asked.
“That depends on you,” I countered. “What will you do?”
“Your cabinet is self-destructing,” Fred added. “The police are just getting started. It would be pointless to prolong this. You know you can’t win.”
“The governor is paying me to prolong this.”
“How much is he paying you?”
That was enough for Clinton Grainger to understand the real reason for the meeting. Even in the dark, I could feel his unblinking eyes on me. “I’m not a mercenary, Mr. Boyer.”
“I don’t think he’ll be paying you much longer,” I said. “I’m patient.”
“It hasn’t seemed that way.”
“I do what I have to do.” And I’d said what I had to say. “And I appreciate that you were willing to talk with me. We’ll see what happens next.”
“I’m not interested.”
“That’s up to you. I really am patient, and I won’t have to wait long.”
“You keep assuming that.” He stood. “You may be surprised.”
“You know it’s over,” I said.
“Not yet. I can cause damage, too.”
“Nothing can save Bright.”
“Mr. Boyer, be careful about throwing stones. You have more glass in your own house than you think.” He paused, but I didn’t take his bait. “Don’t call me again.”
“I won’t unless I have to,” I said.
With that, he slipped back out from the enemy lines into no-man’s-land and was gone. We waited a few minutes to let him get away clear, in case anyone was watching.
Fred and I stood at the curb by Fred’s car. “Apparently the governor will launch some attack tomorrow,” he said.
“What was he talking about?”
“We’ll find out. He acted as if it would be substantial.”
“I’ll be at home. Call me if anything happens.”
I pointed at the car parked ahead of Fred’s on the street. “Isn’t that Grainger’s car? It has a governor’s mansion parking sticker.”
Fred scowled. “He’s meeting someone else.”
“He might just be getting food.”
“No, he’s discussing our meeting. I don’t like it. He has more ammunition.”
I shrugged. “It can’t be that bad. Call me anytime.”
25
Fred did call anytime. It was less than five hours later when Rosita knocked on my bedroom door and I groped through the dark in my pajamas, trying to find my office in that huge new house.
“Jason,” Fred said, indignant enough for both of us. “Turn on your television. Clinton Grainger is dead.”
It hadn’t even been five days since the last time someone had said that. Just with a different name.
But Fred didn’t dissolve into sobbing. He kept talking. “He was gunned down outside the hotel last night, beside his car.”
At least I wouldn’t have anything to do with this funeral. I switched through the network morning shows. Katie and I had compromised; there was a television in the breakfast room, but it was small.
At first it was only on the local news breaks, but then the New York anchors picked it up. No one hesitated to lump everything together.
“A third murder in Governor Harry Bright’s corruption case last night,” one face said to a national audience.
“Possibly the greatest scandal in recent American history,” another claimed.
I called Stan Morton. “I’m not doing an interview today.”
“Huh?” he said. “I don’t even know what day it is. You lose track when you don’t sleep. Did you kill Clinton Grainger?”
“Who’s saying that?”
“Just say yes or no.”
“No.”
“Good. But you’d say that anyway.”
“This is not why I called.”
“The interview. Tomorrow?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Eric must have spent the night, because he wandered in a while later, wearing the work clothes Katie had bought for me, his hair a mess. He stared at the screen and his blurred eyes got big.
“I’ve heard of him. They talked about Clinton Grainger in the newspaper yesterday.”
I played innocent. “Governor Bright is going to miss him.”
Eric nodded. “Yeah. Clinton Grainger is Harry Bright’s chief of staff and main political adviser. He’s been the mastermind behind his whole career.”
I turned from the television to look at my brother.
“What?” he said. “You told me to read the newspapers.”
“Is that what the papers said?”
“Well, sort of. You could figure it out. Did you know him?”
“I met him a couple times.”
“This might… Do you… Do you think it could be the same person who killed Angela?”
The whole huge cloud had at least one little silver lining-that Eric had something besides cars to figure out. “Um… the thought had crossed my mind.”
“Wow. This is big. Do you think it made it into the newspaper?”
“I bet it was too late. And Rule Number 92-don’t believe everything you read in the newspaper.”
“But you said to read it. You own it anyway.”
“That’s why Rule 92 is so important.”
At seven thirty, the governor appeared to make a statement. He was badly shaken, stumbling over his words, his face ashen and his hands trembling.
“This morning I lost a close adviser and a good friend. Clinton had been with me through thick and thin. I often counted on him for wise counsel, especially these last few days. We will all miss him, and I more than anyone.” Even if he’d invited them, none of the reporters would have dared to ask any questions. For the moment he’d score a lot of sympathy points with his voters, but the image of the blank eyes and dead expression would surely haunt him forever.
But many questions-Rhetorical News Anchor Questions- were asked of the viewers. “Will Harry Bright survive this latest blow? Is this murder related to the deaths of Melvin and Angela Boyer? What will the authorities find at the bottom of this affair?” And all the questions were answered with all the standard variations of the Rhetorical News Anchor Answer.
“Only time will tell.”
When Katie arrived for breakfast, I told her I’d be busy being rich and important for the day, and to not wait up.
“This is not a good habit,” she said. “You need sleep.”
“At least I’ve got a reason to be alive.”
“Rosita is planning a nice dinner.”
It is important to keep priorities. “Okay. I’ll try real hard to be here.”
I got to Fred’s office at eight forty. He had not come down from his indignancy plateau, but the first thing he
