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  He opened the bathroom door, allowing the steam to escape into his sparsely furnished bedroom. It was clean but messy, lived in but not homey. In fact the entire apartment, a small but convenient studio in a sought after Downtown Crossing high rise, screamed ‘unkempt bachelor lives here’.

  Still, while the space was limited, the twenty-third storey view made him feel like he had the biggest backyard in the city, overlooking Boston Common and the affluent suburbs of Beacon Hill and Back Bay and across the Charles River to Cambridge. Even better, it was only a five-minute walk to his office in Congress Street, where he was due to meet Arthur and Nora in less than half an hour.

  He removed the plastic from his dry-cleaned tuxedo and groaned at the thought of having to attend the much publicised Vice Presidential dinner minus Sara.

  Now she would have made the prospect of a night at the Fairmont with a bunch of palm-pumping politicians palatable. Hell, she made everything feel like Christmas, and she was coming home on Friday.

  David had met twenty-nine-year-old Sara Davis almost a year ago when she asked him to represent her boss, Rayna Martin, in what turned out to be one of the biggest hate trials of the decade. It had been almost thirteen years since Karin had left him, her parting gesture a short, handwritten note on the semi-constructed mantlepiece of their newly purchased, heavily mortgaged, two-bedroom Colonial in Fenway. Thirteen years of burying himself in his work, cruising through a series of meaningless relationships and eating cheap takeout with his shiftworking, nursing sister Lisa.

  Until now.

  Now he had Sara, and Karin Vasquez Cavanaugh Montgomery was finally in his past.

  David reached for his Tag and realised he was going to be late. Shit . . . Nora is going to kill me.

  2

  ‘Cyclists.’

  ‘What?’ said Boston Homicide Detective Susan Leigh, manoeuvring their unmarked car out of BPD’s Roxbury headquarters and wondering what gem her pain-in-the-ass partner would be coming out with next.

  ‘Cyclists!’

  ‘I see them, McKay. They’ve got reflectors on their wheels and it isn’t that dark yet. They’re from Northeastern. They train around here. So what?’

  ‘They’re rude sons of bitches.’

  ‘What?’ she said again, turning left into Tremont, heading east towards the Fairmont, and way past hiding her frustration.

  ‘Rude,’ said Detective Frank McKay.

  ‘Cyclists are rude.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, not sure she had the energy to go ‘there’, wherever ‘there’ was, with her prone to ridiculous generalisations partner, but knowing she probably didn’t have any choice.

  ‘Every morning before my shift,’ said McKay, needing no encouragement to continue. ‘I grab a coffee at Eat This! You know it?’

  ‘Yeah, I know it,’ said Leigh, and she did, except she figured they made a mistake with the second word on the crappy plastic logo out front. ‘This!’ should read ‘Shit!’ Just got their anagrams shuffled is all.

  ‘Anyways,’ McKay went on, ‘the cyclists come in early every morning, making all that noise with those taps on their shoes.’

  ‘Cleats.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re called cleats, not taps. They’re cyclists, Frank, not Vaudeville players.’

  ‘Right,’ said McKay who was not put off, just annoyed at being interrupted. ‘They push on past everyone in the queue, all sweaty and naked.’

  ‘Naked?’

  ‘Well, those fancy clothes they wear are so tight they may as well be.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘They yell out their orders, five of this, four of that, confusin’ Martha behind the counter, pickin’ up the muffins in their clammy hands and then placin’ them back in the bread basket. No “please”, no “thank you”. Can’t understand why Martha puts up with them.’

  ‘Probably because she charges four bucks a pop for that shit she calls coffee and those rude naked people make her a small fortune in a space of twenty minutes or less and all before eight o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Not worth it.’

  ‘Because they’re rude?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And naked.’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘Of course. Don’t know why I bothered asking.’

  Detective Leigh had copped a fair bit of flack for volunteering for this detail. It’s not like her ambition was a secret. Hell, everyone knew she had her sights set on Commissioner as soon as she was out of diapers, but the guys in homicide would not have felt like ‘guys’ if they hadn’t at least pulled her chain a few times over her zealous determination to offer her services as extra security for Vice President Tom Bradshaw’s campaign dinner at the five-star Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel.

  For most of the gang in homicide, Chief Joe Mannix included, details like this were a pain in the butt. But she saw them as ‘opportunities’ and Christ only knows, Susan was not one to miss an opportunity. Never had, never would.

  The truth was, she couldn’t give a shit about the ribbing. She was only twenty-six, the youngest detective in homicide, and a skirt at that. Maybe, if they took a few minutes to work out why she was climbing the ladder at ten times the speed of most of the other penises in the department, they might realise volunteering for jobs like this was a no brainer.

  Mannix would be there. He was even bringing his wife Marie, who Leigh had never met – which was no surprise given Lieutenant Mannix worked 24/7 and had a definite aversion to anything remotely resembling a social gathering. Word had it Marie Mannix was some sort of natural Italian-American beauty – with the patience of a saint and the organisational skills of an army captain, given the Mannixes had four boys all under the age of twelve.

  The Commissioner was going, and Mayor Moses Novelli, not to mention all the heavies from Washington; the Vice President, the Director of the CIA, the Attorney General. She’d even heard a rumour Maxine Bryant, the US Chief of Staff was on a night flight from DC to be at the dinner. Which was not such a stretch given her daughter, Melissa Bryant Bradshaw, was married to the Vice President.

  Bottom line, all those jocks at HQ could go screw themselves. She was smart, looked damn fine in a long black evening dress, her dark hair slicked back into a classic French chignon, and nothing, not even Frank McKay’s ridiculous over-simplifications, were going to dampen her enthusiasm tonight.

  3

  ‘Can you give us a moment, Dan?’

  ‘Yes, sir, Mr Vice President.’

  Secret Service Agent Daniel Kovac slipped quietly from the appropriately named Presidential Suite of Boston’s Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel, a four-star institution in Boston’s historic Back Bay.

  ‘How do you do that?’ Melissa Bryant Bradshaw asked her husband.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Remember all their names.’

  ‘Whose names?’

  ‘You know what I am talking about, Tom,’ she smiled. ‘Everyone’s names – your entire Secret Service detail, every person on your staff, everyone you have ever had the pleasure or displeasure of meeting in your whole entire life?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tom Bradshaw replied, a look of mock amusement on his face. ‘Doesn’t everyone do that, Gladys?’

  ‘Very funny.’ She walked across the expansive Presidential Suite living area, stopping briefly at the plush-covered sofa to kiss him lightly on the cheek, before continuing into one of the two marble bathrooms, passing under at least three Waterford crystal chandeliers on her way.

  He watched her as she moved, her fashionable but appropriately conservative Calvin Klein evening gown caressing her frame with every step, its slick white fabric accentuating her perfect figure, its slightly lowered backline framing the fall of her long, sleek, ice-blonde hair.

  ‘Did you call Diane?’ he asked as he rose to the mini-bar and poured himself an Evian before returning to the burgundy coloure
d French neoclassical sofa. His feet had finally begun to feel the pain of twelve long hours on the campaign trail and he knew he had another five ahead of him.

  ‘Yes,’ she said as she walked back into the living area while fixing the iridescent pearl drops on her right ear. ‘Tommy is studying for his spelling bee, and Alicia is already in bed.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Are my parents here?’

  ‘According to Connie, they are about half an hour away.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘She arrived about twenty minutes ago via the side entrance,’ said Melissa. ‘Soon she’ll go back out and be driven around the block a few times before arriving officially at the front entrance. I thought it might work better if she got here just before your parents, so that she could turn at the top of the entrance way and greet your family. Lindsay agreed it was a good idea. Terrific photo op – the press will love it.’

  ‘I am sure they will,’ he smiled, accustomed to her innate ability to see the bigger picture. ‘What’s Maxine’s window?’

  ‘Three hours. Mother will stay for dinner, talk to as many people as she can and then fly back to DC. She and the President are expected in New Hampshire first thing tomorrow. I know we had a windfall in the Primary, but better safe than sorry. It’s our home state, after all.’

  ‘How do you do that?’

  ‘Do what?’ she asked.

  ‘Remember everyone’s schedules,’ he smiled again.

  ‘Why, Mr Vice President,’ she walked over to him, used her hands to smooth her dress down along the line of her lean but firm thighs, and slowly lowered herself on to the sofa, giving him her best wide-eyed impersonation of innocence. ‘Doesn’t everyone do that?’

  ‘Very funny,’ he said as he turned to kiss her.

  ‘Aren’t I just.’ She kissed him back, a light peck on the lips, careful not to smudge her perfectly applied makeup.

  ‘Anyway . . .’ She was up again, hooking her white silk purse over the living room chair and checking her appearance in the large gold-framed mirror suspended above the substantial white marble fireplace. ‘As I was saying, New Hampshire was encouraging and . . .’

  ‘The President is a popular man.’

  ‘Yes, he is. But what I was about to say was, we all know a vote for Latham is really a vote for you.’

  ‘Melissa . . .’

  ‘Oh come on, darling. I am only voicing what we all know to be true. Bob Latham is a good man, a solid performer, but he is also old and infirm. He’ll win another term because everyone knows he will either retire or die in office, which means . . .’

  ‘. . . which means America will lose a great leader,’ he finished. She was right, but somehow it felt wrong to vocalise it, even when alone with his wife.

  ‘You’re a good man, Vice President Bradshaw,’ she said turning from the mirror to face him.

  They stood there looking at each other for a moment before she turned away again. He knew she was mentally checking off the meticulously scheduled order of events that were to follow that evening. He would not have expected any less.

  ‘I spoke to Jackson,’ he said, following her train of thought, ‘. . . got him to make some late changes to my speech. I want to stress our dedication to the new education bill, the expansion of college scholarships, Boston being Boston and all.’

  ‘Good thinking, darling,’ she said, moving back to the bedroom to retrieve a matching pearl bracelet.

  ‘To be honest I will probably wing it a little tonight,’ he went on, lifting his voice a little so that she might hear him. ‘This city was my home for three years. I know these people and they know me. I want to keep it friendly.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, returning again. ‘But I assume your main emphasis is still on your drug rehabilitation initiatives, and the crime stats to go with it. That is the basis of your personal platform, after all. Remember, you can’t stray too far from the script. Lindsay is releasing a pre-prepared transcript to the press this evening exactly ten minutes before you go on stage. That way, all the national papers will have time to run it in their first editions.’

  ‘It’s all in there, Melissa,’ he had to smile, at her lawyer’s mind and its ingrained checks and balances.

  There were times when he wondered if she regretted the decision not to run for public office herself. She had had the opportunity, back in New Hampshire, when her mother was nearing the end of her second term as Governor and being considered for a more significant post in the new Latham administration.

  Although she was only thirty, there were suggestions she should run for her mother’s soon-to-be-vacated seat. She certainly had the qualifications, having graduated magna cum laude from Yale Law with a major in political science, and then establishing a so far impressive legal career consulting to state and federal governmental departments on everything from the negotiation of trade contracts to the analysis of the nuances of international law.

  The Party wanted her, but she had described her decision to decline as a ‘postponement’ rather than a ‘refusal’ – Melissa was a mastermind at timing, having an inbuilt sense of when to move and when to pull back, and perhaps, at such a young age, she decided the jump was a little too early, a degree premature.

  That said, he knew he was the one, if unwittingly, who put a real hold on any potential individual political career plans his wife may have harboured. For, not long after she turned down the Party’s offer, she met the young, ambitious assistant AG from the Virginia Attorney General’s Office – a good looking, charismatic, forward-thinking young man with high principles and the tenacity to match. And for some reason, she had decided that her ‘eggs’ were better placed in his basket, that her energies – personally and professionally – would be more productive if invested in this man, this potential political phenomenon, with all his flaws and lofty ideals.

  They were married within months of their first introduction, after which she moved to Richmond, the following year giving birth to Thomas Bradshaw Jnr. She became a wife, a mother, and powerful political ally all at the same time – even managing to hold down a close to full-time position as legal advisor to the Latham administration.

  While he had the high goals and more than enough drive to see them through, she was always there – supporting his choices, fostering his political advancement, suggesting, strategising, organising and reinforcing the issues that put votes in his pocket.

  She was a huge asset, there was no doubt, but sometimes he could not help but wonder if living vicariously through him would ultimately be enough. She was ‘in’ the game, but not the ‘box seat’ which in many ways seemed a waste of her incredible political intellect.

  Of course, she had never voiced any regrets; never mentioned what could have and probably would have been if she had chosen an alternative route – but then, when he thought about it, that was probably why he loved her so much, because of her unselfish dedication to him, and her magnanimous refusal to dwell on what might have been.

  ‘All right then,’ she smiled, interrupting his thoughts and turning towards the door. ‘I am going to ask Karl if Mother has left the building. As soon as your parents get here, they’ll call for us. You have roughly,’ she looked at her diamond-clustered Cartier, ‘thirty-nine minutes before you have to head downstairs.

  ‘I would have preferred that you’d had more time to rest this evening but . . . ,’ she looked back towards him, a slip of concern sliding across her flawless features. ‘Oliver mentioned Dick needed a moment.’ She was referring to CIA Director Richard Ryan who had requested a late, last-minute briefing with the Vice President.

  Despite his friendship with Ryan, Bradshaw knew his wife had little time for the CIA’s top man. True, Ryan was not the most personable of characters, but they went way back, and her aversion to his oldest comrade had always been a source of discomfort.

  ‘It’s a new problem,’ he said. ‘Of special interest to me, and I asked him to keep me updated.’

  ‘I
know he is an old university buddy, darling, and that he has helped you through some hard times, but surely a briefing could have waited until tomorrow morning. You look tired. You could use a few minutes’ break.’

  ‘It’s not Dick’s fault. I am the one with all the questions.’

  ‘On national security?’

  ‘Not so much an external threat, this one could be closer to home. It involves that new corporate drug cartel – I think I mentioned it to you; A-grade drugs for white collar clients? Dick thinks they may have a distribution base somewhere on the east coast, somewhere with easy access to New York, Boston, Washington.’

  ‘I remember, but if it’s local, then shouldn’t it be a matter for the FBI? I mean the CIA have tabs on Panama, but not on Philadelphia.’

  ‘Dick wants to keep this one to himself,’ he said, a slight furrow in his brow.

  ‘Seriously, CIA . . . FBI, that old rivalry is ridiculous. They really should learn to work together.’

  ‘True, but that’s like asking the Red Sox to work with the Yankees.’

  ‘Except in this case they really do bat for the same team.’

  ‘Right, as usual,’ he said with a consolatory smile just as they were interrupted by a knock on the door marking the entrance of a turndown housemaid carrying clean towels and refreshments.

  ‘Come on in,’ said Bradshaw, ever the genuine people person. ‘I’m Tom Bradshaw. It’s nice to meet you.’

  ‘It’s an honour, Mr Vice President,’ said the fresh-faced housekeeper. ‘I hope you don’t mind, your personal secretary said it was all right for me to . . .’

  ‘Of course not. What’s your name?’ asked Bradshaw as he rose from the sofa and walked across the room towards the marble foyer to shake her hand.

  ‘Maeve. Maeve Barlow, sir.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Maeve. That’s a great Irish name by the way. Did you know it came from the Gaelic name Meabh – who was a warrior queen, if I remember correctly.’