CHAPTER 25
Baxter Road, Nantucket
Rowan Anderson handed me the six-pack and came inside, placing the weapons on the kitchen counter. We each cracked open a beer and sat down on the couch.
Was this a social visit? Reconnaissance?
Either way, the last thing CSTC needed was some federal agency sniffing around, so I kept it light.
We talked about the job and she told me some behind-the-scenes stories—unreported items that the tabloids would kill to hear.
I was determined to keep one card close to my chest: how it was that I’d been released from jail by the attorney general on behalf of the president.
I didn’t press Anderson on her current assignment with Senator Harrison, but I did ask if he was aware of the ruckus I had caused. He’s been briefed, she assured me, and seems relieved there was no threat to his life. The senator’s handlers, however, did want to track my whereabouts.
The exchange was no big deal—until she asked for my weekend plans starting on Friday. I eyed her suspiciously. Where was she going with this? Playing it safe, I replied that I had dinner plans with some friends on the other side of the island and left it at that.
Though I had mentioned my fellow desperadoes earlier, there was no sense in making her life that easy. She could deal with my four gun-carrying guests once they arrived. I thought about calling lawyer Sam Starnes—that would be an interesting showdown—and smiled.
“You look like the cat that swallowed the canary. What the hell’s so funny?”
“Nada—just thought of a friend of mine. So what’s new on the campaign trail?” Focused on staying alive in Iraq, I hadn’t been paying much attention to events outside that country.
She seemed to believe her guy was a lock for the primary. Politely dancing around any sensitive topics, Anderson gave a sharp overview of the campaign from her vantage point. She did dangle one interesting tidbit: Another big party was scheduled at the senator’s place for Friday night.
So that’s why she’d asked about Friday. Security reasons.
Again I kept it light, giving my answer a real estate spin. “I was just over on that side of the island, visiting Harrison’s neighbors. Pretty nice digs.”
Rowan Anderson looked confused for a moment but quickly recovered. “You must mean the Wilsons.”
I hadn’t mentioned them by name. Another sharp move on her part. She turned the conversation back to politics.
“It’s the last big deal before we pack up this circus and head to Chicago on Monday. Anyway, the place on the other side of the island belongs to Harrison’s wife, Elise Courville. But the party is going to be here.” She pointed to the property next door.
So the senator was on one side of the island, while his wife was on the other. The official explanation for the separate sites was that the senator and his staff wanted a little breathing room as the campaign surged toward the convention finish line.
I didn’t buy the breathing room spin. There must be trouble in paradise. I wondered how that would play out if Senator Harrison did win the primary.
Something was fishy.
I could sense that Rowan Anderson was uncomfortable making even the smallest reference to Mrs. Senator, so I didn’t push further.
We polished off the beers and, like an idiot, I looked at my watch as I tried to stifle a yawn.
A vaguely disappointed look fell across her face and then a smile crossed her lips.
I started to apologize like a madman, but she cut me off.
“You’ve had a long day, Nat. I really didn’t mean to stay this late. Maybe a cup of coffee tomorrow? I’m off for once, so I have the whole day free to keep you out of mischief.” She gave me a playful punch on the arm.
I walked her to the door and thanked her for the beer. I was debating—handshake or a kiss?—when she suddenly planted a quick one on my cheek.
Before I could react, she was out the door.
Tomorrow was looking like a much better day than yesterday.
I closed the house down for the night and went upstairs to bed. Three seconds later I was out for the count.