Sly Fox: A Dani Fox Novel (20 page)

I’d not mentioned Bob or my sojourns to Albany to O’Brien and I wondered how he knew, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking. When I didn’t respond, O’Brien said, “Oh yeah, I heard Whitaker’s polling numbers are on an upswing. I’m sure he loved today’s story.”

As soon as I placed down the receiver, my phone rang.

“This is Miss Hillary Potts calling. Mr. Whitaker would like you to come to his office at eleven a.m. sharp.”

I grabbed some candy and hurried upstairs only to have Miss Potts keep me waiting in the outer office for a few minutes until it was precisely eleven. When I was allowed to enter his office, Whitaker was all grins. “Great story today, Miss Fox,” he said while seated at his massive desk. “Bravo!” I’d made a point of mentioning to Will Harris how supportive Whitaker had been in prosecuting Hitchins and the reporter had included several quotes that flattered my boss.

Mark Steinberg was sitting across from Whitaker and he added a quick “Congratulations.”

“I’m so pleased,” Whitaker said, “that I’d like you to begin speaking to women’s groups about domestic violence. Make it a top priority, at least for now.”

I said, “You mean—between now and the November elections?”

Whitaker gave me a startled look.

I thought, If you want me to help you win reelection, then I want something in return. Otherwise, you might simply forget about domestic violence cases after the ballots are tallied.

“Mr. Whitaker,” I said. “The LEAA is awarding federal grants to a handful of prosecutors to create Domestic Violence Units, specifically to go after married men who beat their wives. I’d like to apply for a grant—especially since you are asking me to speak out about domestic violence.”

Whitaker leaned back in his chair and looked at me suspiciously. “Why, Miss Fox, are you seeking a quid pro quo here?”

“I simply want to help our community, and the LEAA grant seems like an excellent opportunity to address domestic violence.”

“My, my,” Whitaker said, “I
am
going to have to keep an eye on you when it comes to politics.”

Steinberg asked, “Do we really need a separate unit to prosecute domestic violence?”

“Judging from the calls that I’ve been getting, we certainly do,” I replied.

“Shall I assume,” Whitaker asked, “that you would want to run this unit if you were fortunate enough to get a grant?”

“That would make sense, sir, wouldn’t it?” I asked in my most innocent voice.

“Yes, I guess it would,” he said appreciatively. “Okay, Miss Fox, you can apply for an LEAA grant. Give it your best shot. Meanwhile, I’ll expect you to begin speaking to as many groups as possible. I think it will be a good deal for both of us.”

23

I left work early so I could get home and fix dinner for Bob’s weekend visit. It was his turn to drive down from Albany. Because of conflicts in our schedules, three weeks had passed since we’d last gotten together and I was eager to tell him about my meeting with Whitaker.

I decided to fix a traditional Lebanese meal beginning with
mezze
, the Middle Eastern equivalent to French hors d’oeuvres. I was fixing baba ghanousch, a dip from cooked pureed eggplant. My main course would be a lamb casserole that I would serve with rice and a fresh salad that I planned to season heavily with olive oil, garlic, salt, and lemon.
Marcook
, a flat, fire-baked bread would round out our main course. For dessert, I prepared a milk-based custard.

I got everything going, then jumped into the shower, worked on my hair, and slipped into a sexy short dress and red pumps. Everything was ready and I was eager for our romantic evening to begin. As if on cue, Bob arrived armed with a bottle of champagne. He gave me a long hug and said, “Your mom read the newspaper story to me first thing this morning on the telephone before I went to class. She’s very proud of you and so am I.”

He kissed me passionately. I loved that my mom and Bob got along so well.

While I was bringing out the baba ghanousch, I told him about the LEAA grant.

“It’s great to see you so excited about this,” Bob said.

I intentionally didn’t ask him about medical school. The last time that we’d talked, he’d mentioned that he’d been thinking about his residency. I’d always assumed he would do it at one of Manhattan’s premier hospitals. But he’d talked about going west, possibly to Colorado or California, neither of which made sense since both of our families lived in New York. Besides, I had my career here. We had argued, which was rare for us. I didn’t want to get into a disagreement tonight. I wanted to have a magical evening, much like the one we’d enjoyed on Christmas Eve years ago at his grandfather’s farm.

“Where’s Wilbur?” Bob asked.

I nodded toward the back door and Bob went out to see him. By the time he returned, I had the candles lit on the dining-room table and the champagne on ice.

“Here’s to us!” he said, popping the cork.

“And our fabulous future together,” I added.

I put down my flute and wrapped my arms around him. He kissed my forehead and I looked upward so he could kiss my lips. This is just what I need, I thought.

And at that very moment, the phone rang.

“You need to answer that?” he asked.

“Not a chance.”

But the caller didn’t hang up. The damn phone just kept ringing. Bob said, “It’s okay, really. Obviously, someone really wants to talk to you.”

I hurried into the kitchen and grabbed the wall phone. “What do you want?” I snapped.

“Are you always this brash?” Mark Steinberg asked.

“Ur, sorry, Mr. Steinberg, I’m busy right now.”

“In a few minutes,” Steinberg said, “you’re going to receive a call from Mr. Whitaker, who is going to tell you some exciting news. I wanted to call ahead to make sure you’re available.”

“I’ll be here. What’s this about?”

“Just pick up your phone and, Miss Fox, I wouldn’t sound so angry when you answer.”

I walked into the dining room, where Bob had taken his seat at the table. The romantic spell had been broken—at least for the moment. I offered him some baba ghanousch, saying, “I hope you like this.”

“If you made it, I’m sure I will.” But when he tasted it, he got an awful look on his face. “I guess I’m not really much for eggplant. Sorry.”

I put the dip aside and brought my casserole out from the oven. I prepared him a plate and he politely waited for me to sit down with my plate before he tried the lamb.

“Now, Dani, this is great,” he announced approvingly.

“No more eggplant. I promise. Next time hummus. Chickpeas will be more to your liking.”

He laughed. I loved his smile and I was beginning to relax when the phone rang.

“I’m sorry,” I said, shooting him a puppy dog look, “but this is my boss calling and I really have to take it.”

“Sure,” he said. “I understand.”

I stepped into the kitchen and grabbed my phone. “Hello.”

“Miss Fox,” Whitaker said, “I’ve got great news for you. You’re going to be getting a call in a few minutes from the governor’s office in Albany.”

Whitaker explained that the governor was appointing a task force to help draft legislation that would give battered women the option of filing criminal charges against their husbands rather than having the case automatically go into family court.

“It should be obvious why he wants you,” Whitaker said. “The Hitchins case made all the papers and the story in today’s paper caught his eye. He called me after he read it and I told him that you were my liaison with women’s shelters.”

“Thank you, Mr. Whitaker.”

“Listen, there’s a condition. I don’t want you to tell anyone—not a single soul about this. The governor’s office will make the announcement at the state capitol in a day or two about who’s on the task force. I’m having Steinberg coordinate it with Albany so we can have our own White Plains press conference. Steinberg will work out the details but it will be in my office and, naturally, I’ll do the talking. You’ll be there, of course.”

“Of course.”

“So keep your mouth closed because if word gets out before the governor makes his announcement, I can promise that you’ll be dropped from the task force. Got it?”

“Yes, sir!”

I floated back into the dining room and discovered that Bob had finished his plate. The call had taken ten minutes.

“Must be good news,” he said.

I nodded and said, “Unfortunately, it’s all hush-hush. So I can’t talk about it.” I sat down to my cold casserole.

“Now you really got me interested. A murder? A scandal?”

“I can’t talk about it. I promised.”

He looked hurt.

I said, “Have you heard from your parents lately? How are things in Elmira?”

Bob started telling me about his mom and a new project at the farm, but all I could think about was the task force. I’d never been called by a governor. Bob knew me well enough to know that my mind was miles away.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

“Sorry. It’s just these phone calls. Work. It’s very distracting.”

Rising, he walked to my chair and said, “I know a way to get your mind off your job.” He looked toward my bedroom and pulled my chair back from the table so I could stand.

“What about dessert?” I asked.

He kissed me hard. “Afterwards.”

The phone rang.

“I don’t care if there’s been a double homicide,” he said. “Let someone else get it. I want you to myself right now.”

He leaned down to kiss me again and I could feel the intensity in his lips.

“I’m sorry, Bob. I can’t explain it. But this is an extremely important call. I really have no choice.”

“Okay, but make it short.”

I darted into the kitchen, took a deep breath, and answered.

“Is this Dani Fox?” a male voice said.

“Yes, Governor,” I replied proudly.

“This isn’t the governor,” the voice said. “I’m his chief assistant, Benjamin Baker, but I am calling on his behalf. Before the governor calls you, he wants me to ask you a few questions. That okay with you?”

“Oh, sure.”

“It’s background stuff that we ask all political appointees when we put them on a task force. That way no one gets embarrassed later on. Now, tell me when and where you were born.”

I thought: All this for a task force?

One by one, I answered his questions. A half hour later, I hung up and walked out into the dining room, where Bob was patiently waiting.

“This never happens,” I said. “It’s just tonight. I’ve got to take these calls and I’m sworn to secrecy, but trust me, it is very important to my work.”

I put my arms around him and gave him a kiss. But I could tell he was irritated. I took his hand and started toward my bedroom when the kitchen phone rang again.

“Bob, I promise this is the last call of the night. I can’t tell you who is calling, but I must answer it. Just hang on one more minute.”

I dashed back into the kitchen and answered with a cheery hello.

I expected to hear the governor’s voice. What I heard was Mom.

“I just made baklava. Want to join me for dessert?”

“Bob’s here. I’ve got to go.”