Grant knew Tate wouldn’t call for anything trivial. She had a dressing stool in the bathroom, and she sat, and said, “Tell me.”
“There are reports on CNN that a U.S. Marshal is claiming that Porter Smalls’s accident last week wasn’t an accident—that it was an assassination attempt,” Tate said. “There’s no comment from the marshal, but there’s a comment from a West Virginia sheriff, who said the marshal and he and his deputies found some logs with silver automotive paint on them, which had been hung off the side of the truck that forced Smalls’s car off the road. They say the truck has been spotted on video, a black Ford F-250. The logs were apparently an attempt to make it look like Smalls’s truck hit nothing but trees. CNN says that Smalls is traveling to the CNN affiliate in Minneapolis to be interviewed later in the show, and that the truck is being sought.”
“Shit! I didn’t need to hear this.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, no, I mean I didn’t need to have this happen. But you did right to call,” Grant said. “The problem is, it could dredge up all that old crap around the election. The marshal is named Lucas Davenport. Was he mentioned? Was he on the show? He’s definitely out to get me.”
“No, they didn’t mention his name. They called somebody at the Marshals Service headquarters, who had no comment. A spokesman for the Justice Department said the matter is being reviewed at the highest levels, which means they don’t have a clue. Since it’s Smalls, and a woman is dead—and, even worse, she’s a rich woman who gave lots of money to Republicans—I imagine there’ll be a lot said tomorrow.”
“Goddamnit. Listen, monitor this for me, all the channels, and call me at eleven o’clock. I’ve got a date, but I should be home before then—and if it’s urgent, call me anytime,” Grant said. “If you have to bring a couple of people in, go ahead. I’d like to see some transcripts of the major shows.”
“We can do it. Because of the . . . controversy . . . what should I do if they start looking for a comment from you?”
“I’m not available. I have no knowledge of the incident. If you can, go deep off the record with reporters you can trust and suggest that Smalls has a history of alcoholism that he has successfully covered up. This might be part of another cover-up. If he was drunk when the woman was killed and he was driving, that would make him guilty of vehicular homicide.”
“Do you think he was?” Tate asked.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Grant said. “I know that he does drink a bit; I’ve seen him tipsy. The point is, to fuzz things up.”
“You got it,” Tate said.
* * *
—
WHEN TATE was off the phone, Grant went back to her mirror for a minute, working on her eyelashes, thinking about the news reports, and when she was done with the mascara, dabbed on a touches of Black Orchid perfume, and called Parrish.
He hadn’t seen the news, either. When she told him about it, he said, “Give me some time to check around. I’ll handle this personally. No blowbacks.”
“I said it before: it’s Davenport we have to worry about. If he goes away somehow, we’re in much better shape.”
“I’m handling Davenport. It’s already under way.”
* * *
—
IF THE TREASURY MAN thought he was going to get laid by a beautiful blond Minnesota senator, he was mistaken. He made some of the usual eye and touching moves that men thought were good ideas when dealing with desirable women, but Grant, as a long-legged blonde, and one of the heirs to a multibillion-dollar fortune, had been inoculated against that kind of bullshit from the time she was eight.
Still, the night developed profitably for the both of them. When the Treasury guy realized that Grant was looking for an insider, not a piece of his ass, he slid into negotiating mode, and they spent their time over cocktails, and cocktail napkins, where they outlined possible beneficial changes to the tax law.
Not really fun, but not uninteresting, either.
They’d finished dinner, and were drinking the last of a four-hundred-dollar bottle of white Bordeaux, when Grant’s cell phone buzzed: Tate.
“I’ve got to take this,” she said. She turned away from the Treasury guy, and said, “Yes?”
“An update. Smalls had a press conference. Every TV station in the Twin Cities was there. Parts of it will hit the major networks, and Fox and CNN. He didn’t mention any names, but he said that violence had been used against him before and that he wouldn’t let it shake him. Three different reporters tried to get him to say your name—they mentioned you, asked if that was what he was talking about. He smiled: might as well have said your name. He never did, but everybody got the point.”
“Goddamnit. I’m going to have to say something. Work it for me. Remember what I said about seeing him tipsy, drunk—see if you can work that in. If he’s going to get in my face, I’ll get right back in his.”
“I’ll get some ideas together, but it might not be the wisest move. There are other ways to get in his face.”
“Give me those, too.”
She went back to the Treasury man with a smile. “Porter Smalls is getting in my face about his drunken accident last week. If you want to witness a traumatic castration, watch me on the news tomorrow.”
He laughed, and said, “I believe you ahead of time. And I’ll be watching.”
* * *
—
GRANT WAS HOME at eleven when Tate called again. “Talked to my guy at PBS. They’re sucking wind on the story, and they liked that thing about Smalls’s drinking problem and the questions that might raise. I don’t know if it’ll do us a lot of good, but it will fuzz things up, like you said. I’ve also got them checking up on this Davenport’s record—he sounds like a trigger-happy right-winger; he’s killed a whole bunch of people . . .”
“I don’t want to mess with a nice story line, but Davenport actually worked for Elmer Henderson.” Henderson was temporarily out of office but had been the governor of Minnesota and the extremely liberal Democratic vice presidential candidate in the previous election.
“Oh . . . Well, basically, who gives a shit,” Tate said. “We can still frame him as an attention-seeking killer. That should create more fuzz.”
“I knew there was a good reason I hired you,” Grant said. “Keep thinking about this. The more fuzz, the better. See you in the morning. I’ll be making a statement.”
She was tired but checked with Parrish. “Still working on Davenport?”
“We need to talk. Ritter got back to me a couple of hours ago. We’ve done some work . . .”
“Are you at your house?”
“Yes.”
“Come over, we’ll talk.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” Parrish said. “I’ll come on foot.”
* * *
—
PARRISH SHOWED UP, dressed all in black nylon, with a black-and-green-camouflage baseball cap and running shoes; he looked like a crow, Grant thought, as he came down the basement stairs. The housekeeper had let him in, and Grant watched the computer pad that showed the door sealed at the top of the stairs. And that Parrish was carrying a gun.
He dropped onto the sofa opposite her desk, and she could suddenly smell him: he’d jogged over.
“What have you got?” she asked.
* * *
—
“I’VE HAD JIM RITTER in St. Paul the last two days doing . . . observations. We’ve found a situation that may work for us and that will take Davenport out of Washington. If he’s as bright as you say, he might suspect something, but he’d never be sure.”
“The longer he’s out of Washington, the colder the whole situation becomes. Two weeks, and it’s cool. A month from now, nobody’ll care.”
“Exactly. We needed to find a particular guy in St. Paul or Minneapolis and we found him.” Parrish outlined what he had in mind, and Grant closed her eyes as she listened, the better to visualize Parrish’s proposal.
“If there are cops too close . . .” she said when he was done.