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Maren’s head hurt. Her stomach churned. But she figured it wasn’t that bad, considering. She would have expected a whiskey and tequila hangover to be worse. Maybe it was the healing effects of ginger ale and saltine crackers. Polly said it worked for morning sickness—why not hangovers? Still, when she thought of Alec Joben, Maren’s stomach flipped badly.
She had ignored the request in his note that she call him, so that morning he had called her. She’d let it go straight to voicemail. She knew where things would go from here. Clearly a gentleman, Alec would check up on her. And then let her know he didn’t date crazy people. While she couldn’t remember everything from the night before, she was pretty sure her behavior put her in that category.
She hoped the phone would ring again, but that it would be Lana Decateau saying a subpoena on the investment account had been issued and Ray Fernandez’s involvement confirmed. She remembered vaguely having been angry with Lana last night, but this morning she couldn’t remember why. The attorney seemed to be doing all she could for Sean. On top of that she was putting up with Maren, which Maren knew couldn’t be easy. It would also be nice if a call came from a Republican’s office saying they had dropped their opposition on the cell phone bill.
Only four days until the final vote in the assembly. And she was five votes short.
In fact, given all that was on Maren’s mind, it was impossible for her to tell whether her current symptomatology—affecting her head, stomach, and more—was solely from too much alcohol, or whether it also signaled the beginnings of a nervous breakdown.
Whichever it was, she had to get to work. So she dressed and headed for the capitol, a little shaky, but on her feet.
By 2:00 p.m. Maren and Carolyn Garrisey had been at it for hours, visiting every Republican legislator that Maren thought might swing their way if they personally heard from Carolyn, the mother of Hilary. Hilary Garrisey, the prom queen who had died.
No success.
They received sympathy, but not pledges for votes.
“Ms. Kane?”
Maren turned to see Selmeyah Zaki, chief of staff to Joe Mathis, hurrying toward her in the narrow capitol hallway. Selmeyah wore a dark suit, matching pumps, and a hijab wrapped around her head. It was a simple, modern variant of the Muslim head covering in the Spanish style, a lightweight triangular scarf tied at the neck that revealed about five inches of Selmeyah’s dark hair and a pair of dangling copper earrings.
“Ms. Kane, do you have a moment to speak? Inside?” Zaki asked, gesturing to Mathis’s office.
“Yes.” Maren turned to Carolyn. “I can meet you in the basement cafeteria when I’m finished here. Do you know where it is?”
Before Caroine could answer, Selmeyah said, “No, please, I would like Mrs. Garrisey to join us.”
The three women went into Senator Mathis’s private office. The walls were adorned with pictures of the senator with Republican luminaries including President George W. Bush and Governor Pete Wilson. There was also one of Mathis with Rorie Rickman, despite their different political parties. He had his arm around her, and they were both smiling. He was at least ten years older than Rickman, but in the photo they both looked very young. Maren recalled what Rorie Rickman had said about when she’d found herself unexpectedly pregnant—that the baby’s father had been an older, married politician. Maren wondered.
“Please, sit. Water?” Selmeyah asked. Both women nodded yes, and as Selmeyah poured from a pitcher on the table, she began. “Senator Mathis is not here today. Last night his neighbor was hit by a car. She is elderly.
Her pelvis and jaw were broken. There may be other injuries, possibly more serious.”
“I am so sorry,” Carolyn said.
“She is a widow. The senator has known her and her family for thirty years. She has been in surgery all day.” Selmeyah leaned forward, speaking more quietly. “The man who hit Mrs. Tuttle is a businessman. He was on the phone, closing an important deal.” She paused. “Hands-free.” She looked from Maren to Carolyn. “He was using a speaker, but his phone lost signal, and in his agitation and desire to get the client back on the line, he did not see Mrs. Tuttle in the crosswalk.”
Maren felt horrible. She knew where this was going, but she still felt horrible.
“Senator Mathis has reconsidered his position on your bill. He will be holding a press conference later today and calling other legislators to ask for their aye votes. If you would, please advise Senator Rickman.”
“Of course I will,” Maren said, the line of her mouth grim. “Please convey to Senator Mathis our prayers for his friend.”
“That poor woman,” Carolyn Garrisey said as she and Maren reached the elevator at the end of the narrow hall of legislative offices. “What happens now?”
“It’s over. Joe Mathis is powerful. With this change and the press on his side, he will shift the votes easily. The bill should come up Monday on the assembly floor. You’ll be able to watch the debate and see the final results online. I’ll send you the link.”
As they exited and walked across the capitol grounds, Maren was not in a celebratory mood. In addition to her sadness over the pain and uncertainty faced by Senator Mathis’s neighbor, Maren was reminded that too often a single personal incident, rather than thoughtful policy, determined outcomes in Sacramento. The tendency of legislators to use laws to address the difficulties and tragedies in their own lives was both human and highly dysfunctional. She had seen that dynamic lead to good laws that she believed in, like this one, but also to bad laws inconsistent with irrefutable evidence about what was best for California.
* * *
“IT’S CONTAGIOUS.”
Polly’s voice sounded weak, like she was calling from her hometown of Louth, England, rather than from across the street in Sacramento. “Bloody hell—”
“What is it? What have you got?” Maren asked.
“Your hangover! You get off easy, and I’ve been chucking my insides out all night, eight hours of it. All I had was a pint after work.”
“I’m so sorry.” Food poisoning or the flu was more likely, but Polly had her own way of looking at things. Maren’s own stomach, only recently settled, lurched at the thought. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Would you take Jenna and Danny out to San Loomas this morning? They have auditions for the Governor’s Award, the scholarship. If you can drop them, Marty will bring them home. He loves jazz. Plus, he’s hoping for a look at the guv.”
“Ray Fernandez has a jazz program? And who’s Marty?”
“Marty’s the new IT guy at work. He can’t get away right now, but he volunteered to be the kids’ ride home when I called in sick. No, not that governor. The handsome one. Jack Caries. I told you about it. I gather it’s supported by some foundation, plus Caries’s own funds. Not much chance Danny or Jenna will qualify, but their hearts are set and I—oh no—I’ll need to call you back . . . ugh . . .”
From the sound of it, Polly was starting round two of Maren’s hangover. Maren checked her calendar. Camper had a vet appointment at 11:00 a.m. An important one to recheck how his leg—well, the absence of his leg—was doing. Fortunately, the vet was midway between San Loomas and home and Camper was a good traveler. If Maren brought him along with Jenna and Danny, she should be able to do both.
She freshened Camper’s water and knelt down to give him a belly rub, his preferred expression of love, second only to food. As his tail thumped heavily on the floor in gratitude, she marveled at his recovery. From what Jenna had said, Maren understood that the loss of a front leg is hardest for a dog since they carry 70 percent of their weight up front rather than on their rear legs. On top of that, many dogs who have a leg rendered useless through injury or illness are able to adjust over time as the limb weakens and then finally wears out. A bullet shattering the bone had given Camper no similar transition period. But other than giving up his spot on the couch for a dog bed on the floor and finding it easier to run than walk—which according to Jenna was common—after the first really difficult days, Camper’s routine seemed largely unaffected.
Maren selected a soft red cotton calf-length skirt, a turquoise-blue sleeveless top and a batik print blouse to wear open over it, and headed to the bathroom to shower.
Dressed, waiting for a bagel to toast, she checked directions online and found that the auditions were held only a few miles from Shoot the Lights Out. She walked back to the bedroom and retrieved the two locked metal storage cases from the top shelf of the closet. The outer cases were purchased, not rented, so no point in lugging them back. She removed the keys from the necklace around her neck and extracted the gun and bullets, which without their trappings fit easily in her satchel.
Drop Jenna and Danny, return the gun, get Camper to the vet. A good morning to kill two—make that three—birds with one stone.
Figuratively speaking, since she’d never fired her weapon outside the indoor shooting range.
The police had dropped Maren’s protection—with Wallis Lisborne dead, Maren was no longer considered at risk. The cops believed Wallis’s co-conspirator was in custody in the person of Sean Verston. Maren disagreed on that central point—she was sure if Wallis had an accomplice he—or she—was still out there. If not, there had to at least be someone who knew more than they were saying, someone who could link Wallis to Tamara’s murder. Still, Maren didn’t feel personally threatened anymore. Whoever it was had to believe they had gotten away clean. Why start a new mess?
Maren checked the time. She was due at Polly’s place at 7:45 a.m. Still ten minutes to spare. She opened her iPad and tapped on the Capitol News link. It was important for her work that she stay informed on local news events.
The video feed showed an eager young blonde reporter in a tangerine dress interviewing a staff member of former governor Pete Wilson. “Do you think the governor regrets his support of ballot measure Proposition 187?” she asked, her stern expression conveying that such regret might be appropriate.
Wilson’s former aide, now in his sixties, had an even, pleasant voice. He wore a navy suit, no tie, and gestured easily as he responded. “In the 1990s there was great concern among the voters, as there is today, about the influx of illegal immigrants into California and the strain it puts on our state’s budget. Governor Wilson supported Proposition 187 to prohibit undocumented immigrants from obtaining taxpayer-supported services and the voters agreed with him, passing it by a large margin.”
The reporter’s frown deepened. “But that law was found to be unconstitutional. In particular, banning immigrant children who came here through no fault of their own from attending public school or getting health care was later viewed by many as cold and even harsh. Has the governor changed his stance on this?”
Again, the aide responded calmly. “No. I’ve spoken with the governor on several occasions, and he still believes . . .”
It was rare that Maren could feel a virtual light bulb go on in her brain as an idea took hold, but there it was. First her conversation with Polly, now this. She knocked over a stack of papers on the end table as she reached for her cell phone
“You have reached the private and confidential phone line of Lana Decateau, Sacramento Deputy Public Defender. Please leave a message.”
“Lana, it’s Maren. Look, I realize something. I was wrong—we were wrong. When Tamara said she and the governor had done something awful, she wasn’t referring to Ray, to our current governor. Once a governor, always a governor. They keep that title. Especially people who worked for them don’t say ‘former governor.’ It’s just governor, forever after.” Maren paused for breath, but barely. “Ray Fernandez has an alibi. True, he could still have engineered it without being involved in the actual murder. But when Tamara said ‘we’ve done something awful,’ I’m betting she meant Jack Caries. It’s worth a look, isn’t it?”