“SO, WHAT WAS WITH all of the hostility?” I asked Yuri as we headed for the Knight campaign headquarters. “I thought we agreed it’s just a job.”
“I guess the atmosphere got to me. Someone they worked with has been killed and they were acting like it’s party time.”
“I can kinda understand,” I said. “They apparently didn’t really know him that well since he hadn’t been around long. His death may have momentarily dampened their enthusiasm, but they’re young and committed to a cause. Just because you think they’re misguided—”
“And neither woman seemed to think there was anything wrong with stealing signs.”
“Oh, I think everyone knew it was wrong. But they put it in the caper category rather than thinking of it as a criminal act. Kinda like picking locks and sneaking into buildings in the middle of the night.”
“That’s different. We weren’t trying to steal anything. Or do anyone any harm. Since their campaign has to purchase and distribute signs for their own candidate, they certainly understand the cost and inconvenience of their actions.”
“No doubt.” I agreed but didn’t see where complaining about it would get us anywhere. And I was a little surprised by his reaction.
“And Candy,” Yuri continued, mocking her name and holding out a limp hand to complete the image. “No background check, no file, no personal exchanges, no nothing. Wouldn’t want her as my right-hand anything.”
“Nice complexion though.”
Yuri looked at me as though I was crazy. “And so oblivious as to what’s legal and what isn’t that she didn’t even have the good manners to look embarrassed when I mentioned the stolen signs.”
“So she’s clueless. We agree on that. What I would like to know is whether Bobby knew about the stack of Knight signs in the back room. And whether he approved of what they were doing. That’s a little different, in my opinion, than some young volunteers getting carried away and stepping over the line.”
“The thefts are probably below his pay grade,” Yuri reluctantly acknowledged. “But I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“I assume everyone knew where the signs were being stashed. Including Norcross. But that doesn’t explain what he was doing in the storage room.”
“I wonder if they insisted everyone take turns stealing signs to make sure no one would want to talk about what was going on.”
“I doubt it was that intentional,” I said.
Yuri paused, then gave me a sideways glance. “I admit it. I took a few yard signs once. When I was in high school. That is, we switched signs in a couple of yards as a joke. It seemed funny at the time.”
“No, fortunately.” He shook his head. “But I was in high school. Kids do crazy things at that age. And we weren’t actually stealing anything. These volunteers are old enough to know better.”
“I think it’s a peer pressure thing. Easy to get caught up in the excitement of the moment.” I looked at Yuri. “Okay, if it’s confession time, I once hit a protester with my purse.”
Yuri started laughing. “You hit someone with your purse?!”
“They were trying to prevent us from crossing a picket line to a clinic. The group I was with was trying to make a point about free access to women’s health care. Then someone pushed me, and I hit back by swinging my purse at him. It was leather, with a shoulder strap. Packed a pretty good wallop. The next thing I knew everyone was fighting, and the friend I was with grabbed me and we ran. Not my finest hour.”
“Did you get arrested?”
“No, my friend and I got away just in time.”
“Does your mother know?”
“I’m a grown woman; I don’t have to tell my mother everything.”
Yuri laughed louder. “She doesn’t know.”
“It was a long time ago,” I said. “Don’t make me sorry I told you.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” he said. “Want to link pinkie fingers and swear not to tell?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
We were almost there. Yuri got suddenly serious and called Adele to ask her to see what she could dig up on the victim. When he ended the call he said, “Not much to like about the way the Mann campaign is being run, is there? In spite of the fact that the headquarters is pretty spiffy compared to others I’ve seen. And I definitely don’t like the candidate. You do know that he’s not from here, right? He’s from the east coast. Rich family. Ran there for office and lost, moved to the Midwest and lost again. Now he’s here trying to pretend he represents us.”
“That’s politics,” I said. “The good news is that we can take his money and still not vote for him.”
When we arrived at the Knight headquarters, most of those present were just getting ready to call it a day. Some would probably return after a dinner break, but we didn’t want to hang around. We quickly scanned the room for anyone who fit Carolyn’s rather generic description of the person she’d seen Brian Norcross having a drink with. There were several young men it could have been, but there was no way to be sure just by looking. We decided to make a public ask about Norcross to speed things up. We got them to pause just long enough to hear us out, but no one admitted to knowing him.
“That the guy who ended up dead at Mann’s headquarters?” someone asked.
“Yes,” Yuri responded. “And we have reason to believe he has a friend in this campaign.” We looked around. We had their full attention now, but no takers. “It’s not a crime to have a friend on an opposing team,” Yuri said in a kidding tone. But still no takers. I did, however, notice two young men in their early twenties exchanging looks. Both of them were slender with brown hair. I made a note to talk to them in private. Maybe they didn’t want to speak up in front of their fellow volunteers and staffers. My fear was that if I called them out in public they might shut down for good.
I took Yuri aside and tried to get him to covertly check out the two guys I wanted to follow up with. But there were too many people milling about. “Tomorrow,” I said. “Let’s come back tomorrow.”
It was rush hour. By the time I delivered Yuri back to his car, it was time to go home. I really needed to have dinner with my kids. Even though I rebelled against my mother’s constant criticism about being an absent mom, I knew she was at least partly right. The pre-teen and early teen years were tough for kids. I needed to be there for them. I wanted to be there for them.
About half the time I park on the street in front of the main house, go in through the wood gate at the side of the yard, and walk down the curving brick path to our carriage house home. The rest of the time I park in the alley. It’s closer, although usually crowded with piles of this and that. The owners tended to use the alley to store their garbage cans and spillover from garages. It’s also home to weeds, cats, and an abundance of spiders. Tonight, though, I decided to brave the debris and the arachnids and park in the alley.
I was somewhat surprised to see a black sedan pulled to one side of the narrow alley, close to our place, almost blocking the lane. It wasn’t a car I recognized, and I couldn’t tell whether there was anyone inside because of the tinted windows and fading light. Instead of backing up I decided it was possible to squeeze my dark green Subaru Outback past the unfamiliar car. As I pulled alongside, I thought I saw movement, shadowy movement behind gray windows.
Arriving with my Subaru intact, I parked in the space behind our fence, grabbed my purse and jacket, and got out, clicking the door locks shut.
A large man suddenly blocked my exit. He wore a full-length top coat, not your typical Pacific NW attire. In the gloom of the alley I couldn’t see his features clearly, but I could see enough to make me not only wary but a bit frightened.
“Cameron Chandler?” he asked.
He seemed vaguely familiar. “And you are?” I asked back, sounding more confident than I felt.
“Randy Mann.”
Was he kidding?
“Bobby Mann is my brother. We need to talk.”
“Would you like to come inside?” If he was really Bobby Mann’s brother, he didn’t pose any threat, and if he’d wanted to assault me, he probably wouldn’t have found it necessary to provide his name.
“Perhaps you would join me in my car.” He sounded like someone used to getting his way.
I looked at his car and said, “No, sorry, but I wouldn’t be comfortable with that. Either come inside or say what you have to say right here.” I braced myself to fend him off in case he tried to force me into his car, hoping I could remember the self-defense moves Will had taught me. Wishing my Swiss Army Victorinox was in my pocket instead of my purse.
He hesitated, not moving, a menacing human barrier. Then he seemed to make up his mind and backed off a few feet. “All right. This shouldn’t take long.”
Both the words and the tone sent chills down my back. I half expected him to whip out a weapon or pick me up by the throat with one beefy hand and toss me against the side of the building. How I wished I had parked out front where someone might be looking out their window at this very moment, a witness to whatever was about to happen. And how could he have been sure that I would park in the alley anyway?
Instead of attacking, he started talking, voice low, as if he didn’t want to be overheard by anyone lurking in the alley. It was too late to turn on my phone’s recorder and too late to run. It seemed like my only option was to listen.
“I know that my brother hired you to keep tabs on the investigation into the death of Brian Norcross. I just want to make sure that you understand what is needed.”
“What’s needed?” I echoed, my voice cracking slightly. “I’m not sure what you mean.” And if this was a business call, why was he at my home, in my alley, instead of at the office taking his issue up with P.W.? Besides, I wasn’t supposed to be talking about clients, not even with relatives. Although it didn’t seem wise to mention that at the moment.
He took a step toward me, a black wall of intimidation towering over me as I pulled myself up to my full 5’10”. It was like facing off with a bear.
“My brother is in the midst of an important campaign. He isn’t necessarily thinking clearly about how this death of a volunteer could impact him. I want to make sure that you don’t exceed your contractual obligations.”
Contractual obligations? What the hell?
“You aren’t being asked to solve the murder,” he continued. “Leave that up to the police. Understood?”
“We have no intention of meddling in the investigation The police are obviously better equipped than us to find a killer.” No meddling, no stepping on Irish toes.
“Good. Then there’s no need for you to be asking too many questions. Use your connections with the police and the press to see what they’re up to. And keep me informed.” He reached into his pocket. It was all I could do to keep from flinching as I braced myself for what might come next. It was almost anti-climactic when he pulled out a leather card case holder and handed me his card. In the fading light I could barely just make out the print. He was an attorney with a law firm in Washington D.C.
“There’s no need to bother my brother about any of this,” he said with a firmness that wasn’t to be argued with. “He has enough on his plate. If you find something that needs attention, let me know immediately.”
I could have mentioned that I didn’t take direction from him, we answered to our client. But in the dark alley with him looming over me, it didn’t seem like the right time to get into an argument about ethics. He assumed I agreed to his terms, and I didn’t say otherwise.
“Are you staying in town with your brother?” I asked. It might be good to know where he was when he wasn’t spooking around alleys at dusk.
“I’ll be around until the election.” He put his card holder back and turned to leave, then paused, looking over his shoulder. “I’ll be checking in with you.” It sounded more like a warning than a simple head’s up.
I watched as he got in his car and drove away down the narrow street. What he’d said about his brother and his reason for wanting to talk with me made sense in a way, but I had some serious concerns about his approach. The whole situation creeped me out. I felt like I’d been threatened by someone straight out of the Sopranos, and I didn’t like it one bit.
Randy Mann might be no more than a devoted brother looking out for the candidate’s best interests. All the same, it seemed to me like we needed to take a closer look at him. His intimidating appearance and manner didn’t make him a criminal, but I couldn’t help speculating about whether he had discovered that Norcross was a spy for the opposition and eliminated the threat.
On the other hand, we didn’t know for sure that Norcross had been a spy. It was possible he had just been a volunteer who didn’t agree with everything his candidate stood for. It was even possible he had met with someone he knew from the Knight team to spy on them for the Mann campaign. At this point, all we knew for sure was that Norcross might not have been just your average volunteer.
I was expecting to hear the usual sounds of activity and television when I finally made it to the carriage house and went inside, but the house was as still as death. For an instant I feared there might be a note saying that my kids were being held hostage to ensure that I obeyed Randy Mann’s instructions. Then I heard someone moving around upstairs. The kids were probably with Mom. I tossed my coat and purse on the entry bench and headed up the back stairs.
“Anyone home?” I called as I reached the top.
“In here, Mom,” Mara called back. Her voice came from my mother’s compact kitchen. She and Mom were huddled over a recipe on the counter, their long, chestnut colored hair blending together in perfect harmony. Mara definitely had inherited her hair and eyes from my mother, her height and disposition from me.
“New recipe?” I asked, almost fearing the answer. I was hungry and wanted comfort food, not some gourmet meal designed to look good on the plate.
“We’re making a truffle risotto.”
That didn’t sound bad. Although we’d never had one before that I could recall.
“With edamame and shitake mushrooms.”
Hmmm. Not a Betty Crocker recipe then. “Is Jason okay with this?” He hates mushrooms.
“He needs to expand his palate,” Mara said, obviously quoting my mother.
Oh well, it sounded like something I could get into, and there was plenty of peanut butter downstairs for Jason. I went into the living room and found him reading the news on his computer. He looked up and said, “You do know they’re putting mushrooms in our food.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not going to eat it.”
“You can pick them out.”
“You can’t get the flavor out.”
“I’ll ask Mom to set some aside before putting in the mushrooms, okay?”
“Would you?” He looked so pathetic that I silently vowed to order a pizza just for him if he didn’t like the risotto.
Back in the kitchen I put Jason’s request before Mom. She bristled as she looked directly at me. “I was already planning on doing that. I know he doesn’t like mushrooms.”
“I have to eat vegetables I don’t like,” Mara said in her best pouty voice.
“We all do,” I said. At least since we moved in with my mother, that is. “But no one should have to eat something they really dislike. You agree, don’t you?”
Mara read my mind, and knew that if she didn’t agree with me now, she’d be looking at a plate of things she personally hated the next time I made dinner. She grudgingly went along with the plan. From everything I’d read and been told, the next few years were going to be bumpy for my kids. I remembered how difficult the transition from childhood to adolescence had been for me, and I’d had the support of two parents. To avoid or reduce the magnitude of some of those bumps for my own offspring, I wasn’t above a little manipulation now and then.
After dinner we went downstairs. Mara draped herself sideways over an overstuffed chair in the living room with a book while Jason swiped a few cookies out of the kitchen, defying me to complain. I pretended not to see. In spite of himself he’d enjoyed the risotto, but I could tell he still felt put upon. Then he sat down with his computer and went back to reading news stories. We’ve agreed that we shouldn’t have the TV on after dinner unless we all wanted to watch the same thing. Well, maybe saying we’ve “agreed” is an exaggeration. I’ve made it a rule, and they haven’t managed to convince me otherwise. Jason frequently lobbies for a TV for his room, but I’m afraid we’d never see him if I gave in to his request.
Since the kids were fully occupied, I took that opportunity to call Yuri to report on my talk with Randy Mann.
“You aren’t serious, are you?” he asked.
“About his name or the conversation?”
“Both.”
“From one perspective it makes sense, but—”
“But it sounds like they have something to hide.”
“They both say they want the same thing—to be kept up-to-date on the investigation. But if Randy is so worried about us asking a few questions, why doesn’t he just talk to his brother and ask him to end our contract? That’s what I don’t understand.”
“Maybe because whatever he doesn’t want us to find is related to him and not to his brother,” Yuri said. “Or maybe Norcross had enough evidence of shady, unethical or even illegal activities related to the entire Mann family that he had Norcross eliminated to save both the family name and his brother’s campaign.”
“I considered that. But if there was something the candidate wanted to keep under wraps, you wouldn’t think he’d have hired us in the first place.”
“Keep in mind he didn’t hire us to solve a crime but to keep tabs on the investigation. We are a kind of early warning system for him. Or, maybe he wants to keep tabs on us. That thought has crossed my mind.”
“Mine, too. So, how do we handle this? Do we tell P.W.?”
“Yeah, we should.” Then he added, “But maybe not quite yet. Let’s do some digging first.”
“In other words, we’re going to do exactly what Randy Mann specifically warned me against doing.”
“He should have known he was waving a red cape in front of a couple of bulls,” Yuri said with a short laugh.
“I’m not sure I appreciate the comparison.”
“You should. Bulls are known for their power and have been an icon for worship in many ancient cultures.”
Oh, oh. That sounded like the beginning of one of Yuri’s trivia rants. “Okay,” I said quickly, “I’m flattered, not offended.”
“Seriously, in ancient Greece and Egypt the bull was considered sacred. In the Celtic culture it symbolized fertility and…”
I cut him off. “That’s okay, Yuri. I get the point.”
“I have more.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Okay, what I’m trying to say is that we need to stand our ground and proceed with our version of monitoring. With discretion, of course. You okay with that?”
“Absolutely.”
Even though I agreed in theory, I felt a tiny nagging doubt as to the wisdom of our decision. After all, the bull seldom beats the matador. And even if it does, the end is never pretty.