“Dad, just listen.”
“No, I really don’t want to hear this. You of all people should know better than to put rumors inside my head. I’m about to face off against two congressional committees, and there are members of those committees who never miss an opportunity to embarrass the president. The less I know about anything that doesn’t deal with my own qualifications for the job, the better.”
“This isn’t about you being qualified. I’ve been talking with Paulette Sparks about this-”
“Damn, Jack. Why would you do that?”
“She’s been helping me sort this out.”
“She’s a Washington reporter. She’s not helping you.”
“Paulette thinks Grayson may have been murdered.”
“That’s it, I’m outta here,” he said as he sprang from the bench.
Jack went after him, jogging at his side. “Why won’t you listen to this?”
“Why won’t you stop talking?”
“This is important.”
“This is poppycock.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I live in the real world, Jack. You should try visiting there some time.”
“A fifty-year-old man cheats on his wife, and both he and his young lover end up dead. For a criminal defense lawyer, that is the real world.”
Harry stopped abruptly. “I’m trying to pull you up out of that cesspool, Jack. I’m giving you a shot at the big leagues. Don’t blow it.”
“A shot? I didn’t ask for a shot.”
“As your father, I’m asking you to stop talking with Paulette Sparks.”
“As your lawyer, I’m telling you to open your eyes.”
“As my lawyer, you should have known better than to put your trust in a reporter in the first place.”
“What are you going to do, fire me?”
Another runner passed them. It gave Harry time to reflect, but he still didn’t pull any punches. “Yeah,” he said, grunting. “I think I am.”
Jack stopped running. “What?”
Harry continued several paces down the path, then turned to look Jack in the eye. “I need a lawyer who really wants this job. Ever since you got here, all you’ve done is play detective. That’s not helping me.”
“If this keeps up, we’ll end up not speaking to each other, and it’ll be the bad old days all over again. That’s what I
“So…I should go back to Miami?”
“I think it’s best this way. Now, come on, let’s start back.”
“You go ahead. I don’t much feel like it.”
“Suit yourself.”
Jack watched in silence as his father turned and merged into a long line of joggers that was headed in the general direction of the White House.
Chapter 21
Paulette Sparks returned to Washington on Tuesday night. Chloe’s funeral had left her completely drained.
She wondered if her father would ever recover.
Paulette’s relationship with Chloe’s mother had never amounted to much, but it killed her to see their father suffer. Chloe had caused him so much heartache in her teenage years-drinking and driving, hitting the party scene, not coming home at night. Paulette resented her for that, but it was nothing compared to Chloe’s resentment toward her. As the older sister, Paulette had done everything before Chloe. Chloe was riding a bike when Paulette learned to drive. Chloe was in middle school when Paulette started college. At the funeral, Paulette recalled an argument they’d had years earlier, when just by coincidence Chloe’s acceptance to journalism school was completely overshadowed by Paulette’s landing a job with CNN.
“I hope you die before I do, too!” Chloe had screamed at her.
Her sister hadn’t gotten her wish.
“Seventh Street,” Paulette told the taxi driver.
“Where?”
It was a dark and drizzly night at Reagan International Airport, and the only sound in the car was the
“Columbia Bowling Alley. You know it?”
“Yeah. Do you?”
“Sure,” she said.
“Funny,” said the driver. “You don’t look the bowling type.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
“I hear you. But you know, if you’re going to the alley looking to soothe the beast, I could probably help you find whatever you-”
“I’m not looking for drugs. I’m going bowling.”
“Okay, sure. If you say so, lady.”
Paulette was only half lying. No, she wasn’t looking for drugs. But she wasn’t going bowling. She was on a mission. Instinctively, she reached inside her purse and touched the envelope, just to make sure it was still there. It was.
Chloe’s letter had landed in their father’s mailbox on the morning of her burial. The poor man had nearly fainted. He gave it to Paulette to read it to him. The very idea of getting a letter from a daughter he had just laid beneath the earth was too painful for him to handle. Chloe had mailed it just one day before her death. The timing was not mere coincidence.
Paulette opened the envelope and read it one more time in the backseat of the taxi, the dim reading lamp giving her barely enough light:
The taxi stopped at the curb in front of the bowling alley. The orange neon sign on the door said they were “PEN,” the letter “O” burned out. Paulette paid the driver and stepped onto the sidewalk. She tried to put one foot in front of the other, but something stopped her. The cold night air hit her in the face, unleashing swarms of butterflies in her stomach.
