Obsession, Deceit and Really Dark Chocolate Page 8

  Leah blinked in surprise. “I couldn’t stand my husband but I loved being married. I loved being part of a family unit, I loved showing off my ring, and I took comfort in the knowledge that I had crossed ‘get married’ off my to-do list. If I could just be married without having to actually have a husband, my life would be perfect.”

  “I guess you could become a lesbian and do the whole civil-union thing.” I forced myself to take another bite of my food. Leah’s pancakes looked so much better.

  “I’ve considered it,” she said, “but I have a feeling that being married to another woman would be even harder than being married to a man. What if I married a woman who was like me?”

  “My God,” I gasped, truly horrified by the idea, “that would be unbearable.”

  “Yes, it would be,” she agreed with an amused smile. “Too much of a good thing.”

  We both laughed, but our moment of harmonious sisterly love was cut short by the ringing of my cell phone.

  Leah glared at my purse. “Really, Sophie. The only people who keep their cell phones on in expensive restaurants are clueless teens and the nouveau riche.”

  “It could be important,” I protested, not bothering to point out that she wasn’t exactly old money. “It’s Melanie,” I said once I had fished out my phone. “Would you prefer if I took this outside?”

  “Or at least in the ladies’ lounge,” Leah said, pointing toward the restrooms.

  I got up and made my way to the ladies’ room, wondering what Emily Post would say about cell phone/bathroom etiquette. “Hi, Melanie,” I said as soon as I was standing outside one of the stalls. “Everything okay?”

  “I think so,” she said carefully. “I just received the strangest call from Flynn Fitzgerald.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, at first I thought he was just calling to see how I was holding up, but as the conversation progressed it became clear that he was really calling to find out about you.”

  “Me? What did he want to know?”

  “How long we’ve been friends, if you had published any other articles dealing with politics or had dealings with any other publications. That sort of thing. He seems to be under the impression that you work with the National Review.”

  I braced myself against the sink. “Please tell me that you didn’t tell him otherwise.”

  “I surmised fairly quickly that you had made up that story as a way to get an appointment with Fitzgerald, but I may not have covered for you very convincingly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When he first suggested that you were writing for that publication, I laughed. I laughed a lot, Sophie.”

  Shit! “If Fitzgerald calls again, tell him that we met for tea or whatever and that now you realize that I’ve moved politically to the right. Tell him that I couldn’t stop gushing about the opportunity the Review has given me.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Fantastic, thank you, Melanie. I’m sure no harm was done. In the meantime, do you think you could help me get in to see Maggie Gallagher? I’ve been trying to reach her, but she never returns my calls.”

  “I’ll try, but I don’t know if I’ll be much help. Maggie and I have never been close. I’m not even sure if she likes me very much. She was more Eugene’s friend.”

  “Really? But how can anyone not like you?”

  “I’m sure there are a slew of reasons,” Melanie said modestly, “but I have no idea what specifically caused Maggie to be so distant with me.”

  “Huh.” I briefly considered the possibility that Maggie’s dislike of Melanie had something to do with an inappropriate fondness Maggie might have had for Melanie’s husband. It certainly was something worth checking out. “Listen, Melanie, I’m having brunch with Leah right now so I should get going, but thank you for telling me about Fitzgerald.”

  “Of course, Sophie. Enjoy your meal.”

  I clicked off and studied my reflection in the mirror. So what if Fitzgerald knew that I had lied to him? It wasn’t like he was a suspect. Still, the idea made me more than a little uneasy.

  When I got back to the table Leah had almost finished her pancakes and was looking more than a little irritated.

  “Sorry about that,” I said as I took my seat. “But I had to take that call.”

  “Of course you did. It was Melanie after all,” Leah snapped. Then she paused and some of the irritation slipped from her countenance as she met my eyes. “Sophie, I’m not going to tell you what your problems are, but I am going to make three suggestions.”

  “I can’t wait to hear this.” I looked down at my plate. I wasn’t going to eat my casserole. It wasn’t even good enough to feed to my cat.

  “Start thinking about why Melanie became important to you in the first place,” Leah suggested, “and then think about why you don’t have any photos of Dad hanging up in your apartment.”

  “I don’t hang photos,” I said a bit too quickly. “I keep them in albums.”

  “Albums that can be easily stored out of sight,” Leah pointed out.

  The waiter walked by and I got his attention long enough to ask for our check. “I have to get to Livermore,” I said, smiling apologetically at Leah.

  “Right,” Leah said dryly. “I’m sure your sudden need to leave has nothing to do with avoidance. But you can’t go without hearing my third suggestion.”

  “Uh-huh.” I sent a beseeching look at our waiter, who was now across the room totaling up our tab. I was pretty much done with this conversation. “If your client wants the bridal shower here, tell her not to order the seafood casserole.”

  “Don’t change the subject. You need to drop your vendetta against Anatoly,” Leah said. “If he’s not willing to commit, you should definitely walk off into the sunset without him, but it’s better to do it now instead of later. You don’t need to show him up.”

  I turned back to her with surprise. “Since when have you had a problem with revenge?”

  “I don’t have a problem with it. I just don’t think you should use it as an excuse to stay close to someone. Especially if you happen to be in love with that someone.”

  “I’m not in love with Anatoly!”

  “I see. Just because you think about him all the time, get agitated every time you hear his name and can’t get past the fact that he won’t commit to you, that doesn’t mean you’re in love with him, right?” The waiter came back with our check and Leah tossed an Amex card at him without even looking at it. “Like I said, Sophie, you’re a walking case study.”

  “Leah, you know how you’re going to start criticizing me behind my back, rather than to my face?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I’m about to make that task easy for you.” I stood up, turned my back to her and walked out.

  By the time I was on the elevator going up to Anne Brooke’s top-floor campaign headquarters I was in a better mood. I had spent my life not listening to Leah and I saw no reason to change that pattern now. I was not in love with Anatoly. Furthermore, I knew why I was on this case, and it didn’t matter if my reasons were logical or not. They were still my reasons, and if I wanted to show Anatoly up that was my prerogative. And I wasn’t insisting on staying on this case just so I could be close to him. If that were true I would have told him about this interview rather than trick him into going to Boudin.

  The elevator opened, and I put on my most winning smile and was all ready to charm the Brooke campaign workers when I spotted him.

  Anatoly’s hands were jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket, a large camera case dangled over his shoulder, and he was engaged in a seemingly casual conversation with Anne Brooke.

  That son of a bitch. How had he known? I took a steadying breath and tried to walk (rather than march or stomp) over to where they were talking.

  Anatoly’s eyes met mine and the right corner of his mouth turned up. “So,” he said, his Russian accent making the word sound sexier than it had any right to be, “the reporter
has arrived.”

  “Ah, you must be Sophie Katz.” Anne Brooke held out her hand for me to shake. “I’ve just been speaking to your photographer. I didn’t realize your article would include photos.”

  “It was a last-minute decision,” I said through gritted teeth. “Just one of those extraspecial surprises.”

  “I was telling Anne how I like to sit in on the interviews,” Anatoly explained. “That way I get a better sense of the subject’s personality, which, of course, helps me decide how I want to photograph them.”

  “I didn’t actually get Ms. Brooke’s permission to have an extra person sit in on our interview,” I said. “I’m sure she would feel more comfortable if you waited outside.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I have no problem with Anatoly sitting in on the interview, and please call me Anne. We’re all very casual here.”

  I nodded and tried to pretend to be okay with Anatoly’s latest little maneuver. I looked around the rest of the office and examined the other occupants. People were definitely dressed more casually than they were at Fitzgerald’s camp. However, they did seem more frazzled if that counted for anything. Dark circles seemed to be in vogue and everyone had a phone glued to their ear and a keyboard under their fingers (except for a few who were writing the old-fashioned way).

  Anne was the only one of the lot who looked at all collected. Her blue suit was neatly pressed and managed to f latter her fit figure without being too clingy or in any way risqué. Her hair was done in a perfect French twist, and the pearl-and-sapphire drop earrings matched her bracelet. I suspected that she had the same dark circles as the rest of her team but she was much more adept at covering them up. She led us through two adjoining rooms (all filled with workers) and then into a private small conference area. She gestured for Anatoly and me to take a seat in two padded folding chairs and then pulled up a much more inviting-looking office chair for herself.

  “So you’re here for Tikkun,” Anne said. She chose to sit next to me rather than across the table, thus sandwiching me between her and Anatoly. The move was probably intended to reinforce her I’m-just-one-of-the-people image but it made me a bit uncomfortable. “I love that magazine.” She gave me a curious look. “Are you Israeli? Sephardic, right? I find the Sephardic traditions to be so beautiful. Very spiritual. I once visited a kibbutz.”

  “I’m not Sephardic,” I interrupted. “My mother’s family is Ashkenazic of Eastern European decent. I owe my dark skin to my father, who was African-American.”

  “What a wonderful combination!” Anne said, clearly happy with this information. “I always like to point out to people that if we were truly an integrated society we would all be multiracial.”

  Yes, that’s why my parents slept together, they were trying to improve society. But I kept my sarcasm to myself and instead tried to redirect the conversation. “Actually,” I said slowly, “I was more interested in how your campaign works. You see—”

  “The campaign Fitzgerald has been running has been very negative, and it seems that this is a new trend among Republican candidates,” Anatoly said, totally cutting me off. “I think Tikkun is interested in hearing how Democratic candidates are handling the attacks and what they think of them. Isn’t that right, Sophie?”

  I glared at him.

  “Ah, the attacks.” Anne nodded her head solemnly. “Here’s the reason Fitzgerald is playing dirty—he doesn’t have anything positive to say about himself. He wants to keep all the focus on alleged, and frequently false, accounts of my past indiscretions. He thinks it’s his only chance of winning, but the voters see through it. That’s why I’m ahead in the polls.”

  According to yesterday’s Contra Costa Times she was ahead by four percentage points. It was that kind of lead that lost Al Gore the presidency.

  “I’ve read some of the transcripts from his speeches,” I said carefully, “and while he does talk a lot about the importance of character and high moral standards, he keeps most of the focus on himself. In the speech he made at the Antioch senior center last week he didn’t mention you at all.”

  “No, but he’s been more than happy to comment on my personal life when the press brings it up to him,” she replied. “And how do you think the press got that information? I’ll tell you how. It’s been leaked from his camp. He won’t admit to it but it’s common knowledge that he hired someone whose only duty was to tarnish my reputation!”

  “Do you know specifically who in his camp has been investigating you?” Anatoly asked.

  “It was Eugene O’Reilly. You’ve probably heard of him, he was killed in a drive-by shooting on the evening of that senior center visit you mentioned. An ironic end for a major gun advocate. I have friends who’ve spoken to him at various social gatherings and they all tell me that he was obsessed with finding fault with others. If he wanted to find fault he should have looked at his employer. I’m certain that Fitzgerald is not the choirboy he pretends to be. But Mr. O’Reilly wasn’t interested in exposing the hypocrisy within his own camp. He just wanted to destroy those who disagreed with his opinions. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but he was an awful, awful man. He had no scruples whatsoever.”

  I had to bite my tongue in order to keep from protesting. I may have only met Eugene that one time but he was not awful. Although, the Da Vinci thing was a little obnoxious, but that had been Melanie’s problem, not Anne’s. “How can you be sure it was Mr. O’Reilly?” I asked.

  “For one thing, he used to be an agent in the FBI, which makes him the only trained investigator who worked for Fitzgerald that I know of, and secondly…well let’s just say that people have told me that he was asking a lot of inappropriate questions about me.”

  “Inappropriate in what way?” Anatoly asked.

  “Questions about my marriage and the like. He used various pretenses in order to contact several men whom I’ve shared friendships with at one point or another. He approached my old friend William in a bar with a story about how he was having an affair with a married woman. In reality the only married woman Eugene was ever involved with was his own wife. I’m sure he was hoping his lie would encourage William to let something sordid slip about the relationship he used to have with me, not that there was anything sordid about it,” she added quickly. “We were just friends.”

  Why didn’t I believe that? “So Mr. O’Reilly was really poking his nose where it didn’t belong. I suppose things are easier for you now that he’s gone.”

  Anne swallowed hard and she leaned back in her chair. “I’m not glad that he’s dead if that’s what you’re asking. I’m not a monster no matter what Fitzgerald would have people believe.”

  “That’s obvious,” said Anatoly. “But I think what Sophie was getting at is that if the man on Fitzgerald’s team who was investigating you is no longer around, you will now have the luxury of focusing on the issues that you’re so passionate about rather than having to defend your personal life.”

  “Of course I want to talk about the issues,” Anne said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m glad Mr. O’Reilly is dead. What happened to him was just…horrific.” Anne said the last word with feeling, and she paused for a moment as if to consider its truth. “It also perfectly demonstrates why gun control is so important,” she continued with considerably less emotion. “No one should have the means to randomly kill someone on the street. It also demonstrates why we need to reach out to the urban youth. If we spent more money on our schools and made it possible for parents to find safe low-income housing…”

  I tuned out. Whether or not she was willing to admit it, Anne Brooke’s life was a lot easier without Eugene around. But would she really have someone killed just so she could cover up a few affairs?

  Anatoly crossed his ankle over his knee and smiled at her benignly. “You have some wonderful ideas. I wish you were running for Congress in my district.”

  This from the man who had voted for the Terminator.

  “I’m also impressed with how you’re able t
o stay so well informed about the goings-on in your opponent’s camp.”

  Anne shifted uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is that not only do you know that Eugene O’Reilly was the person Fitzgerald enlisted to research your past, but you also know a lot of personal details about O’Reilly himself.”

  Anne laughed but it sounded forced. “You give me too much credit. I know very little about Mr. O’Reilly, just what I’ve heard through the grapevine, from William and from the newspapers.”

  “You seem very confident that Eugene’s confession to William about his having an affair was false,” Anatoly pointed out. “And you know his position on gun control. You even seem to have some insight into what he was like as a person. You said that he was an awful man with no scruples. Surely you didn’t make that assessment based solely on the little bit of information William was able to share with you.”

  Anne’s eyes narrowed. “I must say, Anatoly, you are the most inquisitive photographer I have ever met.”

  Ha! Anatoly had just blown his cover, big-time! I, on the other hand, was playing out my role perfectly.

  “I’m actually a photojournalist. It’s a job that requires a certain amount of inquisitiveness.”

  And he had recovered. Damn it all to hell.

  “I see. Anatoly, the political world is a small one. I may not have had the chance to converse with Eugene personally, but I certainly am acquainted with a number of people who have. Everyone knows about Eugene’s selective adoption of biblical ethics.”

  “‘Selective adoption of biblical ethics’?” I repeated. “I’m not sure I know what that means.”

  “It means that he had a reputation for being very dedicated to his wife, or at least to his marriage vows. However, he doesn’t pay any heed to Jesus’ suggestion that we refrain from throwing stones at one another.”

  “Maybe he didn’t think he lived in a glass house,” I suggested.

  “We all live in glass houses, Sophie,” Anne said with a tone that hinted at a superiority complex. “If you can’t see inside it’s because the glass is tinted, but if you pound on it with enough force it will break.”