Rae
My Spidey sense isn't just tingling, this is an explosion of energy that might blow the top of my skull clear off.
Jackson Harlan. The happily married soon-to-be-president of the United States was at the Grande partying with Loretta Lonnie the weekend of the fire.
Coincidence?
I think not.
My instinct is to charge ahead. To badger Rose with questions. Did Simon often attend secret parties with presidential candidates? Did they typically spend weekends at the Grande with Harlan? What was the relationship between Loretta and all these men? Were they lovers? Or was she simply a gorgeous starlet meant to puff up their egos?
I knew from my research that Rose and Simon had been involved in politics and hosted lavish fundraisers for various local and federal politicians. Did that extend to Harlan?
Only one way to find out. I spin sideways, facing Rose. She continues to study the photo. What she’s looking at or for, I don’t have a clue. Maybe she’s just stalling, trying to get her head together as we travel down the not-so-happy Memory Lane.
“Rose, were you and Simon Harlan supporters?"
It takes a full fifteen seconds, but she finally drags her gaze to mine. Her blue eyes are sharp, but the sagging skin underneath tells me how exhausted she is. Maybe it’s unfair of me to push her on this tonight, but she’s not exactly a wuss. I’m convinced she’d tell me if she’d had enough.
“Absolutely,” she says. “Myles, given his varied business interests, made it a point to be involved in politics. After all, one never knew when he'd need a favor from a senator or congressman on some obscure committee."
The old friends-in-high-places theory. “So Myles introduced you to Harlan?"
Rose puckers a moment. Up to this point, her memory has been nothing short of amazing. She whips off details of her trips to the Grande like they happened an hour ago. This question seems to stump her and that makes the whole Jackson Harlan connection way more interesting. How the heck does one forget how they met the future president?
"I believe,” she says, “it was George who introduced us. It was definitely at the Grande. Harlan hadn't yet announced his candidacy. He was the young, handsome junior senator from California and the strategic plan was for him to be the dark horse in the election. He was to let the field of Democrats battle it out and run through their war chests and then he'd swoop in and steal the nomination.”
This is all insider news to me. I’d like to dig out my notepad, but I don’t want to move. I’ve learned the hard way that the slightest interruption can derail a conversation and for whatever reason, this is firing my journalistic mojo. “Did you campaign for him?"
“Of course. We lived in Hollywood and he was from California. It helped that we agreed with his politics for the most part. We hosted fundraisers, stuffed envelopes." She waves a hand. "Whatever he needed. Between Simon and me, we had a lot of Hollywood connections. I daresay we helped get that man elected."
"Are you still friendly with him?"
"No.”
Really. They put the man in the Oval and now they’re not friends anymore? “Why?”
I immediately regret blurting that one small word. Not so much asking the question, but the way I did it. Finesse isn’t exactly my strong suit. That’s Rose’s deal. I’m a toddler in a fine china shop, touching everything, picking it up, tossing it around to see what it does.
“Well,” Rose says, “we're—I'm—not unfriendly. Before Simon died, if we saw Jackson, we’d share a laugh or talk about old times but it's not as if we socialized. Our connection revolved around the election."
"Did you like him?"
"He's quite charming. And brilliant."
Total nonanswer. Unusual for straight-shooting Rose. I'm just not sure if it's intentional. "But did you like him? Is he a nice person?"
Rose stares off at the refrigerator. "You know, I never gave that much thought. Simon liked him and I thought he'd make a good president. He did make a good president, at least in my opinion. And that's all I cared about. I suppose, when you look at it that way, yes, I liked him. I can’t say I knew him all that well, though.”
I scoop up the photo of Harlan and Myles and flick my finger against it. “This is interesting. Harlan was secretly at the Grande the day before the fire broke out. And there was a Secret Service agent there at the same time."
Could the two somehow be connected? Or was it an odd coincidence? Finally, I dig into to my messenger bag hanging on the back of my chair and retrieve my notepad.
"What is it?" Rose asks.
"I need to do some research. Do you remember if Harlan had Secret Service protection by then? I know from a story I once wrote that after Robert Kennedy was assassinated, the laws changed on candidates having Secret Service protection. But I think it's only for major candidates and there's a time restriction. It's something like four months before the election. I can't remember.” I jot a note to check the timing for candidate security. “If it is four months, there’s probably not a connection between him being at the hotel at the same time as the agent.”
“Since the fire happened in July, it would have been a few weeks early for him to have a protection detail with him. I know close to the election, he had agents with him." She points to the photo. "I didn't even know he was at the Grande that weekend. Do you think there's a connection between the counterfeiting investigation and Harlan being there?"
I shrug. "I don't know. Seems like a stretch."
Even still, I'll do some research to see when exactly Jackson Harlan was approved for Secret Service protection and if there’s anything about him being at the hotel that weekend. You’d think, with all the press the tragedy got, someone would have published something about a presidential candidate being there. At the very least, he’d have made a statement.
Unless, of course, he didn’t want anyone to know he’d been there.
Rose studies me, her blue eyes so focused I’m thinking she’s somehow reading my thoughts. If she asks what I’m thinking, I’ll tell her. Whacky as it is, she’s my partner and I promised her transparency.
If she asks.
Right now, I’m not sure what I think and I don’t want to take us somewhere that’ll be a bust. “I’ll poke around about Harlan. See what I can find.”
Rose nods, and to distract myself from the pressure of her intense eyes, I jot an unnecessary note about Harlan. When Rose goes back to the photos, I ease out a breath and say a silent thanks that she didn’t press me on my thoughts. She’s a smart woman. She has to know what I’m thinking. And these photos of Harlan and Loretta only add to my suspicion.
We look through the remaining photos, mostly landscapes and various shots of the hotel’s interior— the lobby fountain, the casino sign, a sculpture. Nothing really that will add depth to the story.
Rose sets the last photo on the stack and lets out a soft sigh. The last few minutes of digging into her past had to be difficult. It’s not just seeing pictures of her dead friends; the questions about Simon seem to be mounting.
I scoop up the stack of photos and tuck them back in the envelope. "I'm sorry, Rose. That had to be tough."
"Oddly, it's a bit of relief. I wasn't sure how I would react to whatever I saw in there."
"Was it that bad?"
She gives the counter a light smack. "Let's say I'm glad it's done. I do have more questions for George. Tomorrow I'll ring him up for a meeting. If you don't mind, dear, I’ll need to do that alone. He'll be more open with me without you present."
As much as I'd love to be at that meeting, I get it. "It's the right call. I can finish going through the notes we got from Detective Sanchez while you're gone. We’re missing something, Rose. I’m just not sure what it is.”