Dead Heat by Linda Barnes Page B

Eichenhorn’s smile faded, reasserted itself. “Sorry. I just wanted to see the place. Brian had described it to me. I wanted to see how close I’d come to looking for a new job.”
    â€œCampaign manager … You coordinate Donagher’s publicity?”
    â€œNo crime in that. I handle all his media contacts, hire and fire his speech writers, make sure he wears a tie at the Ritz-Carlton and a hard hat on a construction site—”
    â€œFaking incidents for publicity purposes may not be on the statute books but—”
    Eichenhorn’s face reddened like an embarrassed adolescent’s. “Forget it,” he said. “I want Donagher to blitz this election. I want a landslide. He takes over sixty-five percent of the vote here in Massachusetts and Donagher’s on his way to the White House. I’d do just about anything to ensure that he wins big. That’s my job. But I’m no dope. I’m no prankster. I’m not about to try some absolutely harebrained stunt like shooting bullets into a crowd—”
    â€œYou wanted to see if they were real bullets, didn’t you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBecause you suspected somebody of pulling a stunt. Who?”
    The campaign manager pressed his thin lips together, stared blankly at the window as if he could see beyond the closed curtains. “I don’t suspect anyone,” he said. “I went because I’m having a hard time convincing myself that this business is real, that whoever wrote those letters means what he says. I thought maybe if I saw it for myself, saw real bulletholes, I might be able to believe it.”
    â€œBelieve it. They’re real.”
    â€œDonagher’s leading in all the preelection polls. He doesn’t need any cheap stupid stunts. This is the worst kind of thing that could happen, especially now, before the race. Kooks encourage each other. Some misfit reads about somebody taking a potshot at a senator and heads over to his local gun shop. It makes me sick.…”
    Spraggue studied the campaign manager’s face, let his eyes fall to the man’s lap, noticed his white-knuckled hands, nails bitten to the quick.
    â€œTake a look at the letters?” Collatos said to break the uncomfortable silence.
    â€œThat was the deal. A look. Anything I find, I give you. Gratis.”
    Collatos grinned. “And that should keep Menlo away from your door.”

EIGHT
    Donagher’s death threats were no hastily scribbled scratches penciled on the backs of discarded envelopes; they were works of craftsmanship.
    Collatos presented him with a battered shoebox containing the poison pen’s collected works. Murray hadn’t lingered; he had appointments booked on top of appointments, for himself and for the senator, coordinating the loyal troops with the election looming near. He’d shaken Spraggue’s hand in parting and floored him by asking whether he had any intention of ever running for political office.
    â€œYou’d be great,” he’d said earnestly. “That old New England background. The money wouldn’t hurt. Good image. Be sure to contact me if you—”
    â€œIt wouldn’t bother you if I were a fascist?”
    â€œAre you?”
    â€œA communist? A Democrat? A Republican?”
    â€œThe only labels I care about are winner and loser ,” Donagher’s campaign manager had said with no hint of a smile to soften the brutal formula into a joke. Then he’d glanced at his watch, frowned, and left the room, slamming the door with unnecessary force behind him.
    â€œFingerprints?” Spraggue asked, setting the shoe-box down on the desk in the small alcove near the fireplace.
    â€œI checked them,” Collatos said. “The cops checked them. Negative.”
    â€œThe cops? I thought—”
    â€œYesterday. We had to show them yesterday, after the sniping. I insisted on it. Donagher’s