4

“Jimmy never knew him.” Kenna made an infinitesimal adjustment to the photo on the polished mahogany fireplace mantel, caressing it for a moment as she spoke. “He was a month from coming home.”

The black-framed photograph of the marine, dark curly hair, desert fatigues, squinting into the sunshine, held the place of honor in the cozy Deverton living room. A folded American flag in a stark wooden box sat next to it.

“You must have been so proud of your…” Lassiter hesitated.

“Husband.” Kenna finished the sentence, slowly sliding her hands into her back pockets, the toe of her silver ballet flat tracing a pattern in the pile of the creamy shag rug. A blond curl escaped from the ribbon, fell across one cheek. She looked at Lassiter from under her lashes.

“Yes. I still think of James every day. Jimmy was less than a year old when it happened. Three years later, I’m still working on explaining it to him. Why he doesn’t have a father.”

“You—,” Lassiter began.

She turned to Lassiter, earnest. “No, please, this isn’t about me. Or even Jimmy.” She gestured through an archway toward a toy-littered playroom. “He’s happy entertaining himself with his trucks. Today is about you. And your campaign, Governor.”

“Owen,” he said.

Kenna agreed, with a shy smile, then tapped her silver-linked watch. “I believe you said your schedule allowed fifteen minutes here, Owen. That means only twelve minutes left for you to win me over.”

*   *   *

“May I speak to Mrs. Lassiter, please? This is Jane Ryland at … the Register.” The new title snagged her. “Sure, I’ll hold. I’m following up on the interview request from this morning.”

About six hours ago.

The scruffy chair rattled over the murky once-gray carpeting as Jane swiveled to get comfortable at her new desk. Her half of her new desk.

Tuck—was he the flannel-shirted surfer-looking guy in the photo pinned to the peeling corkboard?—had graciously cleared off one of three adjustable wooden bookshelves and emptied one of four battered metal desk drawers. Someone’s idea of sharing. He’d scrawled a note on a Post-it pad: “Welcome, Roomie.” Someone’s idea of camaraderie.

She thought of her old office at Channel 11. Sleek built-in corner shelves holding her kept-from-J-school tattered reference books. Lighted mirror. Huge bulletin board covered with dangling plastic-sleeved press passes, happy snaps, and souvenir campaign buttons. Mike the mailroom guy delivering fan letters, the occasional skeevy plea from a creepy admirer, sometimes even rants from hostile viewers. After the trial, she’d gotten a few particularly unpleasant ones, ridiculous, but she’d told Jake about them, just in case. Where’s the mailroom here, anyway? Back then, she’d had a door that closed. And locked.

Good-bye to that. This was her new domain. Fabric-covered cubicles. Tops of heads of strangers. Fragrance of aging coffee. Buzzing tubes of fluorescent lights. Half an office.

Now some huffy press assistant was asking, could she take a message?

“No,” Jane replied. “I prefer to talk to Mrs. Lassiter directly. Do you know when she’ll be available? And wouldn’t it be better if she took a break, as you called it, after the election?”

Silence. Then a tinny Sousa march as someone hit the Hold button.

Slipping the phone between her cheek and shoulder, Jane typed her password into the coffee-smudged beige computer on the desk, puffed the dust from the monitor. She pushed aside a haphazard stack of Tuck’s file folders, the one on top marked LONGFELLOW BRIDGE, and clicked into the Register’s Web site. The front page of the latest edition appeared on the screen.

The “hold” music stopped.

“Jane?” The new voice was soothing, conciliatory. Sheila King introduced herself.

Another press secretary. And soon after, yet another refusal of the interview.

“Sheila? I’m confused.” Jane leaned back in her chair, the heels of her boots stretching past the cubicle divider. “I’m simply looking for the standard-issue candidate’s-wife interview. No surprises, no big deal. Just, hey, how ya doin’. How goes the campaign.”

Jane stared at the dingy ceiling tiles as the press secretary spun out excuses and double-talk. Give me a break. She snapped her chair upright and clicked down the Register’s online front page.

The main headline, byline Tucker Cameron, read POLICE CONTINUE TO DENY SERIAL KILLINGS. Below that, a Tuck sidebar, POLICE INSIST NO “BRIDGE KILLER.” My elusive deskmate is getting some big ink. She clicked on “Politics.” There, the headline read GABLE GAINS IN POLLS, LASSITER LAGGING. Maybe Alex was on to something.

“No, you listen,” Jane said into the phone. “You’re telling me Moira Lassiter’s ‘not available’? ‘Not now. Not tomorrow. Not next week.’ That sounds a lot like ‘not ever.’ Might I ask why?”

*   *   *

“Dump truck. Box truck. And what’s this one?” Lassiter had folded his soft charcoal suit jacket over the back of the overstuffed couch and sat on the living room floor, legs akimbo, surrounded by a convoy of miniature vehicles.

Kenna clicked red and green Lego blocks together and apart, watching the man who wanted to be the next senator from Massachusetts play with a four-year-old. Fifteen minutes had long passed.

Over one cup of coffee, then two, she had drawn him out about his campaign, his policies, his strategy. She was fascinated, of course. Riveted. It was almost too easy. Lassiter had answered a second phone call with a terse: “I know what time it is. I’ll call you.”

“Dat is a oil truck!” Jimmy crowed. He grabbed the plastic vehicle from Lassiter’s hands. “I know it!”

“Maybe he can help with your Middle East policy,” Kenna said, smiling. She uncoiled herself from the chintz armchair, tossed two Legos into the rubber bowl. “Or transportation.”

“Absolutely. We can use a guy who recognizes his trucks.” Lassiter leaned back against the side of the couch, stretching his legs across the oriental rug. “The campaign could also use a well-informed mom who cares about his future. Ever thought about volunteering? Work for the Lassiter campaign?”

With an insistent buzz, Lassiter’s phone vibrated across the glass-top coffee table. The doorbell rang. And rang again.

“Your master’s voice,” Kenna said, looking at the phone. “I guess our time is up, Governor.”

“Will you do it?” Lassiter clambered to his feet and punched off his phone. “Join our merry band?”

“You’re a hard man to resist.” Kenna stood, hands on hips. “But I’d better answer the door before your staff comes looking for you, don’t you think?”

By the time Kenna returned, Trevor and clipboard in tow, Lassiter had rebuttoned his suit jacket and adjusted his tie. Jimmy, making vrooming sounds, was running the oil truck up the side of the couch.

“Mrs. Wilkes has volunteered for the campaign.” Lassiter pointed a finger at his aide, delegating. “Make sure she gets the information and paperwork she needs. Tell Maitland to expect her downtown.”

He turned back to Kenna. “Right?”

She held out one hand, palm up, agreeing. “You got yourself a campaign worker. I like what you said about the environment. And your foreign policy is … well, James would approve, I’m sure.” She saw Lassiter’s eyes soften.

“I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Wilkes.”

Standing in the doorway, Kenna waited until the entourage drove out of sight. She slid open a drawer in the foyer’s mahogany desk. Took out a cell phone. Dialed. Waited for the beep.

“Slam dunk,” she said. She paused, taking a deep satisfied breath. “Now. Come take this damn kid away.”