seven entries. Again Kelly saved them. She snapped the Sidekick shut. Enough for now.
She tiptoed over to the children. “You ready to get something to eat?” she whispered.
“Read to us, Mommy,” begged Libby. Kelly glanced around the library, which was quiet and nearly empty. She sighed.
“Okay. But only for a few minutes.”
She settled in between the children, sitting so she could see the front door. Then, scanning the entrance and the parking lot beyond every thirty seconds or so, she read aloud for a half hour before setting out to find dinner.
CHAPTER 6
AFTER THE DISASTROUS MEETING WITH THE FBI, Jake had spent the rest of the day wrangling the media, working them like a prostitute works a john—giving only the story he wanted them to hear. Now it was nine o’clock, and he was driving back to the hotel from the NBC affiliate studios. He knew he needed to sleep, but his brain wasn’t showing signs of shutting off. He needed something to flick the switch. Not alcohol, though. Nothing that would leave him hungover and blurry.
All day he had been trying to process Suzanne’s reaction to this whole mess. She seemed to be so composed—hardly grieving at all. She also appeared to be mad at Porter instead of at the killer. Infidelity or not, was that normal for the circumstances? Maybe. Could she actually be a step ahead of Jake in the grieving department? Jake snorted. Knowing Suzanne, she’d already gotten a diploma in Getting Over Your Husband’s Murder, and it was at the frame shop, ready to be picked up. On the other hand, maybe she was just genuinelyworried about the world learning about Porter’s affair and the effect on his legacy—and hers.
Jake knew the love had been missing from Porter and Suzanne’s marriage for some time. Suzanne spent most of her time in Los Angeles, with what she called “her” people. Jake had often wondered why Suzanne had married Porter at all. She was a Southern Californian, born and bred—fifth generation and uselessly proud of the fact. Why she had agreed to give up the smell of eucalyptus and the sight of flammable brown hills to follow him to Nevada and later to Washington was beyond Jake. Through campaign after campaign, they had settled into a certain camaraderie: Porter rarely demanded her presence in DC or at his appearances, and she, appreciative of his light touch, helped him as much as she could tolerate. Eventually they were on their own more than they were together, and what romance they’d had in the past had inevitably cooled. Even so, Jake had never once heard Porter even fantasize about cheating on her.
Jake’s phone buzzed.
“Brooks, it’s Carlen.” Jake tapped the brake as he approached a red light. Randy Carlen had been a faithful and generous donor to Porter’s campaign and had hosted the fund-raiser where Porter had given his final speech, the night before the murder.
Last night
, thought Jake, barely believing it. Carlen’s fortune had come through his grandmother, who had built a chain of Nevada hotels that doubled as brothels. As the sole remaining heir, Carlen now spent his time managing the hotels and his fortune, proud never to forget a working girl’s name. In fact, he loved them all. “Bad girls gone bad,” he’d say.
“What can I say?” continued Carlen without waiting for Jake’s greeting. “I’ve been trying to call you.” Carlen broke off into an emphysemic hack, ending with an enormous, mucus-clearing gargle. Jake had heard the cough often enough to know that the pause thatfollowed it was Carlen taking another drag on his Cuban cigar. The man was short but stocky, and the lifts in his shoes (as well as the constant halo of smoke around him) gave the impression of his being a much bigger man. “Fucking pisser about Garrett.” Jake nodded his agreement, knowing Carlen couldn’t see his affirmation but wouldn’t be waiting for it anyway. “What can I do to help? Anything, just ask.”
Jake hesitated. As with
She tiptoed over to the children. “You ready to get something to eat?” she whispered.
“Read to us, Mommy,” begged Libby. Kelly glanced around the library, which was quiet and nearly empty. She sighed.
“Okay. But only for a few minutes.”
She settled in between the children, sitting so she could see the front door. Then, scanning the entrance and the parking lot beyond every thirty seconds or so, she read aloud for a half hour before setting out to find dinner.
CHAPTER 6
AFTER THE DISASTROUS MEETING WITH THE FBI, Jake had spent the rest of the day wrangling the media, working them like a prostitute works a john—giving only the story he wanted them to hear. Now it was nine o’clock, and he was driving back to the hotel from the NBC affiliate studios. He knew he needed to sleep, but his brain wasn’t showing signs of shutting off. He needed something to flick the switch. Not alcohol, though. Nothing that would leave him hungover and blurry.
All day he had been trying to process Suzanne’s reaction to this whole mess. She seemed to be so composed—hardly grieving at all. She also appeared to be mad at Porter instead of at the killer. Infidelity or not, was that normal for the circumstances? Maybe. Could she actually be a step ahead of Jake in the grieving department? Jake snorted. Knowing Suzanne, she’d already gotten a diploma in Getting Over Your Husband’s Murder, and it was at the frame shop, ready to be picked up. On the other hand, maybe she was just genuinelyworried about the world learning about Porter’s affair and the effect on his legacy—and hers.
Jake knew the love had been missing from Porter and Suzanne’s marriage for some time. Suzanne spent most of her time in Los Angeles, with what she called “her” people. Jake had often wondered why Suzanne had married Porter at all. She was a Southern Californian, born and bred—fifth generation and uselessly proud of the fact. Why she had agreed to give up the smell of eucalyptus and the sight of flammable brown hills to follow him to Nevada and later to Washington was beyond Jake. Through campaign after campaign, they had settled into a certain camaraderie: Porter rarely demanded her presence in DC or at his appearances, and she, appreciative of his light touch, helped him as much as she could tolerate. Eventually they were on their own more than they were together, and what romance they’d had in the past had inevitably cooled. Even so, Jake had never once heard Porter even fantasize about cheating on her.
Jake’s phone buzzed.
“Brooks, it’s Carlen.” Jake tapped the brake as he approached a red light. Randy Carlen had been a faithful and generous donor to Porter’s campaign and had hosted the fund-raiser where Porter had given his final speech, the night before the murder.
Last night
, thought Jake, barely believing it. Carlen’s fortune had come through his grandmother, who had built a chain of Nevada hotels that doubled as brothels. As the sole remaining heir, Carlen now spent his time managing the hotels and his fortune, proud never to forget a working girl’s name. In fact, he loved them all. “Bad girls gone bad,” he’d say.
“What can I say?” continued Carlen without waiting for Jake’s greeting. “I’ve been trying to call you.” Carlen broke off into an emphysemic hack, ending with an enormous, mucus-clearing gargle. Jake had heard the cough often enough to know that the pause thatfollowed it was Carlen taking another drag on his Cuban cigar. The man was short but stocky, and the lifts in his shoes (as well as the constant halo of smoke around him) gave the impression of his being a much bigger man. “Fucking pisser about Garrett.” Jake nodded his agreement, knowing Carlen couldn’t see his affirmation but wouldn’t be waiting for it anyway. “What can I do to help? Anything, just ask.”
Jake hesitated. As with
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