“When was the last time?” Wilcox asked, still looking down. Fred shifted in his chair.
“Last night,” I said.
This was news to him. Fred sniffed. “What time?”Wilcox asked.
“About eleven forty, for maybe ten minutes.”
He scribbled. “Where?”
“At the Hilton, in the bar.”
He looked up at me. “Any witnesses?”
“I was there,” Fred said. “Mr. Boyer and I left together, several minutes after Mr. Grainger. We parted in front of the hotel.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I’ll just say it was obvious,” I said.
Wilcox looked back at his notebook, then at me. “This is very important information, Mr. Boyer. You were the last people to see him?”
“Except for whoever killed him.”
Wilcox ignored that. “Did anyone else know about your meeting?”
“I told my wife and brother I was meeting someone, but not who. Pamela, my secretary, arranged the meeting. I don’t know if anyone on his staff knew. They said on the television that he was shot beside his car?”
“Yes. He was.”
“Where was his car?” I asked.
“Just in front of the hotel.”
It had been his car. “Then he was killed after we left. We gave him time to leave first so he wouldn’t be seen with us. I think he met someone else.”
“Who?” Wilcox said.
“I don’t know.”
“Why do you believe he met someone?”
“His car was still in front of the hotel when we left. At least, I guessed it was his.”
“I see. Would you say you benefited from Clinton Grainger’s death, Mr. Boyer?”
“I don’t know. We’ll find out.”
“What do you mean?”
Surely Wilcox knew his way around this neighborhood. “Grainger was advising the governor against me. But he’d probably keep the governor from doing anything irrational,” I said. “Now Bright may do something crazy. I think I would prefer that Clinton Grainger were still advising him.”
“I see.” Wilcox was not writing this down. He turned to Fred. “Mr. Spellman, you were the last person to see Melvin Boyer alive, and now also Clinton Grainger.” Then, in a sudden act of bravery, Detective Wilcox stuck his head into the lion’s mouth. “Mr. Spell-man, where were you last Saturday night when Angela Boyer was killed?”
“Are you putting my name on your list, Mr. Wilcox?” I’d seen many sides of Fred recently, but he was still big enough to have a few more. I looked closely to see if my ears were right. They were; he was about to laugh, he thought the idea was so funny.
“It’s just routine-” Wilcox started, but Fred burst out with a snort. He couldn’t help it.
“I’ll have to defer,” he said, when he could. “If you’re serious, you’ll need to make an appointment. And I’ll need to hire an attorney.”
Wilcox tried again. “It’s just routine. I’ll need to ask you these questions.”
“Mr. Boyer has been very patient and generous, but I am not.” Fred had gotten over his fit. “If you send me a list of questions, I will consider answering them.”
So that’s how it would be. Wilcox gave up. He was probably in a hurry anyway. “I’ll be in touch. Thank you, Mr. Boyer. Could you keep us informed if you leave town?”
“No,” I said.
“I’ll have more questions.”
“My secretary can reach me. Wait. I have one more question.”
That was usually his line, but he stopped. “Yes?”
“Was there really brake fluid in Mr. Spellman’s driveway?”
“That is from the original report.”
“I had a meeting with Grainger three weeks ago. Maybe you remember? I think he spoke with you afterward.”
“Um, he may have spoken with Police Commissioner De-Angelo.”
“We discussed the report, and he didn’t know whether it was true. He only said they’d been told to make sure there was evidence.”
“Mr. Boyer…”
I interrupted. “So is the report true or not?”
That required some chewing on his lip. “It might not be possible to corroborate that physically. All I have is that report.”
“You would have the person who wrote the report.”
“Um, yes.” Either it was fake or he didn’t know whether it was or not, and possibly he and the author were not on speaking terms. That left the ice under him pretty thin, and it was time to get off the pond. “Thank you again, Mr. Boyer,” he said. I didn’t press him to stay.
And so he left us. I’d gotten more out of the interrogation than he had, and I would not have minded a little quiet thinking time, just leaning back and contemplating the world forty-two stories below. Something, however, was blocking my view.
“Forrester,” it said.
I still tried to get a glimpse of the sun-swept panorama, but the obstacle was too great.
“It’s his turn,” I said. “I initiated last time.”
“I did.”
“But you’re on my team. Aren’t you?”
“I suppose. As much as you will both dislike it, the two of you need to meet. He knows that. He may even initiate it himself. He understands what you’re doing to Bright, and that he may have underestimated you.”
“Most people overestimate me.”
“Either can be dangerous. And the two of you must come to some agreement on a plan of action for the governor’s mansion.”
“Putting new furniture in or something?”
“Putting a new occupant in it.”
“Fred, I don’t like the senator, and I don’t just mean personally, although that’s included. There were no fireworks last time because there wasn’t time. I don’t like being looked down on unless I’m doing it, and I’m getting to enjoy putting mutinous politicians in their place.”
“Don’t underestimate him.”
“I won’t. But he hates the deal he made with Melvin, and I’m getting kind of tired of it, too.”
Fred’s glower was not approving. “It took your father many years to build his political structure. The conflict with the governor may, perhaps, have been unavoidable-not that you tried to avoid it. But don’t destroy powerful men for recreation.”
“It’s not for recreation. It’s because I like throwing tantrums.”
“That’s recreation. You might also find Forrester a harder nut to crack. He has a lot of money of his own. As I said, don’t underestimate him.”
“I am not underestimating his arrogance and hostility to Boyer control. Estimate this: would he hate Melvin enough to kill him?”
“If so, he would have done it long ago.”
“Would he hate Harry Bright enough to kill Clinton Grainger?”
“My answer is the same. And he had no reason to kill Angela.”
“Did he know her?” I asked.
