Dead Watch (8 page)

Inside he found an airport-style security check. Goines showed up, apparently alerted by the Watchmen, as Jake was processing through the X-ray and metal detectors.

“Mister Winter?” Jake nodded, and as he retrieved his briefcase and cane, Goines said, “This way.”

Goines was annoyed. A small blond man with a dimpled chin, a ten-cent knockoff of his boss, he carried a petulant look. His eyes were like a chicken’s, and like a chicken, he cocked his head to the side to look at Jake as they rode up a couple of floors in the elevator. He led the way to his office, past a secretary in an outer cubicle, and said, “This better be important,” and pointed at a chair as he settled behind his desk.

“There are some indications that the Watchmen may be involved in the detention of Lincoln Bowe,” Jake said, crossing his legs. “The president wants me to find Bowe. He wants me to find him now.”

“What indications?”

“Rumors, mostly,” Jake said. “The FBI investigation is picking up vibrations that the Watchmen are involved, or, at least, that a lot of people think so.”

“That’s a bunch of crap.” Goines stood up again, walked over to his window, hands in his pants pockets, looked out his office window. He had a view of an aggressively blank-walled building on the other side of the street, part of a medical center. “People seem to be lining up to shoot at us. If it turns out that a Watchman is involved, he’s on his own, he’s an outlaw. We sure as hell don’t condone it.”

Jake said, “Just before he disappeared, Bowe called the governor a cocksucker.”

Blood drained away from Goines’s face, and a quick tic of fear passed across it. He shook his finger at Jake but said, casually enough, “That was unforgivable. Governor Goodman is a sophisticated gentleman, a successful lawyer before he entered public service. He understands the likes of Lincoln Bowe. He would never go after Bowe, but you can’t blame him for not liking a man who could be so vulgar. He won’t be pleased with the prospect of tearing up the Watchmen on Bowe’s behalf.”

Jake thought,
Jesus, I haven’t seen a tap dance like this in years. Is this place bugged?

“I can absolutely understand that and so does the president,” Jake said. Bureaucratic-speak: he could do it as well as anyone, or even better. “The president said, ‘I trust Governor Goodman implicitly, but that doesn’t mean that there might not be some rotten apples at the bottom of the barrel.’ And that’s all I’m asking: that you check for rotten apples.”

“The governor can speak to that. But you must have heard that some of us think that Bowe has gone on a little vacation, and is letting us twist in the wind.”

“We’re looking into that, too,” Jake said.

“Good.” Goines looked at his watch: “One minute: let’s go see the governor.”

The governor’s outer office was a large, cool room with gray fabric chairs and mahogany tables, decorated with bald eagles—wildlife paintings of the kind seen on postage stamps, eagles with talons extended, about to land on weathered branches, or soaring over lakes with white-capped mountains in the background. A two-foot-long bronze eagle launched itself off a stand in the center of the room; a bronze scroll of the U.S. Constitution was draped over the stand.

An elderly secretary and a blond college intern worked behind a double desk. The elderly woman called into the governor’s office, and the intern smiled at Jake and didn’t stop smiling.

“I’ll tell the governor you’re waiting,” the older woman said.

Arlo Goodman was a friendly guy, big white teeth, blond hair falling over his forehead, flyaway, as though he’d been running his fingers through it. He was in shirtsleeves, the sleeves rolled up. He stuck his head out of his office door, something Danzig would never have done with a subordinate, and said, “Hey, Jake, come on in. You want some coffee or water?”

“Coffee would be good,” Jake said. They did the Arlo Goodman left-handed shake—Goodman had taken a Syrian bullet in the right hand, and the bones had been shattered, leaving a knot of shrunken fingers.

To his secretary: “Jean, could you get that?”

She went off to get it and Goines said, “I’ll let you guys talk.”

Goodman nodded and led Jake into his office, asked, “What’ve you been doing about the limp, you gimpy fucker? You working the leg?”

“It’s about as worked as it’s going to get,” Jake said. Goodman had done research on him; he pretended not to notice. “I keep stretching it, but it’s maintenance. How’s the hand?”

Goodman grimaced: “Same as with your leg. Not much point. Too much nerve damage. I can poke a pen through, to sign my name, so that’s a benefit.”

A minute more of physical-rehab chatter, then Jean arrived with the coffee—plain, heavy earthenware cups—and when she’d shut the door behind her, Goodman said, “I’m scared to death about Lincoln Bowe, Jake. He’s a fool, but I wouldn’t want any harm to come to him—for my own sake, if nothing else. I’ve got all these rumors bubbling around me . . . I mean, Jesus.”

“What’s there to be scared about?”

Goodman was deadly serious now: “Come on, man.”

Jake shrugged. “All right.”

Goodman pointed him at a chair in a conversation group, slumped in one opposite. “Jake: I’m sure you’ve been researching me, so you probably know my stump speech. This country is at a crossroads. We are losing the thing that makes us American. The idea is what holds us together: the idea in the Declaration, the idea in the Constitution. But the people running the country now—not the president, he’s a good man—but the Congress, and these people flooding across our borders, the South Americans, the Caribs, the Africans, the Arabs, they have one thing in common: they’re out to rip this country for whatever they can get out of it. End of story. They don’t care about freedom of speech, freedom of religion, all the rest of it . . . Well, like I said, you know the stump speech.”

“I do.” Jake waited.

“We’re the counterpressure against those things. People are constantly trying to bring us down, to shut us up. Bowe was one of those people. And he wasn’t fair about it—he wasn’t willing to take you on in open debate. He’d use any little piece of dirt he could find, real or imagined, to malign anyone on the other side of the question. He’d do
anything . . .
which was one reason we’d never do anything aimed at him. We’d never give him an excuse. Now this.” Goodman turned away and looked out his office window, toward the capitol. “Do you know Madison Bowe?”

“I’ve met her.”

“So have I,” Goodman said, grinning. “She’s quite the little package. Tits and ass and brains and, worst of all, professional camera training. Did you know she used to be a reporter here in Richmond? Pretty hot, too.”

“I saw something in her biography,” Jake said.

“And now, she’s your basic political nightmare, if you’re on the wrong end of things,” Goodman said. “If she’d married me, instead of Bowe, I’d be the president by now.” He laughed and turned back to his desk. Chatter done. “So what does Bill Danzig want? You’re doing what? An investigation? An inquiry?”

“A search,” Jake suggested. “Ordered by the president. Bowe is being used to hammer you and we’re getting the ricochets. It’s getting worse. We’ve got the convention coming up.”

“If there weren’t any ricochets, would they still be worried?” Goodman asked.

He was teasing, and Jake had to laugh. “Worried, but less worried,” he said.

“That’s what I figured. Danzig doesn’t take his eye off the ball,” Goodman said. “So, what specifically are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna find him—Lincoln Bowe—one way or another. I’m bringing in some FBI heavyweights. I may go to Homeland Security, the Secret Service, whatever. I’m going to squeeze. Some of your Watchmen, among other people.”

“Mmm.” Goodman peered at Jake for a moment, weighing him. Then, “We had nothing to do with the disappearance of Lincoln Bowe. You should convey that to the president.”

Jake said, “Are you talking for yourself, or the whole state of Virginia?”

Goodman was irritated. “For myself and the people around me. I obviously can’t speak for everybody.”

“Mrs. Bowe says the Watchmen are involved. And after the incident at her house . . .”

“That was a mistake made by a low-level Watchman, and he has been thoroughly counseled on his mistake,” Goodman said. “I’ve sent a letter of apology to Mrs. Bowe, with my personal guarantee that she can return to her farm with no fear of any interference. She has an absolute right to do that as an American. The Watchmen are not thugs, and we don’t tolerate any thuggishness.”

“You can understand her fear . . .”

“And perhaps you can understand ours, and why that poor dumbass Watchman did what he did,” Goodman said, now with some heat. “She has been throwing mud at us, just like her husband did. Calling us Nazis, telling people that we’re no better than the Klan. Slandering fine people who are only trying to heave this country up out of the mess that people like Lincoln Bowe got us into. Now, she’s trying to claim that we kidnapped her husband and probably killed him. It’s utter, errant nonsense.”

“Governor, nobody ever thought you would have given an order to get rid of Lincoln Bowe. You’re far too smart for that . . .”

“I’m too
moral
for that,” Goodman interjected.

“I’m absolutely willing to believe you,” Jake said. “But what if some Watchman somewhere decided that he’d had enough? Who thought he’d be doing you a favor? Like this guy who went to Mrs. Bowe’s house? Somebody who believes in direct action?”

Goodman: “You know John Patricia? The Watchman director?”

“I know who he is.”

“We’ve had him looking for exactly that. We’ve had him talking to our organizers at the county level and even at the town level. Looking for anything that might point to a Watchman involvement with Bowe. So far, nothing. So far, we’ve been chasing our tails.”

“So you’re looking.”

“We are looking and we will continue to look,” Goodman said.

“If you find anything, you will get in touch with me?” Jake asked.

“We will. Or the FBI, if that’s appropriate.”

They talked for another ten minutes, the governor adamant that Bowe’s disappearance must, in some way, have been brought about by Bowe himself—or maybe, though he didn’t believe it, was a routine crime gone bad, a robbery that turned into murder, with the body dumped in the woods.

“But that . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t believe that. These guys he drove away with . . . they sound like feds, to me. He didn’t do anything that’d get him picked up by some, you know, intelligence organization, did he? I mean, he was on the Senate Intelligence Committee, he’d know all kinds of weird stuff.”

“I don’t think so. Mrs. Bowe sort of agrees with you on this—she says the cause is close by. It’s no big international conspiracy.”

“She’s right,” Goodman said. “But she thinks I did it, and I think Bowe did it. He’s involved somehow. He engineered this, and it’s working.”

“You have no proof.”

“No. Of course not. If I had it, I’d be shoving it down their throats.” Goodman smiled again, quickly. “Even if I didn’t have it, but I was pretty sure about it, I’d stuff it down their throats. But I got nothin’.”

End of interview. They both stood up and Goodman reached out to shake hands again. “If you need
anything,
call Ralph. Any time of day or night,” Goodman said.

“Thanks,” Jake said, and moved toward the door.

Goodman asked to his back, “Would you do it again? The combat?”

Jake stopped and nodded. “Yes. I would.”

“Did you like it?” Goodman was grinning at him.

“Yes. Judging from your question, you did, too.”

“We’re a couple of unfashionable motherfuckers,” Goodman said, walking over to his desk. “Stay in touch, Jake.”

Goines gave him a private cell-phone number and left Jake at the elevators. Jake was almost out of the building when a woman’s voice called to him: “Mr. Winter.”

He looked to his left. The intern from Goodman’s office was standing in a side hallway. She held up a hand and folded her fingers toward herself. Jake stepped over. “Can I help you?”

She was a tall blonde, a southern belle, busty, long legs, pink tongue touching her puffy lips. Her skirt and blouse cost somebody a couple of hundred bucks each, he thought, and her silk vest looked like Hermès. “There’s a man named Carl V. Schmidt in a town called Scottsville,” she said. “He’s a Watchman. Goodman and Patricia and Goines are worried about him. They’re trying to find him and they can’t. They think he might have something to do with Lincoln Bowe.”

“Carl V. Schmidt.”

“That’s right. I printed out his name and address.” She handed him a slip of paper. “My name’s on there, too. You can call me at the house.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t like Arlo,” she said. “He’s crazy. He wants to be president, and that wouldn’t be good. He also wants to sleep with me. Which he won’t get to do.”

Jake smiled at her. “You’re not worried about all this?”

She shook her head and smiled back. “My old man’s got more money than Jesus Christ and he’s a big contributor. Arlo won’t lay a finger on me.”

“But you
work
for Arlo . . . ,” Jake said, picking up her use of Goodman’s first name.

“Because I’m a poli-sci major,” she said. “He’s nuts, but he’s the governor. He’s an opportunity. Anyway, check out Carl V. Schmidt, and if it comes to anything, remember my name, and get me a job. I’ll take anything in the White House. I work really hard and I’m really smart.”

Jake nodded: “Thanks. If anything happens, I’ll call.”

“Thank
you.”
She turned and tripped away, down the side hall. Jake looked after her for a moment, watching her ass, and she knew it without turning around. She lifted a hand and twiddled her fingers at him, good-bye.

Very attractive, Jake thought, as he headed toward the door, and so
young,
for such treachery.