She clicked channels: same street, different angle. With a reporter doing a stand-up. She could hear Stuart breathing heavily into the phone, waiting for her to speak. She turned up the volume on the TV.
few details at this hour, Tom. What sources are telling this network unofficially is that the circumstances in which Mr Forbes was found were- and here the reporter made a great show of looking down and checking his notebook, -bizarre.
Bizarre? echoed Maggie.
Let me in and Ill tell you.
Youre here?
Cab just pulled up.
Now she needed to absorb the strangeness both of what she had just heard on the television and the notion of Stuart Goldstein in her apartment building. Whatever affinity she felt for him as a colleague, she would never have described him as a friend. He hadnt been to her place, she hadnt been to his; that line had never been crossed.
Youre here, she said again, uselessly. Can you give me five minutes?
Two.
Under the duvet, she was wearing only a mans T-shirt white, large and bearing the name of an Israeli basketball team. It had belonged to Uri, though she had never worn it while they were together. But last night she had dug it out, smelling it before putting it on, even though she knew the scent of him had been washed away long ago.
As she rushed to pull on a pair of jeans and to find a sweater, grateful that Stuart would take longer than most to get into her building, into the elevator and out again, she kept one ear on the intriguing tale tumbling out of the TV.
were not able to disclose all the circumstances of Mr Forbess death at this time, Dan, and thats not only because some of our sources are speaking only on background. Its also because this is a family network and its still early on in the day.
What were they talking about? What on earth had happened to Vic Forbes that they couldnt give the details? Last night she and the rest of the band of brothers who had got Stephen Baker elected President had sat there facing a series of brick walls. There had been no good options. Whichever path they took, Vic Forbes with his bald head and his thin, bland, smiling face had stood there blocking their escape.
And now he was gone, helpfully magicked away and just in the nick of time.
She heard the knock on the door and the unmistakable sound of Stuart Goldsteins breathless panting outside. She did a last scope of the apartment, scanning for potential embarrassment. Now that she had closed the door to her bedroom, the place looked tidy enough. One of the advantages of Washington hours: you were barely home long enough to make the place a mess.
But still, and even in just that brief glimpse, she had seen something that had made her not quite embarrassed no dirty laundry on the floor but ever so slightly ashamed. In that short, stabbing second she experienced the apartment as if through the eyes of another.
She had seen that it was elegant, located in the much-admired art-deco grandeur of the Kennedy-Warren building, and stylishly furnished, with a sprinkling of items that hinted at her past life of constant and exotic travel. But she had also seen that it was, however subtly, empty. That it was, visible to the naked eye, the home of a person alone. And, her eye falling on the crisping leaves of a dying ficus, one without the nurturing ability even to keep a houseplant alive.
Stuart, she said, stepping back with a sweep of the hand in the exaggerated manner of a butler ushering him inside a small piece of theatre designed chiefly to avoid any confusion over whether there would be a kiss on the cheek or handshake. The issue had never arisen at work or during the campaign. But they had never visited each other at home before.
Stuart, she said, stepping back with a sweep of the hand in the exaggerated manner of a butler ushering him inside a small piece of theatre designed chiefly to avoid any confusion over whether there would be a kiss on the cheek or handshake. The issue had never arisen at work or during the campaign. But they had never visited each other at home before.
She headed straight for the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee, though Stuart told her not to: Ive had so much coffee, Im schvitzing. He had clearly been up for several hours. When had Forbes died? How long had Stu known? She tamped down the ground beans: he might not need it, but she certainly did.
He joined her in the kitchen, impatient to get on with things, pulling out a chair tucked into the small kitchen table and lowering himself into it. The fixedness of his gaze told Maggie to do the same.
Their faces now just a few inches apart, the words raced out of him. Forbes was found hanged in his bedroom in New Orleans.
She knew this already. Right
Stuart lowered his voice. He was wearing womens underwear. Stockings, garters, the whole deal. With an orange stuffed into his mouth.
A what?
A segment of orange. Apparently its used to disguise the taste of amyl nitrate. Its bitter, so you bite on an orange as a chaser.
Is this some kind of joke?
Do I look like Im joking?
He was wearing stockings?
Yes. Its still unofficial, but thats what the police are saying.
Jesus. Maggie stood up so that she could pace.
The police say its not as uncommon as youd think. Couples strangle each other for kicks. Guys who are alone hang themselves. Starving the oxygen to the brain gives you a rush. Auto-erotic asphyxiation they call it.
I may be a convent girl, Stuart, but Im not a bloody nun. I know about that. The expression on his face made her rush to qualify. I mean, Ive heard about it. Christ. There was a pause. And what was the orange for again?
Hide the taste of the amyl nitrate. Which apparently adds to the ride. He made a shrug which said, what do I know from such things? One theory is that Forbes was getting off on the success of his little project. Making contact with the President, interviews on cable TV. Seems like he was aroused.
Is that what the police are saying?
No. All they know is that hed been in the news during the last forty-eight hours, as the source for a couple of stories damaging to the President. Remember, no one else knows what we know. Do you have any cereal?
What?
Breakfast cereal.
Maggie passed him a box of Cheerios. He immediately plunged a hand deep inside and fed himself a large mouthful.
Neither of them had said what she knew he and everyone else in the White House must be feeling what, for that matter, she was feeling. Ordinarily, she would have resisted saying it. She would have known that, as a White House staffer, it was unwise even to voice such a sentiment to a colleague, lest it get out. But to hell with that. She was now Maggie Costello, independent citizen. She could say whatever she liked. Solves a problem, though, doesnt it, Stu?
I was worried youd say that.
Worried? Why?
Because if youre saying that, so will plenty of other folks. In fact, theyve already started.
What do you mean?
Blogs. Wingnuts mainly. But thats how it always starts. On the margins, then spreads inward.
Theyre claiming Baker had something to do with this?
Goldstein reached into the pocket of his triple-extra-large jacket and pulled out his iPhone. A few stabs at the screen, followed by a swipe or two, and he was reading. It was Napoleon who said he wanted generals who were neither courageous nor brilliant, but lucky. Seems as if Stephen Baker is one of lifes lucky generals. Just when he was on the precipice, staring into the abyss, guess what happens? Thats right: the guy who was going to push him over the edge wakes up dead in New Orleans. Love him or hate him, youve got to admit it, this Prez has someone up there who likes him. Though they do always say, you make your own luck
So?
Come on, Maggie. You make your own luck? We know where this is heading. Goldsteins phone vibrated in his hand. He stared at it, then held it up so that Maggie could see the screen. Another one.
Maggie stepped forward, leaning over to stare at the tiny screen. An email from Doug Sanchez. No message, just a grab from another political website, not quite mainstream but well-known. Its headline: The Baker presidency turns into The Godfather: key tormentor now sleeping with the fishes.
Goldstein let his weight fall back into the seat which, being a modest Crate & Barrel kitchen number, was fighting a losing battle to contain it. Id say were twenty-four hours away from an outright accusation of murder.
Maggie said nothing. She understood perfectly: Stuart was right to anticipate this reaction to Forbess death and right to want to get ahead of it. He did not seem to feel any of the relief that had washed over her the instant she saw the news. Instead, he seemed just as troubled as he had been when Forbes had hacked his way onto Katie Bakers Facebook page, announcing his intention to destroy the Baker presidency.
She poured herself a coffee, then returned to the table.
We had seven senators calling for an independent counsel before this broke. It wont just be Rick fucking Franklin talking about a special prosecutor now, you mark my words, he said bitterly. He fed himself another fistful of Cheerios.
I see.
Its all about context. Thats politics, Maggie. Context. Normally the only people who would give two shits about Vic Forbes swinging from a noose with his dick in his hand would be right-wing nutcases who think the Federal Reserve is a European plot to destroy America. But as of two days ago were in a different context.
Thanks to Forbes.
Ironically, yes. Thanks to him, people who used to trust the President now dont. They think he might be crazy and in the pay of the ayatollahs. So now theyll be ready to believe he is capable-
-of murder.
Stuart looked at her hard. You heard what he said last night.
Maggie hesitated. Of course she had heard what Stephen Baker had said last night, but had she now realized made an instant decision to push the memory of it out of her mind.
Do I need to remind you?
You dont need to remind me, she said in little more than a whisper.
I want him gone. Thats what he said.
I heard it.
Well, if you heard it, then so did everyone else in that room.