Desperate Measures

out to be a certain synchronicity between the police-brutality assignment Pittman was given and what happened next. On his free time over the weekend, Pittman had gone to Boston, intending to stake out Millgate’s mansion in the hope that he would see Millgate leave. Pittman’s plan was to follow Millgate’s limousine until he could find a place that allowed him to approach Millgate with questions. One minute after Pittman parked on the mansion’s tree-lined street, a police car stopped behind him. One hour later, he was being questioned as a burglary suspect at police headquarters. Two hours later, he was in a holding cell, where two prisoners picked a fight with him and beat him so badly that he needed a thousand dollars’ worth of dental work.

Visiting Pittman in the hospital, Burt had shaken his head. “Stubborn.”

The wires that secured Pittman’s broken jaw had prevented him from answering.

9

Pittman finished his second Jack Daniel’s and glanced across the almost-deserted tavern toward the bartender, who still seemed startled that he’d actually had a legitimate customer. A man carrying a bulging paper bag came in, looked around the shadowy interior, raised his eyebrows at the sight of Pittman, got a shrug and a nod from the bartender, and proceeded toward a room in the back.

Pittman considered ordering another bourbon, then glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost 1:30 in the afternoon. He’d been sitting there brooding for longer than he’d realized. He hadn’t thought about Millgate in quite a while-years-since well before Jeremy had become ill. Pittman’s jaw had healed. He’d pursued other assignments. Millgate had managed to make himself invisible again. Out of sight, out of mind. The only reminder had been periodic twinges in Pittman’s jaw during especially cold weather. Sometimes when he fingered the line where his jaw had been broken, he would recall how he had tried to investigate the two prisoners who had beaten him. They’d been admitted to his cell a half hour after he’d been placed there. The charges against them had been public drunkenness, but Pittman hadn’t smelled any alcohol on their breath when they had beaten him. Subsequent to the beating, they had been mistakenly released from jail, a mix-up in paperwork. Their names had been common, their addresses temporary, and Pittman had never been able to contact them or investigate their backgrounds to find out if Millgate had been responsible for the beating.

As he left the murky bar, his head aching from the harsh assault of afternoon sunlight, Pittman felt searing anger intrude on his cold despair. He had always resented aristocrats and their supposition that money and social stature made them the equivalent of royalty. He resented the disdain with which they felt themselves unaccountable for their actions. During his peak as a national affairs reporter, his best stories had been exposes of criminal activity by those in high places, and Jonathan Millgate would have been the highest target Pittman had ever brought down.

I should have been more persistent.

Pittman’s flare of anger abruptly died. Ahead, at a noisy intersection where pedestrians were stopped for a red light, he noticed a tall, lanky boy with long hair, slight shoulders, and narrow hips moving his feet slightly to the beat of imagined music. The boy looked to be about fifteen. He wore a rumpled denim jacket that had an emblem of a rock star. His jeans were faded. His running shoes, high-topped, were dyed green and had names written on them. From the back, the boy reminded Pittman so much of Jeremy that he felt as if a hand had squeezed his heart. Then the boy turned his head to speak to a companion, and of course, the boy looked nothing at all like Jeremy, whose jaw had not been as strong as this boy’s and whose complexion hadn’t been as clear and whose teeth had needed braces. Imperfect physically, but perfect as a son. It wasn’t just that Jeremy had never gotten into trouble, or that his grades had been excellent, or that he had been respectful. As important as these things were, what Pittman missed most about Jeremy was his captivating personality. The boy had been blessed with a wonderful sense of humor. He had always been so much fun to be around, never failing to make Pittman feel that life was better because of his son.

But not anymore, Pittman thought.

The brief angry fire he’d felt when thinking about Millgate no longer had significance. That was from another time, another life-before Jeremy had become ill. Pittman resented what Burt was trying to do. It was an insult to Jeremy’s memory for Burt to assume that an assignment about Jonathan Millgate could distract Pittman from his grief.

I ought to tell him to stuff it.

No. Keep your word. When you end this, it has to be cleanly. You can’t be obligated to anyone.

10

In the old days, Pittman would have gone to the area, formerly in the basement, where back issues of the newspaper were stored on microfilm. The master index would have contained file cards for “Millgate” and “Grand counselors,” and from them, Pittman would have learned which issues and pages of the newspaper to read on microfilm. That section of the newspaper where the microfilm was kept had been traditionally called the morgue, and although computer files had replaced microfilm, death was so much on Pittman’s mind that he still thought of himself as entering a morgue when he sat at his desk, turned on his computer terminal, and tapped the keys that would give him access to the newspaper’s data files.

Given Millgate’s secretive lifestyle, it wasn’t surprising that there wasn’t much information: only a few small items since Pittman had researched Millgate seven years earlier. Millgate and the other four grand counselors-still retaining immense political power, even though they no longer had direct ties with the government-had been feted at a White House dinner, where the President had given Millgate the Medal of Freedom, America’s highest civilian honor. Millgate had accompanied the President on Air Force One to an international conference on world economics in Geneva. Millgate had established an institute for the study of post-Communist reconstruction in Russia. Millgate had testified before a Senate confirmation committee about his high regard for a Supreme Court nominee, who also happened to be the son of one of the grand counselors.

The phone rang.

Pittman picked it up. “Obituaries.”

A fifty-two-year-old woman had been killed in a fire, he learned. She was unmarried, without children, unemployed, not a member of any organization. Aside from her brother, to whom Pittman was speaking, there weren’t any surviving relatives. Thus, the obituary would be unusually slight, especially because the brother didn’t want his name mentioned for fear people to whom his sister owed money would come looking for him.

The barrenness of the woman’s life made Pittman more despondent. Shaking his head, dejected, he finished the call, then frowned at his watch. It was almost three o’clock. The gray haze that customarily surrounded him seemed to have thickened.

The phone rang again.

This time, Burt Forsyth’s gravelly voice demanded, “How’s the Millgate obit coming?”

“Has he…?”

“Still in intensive care.”

“Well, there isn’t much. I’ll have the obit finished before I go home.”

“Don’t tell me there isn’t much,” Burt said. “We both know better. I want this piece to be substantial. Seven years ago, you wouldn’t have given up so easily. Dig. Back then, you kept complaining about how you couldn’t find a way to see Millgate. Well, he’s a captive interview this time. Not to mention, there’ll be relatives or somebody waiting at the hospital to see how he’s doing. Talk to them. For Christ sake, figure out how to get into his room and talk to him.”

11