killer, not mine, but on what you’ve given me, that’s correct. He has something else in mind entirely.”
49
“Mr. President.”
“Edward.”
Senator Talese stepped into the parlor. The exterior and lobby of the hotel may have been bland, but these rooms were decidedly posh.
But, then again, it was the Presidential Suite.
The commander in chief rose from a couch that was surrounded by a sea of paperwork and strode forward over the off-white sponge of carpet to grip the man’s hand. President William Boyd was a tall, angular man whose mixed-race heritage showed in the soft tone of his skin. He was known for his ready smile, which he flashed now.
Talese was senior in the opposing party and he wondered what Boyd would think if he knew that he’d just spent the last two hours strategizing about removing him from office come the election in November. Then decided the man wouldn’t care. It was all part of the game. And in fact he and Boyd had worked together frequently, beating down partisanship when they could and getting compromise legislation hammered out.
“Senator.” The tall, regal First Lady stood in the doorway.
“Mrs. Boyd.”
“How’re Emily and the girls? The grandchildren?”
“All well, thank you.” Talese noted the First Daughter, ten years old, was also in good form, fervently tapping her iPad screen.
“I’ll leave you to it.” The woman closed the double doors behind her.
The men sat. Boyd said, “Sometimes, this business, don’t you feel like a magician? Sleight of hand, misdirection. Do you know any card tricks, Edward?”
“I do, sir. I play hearts with my grandkids and I watch my loose change vanish. So the hedge fund manager I was supposed to meet — it was a disappearing act.”
“I’d hardly dig up a rich man to fund my opponent’s war chest, would I? Caught you off guard.”
“Yessir.”
The man stretched. Despite his apparently robust health, he looked tired. But then Talese had worked with three presidents and they were perpetually tired. The job simply tuckers you out.
“The polls... It’s going to be a coin toss in November.”
“Close. Yes.”
“Good CEOs don’t last — business or government. And I don’t mean good as in talented and efficient. I mean as in doing good.” Boyd rose and poured himself coffee. He lifted an eyebrow. Talese shook his head. “You ever see the movie Fail Safe, Edward?”
“Long time ago. Our bombers get a message by mistake to nuke Moscow. Are we worried about war?”
“No, no. I’m thinking of that scene where the president asks the American ambassador in Russia to sacrifice himself, so they’ll know that Moscow’s been destroyed.”
“He stays on the phone until it’s destroyed in the blast. The Russian ambassador in New York does the same.”
They traded the two cities to avoid all-out war. Like swapping queens at chess.
A chilling flick.
Talese continued, “Melted ambassadors. This is not a very auspicious conversation, Mr. President.”
“My infrastructure bill, Edward...”
“Ah.” And Talese saw what was coming and was suddenly aware of the concept of seeing his life pass before his eyes. In this case, his political life. “Only just a bit more popular than nuclear holocaust, I’ll give you that.”
A laugh.
Boyd’s legislation would be a massive overhaul of the country’s roads, bridges, tunnels, airports, railroads and the like. Improving safety and employing tens of thousands of workers.
Opponents, all of them vehement, said that bill might bankrupt the country.
Talese was looking down at the bird’s-eye maple coffee table.
Boyd: “You’ve read the drafts. What do you think?”
“In theory, it might work.”
With a coy tone in his voice, the president said, “I’ve heard some feedback... Off the record, of course. You like the idea.”
Where did the man get his intelligence?
“Edward, help me get this off the ground.”
“Mr. President...”
Boyd leaned forward. “Your clean water legislation? I’ll make sure it happens.”
Jesus.
That would be a miracle...
The senator sighed. “Dinner the other night? I mentioned that the water bill was coming in at one point two billion. And Sammi said, ‘Guess somebody left the faucet running.’ ”
A chuckle. “We need more twelve-year-olds in Congress.”
Just like Boyd to know the names and ages of his oppo’s grandchildren.
“I vote for it, it’ll be the end of my career.”
“Ah, you’re not up for four years. Voters’ll forget.”
“My party won’t. After this term I won’t be able to get any job short of dogcatcher.”
Talese looked out the window as the sun cast its relentless light on the magnificent city.
Not impulsive as a politician, not impulsive as a husband or father or grandfather, Senator Edward Talese of New York did not act impulsively now. His quick mind ordered facts and consequences and said, “I’ll do it, sir. You’ve got my vote.”
Dogcatcher...
The president rose quickly and took Talese’s hand in both of his.
“I’ve been thinking of a title for when I write my autobiography,” the senator mused. “Or, when my ghostwriter does. I’ve got it now: The Devil’s Bargainer.”
The president laughed his famous laugh.
The two walked to the door.
Talese said, “That movie? The one where the two ambassadors got nuked? At least they avoided World War Three. That was something.”
50
Lincoln Rhyme’s email inbox flashed with a Zoom request to join a meeting five minutes from now.
The host was the homeless billionaire Willis Tamblyn.
This would be a follow-up to their prior conversation a half hour ago.
After the developer had shot down their theories about the Watchmaker’s motives, Rhyme had wondered if the developer could help in another way.
“Six months?” Tamblyn had muttered.
“What?” Rhyme had asked.
“How long it takes to get that reservation at Lucien’s.”
Rhyme had asked, “Will it still be in business six months from now, do you think?”
There’d been a pause. “Jacques won’t be happy. What do you need?”
Rhyme had said, “A developer has to know a lot about the history of the city, its geography, I assume.”
“Are you joking? Someone once wrote that nobody knows more about New York City than Willis Tamblyn. I took offense. Saying ‘nobody knows more.’ That puts me on an equal footing with every Tom, Dick and Loser of developers. The right way to say it is simpler and doesn’t involve a negative. I know more than any other living person about the city.”
“Then maybe you can help us find a location. It’s where the co-conspirators met in the crane attack.”
“Conspirators,” Tamblyn had said slowly, savoring either the word or the concept itself. Perhaps both.
“This is what our officers found in the soil.” And he had sent a picture from the murder board.
Andy Gilligan, homicide
◦ clay soil
◦ oyster shells, old
◦ decaying substances, all probably several hundred years old:
wool
leather