The fireman who saved my life came lumbering toward me in his shiny orange outfit. As he got closer, I saw that it was a form-fitting suit made of fire-retardant fabric. The belt and pockets were studded with hooks and loops that contained his rescue gear. The brawny young man had a wild tangle of blond hair and a full beard to go with it.
“I owe you my life. Thanks,” I said.
“When they told me it was Tank Cantrell, I asked to go up,” he said, giving me a bear-toothed smile. “My father took me to see you play when I was twelve years old. I loved the way you ran over those linebackers. You weren’t afraid of shit.”
“Yeah, well . . . I’ll buy you a barrel of beer one of these days.”
“I’ll drink it,” he said, shaking my hand.
“Your eyes, honey,” Kelly said, staring at me with genuine concern. “They have dried blood all around them. Let me nurse you, baby.”
I could see Lauren Kenniston staring at us from next to the fire truck, and for some reason I felt embarrassed.
“I still have work to do,” I said, gently breaking the clinch.
Captain Morgo was still talking into her radio when I limped around the side of the fire truck. Her police cruiser was parked right behind it. She signed off as I came up to her. Lauren joined us there.
“Welcome home,” said Janet.
“He was up there . . . General Taylor,” I said. “He shot himself when I tried to take him out with me. They’ll find him in the wreckage at the bottom of the gorge.”
“I sent Ken out to your cabin, Jake. Your dog is still alive.”
“Thanks.”
It was the best news I could have heard at that moment. Behind me, I could hear an ambulance racing up the steep grade from town. Its siren died to a groan as it pulled up next to her cruiser.
“Get in,” ordered Captain Morgo.
I shook my head.
“There’s one more thing I have to do. Will you drive me back to my pickup?”
“You’re impossible,” she growled before opening the passenger door for me.
“Can I talk to you later?” asked Lauren.
“Sure. I promised you an exclusive. Just leave me out of it.”
“That won’t be so easy,” she said with a grin.
“Do your best.”
Janet and I were on our way back to the campus security building when I asked, “What made you change your mind about me? It can’t be just because I was right about Wheatley.”
She glanced across the front seat.
“All I knew about your past was what Jim Dickey told me . . . that you had caused the deaths of your own men through negligence and cowardice. Jordan Langford told me the truth yesterday afternoon when I asked him about it . . . I’m sorry I didn’t ask sooner, Jake.”
“Life is pretty crazy,” I said.
“Yeah,” she agreed, “and tomorrow I’ll be the bitch boss again.”
I laughed.
“Get some rest,” she called out to me as I got in the pickup.
The chance to close my eyes and know that someone wasn’t trying to kill me. I was ready. And I wouldn’t screw it up with bad dreams. But first I needed to see Jordan. I checked my watch. It was twenty minutes to five, the deadline he had set for himself to resign unless the blackmailer was stopped.
Wheatley’s money, I kept thinking. It was what had led to his own murder when he decided to try to make amends for a fraternity prank gone wrong. Now his major financial gift to Jordan had led to blackmail.
Driving over to his house, I could feel the storm finally moving away on its path to the northeast. The wind was still gusting hard, but the sky was growing lighter by the minute.
Jordan’s home overlooked the railroad tracks that cut through the poorest neighborhood in Groton. After being chosen as president of St. Andrews, he had informed his board of trustees that he didn’t want to live in the president’s house. He had told me it was Blair’s idea. “I refuse to live in a mausoleum,” she had said.
The house was modest, even by Groton standards, a 1940s colonial covered with asbestos shingles. A well-kept garden flanked the driveway onto the property, its flowers and plantings now crushed by the rain and wind. At the end of the driveway, I was surprised to see a red Ferrari parked behind Jordan’s green Volvo. It had probably cost three times more than the house.
When I knocked on the kitchen door, it was opened by a short, plump man wearing a double-breasted gray worsted suit. He had thick pomaded hair, close-set eyes, and a broad face that broke into an ingratiating smile when he saw who it was.
I wasn’t ingratiated. Even in my diminished mental state, it wasn’t too hard to recognize him. His and his brother’s faces graced the back cover of several hundred thousand telephone books in upstate New York. I wondered what Brian Razzano was doing there.
When he reached out to shake my hand, a Rolex Oyster emerged like a small turtle from within his white silk shirt sleeve. I ignored his hand, and he dropped it awkwardly to his side.
“I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you alone, Jake,” he said. “Before you see Jordan, I mean.”
When I pushed past him, he followed me down the hallway into their kitchen.
“Since you called me this morning, I’ve learned that it’s remotely possible Bob Devane was potentially engaged in blackmailing some of my clients. If it’s true, I want you to know that I knew nothing about it. I swear to you, Jake.”
I stopped and turned around. He was gazing up at me as if receiving my personal blessing was his only goal in life.
“So you just used Devane to spy on behalf of your legitimate clients, is that it?”
“Every good criminal lawyer needs a reputable investigative firm. I was shocked to learn that Bob might possibly have abused my trust. Of course the jury is still out.”
His gambler’s eyes were waiting to see if I actually believed him. I had no way of knowing whether he was telling the truth or not. At that point, I was too exhausted to care.
“Where’s Jordan?” I asked.
“He’s in his study. Blair’s waiting in the living room and was hoping she might see you first.”
“You have it all choreographed, don’t you? Where’s the study?”
“Through there,” he said, pointing to a door next to the kitchen.
It led down to the basement. Jordan’s study turned out to be a cubicle along the back wall. To get to it, I had to duck under iron water pipes and metal ductwork, then squeeze past the oil burner and the hot water heater.
The back of the basement had been outfitted as an office for him and Blair, with two computer desks, two computer stations, and a double file cabinet. A black-and-white poster of Mohandas Gandhi was taped to the cheap paneling above the desks.
Jordan was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt as he typed on his keyboard and stared into the computer screen. From the back, he looked the way he did when we were students and he would hammer out a term paper on his portable Olivetti.
“Now I know where all your money goes,” I said.
He turned to look up at me, his haggard face flashing a rueful grin.
“The truth is, we spend most of it as soon as my paycheck comes in.”
“On what?” I asked. It certainly wasn’t the current surroundings.
“On causes. We support a lot of causes . . . AIDS babies in Botswana, Habitat for Humanity, water projects in Bangladesh, inner-city schools—you name the cause, man, Blair is there with our checkbook to support it. I think she’s trying to prove to Jesus that well-off people can fit through the eye of the needle.”
“There are less noble ways to spend it,” I said, thinking of the Ferrari in the driveway.
“Blair has never lost her devotion to good works. And she’s never quite found the right niche here. She hates being the president’s wife.”
“Yeah . . . well, I’m not here for that.”
“No.”
I dropped wearily into the other plastic office chair.
“Need a drink?” he asked.
Lying, I shook my head no.
“Janet Morgo called a few minutes ago to say you solved the bridge murders.”
I briefly told him what had happened since our last conversation. When I finished, I said, “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t look like the two cases were connected after all, aside from the fact that Wheatley’s money was at the root of both.”
He grimaced.
“I guess I knew it wasn’t really possible.”
“I tried. I just ran out of time.”
Taking in my physical condition, he said, “I hope you’re not hurting too badly.”
“I’m okay.”
I didn’t tell him that I had killed the man who had been filming him. That could wait.
“A few hours ago, I told Blair I was being blackmailed,” he said. “I . . . told her it was something related to a trip I took to Cuba last year . . . something political.”
“Did she buy it?”
“I don’t know. She got very upset.”
“Yeah . . .”
“Well . . . I need a few minutes to finish this resignation statement,” he said, not turning away soon enough for me to see his eyes fill with tears.
I was retracing my steps past the oil burner when he called out, “Blair wants me to go back to Detroit again.”
“You were good at it,” I said.
“It’s only now that I’m about to lose my damn job that I realize how much it matters to me. You don’t know the kind of difference I could make here in the years ahead. Education on the world stage is changing so fast, Jake . . . oh, well . . . in another life.”
“Yeah . . . the next one.”
“Jake . . . Blair started drinking right after I told her about my being blackmailed. Could you try to reassure her that things will turn out all right?”
“Brian Razzano is up there doing that,” I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
“Yes . . . he and his wife, Dawn, have been here off and on since this morning. I might have told you that she and Blair have become good friends since he joined the board of trustees. Look, you’ve known both of us for a long time, Jake . . . just tell her this isn’t the end of the world.”
“Sure, Jordan,” I said, trudging up the basement steps.
When I walked into the living room, Blair was sitting on the rattan couch with her long slender legs resting on the coffee table in front of it. She was dressed in a cotton blouse and tight-fitting stretch pants that accentuated the fine curves of her figure.
She was holding a tumbler of what looked like heavy cream with froth on top. A big Siamese cat was curled up on the couch next to her. Brian Razzano sat on the other side of the cat, trying to look thoughtful.
“Is Jordan still preparing his resignation speech?” she asked, slurring the words.
“Get out,” I said to Razzano.
His thoughtful look disappeared. He didn’t move.
“I told you to get out,” I repeated.
She turned toward him and said, “S’allll right, Brian.”
Razzano got up from the couch.
“I’ll be right outside if you need anything, babe.”
When he turned to leave, I saw that the back of his suit jacket and pants were covered with Siamese cat hair. For some reason, it temporarily improved my mood. I heard the back door close behind him, and it was quiet again.
“‘Babe’?” I repeated sarcastically.
“He’s in love with me,” she said. “He and Dawn are having problems.”
“I wonder why. When did Jordan first tell you he was going to resign?”
“Um . . . this afternoon,” she said, sipping her drink.
I heard the low throaty growl of the Ferrari as Razzano started it up in the driveway.
“Did he tell you why?”
“I’m not sure if I’m supposed to tell you,” she said. “Do you know?”
I shook my head.
“He said it was something that happened on the trip he made to Cuba last year,” she said. “Some political thing.”
She began studying me through red-rimmed eyes, her chin resting on her closed fist.
“The immortal Jake,” she said, attempting to smile.
Her face collapsed, and tears began running silently down her cheeks.
“What are you drinking?” I asked, sitting down in one of the easy chairs facing her.
“It’s Kahlua . . . and vodka, and . . . Bailey’s Irish Cream . . . Brian mixes them for me. It’s my third one. He says it’s called a blow job.”
She giggled through the tears.
“What a great guy,” I said.
Her mind had already traveled elsewhere.
“We don’t need any of this,” she said. “We can go back to Detroit . . . it was so good there when we were starting out at ground zero . . . we can start the center again. It will be something good . . . something meaningful.”
“He’s already doing something meaningful.”
“This shit?”
Part of the drink slopped over the edge of the glass.
“What are you so angry about?” I asked.
“Everything . . . this place . . . my role as his glorified robe fluffer . . . you name it,” she said, taking a long sip of Razzano’s drink. “This country is so pathetic right now . . . a culture that deifies excess without restraint, the degradation of women, sexual release without love or even caring, friends with all the benefits, celebrity without accomplishment, and the pure worship of money and greed,” she said, the words smearing together, “while billions of people around the world wake up every day not knowing if they will even survive.”
“Things haven’t changed very much in three thousand years, have they?”
“Screw you, Jake,” she said defiantly. “I still believe that Jordan and I can make a real difference . . . one person at a time.”
Something gnawed at my muddled brain. I tried to remember what it might be.
“This tastes awful,” she said, making a face after taking another swallow of her drink.
“Then don’t drink it,” I suggested, standing up to leave.
I was going through the kitchen when I heard a stifled sob coming up the basement stairs from the study. Sorry, old buddy, I silently apologized. Opening the back door, I headed outside.
Behind their old Volvo, I could see Razzano in his blood-red sports car. He had put on a red baseball cap embossed with the logo of the Ferrari racing team and was holding the steering wheel as if he was coming into the last straightaway at Monza.
“Friends with all the benefits,” I said aloud.
Turning around, I went back inside the house. Blair was sitting exactly where I had left her. The Siamese cat had crawled onto her lap and was licking its paws contentedly. They looked up at the same time.
“Friends with all the benefits,” I repeated.
“In your little rant, you used the phrase ‘friends with all the benefits.’”
“Friends with benefits is a very common term today,” she came back. “I assume you know what it means.”
“I know what it means,” I said. “But you said friends with all the benefits. It’s the name of a local call-girl service.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, continuing to stroke the cat.
“You told me you loathed being the president’s wife. Remember?”
“In Detroit, we were full partners . . . we were making a real difference in people’s lives. How would you like to be relegated to the role of the adoring wife whose sole contribution is to stand at the side of my perfect husband and bat my eyelashes up at him?”
The anger had focused her attention. It was finally starting to make sense.
“I probably should have figured it out before now,” I said. “He’s not so perfect, is he?”
“What are you talking about?” she asked while continuing to stroke the blue-eyed Siamese.
“I’m talking about your sending Jordan the video and giving him the demand for five million dollars from Wheatley’s unrestricted gift. He told you about the gift, didn’t he?”
“What video? You’re not making any sense, Jake.”
“That’s why you came out to visit me at the lake, isn’t it? Razzano wanted to know how much I had learned about the blackmail scheme.”
She had run out of words.
“You and Razzano cooked this up together. You’re fucking him, aren’t you?”
“Why not?” she came right back. “At least he cares about me and what I think.”
“Yeah. Five million dollars’ worth.”
“You’re wrong about that. Instead of Jordan spending the money on another lame building, it would have gone to all the causes I believe in. Brian was setting up a foundation. I would have controlled it. Now that Jordan is resigning, it doesn’t matter.”
“Yeah, you would have controlled it. You don’t know your new partner. Behind the curtain, he isn’t the Wizard of Oz. Blackmail is his business. His idea of doing good is corrupting judges and politicians and buying more influence. And he was happy to add Jordan to the list.”
“You’re wrong about Brian.”
“And you’re a gullible fool. It ends now, Blair, or I’ll turn you and Razzano over to the DA.”
She started to cry again.
“How did you find out what he was doing?” I asked her softly.
Her eyes seemed infinitely sad.
“You think you know someone so well,” she said. “On certain days, he just acted . . . so strangely. I knew something was going on. One night I borrowed a car and just followed him up to that place . . . you can’t imagine . . . when I saw them through the opening in the curtains.”
“Can you forgive him?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, swallowing the last of her blow job.
“I can understand how you feel . . . the private humiliation of seeing him that way the first time. And then when you found out what he was doing, you asked counselor Brian for help . . . and he contracted the video job out after giving you some tender solace. And you convinced yourself that five million dollars could do a lot more good than the money in Jordan’s paycheck. Except once you went down the blackmail road, Razzano would have taken most of it for himself.”
She was staring hard at me now.
“You’re going to go down there now and tell Jordan he can keep his job . . . that the blackmailer just called to let him off the hook. Tell him anything you want as long as you give him the miraculous reprieve.”
She didn’t say anything.
“He loves this job, Blair, and you need to let him keep it. Find something constructive to do with your time aside from fucking Razzano.”
“All right,” she said finally.
“And if you want to save your marriage, wait a few days and tell him the truth about what you did . . . and that he doesn’t have to worry about being publicly exposed. Tell him that the master video file was destroyed. I have it, and I’ll get rid of it.”
She nodded as I tried to stand up. My body felt like dead weight as I walked back through the kitchen and out the back door.
Razzano was still sitting in his Ferrari while continuing to rev the twelve-cylinder engine. I could hear the repetitive beat of a rap song blaring from the car’s sound system through the closed windows. I stopped at the driver’s-side door. He pressed a switch on the center console, and the window rolled down.
“Anything I can do to help?” he asked earnestly over the pounding music.
“Yeah,” I said, leaning into the car and pulling him toward me by his silk tie. “If you breathe a word to anyone about what Jordan did at the Wonderland, or if you continue trying to blackmail him, I’ll kill you, Brian . . . just like your hard boy, Sal Scalise.”
Letting him go, I began walking back to my truck. I couldn’t tell if he believed me, but he turned down the rap music.
My battery was dead when I tried to start the engine. I wasn’t about to ask Razzano for booster cables. Fortunately, Jordan lived on a hillside. Letting my foot off the brake, I let the truck roll back down the driveway and jumpstarted it.
Heading down Campus Hill, I was glad to know that Bug was still alive. I would find out from Ken Macready where she was and bring her home. I was ready to go home. I really missed home.