Gathering String (35 page)

Erickson’s mouth went grim, and he tossed the report back toward Sam. “Of course not. I wouldn’t have a clue how to go about asking for something like. And why would I want to?”

“A lot of people I’ve talked with tell me you are an intensely private, and an extraordinarily prideful man, Governor. It wouldn’t be easy, admitting publicly that your father drank himself to death.”

The Governor sighed. “Look, the people who don’t know me well may get that impression. As outgoing as I am, I’m protective of my private life.” With a look of conviction that told Sam he was playing what he considered to be a sure ace, Erickson said, “But the people of Lindsborg know me. Ask them. They’ll tell you everything about me. There are no secrets in a small town.”

As Sam wrote he said softly, “Actually sir, it’s your Lindsborg friends I’m talking about.

The confidence faded to sincere bewilderment. “Really?” Sam nodded. “What did they say?”

Sam opened a notebook and, after flipping through several pages marked with paper clips, read, “It’s probably a cultural thing. Swedes are, by nature, very reserved people. I’d never presume to think that I know everything about him.’” Sam paused and said, “Jack Westphal said that.”

Swede laughed a little. “Well, Jackie knows me about as well as Mama and my brother Pete, and they all know pretty much everything. Although, in a sense he’s right. He’s not presumptuous, but then a good newsman never is.”

Sam gave a tart smile at that. “Is that why you offered him Pat Donnelly’s job? He wouldn’t presume to leak any announcements before you were ready?”

Sam heard the assistant’s quickly drawn breath, and the two men’s eyes met in glittering dislike across the cold marble of the kitchen island. Swede asked softly, “Is that what he told you?”

Before Sam could answer, Tess cleared her throat and stood, and both men turned in surprise, having forgotten her. “I’m just going to join one of those tours downstairs. Come find me when you’re finished, Sam.”

Sam spoke as the door closed softly behind her. “Westphal wouldn’t tell me anything. When I asked him if you’d offered, he referred any campaign staffing questions to you.”

A regretful smile spread over Swede's face, and he murmured softly, “Damn, I’d love him on my team.” Then he spoke up, “Yes, Mr. Waterman, I offered Jack the job. And he turned me down flat. But I sure as hell tried to talk him into it.”

“Any idea why he wouldn’t take it?”

“Sure,” Swede took a sip of his coffee, glad to move on to this topic. “He likes what he’s doing.” At Sam’s skeptical look, the Governor laughed. “It’s not the kind of thing people like you and I are used to. We run in ambitious crowds, after all. But it’s not that Jack lacks ambition. It just shows itself in a different way. He loves the
Journal
, and he's doing some pretty creative things with it as a news outlet. He really puts his heart into it. And he loves that lady who just left.” Sipping his coffee, Swede didn’t notice the grim lines settling around Sam’s mouth. “He wants her happy.”

Sam glanced back over his shoulder at the closed door. “Funny way of showing it – burying a talented photojournalist like her out in the Iowa countryside.”

Erickson’s sharp eyes narrowed at Sam's tone, and he replied slowly, “Well, maybe you don’t know her all that well. She’s making a name for herself as a real artist, doing some great work in that little studio they’ve set up at the house. She’s different since she left the
Record
.” The Governor shrugged. “Serene, I guess is the word. And her success is a genuine pleasure for him.”

Swede smiled, remembering, “Yeah, I did come down pretty hard on him. I was scared he was going to kill himself in that thing. When I went to the Gulf, I knew I couldn’t count on my father, so I asked Jim and Sally to look after Mama and Pete. They were always there for me. Jim was the guy I tried to model my life on. I think he was the first man who looked at me and didn't see the town drunk's kid. That made a huge difference in my life. So when they died, all together like that, I figured I owed it to them to look after Jack.”

“But you never got him to slow down. He still had that bad wreck last year. He had to be going pretty damn fast that morning. And that old bird who works in his office says he still drives like a bat out of hell.”

Erickson nodded. “He loves big engines and speed. Jack is always going full throttle.” His brow knitted. “How’d we get off on Jack’s driving anyway? He’s not a kid anymore. There’s not much I can do about it.”

“But when Westphal had that accident, he was given a couple of serious tickets. Somehow they never turned into charges. What happened to them?”

Erickson shrugged. “How should I know? Ask Jack.”

“He says he doesn’t remember.”

Erickson spread his hands. “Well, if he doesn’t remember, how should I? It was all between Jackie and the state. I didn’t mix in.”

Sam expected the denial. “But you do favors for your political allies, don’t you Governor?”

Erickson rolled his eyes. “Waterman, that’s a ‘when did you stop beating your wife’ question, and you know it. You got something specific in mind?”

Sam’s predatory smile deepened. “Richard Webster, sir. When you appointed him to the district bench, he was the youngest judge in your state’s history. He was only four years out of law school when you named him. Just three years after that, you elevated him to the State Supreme Court, again the youngest man ever named in Iowa. Your political opposition claims you appointed him above other, more qualified candidates, to further your own interests.”

The Governor’s face and shoulders tightened. “The Iowa Constitution grants the governor authority to appoint judges, subject to Senate confirmation. I’m sure the Democrats would have preferred that I appoint some old man on the verge of retirement, so they could name their own man if they can win the governorship after I go to Washington. But I stand by that appointment without reservation.”

“Governor, you can’t deny his presence on both benches has helped you.” Sam glanced at his notes. “Webster ruled in favor of you in a suit over the application of the line-item veto when he was on the district bench.”

“That ruling was overturned,” Erickson interrupted.

“Yes. But later, after he’d been appointed to the Supreme Court, he cast the deciding vote upholding some unilateral budget cuts you made that were being challenged. In fact, he wrote the majority decision.”

“That’s true but,” suddenly Swede paused, looking into Sam’s hawkish face and sighed. “OK, Sam, Dick Webster’s been an ally. So? One reason I chose him is because we think alike. I wanted new blood, fresh thinking on the courts.” A slow grin formed at the corners of his mouth. “Now, if I’d chosen someone guaranteed to block me, you’d have a story about my lack of intelligence. But is it really news that I found a good man who sees things the same way I do?”

Like an angler who feels the line go slack, Sam knew this part of his fishing expedition wouldn’t yield anything worth keeping. He didn’t really have anything solid on Webster. Not yet.

They moved on from there, Sam hammering away at Erickson for some solid hits on Tami Fuller or Frederick Morton, while Erickson danced around the leading questions, refusing to be entangled in any rash or controversial opinions on them. Both men were anxious to wrap up, Swede watching the time until he had to leave for the airport and his flight to New Hampshire, Sam aware he needed to cover his other questions before the assistant cut him off. Neither man seemed to notice the other’s haste. As they finally stood, the governor nodded to his aide. “Deb, go ahead and take the car back to the Capitol. I need to wrap up a few things here before we hop that flight. I’ll walk Mr. Waterman out.”

They took the elevator down, and as the door came open, Sam turned to the Governor saying, “Oh, one last thing, Governor: Who owns the grocery store called The Pantry in Lindsborg?”

Erickson gave him a sharp glance out the corner of his eye as he walked toward the access doors to the public rooms and muttered, “I don’t discuss the competition.”

They found Tess listening intently to a blue-haired docent pointing out the thick, walnut pocket doors in the sitting room. Sam stood back and watched Swede shake hands all around, chatting briefly with the surprised tourists and tittering guide, charming the crowd even as he separated Tess from it. Whisking her back through the door marked Private, he tossed a friendly smile and wave over his shoulder.

“I don’t usually see the press to the door, Waterman,” Swede extended his hand which Sam shook, having no doubt the governor was glad to see him go. “But I wanted to say goodbye to Tess, so consider yourself privileged.” Then he turned to her with an embracing hug. “You have a safe trip home, and for God’s sake, send Betty a set of those pictures or she’ll be on both our asses.” Tess laughed. “It looks like we’ll miss Christmas together this year. I doubt I’ll see you or Jack till you come to New Hampshire, so have a merry one. Tell Jackie I said it’ll be good to have someone from home to celebrate with when I take the primary.” He shot Waterman a quick, wry smile, “Or commiserate with if I lose.”

She nodded, and said softly, “Take care.” Hefting her camera bag, she asked, “Ready, Sam?” With a nod he opened the door, and they went out into the crisp, winter sunshine.

For a moment Swede watched them go down the drive. Then slowly he pulled out a cell phone, making sure he held the one that had been purchased by Rolf Olsen, the man everyone thought owned The Pantry grocery store. “Max,” the man on the other end of the line knew immediately from the governor’s clipped tone that he was coldly furious, “get a hold of the director of the Veterans Hospital up in Knoxville. Line up a meeting for us, in person. No, I don’t want him on the phone, not even my private line. Well, he’ll have to get his butt on a plane to New Hampshire, won’t he. He’s got something to explain, and I want to hear it before the end of the week. And there’s one other thing. I need you to get me some information on a guy named Waterman. Samuel J. Waterman. Works for Politifix. Before that he was at the
Tribune
. It doesn’t have to be fast, but I want it all, everything you can get your hands on.” Erickson listened for a moment and then said, “No, there’s nothing specific. Just cast a wide net. He’s a hard-bitten sort, probably has some unsavory stuff in his background. And I’d like to have it, just in case I need it.”

He put the phone away, and sighed wearily against the low pounding throb at the base of his skull, vaguely aware of the elevator door whooshing open behind him. Elizabeth Erickson stepped out, surprised to find her husband apparently staring vacantly out the door window. “Swan, for heaven’s sake, we have less than an hour to get to the airport. You should not have spent so long with those people.” He turned toward her, and the drawn lines and gray pallor of his face dismayed her. “Oh no, do not tell me you are getting sick. We really cannot have that now.”

“No, I’m not sick.” Without as much as a glance at her, he stepped into the elevator. “I’m just tired. I’ll sleep on the plane.

In the Jeep, Sam checked his watch. “It’s a little early for lunch, but I’m starving. And it’ll kill some time before our next interview.”

Tess gave him a quick glance as she steered back toward downtown. “What do you mean ‘our next interview?’ There’s no next interview. That was it.”

“No, we’ve got Robert Ryan over at his law office at 1:30.” Ryan was the Des Moines Democrat Swede had beaten in his first election.

She shook her head. “You’ve got Ryan at 1:30. I’ve got Christmas shopping at 1:30. I signed on for Erickson, but that’s it.”

“Aw, come on, Tess,” he groaned. “Don’t run out on me now. You know the site is going to need other faces besides Erickson’s.”

“You should have thought of that sooner,” she frowned, trying to remember which one-way street to turn down to end up at the front door of the Marriott. “You sure didn’t plan this trip very well.”

Sam sighed. “I guess not. But I was a little distracted last week, looking for a place to live.”

She looked over at him again. “What happened?” He shrugged with a frown, but didn’t answer, and she felt a little stung by the rebuff. “Sorry, none of my business. I’d never pry …”

“Bullshit,” he cut her off, a knowing smile sneaking onto his face. “You’re just relieved I brought it up so you didn’t have to.” He laughed as she groped for a response. “Tell you what, I’ll give you the gory details over lunch if you’ll shoot Ryan for me. And maybe a couple of other people back in Lindsborg.”

“Who in Lindsborg?” She knew she’d been played, but was curious about what finally caused the break with his wife.

He pulled out a notebook. “There’s an old dame named Inge Hergestad.” Tess knew she was one of Augusta Erickson’s best friends. “A feisty codger named Olaf Swenson.” She knew him too. “The guy over at that store called The Pantry, Rolf Olsen.”