FIFTEEN

Squinting against dazzling sunshine, Spraggue raced up the stone steps of the Senate office building. In spite of haste, split-second timing, and plain good luck, he was late for his 10:00 A.M. appointment with Senator Donagher.

It was Monday, the working actor’s Saturday and Sunday rolled into one. No performance tomorrow, that was what he’d remembered in the middle of the night; that thought had triggered his 4:00 A.M. phone call to his ever wakeful aunt, and that phone call had set gears spinning in relentless motion, wheels that had rotated him to Washington, D.C.

The morning had been bedlam.

Mary had returned his call before dawn; the phone’s shrill wail had jerked him into unwilling semiconsciousness. The urgent buzz of the front door sounded while he was still showering. His aunt had said she’d send a driver; he’d been surprised that she’d chosen Pierce. Drive, he certainly did. Spraggue shuddered at the memory of the frenzied race to the airport; he doubted any Boston cabbie could have beaten that twenty-two-minute rush-hour charge.

Then the airplane, the Spraggue Foundation Learjet, ready to lift off as soon as seatbelts were fastened on the black leather swivel loungechairs. Again surprise; Pierce was prepared to come along for the ride. Mary had sent not merely a chauffeur, but a spy. Even now, Pierce trailed a scant two steps behind him, with the appropriate room number neatly typed on a three-by-five card.

A woman opened the door when Pierce knocked, so quickly that she must have been standing right behind it, an attractive middle-aged woman who seemed to be doing her best to hide behind a drab shapeless suit and fade-into-the-background posture. Donagher was framed within a second, interior doorway, seated at an ornate desk, scanning a thick document, using one pointing finger to mark his place.

The woman began a practiced lament: The senator was extraordinarily busy and his time was strictly limited; she really had no idea how anyone had managed to wangle an appointment on such short notice, but it would be very discourteous if … She would have gone on had the resourceful Pierce not charmed her out of the room.

Dear Aunt Mary … She’d been pulling political strings so long she knew where all the loose ends were located, which one to tweak first for the desired effect. Like who to call if you needed to see your senator on a moment’s notice. Money talked in Massachusetts politics, a lot more clearly than a private detective’s expired plastic-coated photostat.

Donagher dog-eared the corner of the document, closed it with a bang, and emerged from behind the desk offering a handshake. He was wearing a pale blue shirt and the pants to a pin-striped three-piece suit. The vest hung off the corner of a rocking chair, wiping the marble floor. The suit jacket was crumpled on a brocade divan. After checking to make sure the heavy oak door to the hallway was firmly shut, he studied his wristwatch, and said, “So what’s all this about? How can I help you?”

“Questions.”

“About the upcoming campaign or about Collatos? I got some conflicting signals.”

Mary would have given them, using the lure of a campaign contribution to keep him on the hook. “About Collatos,” Spraggue said.

Donagher gestured Spraggue onto the divan, pointed at the tallest pile of documents on his cluttered desk. “See this? This is the draft of a report for the Subcommittee on Energy Research and Development. The pile next to it is for the Subcommittee on Advocacy and the Future of Small Business. The Committee on Foreign Relations has just taken a half-hour recess to study one of the most convoluted amendments to a simple proposal that I’ve ever had the pleasure of viewing. I ought to tell you I don’t have the time, but I won’t. Just keep it brief and direct … and, well, I guess it can’t be any more painful than it already is …”

“Three questions.”

“They could have been handled over the phone.”

“No, they couldn’t.”

“You’re the judge of that.” Donagher made an effort to relax. He lifted one foot and flexed it slowly. With his suit, he should have been wearing highly polished wing tips instead of soft slippers. Spraggue spotted the correct shoes under a corner of the desk, wondered if the senator’s toes were balloons of blisters from the marathon. “Go ahead,” the senator said.

“Okay. I assume you were with Collatos the night before the race.”

“He was with me. Wherever I went, he went. He stuck like glue after that day at the reservoir.”

“At twelve thirty, the night before the race, where were you?”

Donagher closed his eyes and blew out a deep breath. Tiny wrinkles stood out in his forehead like wavy river lines on an old map. “The night before the marathon is the spaghetti dinner. I decided not to go to the traditional blowout at the Prudential Center because of the crowds. I listened to the cops that far. If I’d listened to them and not run the race, Pete might …”

“There’s no point in playing that game,” Spraggue said, after a pause. “If, might, maybe …”

“I know, I just …” The senator’s right hand went to the back of his neck, massaged knotted muscles. “I decided to throw an alternative to the Pru’s spaghetti supper at my home, a small party. A few friends, a few runners. Some of the folks who’d been to the real feed came over later.”

“Who?”

“Why?” Donagher countered.

“Does it make a difference?”

“I didn’t invite anyone who had the remotest desire to kill me. And I don’t want people getting the idea that accepting an invitation to my house is the same as accepting an invitation to be grilled by the police.”

“You’re refusing to give me a list of names?”

“Until I know why you want them.”

“Well, then, try another question. Did you overhear Pete making a phone call at about twelve thirty the night before the marathon?”

Donagher considered, frowned, shook his head no. “Is that all you want to ask the people who were there that night?”

“Yes.”

“Important?”

“Probably not.”

“Well, most of them were gone by twelve thirty, but I’ll tell Murray to give you a list. I understand you, or rather, your aunt, requested a meeting with my campaign manager. May I ask why?”

Instead of answering Spraggue said, “I still have another question.”

“This’ll make three.” “I saw you come up Heartbreak Hill—”

Donagher pointed down at his painful feet. “I was almost gone. Thinking of quitting. The crowd kept me alive.”

“You were looking into the crowd for someone. Who?”

“I, uh, no … I don’t recall looking for anyone in particular.”

“I saw you.”

The senator gave a sheepish laugh. “What you saw was Senator Donagher peering around for the TV cameras. That, I admit. I wasn’t so far gone that I couldn’t recognize a good broadcast opportunity. It’s a sin of vanity. If I see a camera, I try to look as if I’m not going to fall down. I may even attempt a smile. At the top of Heartbreak, smiling is not easy.”

“I got the impression that you were looking for someone with a water flask.”

Donagher’s smile froze. “I can’t help the impression you got.”

“Most leading runners have people stationed along the route.”

“I am no longer a leading runner. I did have a few friends waiting along the first half of the course. I do most of my drinking early in a race.”

“Relax.”

“I was not looking for that woman. I don’t know that woman. I—”

“You’re not listening. I never said you knew her. I said you took water from her because someone else wasn’t there.”

As he spoke, Spraggue stood and crossed the marble tiles over to the desk. He picked up a silver-framed photograph, blew dust off its face.

“These your kids?”

“Tommy—I should say Tom, he’s almost fifteen—and Joey. He’s still a baby. Ten.”

“They ever wait along the course for you? With water?”

“You’re wrong, that’s all I can say.”

“What about your wife? That would have made a good broadcast opportunity. Doesn’t she usually wait along the course with a water bottle?”

“Look, there’s no ‘usually’ about it; I haven’t run a marathon in six years. She may have given me water during an occasional race; I think she did. But that was years ago. This time she decided she’d rather see the race from the finish line.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve had your three questions. Is that all?”

“Enough. Thanks for your time.”

“Wait,” Donagher said. “I’d like to ask a question. I’ve answered three, certainly you can answer one. I’ve been meaning to ask it ever since this horrible business happened. Even before. Pete … Pete asked me to hire you, but … I didn’t think it was necessary. I didn’t take the threats seriously. But now … I’ve checked with the Boston Police and you seem to have a decent reputation, Will you work for me? Find out who killed Collatos? Who’s trying to kill me?”

“No.”

“No?” Donagher pulled his chair back and sank into it. His face collapsed along with his body, making him look his age.

“I’m sorry,” Spraggue said, “I’ve already got a client.”