on.
40
Angelo Benedetti carried his father into cabin 7 at the Quetico. When the trembling, white-haired man had been ensconced in a leather easy chair, Booker T. Harris stepped toward him. Harris’s hands were clasped behind his back as if they’d been cuffed, and his face glistened with the sweat of a worried man.
“One of my men is dead out there. I want to know why.”
Nathan Jackson, who’d stood at the long glass windows that overlooked the lake, fuming silently, threw his hands up in exasperation. “For God sake, Booker, you know why. The son of a bitch is afraid Shiloh’s going to help nail his fucking ass for Marais’s murder.”
“Are we back to that?” Benedetti said. “I thought we were done with it.”
Jackson started across the room. “I’m not done until I’ve put you in the gas chamber.”
“Back off, Nathan.”
Harris reached out to grasp his brother’s shoulder, but Jackson pulled loose.
“The hell I’m going to back off.”
Benedetti furiously motioned to his son. “Get me out of here, Angelo. This place stinks of bullshit.”
“You’re going nowhere.” Jackson lurched toward the quivering man in the leather chair, but Angelo Benedetti thrust himself between them, chest to chest with Jackson. Harris grabbed his brother and yanked him back.
“Nathan, for Christ’s sake, use your head. Let me handle this.”
Jackson wrestled free and glared at Harris. “Oh, yeah. No problem, brother. Go right ahead. Handle it like you’ve handled everything else here. Got one man killed already and God only knows what’s happened to the others out there. Doing a stellar job, Booker. Downtown Saturday night.”
A small earthquake seemed to pass through Booker Harris, and whatever had held him in check collapsed.
“Fine,” he hollered. “Fine. You want to kill the man, you go right ahead. You’ve been throwing other people’s asses in jail for years-time maybe you had a visit there yourself. For thirty years, you’ve been dead set on undoing the good things I’ve done for you. So go ahead, throw it all away. And while you’re at it, you can double-kiss my ass, little brother.”
“Fuck you,” Jackson said.
“Yeah, and fuck you right back.” Harris slammed his hand down on the coffee table. The coffee cups jumped like startled little men. “I told you to stay away. God damn it, I told you I’d handle this. I’m going to let you in on something, Mr. Next Governor of the Golden State. I don’t know what all this is about out here, but I sure as hell know it ain’t got nuthin’ to do with Marais Grand.”
Nathan Jackson froze. He looked hard at his brother’s face until Harris guiltily turned away. “How do you know that. Booker?”
Jo, who’d stood back silently taking in all the sound and the fury, said quietly, “Because he’s always known who killed her.”
The men in the room-Schanno, the Benedettis, Jackson, Metcalf, and finally Harris-turned their full and amazed attention to Jo. She was a little amazed herself. But suddenly, it had all made sense.
Vincent Benedetti grabbed his son’s sleeve. “What am I missing here? Angelo, do you know what’s going on?”
“Hang on a second, Pop. I think we’re about to find out. Go on, Ms. O’Connor.”
“You all thought this was about men, about the two of you. But it was really about women, wasn’t it. Agent Harris?”
“What are you talking about?” Benedetti complained. “Speak plain.”
“Pop, will you just give her a chance?”
Jo moved closer to the leather chair from which Benedetti eyed her irritably. “You said your affair with Marais Grand began shortly after she came to perform at your casino. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And your wife threatened to leave you when she found out?”
“That’s right.”
“In fact, you said she threatened to kill you if you ever cheated on her with Marais Grand again.”
Benedetti shrugged. “She had a temper.”
“You ended that affair. But you had another fling with Marais Grand, shortly before she left for Nashville, and Marais claimed that Shiloh was the result.”
“So?”
“Did your wife know about the second affair?”
“Hell, Theresa knew about everything. I don’t know how. It was lucky for everybody Marais went to Nashville.”
Jo went on, “When Marais came back with little Shiloh and the tabloids were stirring up rumors of the old flame’s being rekindled, how did your wife react?”
Benedetti said, as if it were only natural, “She went berserk. I told her it was all lies.”
“But she didn’t believe you.”
“Who could blame her?”
“The night Marais Grand was killed, you were in Los Angeles. There were witnesses.” Jo looked up at the younger Benedetti. “What about you? Where were you that night?”
“Me? On a houseboat on Lake Mead with Joey and his folks. He’d just graduated from high school.”
“What about your mother?”
He thought a moment. “She stayed home, I guess. She was pretty upset back in those days. Didn’t go much of anywhere except to St. Lucia to light candles and pray.”
“Then she was alone?”
“I guess.”
“What are you getting at?” Vincent Benedetti sounded as if his patience was nearly exhausted.
“Angelo told me yesterday about a meeting between your wife and Agent Harris that took place in St. Lucia shortly after Marais Grand was killed.”
“In St. Lucia?” He glared at Harris. “She never told me.”
“There was a reason for that,” Jo said. “And there was a reason Agent Harris never looked officially in her direction during the homicide investigation. Think about it a moment. Wouldn’t an irate wife be a reasonable suspect in the killing of a woman reputed to be her husband’s lover?”
Everyone looked at Harris. He faced them like a man before a firing squad.
Jo said to him, “You must have had something pretty solid on her before you met her that day.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you deny you spoke with Theresa Benedetti in the church?”
“I was involved in a homicide investigation.”
“In a church?” Nathan Jackson cried. “Bullshit, Booker. Look at me. I said look at me, God damn it.” He studied his brother’s face, then his own face opened up in horror. “My God. Oh, my God. It’s true.” He looked as if he were going to fell over. “Why, Booker?”
“Why? Because you’re my brother. Because I’ve spent my whole life covering your ass, Nathan. It just came naturally.” He turned away from Jackson and bent to a table where the coffee server and cups had been set out. He poured coffee, took a sip, and seemed disappointed. “Cold,” he said. He put the cup down and looked at Jo. “We grew up in Watts, Ms. O’Connor. A lot of people never make it out of Watts, and a lot of those who do never look back. We were lucky, Nathan and me. We had a mother-she was a seventh-grade history teacher-who believed fiercely in ideals and in us. Dwight, he was lucky, too. When his own mother abandoned him, we took him in. Mom raised him like her own.” Harris glanced at his brother. “Christ, she believed in you, Nathan. Believed you were destined for greatness. Believed you could do something for black people. Dwight and me, we grew up covering your thoughtless antics. Covering you for her sake. Feels like we’ve been fighting a rear-guard action all our lives.
