chapter eleven

life of Riley

At seven sharp, my Solstice idled in front of Debbie’s building while Maurice the burly doorman buzzed her apartment. Thirty minutes later, she made her entrance wearing a white floor-length silk evening dress with a halter neckline, secured in front by an O-shaped circle of rhinestones gathered at the bodice with shirring down the front. At the center of the O was bare skin. As she turned toward Maurice to escort her to my car, the back of the dress revealed thick criss-crossed straps across her bare back, with a V-shape plunge just above her buttocks.

The pirouette appeared to be for my benefit. The dress flattered her thin body, and I smiled in admiration.

I tipped Maurice as he closed the passenger door.

“You approve?” she asked, her dangly crystal earrings sparkling in the light.

“Brava. Kudos to the silkworms who gave their all.”

She appeared briefly confused. “You look very handsome. You look like you were made for that tux. Is that a rental?”

She’d forgotten my comment from the other day. “Nope, I actually own two. This classic black and one with a white jacket that makes me look like a waiter.”

“A very handsome waiter,” she said and rested her hand on my arm.

The Haller estate encompassed pristine rolling hills in Chesterfield, an affluent West County suburb of St. Louis. It included two lakes, numerous arched bridges that traversed a meandering creek, a stable, and a steeplechase course. Old man Haller, a multimillionaire from his days in the railroad industry, had hosted lavish political fundraisers for over forty years, including events for John Maynard, Sr., until one spring day last year when, in his nineties and in failing health, he sat under a weeping willow tree near one of his lakes and put a bullet through his brain. His family vowed to continue the fundraising tradition; were they setting their sights on Maynard Junior?

Debbie flashed her press pass and invitation for two and we gained admittance after a brief security search. Most of the affluent guests mingled under the gilded archways of a beautiful loggia, the high-domed ceilings painted with sunny blue Mediterranean landscapes or bustling European-inspired market scenes. I grabbed a glass of remarkably good champagne from a passing server (in a white tux) while Debbie opted for spring water with lemon. We toured the living space that included a three-story great room complete with works of Picasso and Rodin while a string ensemble played a light and airy version of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons.

Beyond the great room was an elevator that no doubt used to transport old man Haller to and from his master bedroom suite. I noticed an empty podium at the far end of the loggia and thought of past men on the senatorial and presidential trail who’d stood at that spot making tough statements and bold promises and of all the whispered backroom conversations that must have happened in those shadowy alcoves. Debbie and I were two of the youngest people in attendance, save for the servants. White and gray hair, no hair, diamonds and rubies, furs and facelifts met us every way we turned. I caught a glimpse of the mayor of St. Louis chatting up a former Missouri senator when Debbie poked me in the ribs.

“See that man over there,” she said pointing briefly to a short thin man wearing a form-fitting dark blue power suit and sporting a prematurely receding crew cut. He stood very erect, stiff and precise in his movements; his clean-shaven face and bright blue eyes darted about the room absorbing every nuance and detail. “That’s Paul Fallon, Maynard’s right-hand man.”

As if on cue, Fallon spotted Debbie and quickly strode our way, hand extended.

“Glad you could make it, Miss Macklin,” Fallon said, his unsmiling face the antithesis of his words. Debbie introduced me and we shook hands. His handshake was firm but his fingers damp. I thought I detected a brief glimmer of recognition in those keen eyes when he heard my name.

He kept his focus on Debbie, and for that I was thankful.

“Mr. Maynard won’t have face time for you tonight. Remember you are not here as a member of the press. Enjoy the energy and excitement of the evening.” He nodded as if to include me. “Dr. Adams.”

The tightly-wound little man spoke with clipped and precise words. He turned on his heels and strode away, talking non-stop into his Bluetooth. He seemed self-assured and calculating.

Just as he had in the bathroom at City Hall.

I ate tiger shrimp in a delicate ginger sauce and end-cut prime rib from a Noritake crystal plate while Debbie nibbled on a carrot stick and broccoli stem. I wondered how she was able to keep standing erect and wondered if she ever ate a pint of ice cream alone in a midnight-darkened kitchen. I gazed beyond the draped bunting as two stately white swans glided along the glass top of a clear lake and large koi of all colors slowly swirled below. The sun began to set and the lower horizon turned sanguine. I grabbed a second glass of the bubbly, feeling the beginnings of a warm glow in my belly.

A modern-day life of Riley.

The string quartet switched to a light, up-tempo version of Happy Days Are Here Again. That and the flashing lights cued the guests to their seats. A pudgy balding man in his fifties, old man Haller’s eldest son, trudged to the podium. He acknowledged and thanked the mayor, two former mayors, various state senators, and representatives and other key officials for attending the first party fundraiser for the vacant senate seat. Uncomfortable with public speaking, he reminisced briefly about his father’s love of business and politics. When he said his dad was here in spirit smiling down on them tonight, the crowd applauded and lifted their glasses in a toast. He thanked Paul Fallon for providing tonight’s security, pointed to some of the several strapping young men in solid dark coats standing along the walls and at the main entrance, and then turned over the microphone to the mayor of St. Louis.

Current and former elected officials gave emotional and truncated party speeches, little more than preaching to the choir, but each speaker urged everyone to open their checkbooks tonight for the party. Two politicians received polite applause when they announced their intent to seek the nomination. Other speakers mentioned John Maynard and whether he planned to throw his hat into the ring. The two who’d announced shot furtive glances at Maynard’s table.

Maynard was one of the last speakers and appeared reluctant to walk to the dais, long enough for Fallon to be seen prodding him forward. On the way he stopped to shake hands and receive pats on the back. Heads turned and glasses rose as he flashed his trademark smile. “I wish to thank those of you who want to hear another announcement. Your support and confidence mean a great deal to me, and I know some of you want me to begin following in my father’s footsteps tonight, but I have a major trial to prepare for and a city to clean up. With that in mind, I must disappoint you tonight, but as dad used to say, ‘Never say never.’”

A muffled buzz spread through the attendees, who looked blindsided by the news.

“I want to thank the Haller Foundation for hosting this gala.” Looking at the tables of local businessmen, he raised his glass. “I praise you, captains of industry … you are the true visionaries, the men who form the backbone that makes this the greatest country in the world. Thank you for the jobs you create. With your support, our party will surely win the Senate seat next fall. Gentlemen, give each other a round of applause!”

While he spoke I watched him and those listening nearby. They waited on his every word; he turned their disappointment over not running into joy with his mini pep rally. The buzz in the air was for the party but also for him. He had national name recognition and brains and looks, but he’d turned them down. I wondered how long it would be before “never say never” turned into “if not now, when?”

As the applause for him continued, one thought kept coming to mind: John Maynard Junior looks tipsy.

I asked Debbie if she saw it, too.

She rolled her eyes. “It’s a fundraiser and he’s schmoozing, working the movers and shakers. He had a drink in his hand at the podium, but I hear he limits himself to one.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and said, “He has what’s called a flushing response—if he has more than one alcoholic drink he gets physically ill. After one drink he switches to water with a slice of lime. He can never abuse alcohol. Don’t be such a skeptic, Mitch.”

I’ve read about the alcohol flushing reaction caused by the diminished ability of a person’s body to break down alcohol, the telltale red face or blotches caused by excess dilation of the capillaries. Because roughly half of Pacific Rim Asians have the condition, it’s often called the Asian Glow. The condition is much rarer in the rest of the world. Research says people with the condition are much less likely to be alcoholics. I let it go at that.

For the next hour we mingled with supporters. I watched Debbie work the crowd, trying to absorb it all. At one point she was so engrossed in a conversation she actually nibbled a bite of prime rib from my plate.

The horror!

Shortly after that, four local sports celebrities cornered us and proselytized their evangelical agenda. Two, wearing wedding bands, ended their spiel by hitting on Debbie. Throughout the evening many older men asked what I did for a living and my reply was often followed by awkward silence or surprise. A few replied: There’s money in that? before moving on. One octogenarian with bushy brows and hair sprouting from his ears simply walked away shaking his head.

After the clean-cut Christian Crusaders renounced us to search for fresh converts and conquests, Maynard appeared, handsome in his tailored tux and flashing a lot of teeth. He thanked Debbie for attending. He was shorter than I imagined. He’d already extended his hand to me as Debbie said, “Chief Prosecutor Maynard, Dr. Mitchell Adams is a—”

He took an extra step, so close I could feel his breath. His unblinking eyes fixed on mine. “I know all about Dr. Adams and his fine work.”

He knew I was seeing Lonnie.

I smelled gin on his breath, saw no blotches on his face or neck, and noted the scotch in his cut crystal glass. “And I’m learning more about you every day,” I said, “from the arrest coverage, of course.”

“You were in the audience on the steps at City Hall when the news first went public,” he said coyly, waiting for my reaction.

How could he possibly know that? Did he also know I’d been a fly on the wall in the bathroom?

“You have an outstanding memory or a very observant staff.” Or every speaking event is taped by your security force.

“Fortunately I have both.” A confident grin formed on one side of his face.

And those eyes, do you even have eyelids?

“It sounds as if this case is interfering with your career plans.”

“On the contrary,” he studied my face and said, “I anticipate every possible turn in each case and use them to my benefit. I take surprises out of the equation. That’s why I always win.”

I handed him a personal check. “I had hoped my contribution would go toward your election, but it seems the party and I will have to make do without you again this year.”

He looked at the numbers and said, “This is most generous. I don’t know what to say.”

“Didn’t see that coming, did you? You can’t predict every twist life throws at you. Such as: three of the four men remain at large and trials can be delayed ad nauseum.”

“Justice will be served and on time. Life remains on course.”

“For you, perhaps. Not for the little black man.”

He raised an eyebrow, lowering his voice. “Should we pity him? Does a less-than-happy childhood excuse criminal behavior? He had his chance for the American Dream but chose a darker path.”

“Not everyone had the opportunity to grow up on Dogwood Farms.”

“He’d hurt anyone for money.”

He briefly acknowledged a silver-haired dowager with a wink and smile as she passed.

I glanced at Debbie, her mouth open in stunned surprise.

“There‘s a lot of that going on these days. I'm sure it will all come to light.”

At last he blinked. He started to respond when Paul Fallon congenially called his name and stepped between us. Behind Fallon loomed two unsmiling security men, their attention now on me.

“Am I about to get the bum’s rush? I can make quite the scene.”

“Be our guest,” Maynard said. “It’s all about you—”

Fallon interrupted Maynard again, saying, “John, the mayor has a favor to ask before he leaves for another pressing engagement.”

Maynard flashed his winning smile a final time as he walked away, handing my check to Fallon.

Fallon gently guided me away from listening ears and said in sotto voce, “You made quite the news splash this time last year, Dr. Adams. Keeping your cool in such a life-threatening situation must have been great publicity for your business. Now that limelight’s faded,” he spread his arms, looking about the great room and loggia, “you are here. Looking for another run as a feature on tomorrow’s six o’clock news.”

I mirrored his tone. “You can spin bullshit until the cows come home, it’s still bullshit.”

The stiff-backed Fallon fixed his smarmy smile on me. “Like last year, you’re involved with yet another dangerous man.”

“You have a very distinctive voice, Mr. Fallon. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Fallon's smile was part sneer. “Of course. Be careful, Dr. Adams. Don’t let your client drag you down into his hellish world. It’s a long road back, and if anyone should know about long lonely roads, it’s you.”

He hadn’t picked up on the voice comment.

He leaned close and whispered in a voice dripping with velvet menace, “We don’t want anything else to end unhappily for you.”

“If I didn’t know your boss was such a law-abiding citizen, I might take that as a threat. Your concern is touching, but I’m adept at spotting wolves in sheep clothing. You are right about one thing—I am enmeshed with another dangerous man.”

He took a step forward. “One day you’re going to find yourself in a situation you can’t talk your way out of.”

“Happens to all of us sooner or later, doesn’t it? C’est la vie.”

He turned on his heels and left. One buff young security man wearing shades and a stone face lingered, my apparent shadow the rest of the evening.

Debbie walked up to me, puzzled, placing a hand on my arm. “I thought you and John had never met?”

“First time tonight.”

“He certainly knows you.”

“Deb, I see Lonnie Washington in therapy.”

I watched as the pieces fell into place in her mind. She put a hand to her mouth. “The counterfeiter who shot the pregnant security guard?”

“I'm not convinced he shot or robbed anyone.”

“Why on earth would you see someone like him?” she asked, eyes wide, dumbfounded.

“Helping people is what I do.”

“He’s an amoral criminal, for God’s sake.”

“He may be.”

She folded her arms, her movements stiffening. “This is why you asked me out in the first place, isn’t it? This was all about your work. You used me, you bastard.”

She threw her water in my face and stormed out.

By that time, Maynard and Fallon were high and dry, safe on the other side of the mansion. But the mayor, politicians, celebrities, captains of industry, and every blue hair and bald head nearby turned and looked on as I pinched lemony water from my eyes, combed back my sopping hair with my hands, and tried in vain to slough the water from my tux. The beefy security guy stepped forward, his meat hook of an arm reaching out.

And I was worried I wouldn’t get the chance to cause a scene.