Arthur was standing in Milly’s office. He carried a fistful of paper. The flu, she repeated. I’m Donald Duck, he answered.

“There’s something going around. I’ll go to the doctor, all right? My job’s getting done.”

“I’m not complaining and I’m not an enemy.”

“Then don’t act like one.”

Arthur wanted gentle treatment from Milly. He knew he should be angry that she’d jilted him. He should feel aggrieved and affronted. But there it was. Instead of the tough-guy emotions, he found bereavement, tenderness and compassion. He needed consoling and reassurance. Maybe he wanted her to say she really loved him after all, that she’d made a mistake.

A department staffer looked in through the glass panel. There was something about the look. “You’re pregnant,” said Arthur.

“That’s ridiculous,” Milly replied.

“If you were, would you tell me?”

“Not a chance.”

“You’ll have to eventually.”

“That’s right.”

And that was the end. Arthur could think of nothing else to say. It was a schoolyard encounter. Yes you are, no I’m not. Very successful, very impressive, he castigated himself as he closed the door behind him. I don’t even know what’s wrong. She could be taking chemotherapy. It might be flu. It could be anything. And Milly doesn’t have any close friends to ask. Lin has been hanging around, but Arthur couldn’t imagine phoning him to inquire after Milly’s reproductive health. Could the baby be Lin’s?

The contemptible prig wants me pregnant so he can ask if it’s his, thought Milly. And drown me in condescension. It’s another chip in the power game.

Unless, thought Arthur, Fred made her pregnant and regrets it. He’s rejecting her and Milly is at her wit’s end about it.

“I’ll be out for an hour,” Milly poked her head into Arthur’s office. There wasn’t time for him to reply. She was gone.

***

Milly saw Carrie through the steamed windows of the Chinese restaurant. Carrie was sitting beside a man with hair so black it looked blue. She was leaning against him. They weren’t holding hands, but their posture suggested they easily could. Milly rushed into the restaurant and saw it was Andreas. This is getting old, Milly said to herself; why can’t I recognize this man? She took a seat opposite them. They were lovers, Milly saw it in Carrie’s blush and how she drew slightly apart from Andreas. The woman couldn’t keep her secrets. Odd for a security officer. Sex percolated through Milly’s mind till Andreas interrupted her.

“I’m responsible for this get-together,” Andreas said. “I apologize for the public venue. I wanted a little privacy without arousing suspicion. There was some thought that our homes were being watched, whereas we could bolt from our holes for a sandwich during the day and not be missed.”

“Missed by whom?” Milly asked.

“Local police in the form of Brendan Shea, our bipolar Clouseau clone,” said Carrie.

“But more effective, I’m told,” Andreas added smoothly. He flashed a dazzling smile. “Carrie called me because of Daloux. She wanted me to dig at the Paris end. Which I did.”

“His name is on the car rental agreement. I know,” said Milly. The waiter came. They ordered a beer each, but Milly didn’t touch hers.

Carrie added, “The police still don’t know about the shooting outside Milly’s house, and they’ve made no progress on the killing in her office.”

“It was clever to transport the body to the park,” said Andreas. “And while we’re on the subject, what’s the current police theory about the break-in?”

Milly was stunned at how handsome Andreas looked. It was as if the man had thrown a switch. Of course, he hadn’t really become a Cary Grant. What had changed was her reaction. Hormones, probably. His urbanity delighted her: no chippy defensiveness, recycled humour, stilted outlooks, macho arrogance, offended innocence. He might have been asking what roses Carrie preferred for her garden this season. If not hormones, then I’m sleep-deprived. Carrie is preening too. We’ll start having our periods at the same time if we’re not careful.

“A political plot gone wrong. Like Watergate. That’s what they think unofficially. Publicly they talk about money and a couple of gym bags missing. The police haven’t formally been invited in. Government security and insurance companies are looking after it. The public has lost interest. In the burglary, I mean. In fact nothing more than some petty cash is gone. Money that could have gone missing the week before and nobody noticed.”

“Our investigators,” said Carrie, “found a large empty space in Milly’s credenza. I figure something was stolen, but Milly can’t remember what was there. And that’s an update on the burglary.”

Milly laughed. “I keep the credenza locked. Bank statements, cheques, bookkeeping folders, expense vouchers, that’s what was inside. Nothing sensational. In fact the opposite,” she said.

Carrie: “A loose memo about the life-extending drugs was there.”

Milly: “I’d like to see it. Everybody hopes they can make the drugs safe.”

Carrie: “I mean loose, as in part of a set from the FDA.” She looked suggestively at Milly, who replied that she knew nothing about any memos. The FDA was screening the drugs to find what caused the cancers. That was what she’d heard. As soon as possible, they’d be allowed into the US. Some countries used the drugs, but how could you call them life-extenders when people died early from cancer? It made no sense. Milly said nothing about selling the drugs on the street with pleasure additives.

“And forensics found the credenza locked,” Carrie said.

Andreas: “That makes sense. Milly kept it locked.”

Carrie: “Why lock a cabinet used for routine paper? Or if that question isn’t important, why did sophisticated thieves unlock a cupboard of accounting records? Or if that doesn’t matter, why lock it up again after removing some?”

“I agree,” said Milly. “It makes absolutely no sense. We have to start from scratch. Carrie assumes there was something there to steal. I tell you that’s wrong. Financial receipts and records aren’t worth taking. Who cares about the stub that lets employee Smith get reimbursed for dinner with employee Jones? It’s a nuisance to lose the paper, but nobody cares enough to break into a building for it.”

Andreas considered. “We should be talking about the opposite, the irregular paper, what people wouldn’t expect to be there. Which is why nobody reported it stolen.”

“Nothing unusual was there,” Milly showed her annoyance. Was she the target of an interrogation? She excused herself. “Flu,” she said.

When she returned, Andreas asked quietly how often she looked where the records were missing.”

“Rarely. The spot is in the middle where the sliding doors meet.”

“Maybe someone left a package there without telling you,” said Andreas.

“Of FDA memos?”

“Before the burglary, was there empty space in the credenza?” Carrie asked.

Milly was not happy with these questions. “It was packed last time I looked.”

Andreas: “And after the burglary?”

Milly’s exasperation rose. She called for the bill. “Let’s be precise. There was a gap two feet long by two wide and the shelves are a foot and a half high. But humour me,” she placed money on the table. “Tell me why anyone leaves a package in my office and then breaks into the Quall Building to pick it up.”

“It baffles me,” said Andreas. “But we can infer pieces of the answer. First, the place was safe; you were unwitting guardians of the parcel. Second, you rarely looked at the spot; they could have stood a hyena there and you wouldn’t have known. Someone knew your routine: when the receipts would be consulted and where you put what. Third, it was dangerous for the person to be caught with the package himself. Fourth, something changed after he left the parcel in your office. He couldn’t get it out. Fifth, the package was valuable enough to spend a lot of money breaking into the building.”

“Let me help with this another day. I’m not feeling well and I have work to do.” Milly took her departure. She didn’t mention Pam’s missing millions, the cash campaign contributions. It didn’t take a genius to connect the missing cash with the stolen parcel. The sum would justify the break-in.

Milly stopped her car to throw up on the curb.

“You’re lucky?” called the second. “He is indeed,” shouted an onlooker.

“No, she is,” rejoined the first. “It’s too cold,” the second murmured bitterly.

I, you, he-she-it, we: Carrie’s encounter was modeled after verbal conjugation. She verged on hysterics and therefore, by the inapposite, ineluctable rules of her grammar, she appeared morose. From her thigh level skirts, she drew a pistol and fired a round at each mugger, trying hard to miss. She barely succeeding. “You’re idiots,” she muttered. The onlooker stared. “They really are,” added Carrie. She felt tears well up. The muggers ran. “I’m out of here, and you’re crazy,” called the onlooker. A matronly figure shook her head. She’d caught only scraps of the conversation and her fluffy dog needed walking. She hadn’t seen the shooting. Carrie responded by turning one side of her mouth up and the other down. “I hate to miss,” she commented conversationally. “Don’t you?” The woman told her dog that the world was nuts.

Carrie resumed her walk. The interaction was over. The soundproof glass that isolated her from the world had slipped into place again. She seemed deaf, across a grand canyon that separated persons and minds. No one understood her and it had always been like this. Friends thought she liked boys she despised and avoided food she craved, if ever she’d had friends. There was her brother, fleeting hopes on moonlight nights in Kansas, and Billy, but with these exceptions her vicinity was a place where opposites thrived and misreadings flourished and mistakes covered the ground like moss in damp shade.

Carrie grew into a morose adolescent. RED was the tactful excuse if not cause of her loneliness. She couldn’t say in fact which it was. The world thought she was shy, and Carrie leapt at the alternative over broody or ill-tempered. Who wouldn’t? But the gap remained. Carrie walked up life’s hillside on a path that others couldn’t see. The smartest friends, the dullest intellects, all reacted appropriately when others spoke or took a step. This had nothing to do with mind. It came from belonging. Carrie wasn’t part of the club. When Josie in grade 6 tripped and broke her arm, Carrie felt sorrow but smiled. Not an ounce of joy in Carrie, but her eyes twinkled. A moment later, her brow furrowed in concentration, she displayed a glimmer of enlightenment and relief, then guilt, then calm, then self-satisfaction. Emotional ripples succeeded one another like waves on a beach. And none resembled the opaque bafflement that all the other girls showed, the patient, predictable, smoldering disdain of prepubescent girls waiting for an adult to take charge and impose order on the world, disdain that bordered on tears.

If anything made Carrie successful as a soldier, it was that she never waited for anyone else to impose order. She did it herself. And her reactions never followed the example of others. RED meant that Carrie sailed her ship by her own maps and compass. If she responded to an injury or disaster like other people, nobody would know it because they couldn’t read Carrie’s inner self from her external markers. The face didn’t reflect the coinage within. And Carrie was sublimely jealous of Milly and Pam, who – in Carrie’s overheated imagination – possessed every redeeming social trait she did not.

Twenty phone messages were waiting for Brendan in the morning. He hadn’t slept well, though the other officers looked no better: bleary-eyed, comatose and clumsy. What would they do without coffee? Most of the messages went straight to delete, proof that nobody should call a police station at night. One of the calls Brendan returned, albeit reluctantly, was from a Wanda Furness. She was responding to a newspaper photo of the unidentified man found dead in a car. Her message said he looked like someone she’d met on holiday, but the picture wasn’t clear. Brendan thought Wanda was the type who phoned the police to get attention, but he couldn’t ignore the chance she might know something. He’d visit her quickly before picking up the real work of the day. The real work was the body in the park. His cases were growing so stale he’d soon grow mould.

Wanda Furness was a surprise. She worked at the Howe Branch of the Albany Public Library and looked every inch the part. A mousy 43-year old, Wanda had a thin red streak in her hair that was easy to miss. It was probably the only adventurous thing she’d ever done. She toiled in the reference section, helping high school delinquents find facts for essays and unemployables decode the forms that paid them welfare. On her holidays, she broke out of the pattern. Wanda Furness loved Club Med. She’d been everywhere from Tahiti to Mozambique. And, yes, she’d taken a snapshot of Mr Mystery. Brendan had to admit there was a strong likeness. “He didn’t want me to take pictures,” Wanda complained. “But we spent every moment together.” She had the coyness to blush. Brendan thought it was charming. “How could I not take a souvenir?” How indeed, Brendan thought. Wanda’s snapshot showed Mr Mystery in profile on the beach. The height and weight are about right, thought Brendan. And you could just see a mole on his neck. Mr Mystery went by Georges Ralet, said Wanda. But when he was getting drinks once she’d fished through his wallet and found ID for Georges Daloux. Wanda guessed he was married and didn’t want complications, which was all right by her. She liked her life and didn’t intend to change it. He was French; Wanda would swear to that. She spoke the language and Georges was fluent. He wasn’t Bayou or Quebecois or Martiniquais either. He was born and raised in Paris. She’d swear it. Brendan had Wanda email him the photo and drove back to the station.

This was where police work became an art. Georges Daloux or Ralet sounded Parisian, but that could be disguise. Brendan sent the photo to Louisiana and Quebec as well as France. Which photo? Brendan decided on a frontal post mortem and Wanda’s snapshot. Someone might recognize the face and not the body, or the reverse. And what to say about the man? Cast the net too narrow and you catch no fish. Too broad, and you get the dogcatcher. Brendan directed his faxes to missing persons departments. He didn’t say the man was dead, but inquired whether anyone had reported him missing. He said the man was probably French and the physical features were all they knew about him.

Ten hours later, Brendan had his answer. Wanda was right. It was Paris. Georges Daloux. His brother had reported him missing a week after the body was found. The brother said Daloux worked for the French Department of Foreign Affairs in the passport office. A minor official, just the sort who lusted after the lavish sun, food and sex that Club Med provided. He would contrast them with the routine of his job, thought Brendan. A lot like Wanda herself. Georges and Wanda might have made a good couple. Brendan, however, had to learn what Georges was doing in Albany. Brendan assumed he wasn’t chasing Wanda. The brother had no idea. The family was small, only Georges and himself were left. They weren’t particularly close. No, the brother didn’t have the money to ship the body back to France. Neither of them were Churchgoers. Brendan could do what he liked with the body. Brendan hung up. The brother had dampened his enthusiasm.

It was in the heart of doughnut time, mid morning, that Brendan drew the threads together. They didn’t quite match, but they didn’t not match either. Ms Carrera’s friend is Mr Europe and here is good old Georges, from France also. Brendan flipped through the file. Andreas Rinehart, he repeated to himself. A coincidence he and the body arrive at roughly the same time. It means nothing, he told himself. Yet Brendan couldn’t help feel his adrenalin flow. He’d found a scent.

At which time precisely, Milly was throwing up in a washroom beside her office in the Quall Building.

Governor Albert T. Brull was in jubilant mood. He rode high in the opinion polls of the Republican Party and the nation as a whole. He was 54 and his unwrinkled face and full head of light brown hair made him appear more like a high school football coach than the Governor of New York. His innocent, open expression inspired confidence. In politics, he knew, it was ingenuity more often than reason that carried the day. Successful politicians have committees that prepare policies for speeches and debate. When the time comes, the politicians read the script. In the meantime, a politician’s task couldn’t be easier: smile, let others sweat the message.

Albert greeted Pam at his door. It was always a pleasure to see her. An attractive self-made woman with intelligence and money to spare, she gave generously and persuaded her friends and colleagues to do the same. Albert was the primary object of her support. Tonight she was bringing a new acolyte from the drug sector. Pam had expanded into pharmaceuticals. A wise move, in Brull’s opinion. The population would swallow any medicine that promised them a better life. Politics and pharmaceuticals had a lot in common in that respect. Most of what they provided was panacea. Pam thought the new man had something Albert should hear. Well, considering how much Pam poured into his coffers, Albert would listen and more.

Pam introduced Andreas Rinehart, a Frenchman whose family antecedents were German. Fred had researched him and Albert knew the details. Fred had brought their own expert to assess Andreas. The expert sat on some of the Governor’s policy committees and, to Fred’s way of thinking, was destined for the top. Fred said he impressed everyone he met. “A good mind and everybody likes him. We want the drug industry with us, and Steven Lin can deliver it. The companies love him.” To which the Governor asked what Lin wanted, and Fred replied nothing so far. “He’s Mr Congeniality and a quick study. I read him our outcome list for a couple of key meetings and he steered the groups right where we wanted. No questions asked. He’ll volunteer an opinion, but knows when to shut up. In short, the perfect executive.” The Governor had chatted with Lin and found him affable. Meetings like tonight’s were a good test. If Lin had a secret agenda, tossing him in a casserole with someone from the same hometown, pharmaceuticals, would reveal it soon enough.

Albert looked at the dynamics. There were seven people in the room. There would have been eight, but Albert’s wife, Nancy, had died a few months ago of cancer. Her legacy was a strong sympathy vote. Overwhelming, in fact; it was his election to lose. Albert sometimes still talked to Nancy at night, when he lay thinking of the lonely years ahead. Politics was a savage business. She’d brought him the human touch. Life was hard without her.

Again Albert studied the small group. Fred Beaudine, his executive assistant, sat by his side, competent and in control, ensuring everyone was happy with the atmosphere and content of the meeting. Two security guards commanded each door like prowling lions, oblivious to what was said. Steven and Andreas sized each other up, accustomed to power, knowing this wasn’t time to butt heads. Smart, both of them, thought the Governor.

On the couch, Pam Carrera and Sam Carver rounded out the troop. Sam was a short, plump, rich and eccentric old friend. Albert and Sam had long ago abandoned formality. Sam puffed at a cigar even in the no smoking rooms of the Governor’s mansion. Albert ignored Sam except when Sam’s political antennae twitched. Sam had 40/20 vision when it came to liars and manipulators. He regarded Steven and Andreas speculatively. Albert figured Sam hadn’t yet nailed them to their seats in the political spectrum. Sam watched Andreas as though the latter planned to steal the silverware. Albert bet that Sam had a question or two about him. That was his own take on the man.

Pam was talking. She played the perfect hostess in Nancy’s absence. Polite as a southern belle and dynamite power broker, she could make or break careers in an instant. People listened to her because she counted. Albert pictured her dominating pharmaceuticals in New York. It wouldn’t take much: a major European company behind her supplied by Andreas, some expedited licences to manufacture, expansion of her husband’s lab and factory, a distribution network on the standard pattern. Was this meeting really about politics or swaying Rinehart and Lin into backing Pam? Albert didn’t mind. Using and being used paved the yellow brick road to the White House.

“We have to move faster than we’d like, folks,” said Fred. “I apologize. The Governor has another group waiting and an early breakfast.” Fred’s wide-set eyes made him seem regretful when all he really felt was tired. It was near the end of a long day, with about 300 more till the election. “You know how it is. Mr Lin, you had an idea for the Governor? We’ll get to yours in a minute, Mr Rinehart.”

They were both batting tonight, thought Albert. This would be juicy.

Steven nodded. This wasn’t a test run, he’d told Pam. Two committees had approved the plan in principle. More importantly, the spindoctors thought they could fly with it. By which they meant the public would approve and it would help the Governor’s ratings. Steven contemplated Fred’s poker face. Was it designed for Andreas’s consumption? Pam’s? Brull himself? Lin didn’t like an assistant keeping information from his boss.

“The United States likes bilateral agreements,” said Steven Lin. “In public, we praise the World Bank and International Monetary Fund, but we do better one-on-one with other countries. The reason is simple. None of them punch at America’s weight and everyone wants to be our friend. We exempt ourselves from international arrangements through these private deals with other countries. American companies get preferential treatment and the countries get American trade guarantees and foreign aid. You know the history. I don’t have to quote chapter and verse. But think about an agreement with China, the largest consumer market in the world. And the biggest labour force. Harness American know-how to the Chinese population and you get powerful growth for decades. We contribute our technology and patent rights and guarantee China a slice of the profit. China guarantees us unlimited labour and raw material plus an open door to its enormous consumer and industrial base. And China shares its profit with us.”

Albert Brull looked at Fred, who nodded. He’d studied Steven’s proposal. Economists at Yale thought it made sense. “This sounds excellent,” said the Governor. “But it’s complicated and loaded with political minefields. We’ll work on it after the election.”   

“Imagine a campaign speech,” Steven spread his arms wide, “in which you announce a plan to create a thousand jobs a month and a 20% boost in average income.”

“Fantasy,” said the Governor.

“That’s the economic forecast,” Lin told him. “The dawn of a new age.”

Fred interrupted. “Americans would condemn the Chinese for interfering in our election. The Democrats would call us dupes of the Communists. And who’s to say the Chinese won’t reject the idea absolutely? You’re delivering the Governor into their hands.”

“The Chinese will be committed before we utter a word,” said Lin. “And the spin doctors will present it as negotiations long overdue to make America rich. You’ll say it’s high time we created jobs instead of exporting them, selling instead of buying. America will get a percentage of everything made in China. Americans know what that means. You’ll announce you want to study the deal carefully, but the opportunity is now and you put America first. You favour American jobs and American wealth. Who won’t agree with you?”

Fred stroked his chin. “We’ll run focus groups to test the idea.” He glanced at his watch.

“There’s no harm trying it,” said Brull. He looked at Andreas, “What do you think?”

“I’m a research man. My field is medicine. I stick to what I know.”

“That’s wise, but Fred said you had your own idea to propose.”

“I gather you’re running late. Can Pam or Fred arrange another time?”

The Governor asked Fred to set something up. Albert shook hands warmly with everyone. He and Fred left the room. 

The others sat in silence. The guards remained immobile. Sam chewed on his cigar and watched the others. He seemed in no hurry. Pam said they could chat a few minutes. Andreas tapped his foot. Steven linked his fingers behind his head. 

“How do we test the China plan?” asked Sam, studying his cigar.

Lin circled his pen on a notepad. “We start with pharmaceuticals. On one hand, we represent a good sample of the industry: my company, Ms Carrera, and Andreas. We’re heavy players or soon to be. On the other hand, we have my contacts on the mainland. They know what they have to do, namely get government approvals and the right photo ops and sales figures. We already have the key ingredient, China’s tacit approval. The program will initially be experimental and strictly private. If any information leaks to the press, a few businessmen will say they’re running a routine contract. The goal is to expand their companies to cover the United States and China. These are family businesses; we have photos of smiling grandmothers with children on their knees. Nothing political.”

“Sounds safe,” said Sam. “Can you keep it that way?”

Lin nodded.

Sam turned to Andreas. “You have partners and contacts all over Europe. Which means you do too, Pam. What do you think of Lin’s idea?”

Andreas: “Too big for a political campaign. Too many things can go wrong. And Albert doesn’t have experience in international affairs. The opposition will crucify him.”

Pam: “If the figures look right, other people will float the idea. Albert will comment about the jobs and staying ahead of China. He takes no responsibility, but gets all the credit. The script writers know what to do.”

Sam nodded. “You’re both right.”

“My advice is stay flexible,” said Andreas. “Tell the analysts to factor in 25% more from Europe, of everything, labour and materials. Eastern Europe is under-exploited, big and cheap. It has higher wages than China, but not by much. Accuracy of the labour force is superior and there’s less sickness. Plus, the European Union will bring cash to the table. And China is a traditional enemy; you don’t want Albert branded a traitor.”

Sam laughed. “Competition. I love it. We need a follow-up meeting.”

They arranged a date. Sam would handle communications. “You’re project director,” he told Lin. “You make things happen. You,” he pointed to Pam and Andreas, “you birddog for errors. Don’t overdo it. All information goes through my hands. I’ll see that Fred and Albert know what they have to. And don’t know what they shouldn’t. We’re in the middle of an election campaign. The idea is votes and winning. Everybody clear?”

Sam asked Pam if she could remain a minute. “A coolness in the air,” Sam said. “Did you notice?”

Pam: “It was subtle. Something was off.”

“And Andreas didn’t present his idea. Do you know what it is?”

“Vaguely.”

“You like him?”

“I never ask that question. I work well with him.”

Sam nodded.

***

Sam presented Fred with the results next morning. “What do you think?” Sam asked.

Fred stared into space. “Steven and Andreas are talented, both of them. But I can’t make them out. There are wheels within wheels here, all spinning at the same time. I’ll bet we didn’t hear a tenth of the truth.”

“If any of it was true.”

“You’ll keep me posted, Sam?”

“Count on it.” Sam departed in a cloud of cigar smoke.

France was a dark corner in Pam’s history. The traditional biographical sources all included Pam, but uniformly ignored any country in her past bar the United States. Milly didn’t think this was chauvinism in the compilers. She couldn’t explain France’s absence from the record or from the surface of Pam’s life. There was some connection; that much Milly knew. And as she geared down to take a corner at speed, Milly admitted that the connection was both alive and concealed.

Milly ticked off on her fingers the points that troubled her about Pam. Pam was rich in her own right. She had a husband with money. She’d have all the power she wanted if her friend the Governor won the election. Pam didn’t have to conspire or manipulate. Nor was she the type who, like a miser, craved for the mere sake of possession. She clearly was under strain. Milly had noticed it in her face last night. The puzzle wouldn’t fit together no matter how Milly arranged the pieces. She almost caused an accident thinking about it. At the corner of Edgefield and Brook she abruptly turned left and a car headed towards her had to swerve hard. Milly imagined consequences. The driver had been talking on a cellphone but dropped the device in panic. The call was from the driver’s estranged wife, timidly wondering if he’d be interested in coffee. She interpreted the cut line as a negative reply. Her reaction was to accept a date with a dermatologist who’d been suggesting dinner. She didn’t feel any passion for the man, but as a result of the date within six months she completed her divorce and was engaged to the dermatologist, who was pleased and baffled by his luck. Milly herself engaged in a mildly erotic episode as she pulled into the Evans Gems reserved parking stall behind the supermarket near her office. Opening the ’storeroom’, Milly gratefully sank into her chair and typed the computer access codes. Milly would have to eliminate Pam. That was the clean solution. While the computer navigated its firewalls, Milly let her thoughts range free. The estranged wife, now married to the dermatologist, was approached by an old friend who knew an unsavoury episode from her past. The friend threatened to blackmail the wife unless she killed someone. The wife was attracted to the excitement of the chase. She planned thoroughly and had few scruples. Best of all, she had no prior convictions and her fingerprints weren’t on file. She’d make the death look like a road accident, she thought. Milly’s computer was now poised for action. Her real workday had begun.

Milly swore for the hundredth time she’d retire from government after the election. During a routine day, buried under paper, she watched the hours crawl slowly towards four o’clock while she chipped away at a mountain of words. It was no fun shifting pages from pile to folder to envelope to pile to folder again. Night, with its danger and isolation, the absence of safeguards and rules, brought her to life. She didn’t have to be fair or kind. There was no one to satisfy. A mailed fist controlled the playing field. And the fist was wielded by Milly, from the safety of a silent dust-free room, regulated for heat and static electricity, to which access was barred except with her consent, an artificial environment in which Milly was the dominant form of life.

***

Andreas met Ernest in the morning, once more prolonging their discussion about producing Immortality in America. Andreas needed an excuse to stay in Albany and he and Ernest got along famously. Their conversation suited them to a T. Through Ernest, Andreas had met Pam and now saw her whenever he wished. This part of Andreas’s mission was a piece of cake.

Andreas found it more difficult to get at Milly. After the failed car accident, Andreas returned to professional methods. The gist of professionalism was careful observation and waiting. A few days passed in this manner, during which Andreas also plumbed the keyholes of Matignon and the Elysee to see where the barrier against disclosure of information about Daloux originated. The process was like environmental testing: an engineer sank bore holes in random locations, which translated to English as asking discrete questions of key advisors. Andreas found the most sensitive location was at the Elysee, the President’s mansion in Paris, more particularly the military wing. Matignon would have been an easier tooth to pull, because it was the seat of French government where intrigue and power struggles were common. The Elysee, on the other hand, ran like a Swiss watch. It was exempt from budget accountability and Presidents left office with millions of euros in cash from the private vault. But the Elysee was also Antoine’s power base. Antoine agreed to raise the subject of Daloux with a few friends.

Southeast Asia crept out of the woodwork when Antoine asked about Daloux. Someone in France’s past had done Marianne, the affectionate name for France, a valuable service. The son had replaced the father, now dead, but honour on both sides demanded respect for old traditions. When France made a request, the son assisted. No hesitation, no questions, no limits. And if the son needed a favour, France lent a hand. Here Antoine’s murmuring informant changed the subject. Someone had come into the room. There was nothing to gain by pressing. Antoine told Andreas that Southeast Asia was the place to look. Which, as it happened, was a vital clue. Or so Andreas believed. He’d seen a man peering through binoculars at him in the park. The man was Asian.

***

Pam changed cars in the underground lot at Dove and Madison. She left her Buick and took the Saturn. She drove out route 90 then caught 146 to Guilderland. At Serenity, she parked. A space was reserved for her. Pam Carrera was a generous donor and director. She made her way to 518, Serenity’s largest suite with a west view. She saw the most beautiful sunsets there. Someone with thin gray hair sat at a table, writing. “Hello, mother,” Pam said.

“I’m busy,” her mother answered. “How did you get in?”

“You gave me a key. I’m Pam, your daughter.”

Pam’s mother wrote. She wrote notes to herself about where she lived and her schedule each day. She wrote warnings to Serenity’s staff not to take anything from her room. She reminded herself that her telephone number hadn’t changed, that her parents were dead, that she had retired, that meals were served downstairs. Pam’s mother taped these notes to the walls and doors of her apartment. They repeated her address and the names of her children, where she ate and slept. They were mirrors into her soul; she had written them, therefore she was alive. They reminded her who she was. The messages replaced the memories that dementia had stolen. The compulsion kept her occupied. Pam’s mother was 87 and her memory was slipping away along with her other powers. She dressed and washed herself, but she couldn’t handle her bank accounts or mail. The inability distressed and frustrated her. Her eyesight was failing. She tired quickly. She’d lost the social skills that were necessary for politeness, so she couldn’t make new friends. She didn’t read or watch television or keep abreast of current affairs. There was nothing to talk about and nobody to talk to. Her patience with the world was low just when the world was least patient with her. Pam bore the brunt of her mother’s discontent, the burden of her isolation.

Pam’s mother’s name was Colette. There was no one Pam could talk to about her. Ernest had tolerated a few hours before he ventured an opinion that closed the topic. He felt that Pam should hire a full-time caretaker. He believed Pam was setting herself up for a breakdown when Colette died, that Pam lacked the skills and disposition to nurse her, that Alzheimer’s had already radically altered Colette from the loving mother Pam remembered, that Pam’s daily yearning for affection coupled with its disappointment and resulting pain amounted to abuse and dependency. Pam had to break the cycle, he thought. But Pam wouldn’t hear of it. Pam suffered silently the repeated blows of her mother forgetting who she was. No one knew the hurt she carried like an anvil in her heart. Ernest saw that Colette would soon die. The question was whether she’d take Pam with her.

Pam checked that her mother was taking her medication. By and large she was. She checked that she had enough cash. She did. Her mother asked whether she had a mother or father, whether she had a sister or brother still alive. Did she have any children? Just me, Pam wanted to shout. Where do I live, am I in Albany? Where do I eat? What day is it? Pam eventually said she had to go. She’d see her soon. They kissed each other’s cheeks. Pam’s mother was writing again before the door closed.

“Carrie is on special assignment. I’m standing in,” said Raylene. A circle of sunshine electrified the air around her. The sun poured through the window as though drawn to her seat and the patrons of the noodle house, denizens (if they were poor) or cogniscenti (if upwardly mobile), couldn’t take their eyes off her. Raylene basked in the double glow.

“Are you handling all her duties?” Milly asked.

“Carrie has the pharmaceutical and food inspection desk. Fred thought it made sense, because the subjects interface with law enforcement. The Chair was going to rotate between Steven Lin and Carrie, but Steven passed it up. He’s unambitious, that man. Honestly. Carrie didn’t want exclusive authority. I got the nod, because I know the system. So, for medication and what restaurants put on your plate, I’m your lady.”

“How can you know the system? You’re new.”

“Call me a quick study. Everyone had confidence in me and I chair the meetings well.”

The conversation flowed adroitly. Raylene astonished Milly. Here she was, barely into her twenties, and she stickhandled with the discreet cynicism of a campaign professional twice her age. She winked at Milly as the lunch ended. Milly wasn’t quite sure why. It might have been a younger woman fostering a connection with an older. Milly hoped the reason wasn’t more complex. She had enough subtlety in her life and – in the short run – a deluge of tasks before the 2 o’clock rush of assemblymen. The deluge amounted to petty office functions. While she daydreamed of what Raylene was after, Milly considered her schedule in the days ahead and what her drug business would demand after hours. Pam loomed like a threatening cloud on the horizon.

Two o’clock finally arrived, the hump of the afternoon. The meetings took predictable turns. The greetings were effusive on both sides. Coffee and tea were served. Milly had briefed herself on the families of each visitor. She inquired about husbands and wives, children and favourite projects. She asked to see photos. The assemblyman then had 30 seconds to outline a request. Milly repeated it to make sure she understood. “I like it. I’ll doublecheck to make sure there’s no conflict,” Milly invariable said, the biggest smile she could muster signifying her approval. The assemblyman explained further, unsure how to interpret Milly’s agreement. Then began the parting compliments, offers to help the Governor and do favours for the assemblyman. Each visitor received a choice of gift, a coffee table book extolling the beauties of New York or a native American handcarved paperweight. More smiles followed, along with avowals of desire to see each other again and firm handshakes. There was something comforting about the pattern, like fulfilment of a ritual obeisance, each segment prescribed in nature and extent, more mechanical than human act.

Which took Milly to four o’clock and a phone call from Raylene. No, Milly couldn’t meet her at five. Raylene made it plain this wasn’t a social visit. “You want to come,” she said. No, she wouldn’t explain why.

Milly walked to the Swerve, where the under 25s gathered for energetic dance and drinks. Part of a chain of drug dives Milly knew, this was the safest, the least sodden in addictive substances. Mortgage officers, receptionists, government clerks, stock brokers and trainees, wouldbees, wannabees and hopetabees, interns, university students, anyone and everyone raced home as the sun set and jumped into the coolest clothes they had. They gulped down a slice of microwave pizza and headed to the Swerve for excitement. Nothing from 8 to 4 mattered. It was the Swerve and who talked to them or danced with them and what they promised that counted.

The same people owned the Anarchist at the opposite end of town. If the Swerve was lightly dipped in the drug trade, the Anarchist was steeped to the roofline. Only a couple of clubs in Albany were independent and they’d soon go under. Milly was intimately familiarity with the Anarchist; her drug crews filtered through it all night long. Young Again was the Anarchist’s drug of choice. The Swerve was more a 1980s funky tribal scene, lights dimmed half a turn and music jammed up to blasting. Milly felt more at home in the Anarchist, but Raylene wanted to meet here. Milly wore sunglasses. She could hardly see a thing.

Raylene took her arm. “Are you visually challenged, Ma’am?” she asked. “Let me help you to a table.”

“Give me a break,” said Milly. Nevertheless she appreciated the assistance. She couldn’t see the floor.

A shy, seductive, soft-voiced sweetheart named Alyce brought drinks, and Raylene asked her, honey, to kindly leave them alone for a little while. She handed Alyce three times the price of their drinks. “The rest is tip for you, dear,” she said. Alyce smiled sweetly and invited them to signal if they wanted anything at all.

“Get to it,” Milly said, after Alyce left.

“I’m a strong supporter of Steven Lin,” Raylene said. Milly didn’t reply.

“He’ll do wonders for my career. All I have to do in exchange is pick the right bodies and protect the public. The picking is easy. We want the best advisors; it’s like an employment agency that gets the top applicants. Everyone wants to work for Brull.” Raylene’s eyes shone with excitement. “And protecting the public simply means applying common sense to science. Steven will parachute me permanently into this job after Albert is elected and what could be better? I’ll run the department competently, make piles of money and do a lot of good.”

“That’s wonderful for you, honey,” said Milly, with the gentlest trace of sarcasm. “Where exactly do I fit?”

“At the top. That’s where you fit in.”

“And how does that happen?”

“New York passes a law that everyone else will want. Albert spearheads the movement and the law creates an irresistible groundswell for his campaign. Voters nationwide support him. And no, I haven’t seen the law. Steven has a copy, but doesn’t want details to get out.”

“Ask Lin to show it to me.”

“Timing is everything.”

“Then why are you telling me now? And Arthur, not Lin, runs the department.”

Raylene laughed like a tinkle of musical chimes. She listened to her music a moment and gazed at the gathering crowd. What Milly had said didn’t seem of great moment. “You run the department, honey,” Raylene said, her voice dropped a register. It was severe and declaratory. She leaned forward. “You’ll slip the new Bill into the docket as soon as the Governor announces it. Make it seem a health emergency. It’ll be front-page headlines. Only a handful of people know about it and even we don’t know the subject matter. Start planning for a scramble in the assembly. Keep loose. Think about it to yourself. You’ll look good. Ms Competence of the year. Figure an emergency debate of six weeks for the new law. Once it’s over, you resume the session. You’ll want to be planning which Bills to pull, look at the emergency rules, organize it all in your head.”

“No, I don’t want another drink,” Milly told Alyce who’d passed by with eyebrows raised.

“You’ll be working day and night.”

“That’s no change,” said Milly.

“Handling things smoothly will make Albert look good. You can pick your job in the new administration.”

“I can?”

“Remember, Steven is Chief of Staff.” Raylene paid with cash. They didn’t talk as they left the table. “Good looking people come here,” Milly said.

“They do indeed. Interested in meeting someone?”

“I just got married,” Milly laughed.

“Nobody here looks at rings. Call me if you want something. Don’t be a stranger.”

Milly nodded.

They shook hands with brimming familiarity, successful colleagues wishing each other a pleasant evening, expecting to see each other tomorrow and the next day and the one after, indefinitely.

She held herself a long time under the hot water. Therapeutic, she thought, like a tropical waterfall. The water was calming. She didn’t want cold today. She dried herself slowly, then detoured through the dolls room before getting dressed. Standing among the still faces, the peaceful and serene creatures that humanity had devised in its own image restored her calm. The dream had dissipated though in its place there paraded light waves of terror in serried rows that still pulled and jostled against her will. Milly felt fragile. She drove her Porsche to the Quall Building, trembling slightly and watching for anything untoward. It was 7:00 a.m. when she unlocked her office door and began her daily routine.

Milly’s routine in the last month began with delegation. An eager 32 year old lawyer reviewed Milly’s email, telephone messages and memos. The same woman and a friend of similar vintage from law school screened Arthur’s incoming material and passed anything of importance to Milly along with suggested answers. The women spent twice on clothes what Milly did and it showed and Milly knew it. The women were also twice as sociable as Milly, twice as well liked, would rise twice as high in the conventional elite and wield twice the traditional power, and Milly knew all that too and didn’t care. Only a handful of communications reached Milly each day, of which Arthur would see one or two. Milly devoted herself to more complex tasks.

At precisely seven in the morning, Milly reviewed her agenda. She had a meeting in the morning and another in the afternoon. Both required preparation. At 7:15 her communications team gave her a one-page digest of the overnight messages. Milly took a fashion lesson as well. It looked like shoes were getting pointy again, and handbags smaller. Discussion of email and like material took her to 7:45. Preparation for the morning meeting began in earnest. It was scheduled for 10:00. This was a review of the proposed point men for industry in the north-eastern states. The purpose was policy and fundraising. Not that the two ever really disentangled. Their roots in the electoral system were too conjoined. Implicit in the choices lay lobbying; the industries wanted assurance that their friends were influencing the Governor’s program whatever he said for public consumption. If their pointmen held influential positions, funds would flow. The Governor wanted this. The industries would disclose their closest secrets and ensure the Governor wasn’t blindsided. The Governor wanted this as well. The pointmen had to satisfy industry and public service tests, criteria that had nothing in common. Their reality and appearance had to be squeaky clean. Checking the names was boring, but necessary. Milly also knew the fiercest battles were over apparently innocuous choices. Groups around Brull were jockeying for influence through these advisors. Milly didn’t care about most of the selections, but drugs entered the picture through a number of pipelines, any of which could cause her grief if the wrong personalities held sway. The press could make drugs a major issue on television and in print. Legitimate medication could edge into the black market. Law enforcement, the military, interest rates, any number of issues could elevate or depress Milly’s profits. And of course she had to cloak her interests under the patina of the Governor’s, as did everyone. Milly reviewed the lists of candidates for the Governor’s advisory panels. She read carefully the proposed Heads of Arthur Brull’s teams and the nominees for Chief of Staff, among which one name stood out.

Steven Lin, Chief of Staff? Someone had nominated him for the most influential position in a new administration. All appointments, be they to the Supreme Court or Department of Trade, passed through his hands. Fred, to be sure, would exert more immediate impact as executive assistant, and the Secretaries of Defence and State and others directed the vectors of the nation’s might, but the Chief of Staff could and did plant friends in key positions. He accomplished and circumvented without troubling to pass a law about it. When the Chief wanted a favour, hundreds owed him jobs and wanted promotion and would help him out. More importantly, the Chief of Staff determined who influenced the President and who was available to promote and carry out policies. When it came to making choices, the Governor as President would have team X as his eyes, ears, arms and legs instead of team Y. The Chief wouldn’t make decisions, but would create conditions that favoured the options he preferred.  The President, nine times out of ten, followed the path of least resistance.

Steven Lin. Why not? He’d support Milly for career advancement, if she asked properly. She noted beside his name that he had exceptional talent, tact and ability. Outstanding dedication, she wrote. Her list would pass to others, who’d see the special attention Lin had received. They’d remember that he knew their names and was friendly. When they needed a transfer, when their brother or cousin or sister’s fiancé was out of work again, they could hope for something from Lin. Milly’s endorsement would prompt others to do the same. It could create a landslide out of a remote prospect.

The Governor’s appointments group was checking Lin for sins of omission and commission. His resume was attached to the package of paper. A swarm of fact checkers had researched every diploma and reference he’d claimed. This was a more personal verification. Anyone who held rank in Brull’s campaign was scanning the list and seeing who’d offended them, ever, over any issue at all. If someone didn’t fit in or couldn’t get along under stress or broke out in hives on the third Tuesday in Lent, the campaign wanted to know.

The opposite was also true. If a supporter possessed multiple talents, now was the time to disclose them, when the Governor’s need was greatest. Milly wrote in Lin for law enforcement and industry. She saw he was already nominated for foreign affairs and pharmaceuticals. It was 8:30. Milly told Arthur to second her recommendations. She dealt with Arthur’s communications and set him on course for the rest of the day. He had a legislative emergency that would cause him to miss the 10:00 conference. She’d relay his views. It was almost 9:00. Milly had the rest of the names to review. Other people at the meeting would have favorites to promote. Milly’s assistants guided her through the list. She herself appeared as a nominee under gender equality and Secretary of State. There was no one else of note.

Milly had a few minutes to breathe before the meeting began. She looked at her lunch and afternoon. Lunch was with two other administrative assistants. These were power lunches, designed to share lessons and coordinate activity. They were valuable experiences. Milly liked them. They were also jungle telegraph. They allowed low and middle ranks to criticize the absurdity of their bosses. How do you cope with Jack who changes his mind every five minutes? What did George do after Wanda tore a strip off him? Are they gay? The assistants left feeling part of a like-minded whole, like football fans in the midst of a cheering stadium. The afternoon had 20 minute pockets of consultation and decision-making, mainly herself and Arthur with other staff, together with the two to four slot which consisted of input from state assemblymen and others about Bills and porkbarrelling, blue-collar sister of lobbying. Someone wanted his name on a Bill so he could show his constituents he was effective. Another assemblymen wanted an amendment to address a car insurance problem. Everyone’s back needed stroking. There were 150 state representatives in Albany, each with an ego a mile wide. Milly could sooth ruffled feathers with her eyes closed and mind in an alternative universe; she just pictured the assemblymen immobile and under glass. This was a restful day by her standards.

Raylene fingered her camisole disingenuously.

“I’m not here to play. Nor are you,” said Lin. He had the women to himself for a moment. It wouldn’t be long before someone else came over.

“We just want a good time. What’s wrong with that?”

“Your jobs won’t last. You’re too attractive. No, worse than that. You’ve made yourselves alluring. You’re a threat to every Republican wife, and their husbands know it. They’ll flirt with you, because that’s what you do with them. But nothing’s for keeps. You’ve invented a fairyland for yourselves. As soon as the party’s over, Tinkerbell flies out the window. But I know her secrets.”

“You know our secrets?” said Sylvia. “That must be exciting.”

Lin tilted his head in pretended thought. “I expect it’s new. Secret one: you’re smart, and that frightens you. You’re bored with everyone you meet. Secret two: your inflamed erotic atmosphere is a weapon whose day has come and gone. You’re bored with that too. Secret three: you’ll lose your jobs, because nobody believes sexy women understand politics. Secret four: you’re desperate for an escape and frightened to death you’ll have to keep house in the suburbs. Secret five: you’re aware of everything I’ve said. Secret six: I have the golden key you need.”

“Then maybe you’ll show it to us,” Raylene mocked.

“He’s serious,” said Sylvia.

“A serious man is an oxymoron.”

“Give him a chance.”

“I have a unique job to offer you,” said Lin.

Sylvia: “Men offer us jobs every day.”

“With a future, that doesn’t depend on your looks and fashion sense.” And Lin explained what he had in mind. Raylene and Sylvia looked at each other.

“It is unique,” said Sylvia.

“You start now.”

“We can quit anytime we want?” Raylene checked.

“The door is always open.”

Raylene wondered aloud who Lin really was, but Lin wasn’t disposed to answer.

“What do we have to lose?” asked Sylvia.

“Nada,” said Raylene.

“Do we have a deal?” Lin asked. The women nodded.

“In what way?” Andreas asked.

“His friends, knowledge of what moves the police, what they care about and ignore.”

Andreas stared at the ceiling. What twaddle, he thought. “Here’s what I understand,” he said. “You find a car outside your house with a dead body in it. You take down the licence plate. Your friends in the Governor’s office search the plate, and the rental company supplies the name of Gabriel Daloux with a Paris address. Meanwhile the car disappears with the body inside. You’re curious. You tell your friend Carrie, who asks me, and I find that Daloux has protection. I have business on this side of the Atlantic, and you invite me to these charming surroundings.” He waved his hand at the Diner.

“Retro restaurant.”

“For typical American fare.”

“That sums it up,” said Milly.

“But there’s more,” Andreas continued. The waitress came and he ordered a hamburger with the care he might have chosen lamb en croute in Paris. “Carrie has a burglary on her plate, a crime that makes no sense, and I see from the papers that the police found a body the same night. They don’t know who the dead man is. With the body was an antique doll that belongs to you. Nobody knows how the doll got there.”

“The police are looking for Daloux,” Milly said. The conversation was drifting into shoal-filled waters. She’d told Carrie to hunt for Daloux, and Carrie believed there were political motives for the killing. Milly had informed Carrie that a Senator’s support for Brull depended on the woman they shared and Daloux was related to the woman. Milly would trust Andreas in the search for Daloux, but he was sifting other facts now, information that was less well controlled. She didn’t trust Andreas in this territory.

By which point in the conversation, Brendan had reached his apartment building and let his car coast to a stop. He woke up the next morning still in the front seat,  disconcerted and alarmed. Had he blacked out?

In the Diner, Andreas had adopted a play-along strategy. He wished that, at least, there were something interesting to look at. Instead he made do with Sylvia’s décolletage. It was pleasant, but hardly fascinating. The intellectual physiognomy of the company was something else again. Sylvia had more novel ideas than Milly and hauled herself repeatedly up to higher levels of insight. Milly appeared more interested in concealment than discovery. Carrie was a military strategist; Andreas had met many of them before and they held no surprises. She might present hidden depths on another occasion, but – here and now – insight was all she allowed herself. Insight with joy and intermittent grief, like an emotional weather report of scattered showers. Andreas set himself the task of cataloguing Milly’s assumptions and tactical preferences.

They spent the evening in invasion mode, planning how to crack the French wall of secrecy around Daloux. Andreas added where he could. He was cooperative, inventive and genuinely kind. Milly admitted this to herself. He drew out Sylvia and Carrie rather than superimposing his own thoughts on theirs. Milly also noticed his personal interest in them and their disinclination to resist his charms.

But she couldn’t penetrate his skull, within whose walls were inscribed the true goals that directed his activity, and in particular Antoine’s guiding instructions. Pam Carrera and her husband would manufacture Rejuvenation; Andreas would negotiate the contract. Pam distributed Immortality; Andreas would report on how she was doing. As to Milly and Carrie, Andreas had no orders or opinion. He knew that appearances were deceiving. Americans were more sophisticated than they seemed or believed. Carrie combined sorrow with hysteria. Milly – was she Napoleon or a bureaucrat? And Sylvia fused together scintillating genius with wit in sexy plastic, perhaps dangerous, definitely not to be angered.

***

When Milly returned home, an unwelcome sight awaited her. Fred sat in her living room reading the newspaper, pipe tamped, slippers by his side. He looked every inch at home and master of the hearth.

The phone rang. His eyebrows lifted.

“Don’t even think about it,” said Milly. She listened to the caller and said it would take her 20 minutes. She looked at Fred. “Make that 40.”

They stared at each other. “I had a nightmare,” Milly said. She waited.

“What was it?” Fred asked politely.

“We got married.”

“We can fix that.” He smiled.

It was Milly’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“Through a painless divorce,” said Fred. “You mustn’t feel you’re in prison. Shall I start the paperwork?”

Milly contemplated her answer. This was the Fred Beaudine she knew, executive assistant to the Governor, accomplished in delicate matters and tact.

“Does that make sense?” Fred asked, which Milly understood in two ways. The first was partisan. To commence divorce proceedings mere days after the wedding was illogical, she heard. The second marked obedience to her wishes. I’ll start the ball rolling if that’s what you desire. If this duality wasn’t in Fred, then she herself felt it. An unwilling Milly embraced the fact. She welcomed the marriage and rejected it at the same time. The problem wasn’t Fred; it was her.

“We haven’t scattered rose petals beneath our feet,” said Fred. “We didn’t follow the wedding with the sweet perfume of intimacy.” Again Milly didn’t know how to take this. Was he saying they should have?

“Let it go, Fred,” said Milly. She herself didn’t know what she meant or wanted. The ambivalence comforted her. “I have to be somewhere.”

Fred held her. He sensed an impulse to please Milly or console himself. Beyond that he couldn’t describe his motives. But Milly lashed out. She found herself, it might have been minutes or hours later, on the floor, Fred stretched out unconscious beside her. Fred was bleeding and a broken wine bottle lay as mute testimony to what she’d done. She’d smashed the bottle over his head then blacked out.

Milly sat moaning on the edge of the couch, forehead in her hands. Her watch told her that no more than a few minutes had passed. She hadn’t planned to knock Fred out, or hit him at all for that matter. She’d had no thoughts. Quite the little automaton in fact. Fred was breathing. He’d recover and she was grateful he would. He’d done her no harm. What troubled her was that, without thinking, she’d opted for violence. Fred might have been dissuaded with words or even silence. She could have wriggled out of his arms and out the door. This Milly who reacted without thinking was a stranger, not the Milly who’d wrested a drug network from Arthur with a few carefully planned steps. This was a psychopath she might have hired, a woman who could kill Pam and go blithely on to dinner in a first class restaurant.

Milly stepped over Fred and into the shower. When she emerged, he’d gone. A bloodstain marked the rug where he’d been. Milly left the house in time to make her appointment, and on the way pondered distractedly whether the real problem wasn’t that she’d once felt consumed with passion for Fred. Her body had said yes while her mind said no. Now, after the wedding, her body said no while her mind was equivocal. She’d rewritten the script without knowing the outcome. The solution might be to simplify, say yes to the marriage and enlist Fred in the war against Pam. She couldn’t think of a reason why not, though reason alone wouldn’t decide the issue.

***

Milly kept the pedal to the floor of her Porsche. Her appointment was at a very anonymous Ukrainian restaurant that served first class food without frills. There she met a woman in dark glasses, who was systematically breaking breadsticks and flicking the debris at a wine bottle. Crumbs littered the tablecloth. After each breadstick, she swept the debris onto her plate where a neat pile had accumulated. The dark glasses were hardly needed. The restaurant was a bistro, dimly lit to reduce cleaning costs and create atmosphere. When Milly arrived, the woman was ordering a fresh supply of ammunition from a waitress who regarded the request with polite despair that signalled the approach of outrage.

Milly’s arrival deprived the waitress of courage and she retreated to the kitchen. Milly poured herself a drink. “Cheers,” said Pam. She adjusted her glasses. “I hate these, but I’d rather not be recognized. You like the wine?”

“It’s indifferent; good enough to have depth, too thin to be memorable.” Milly was shocked at Pam’s haggard appearance. She looked like a submarine Commander after a month at sea, surviving on determination and fortitude. Through the window, they could see Daniel Tompkins’ statue glistening in the rain. A few brave joggers shivered past, and a couple gazed fondly at each other in the far corner of the restaurant. Pam and Milly didn’t gaze fondly at each other.

“You promised a 55/45 division of the market,” Pam cut to the chase. “In my book, your word is your bond. If you don’t keep an agreement, you don’t deserve to live. You hear me?”

“You’re raising your voice,” said Milly. “This is a funny way to find privacy.”

Pam lowered her voice without softening it. “You’re pressing for a ten percent increase. Everyone in the street says so and the money says so. Everybody except you. And you’re the one who should have come to me with this breaking news.” Pam leaned back. “Where’s that waitress with the breadsticks?” On which cue the waitress emerged from the kitchen, deposited a basket on the table and quickly left again. “She’s afraid of me,” said Pam, breaking a stick into pieces and firing them one after the other at the bottle. “This isn’t a dispute on one of my construction sites,” Pam said. “We don’t have mediation and arbitration and nice delays till somebody gets an envelope with enough cash in it. Tell me why I shouldn’t have you killed.”

Because Steven Lin will make you fish bait, thought Milly. But she couldn’t say this. Nor could she give the real reason, that she took orders from a raspy voice on the telephone and the voice had ordered her to increase sales. The deal with Pam meant nothing in comparison. Telling anyone about the voice would cause her to lose face. Or Pam simply wouldn’t believe her. Nor could Milly give the other truth, that the deal with Pam had passed clean out of her head. Pam had refreshed her memory, but forgetting had disconcerted Milly. She didn’t forget. She never forgot. “There’s plenty of profit for both of us,” Milly said. “More so if we cooperate and Governor Brull is elected.”

Pam was derisory. “I need you, why exactly? Albert and I are friends. I raise money for the Governor, above what I give personally, which is well into the millions. And Albert doesn’t forget his friends. I don’t see why I shouldn’t kill you and take the drug market for myself.” Her eyes glistened.

Try, Milly wanted to say. She almost laughed. I’m becoming like Carrie, she thought. “Pam, you’re under strain and I don’t know why. It’s in my interests to keep our market stable. Notice ‘our’ market. Yours and mine. If I can help, I will. There’s plenty of money for both of us.” At which point, Milly drifted off through the tangled corridors of her mind. Pam was an antique doll and Milly was examining her on the pedestal provided by an auctioneer. The auction would soon start. Should Milly buy her? Pam needed repair and Milly guessed the faults lay deep. If Pam could be patched, however, no one would notice the profound crevasses and gaps in her heart. Milly would place Pam in the controlled atmosphere of her dolls’ room, where she’d thrive. Yes, it would work. Pam could enhance the rest of Milly’s team. Milly would bid for Pam. She felt herself rejoin the world, like sound suddenly recommencing after a pause.

“Giving you an extra 10% crosses every fibre of my being,” Pam was saying. “I won’t let you get away with it. It’s not just you. In construction, every penny counts. You make people comply with contracts. That’s how the world works. That’s how you make your reputation and keep it. Pharmaceuticals are the same. Open market, black market, it’s all the same. You keep your word and force other people to keep theirs. Once people know they can run roughshod over you, you’re lost, defeated, dead but don’t know it. Other people may play differently, but my style has made me rich and that’s good enough for me. I pity you. You make up the world as you go along. I live in the real one. This is about pride and staying who I am. It’s also about keeping sane. I won’t jeopardize my grip on reality for you. That’s too much to ask.”

“You’ve lost your humanity and your marbles,” said Milly. “You start with impressive words like contracts, then edge into keeping promises and forcing people to keep theirs. Then you launch a personal attack against me. You’d break a contract in a minute if you could get away with it. The motto on your coat of arms is lie, cheat and steal, and your lawyers are Sneak, Trickery and Fraud. But that’s forgivable, because scruples aren’t advertised in expensive magazines and aren’t a requirement for box seats in this country. What caps it all is your unspeakable audacity. After you attack me, you talk about yourself and say it’s all about pride and authenticity and sanity. I’m not genuine or honest. I make up the world as I go along, like – what could it be? – an opium addict. The sliding like an agitated eel from subject to subject proves you’ve slipped a gear. And the scraps of random argument against me personally, imagining I care, is insane. Think carefully, Pam.” Milly spoke gently. “You’re arguing against yourself. You’re worried about yourself. You’re the one you don’t want to share the world with. War with you would be a piece of cake. You’ll hit yourself in the jaw and knock yourself out.”

“Your spies aren’t as competent as they think. When I asked you to come to the bar alone, I meant it. Well, there won’t be a next time. You want war? Wish granted. Get your Will up to date.” Pam had been flicking crusts of bread throughout the conversation and the table was covered in mounds of flinty dough. She strode off, and the waitress approached to regard the devastation. Milly heard a car. Someone had been waiting for Pam, probably listening through a directional microphone. Milly soothed the waitress with a ten dollar bill and ordered dinner. She was famished. Lin strolled up. He asked the waitress for another of whatever Milly was having. He said he’d been a hundred yards away with a rifle. “Interesting woman,” he gestured at the table. Milly nodded and Lin sat down.

“Falling to pieces,” said Milly.

“We’ll push her over the edge when it suits us.”

“I wouldn’t count our chickens just yet.”

“Why is that?” Lin examined the wine label.

“She’s a survivor. Her record proves it. Why didn’t you shoot?”

“For the same reason the other guy didn’t. We saw each other. Besides, I was busy listening. You and Pam get along well.”

“We’ve declared war, but that doesn’t mean the fighting starts.”

“You have to resolve the 10% issue.” Lin frowned at an eggplant appetizer that arrived unannounced. “Is that Ukrainian? Or she may be goading you. She wants you to attack so she can pretend she has no choice but to fight back.”

“Pretend to whom?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

“You think she the war is a ploy to ratchet up her influence with someone?”

Lin nodded. “It wouldn’t be the first war started for that reason.”

“It’s not about money or power.”

“Not for a minute. You could create a minor surge in the market and give Pam the 10% from it. No, she’s doing something else.”

“What?”

“Yes, that’s the question. Isn’t it?”

They finished their dinner in silence, lost in the possibilities, too tired to debate. But not too tired for cold chocolate desert pears. “Yum. You chose well,” said Lin.

Sleep deprivation took its toll. The election amounted to an assault on the health of citizens willing to participate in its progress. Fast-food proliferated, pizza boxes and hamburger wrappers mounted up. Blood pressures climbed. As caution and wisdom grew more key, the physical balance that was their prerequisite dwindled inversely. Equanimity demonstrated a lack of commitment. In brief, insanity replaced reason and team spirit spread like a maelstrom, emotional epidemic and hormonal tide. The few who kept their heads were at once treasured and derided.

A perfect example concerned the Governor’s policies on health care, the pharmaceutical industry and medication. The relationship was complex. Above all, it was a moving target. Advisors had to keep abreast of science, economic impact, the insurance industry, education, regional vs national interests, and a salting of powerful lobby groups, each changing daily. Policies were proposed by committee, bounced upstairs for comment, relayed to focus groups, then reformulated by committee. A directorate examined the suggestions that emerged and kicked most back for revision. It was common for the cycle to repeat endlessly. Yet policies had to mesh. They had to sound Presidential, which seemed to mean ponderous, empty and squeaky new at the same time. They had to attract voters in critical states for the nomination then re-enter the political debate sounding fresh and triumphant. Theology in the 17th century was easier. It was certainly simpler. Lin attended his first policy meeting, his sixteenth, twentieth and twenty-sixth. He became a well-known name on the Governor’s team, a dab hand at taking notes, a fresh face among the careworn. More important, offending no one, he was trusted.

He was invited to the usual get-togethers. There was a mix-and-mingle for the Governor’s staff one evening, the hundredth or eight hundredth in a series; no one quite knew. The idea was to let a hundred flowers bloom in the garden of cinnamon buns and policies. They, the parties, were rewards for the faithful; the ideas were rewards for the candidate. Brendan came to snoop, Lin to broaden his influence.

Lin had heard about Brendan, the tall, completely bald lieutenant in the Albany police force. He’d researched the man. Brendan had no family that mattered, seemed unable to maintain friendships. He walked the narrow line between insubordination and innovation, but never closed an unsolved file. What intrigued Lin was that no one hated Brendan. Whatever Brendan did, people admired or tolerated. Brendan had that skill, rare in the gifted, of not making enemies. Lin wondered why he wasn’t a spy.

“Detective-lieutenant, what’s new on that unidentified body in the park? I hear you head the investigation.” Lin tried to look imbecilic, an egg roll in his hand.

How does he know me, Brendan asked himself. He let a few moments pass. “Any ideas?” he said.

“It happened before my arrival here.”

“Take a shot at it.”

“In fun?”

“Sure, in fun.”

“If I were writing a mystery,” Lin sketched in the air with the egg roll,” the rare doll would be critical. It’s a blatant attempt to implicate Milly. The question has to be why.”

“Why involve her?”

“Why create an inept clue?”

“To waste police time.”

“I see you’ve considered it carefully.”

“On the contrary. I welcome your ideas.”

Brendan waited, but Lin didn’t say anything else. “Let’s reverse things. You figure blaming Milly was the point of the exercise.”

“Death isn’t always what it seems.”

“I thought it was one of the few things in life that was.”

A woman with dark eyes and narrow chin was attracting a lot of attention. The short skirt she wore had something to do with it, and the lace camisole that served as a blouse. But she was making people laugh and holding her own in conversation. This wasn’t an airhead.

“Police work isn’t my field,” said Lin.

“You’re too modest for a lobbyist. They have all the answers.”

“The result of hard work.”

“Or pretence.”

“We sometimes have to seem wise when we’re just guessing. It’s an occupational hazard.”

“Common in police work as well. You like to seem wise when you know you’re lost.”

“Liking is irrelevant. But I have a question for you, detective-lieutenant, if I may admit my incompetence.”

“You aren’t incompetent at all, Mr Lin. How can I help you?”

“An unusual package arrived at Milly Troie’s house one day, addressed to a friend of hers.”

Lin seized Brendan’s complete attention. Another package sent to Milly’s house?

“It was plainly and simply a bomb,” continued Lin. “The friend was suspicious and a French visitor opened the envelope safely. There was blank paper inside wrapped around explosive. Nobody has discovered who sent it.”

Brendan champed at the bit. “Who was the friend?”

“This is all gossip, detective-lieutenant,” said Lin calmly. “I have no first hand information.”

“Why didn’t the friend call the police? That’s what we’re here for.”

“The press would climb all over the story.”

Brendan snorted. “What’s the friend’s name?”

“This was, how should I put it, a highly sophisticated device intended not to kill.”

“You said it was a bomb.”

“A device intended to be noticed. It might have gone off, if the visitor hadn’t been on the scene. To the sender’s bad luck or good. I can’t decide. There’s a connection to the body in the park.”

“Not that I can see, Mr Lin. Though you’ve succeeded in arousing my interest.”

“I apologize if that’s harmful. You were meant to connect the doll to Milly, and Milly to the killing. Not to think Milly did it, but enmesh her in the circumstances like Brer Rabbit and the Tar Baby. The bomb wasn’t meant to explode, but attract attention.”

“Who was it addressed to?”

“An important contractor, c/o Milly. The point wasn’t the bomb or the contractor, but something else. It was a test of Milly’s defences.”

“Like this conversation, Mr Lin, is a test of mine?”

But Lin was excusing himself and running off to a cluster of young men whose trousers were razor-edged and sweaters bore expensive logos. He didn’t hear Brendan’s muttered curse. Brendan stared into space, at the region occupied by the eloquent young lady wearing lingerie. He’d catch up with Lin later, when they had privacy. Pam was the addressee, Brendan thought, as sure as he was holding a glass of wine. And as sure as that woman wearing lingerie and little else had just winked at him.

Brendan was at a loss. A bomb had arrived for Milly and another for Pam? What did these women have in common? Even their ties to the Governor weren’t remotely the same. Milly was an upper echelon clerk; Pam, a close personal friend.

Brendan was getting nowhere. Transported by a virose mood of self-pity, he left the party. That fellow Lin was clever; he’d have to plan carefully before he tackled him again. What did Lin have to gain by talking to Brendan? He didn’t seem the sort to do things by chance. Lin had had a goal in mind during their conversation and it wasn’t mail delivery. Brendan felt out of his depth. Maybe the best thing he could do was nothing.

The ride home didn’t improve Brendan’s mood. What passed for an upper New York State springtime wasn’t impressive this year: rain, rain and more rain. Which stimulated Brendan’s analytical powers, because he realized his need for a liquid restorative. The Diner was on his route, and that’s where he stopped. But that’s also where he noticed Carrie Blythe, sitting with Milly and a handsome fellow with a high opinion of himself. Brendan knew Carrie through innumerable law enforcement seminars. She was capable and imaginative and had that emotional problem; no one knew what she was feeling. Tonight she looked like her best friend had died, except every few minutes she burst out laughing. What was she doing with Milly? They had no connection he was aware of. And another woman in the booth reminded Brendan of the lady at the party, the one in lingerie. Not quite reminded, because the woman in the booth looked nothing like the one at the party. Her height and build were wrong, clothes definitely different. But the sparkling eyes and effervescence were the same. With the half smile that never left their lips.

This woman was much younger. Such was the impression created by flawless skin, wasp waist and a cascade of blonde hair with whimsical red streak. If Brendan let his mind slip out of focus, the resemblance to the other woman was uncanny. He forced himself to get a grip. If I pay attention, they don’t look alike. But I definitely want my imagination to wander. Maybe my problem is not the files cluttering my desk or the weather cramping my disposition. Maybe I should just quit the police and work at 7-11.

The woman-slayer was sitting with Milly. Now, why do I think of him that way? Brendan asked himself. He ordered strong coffee to go, double-strong, triple. He winked at the waitress and walked over to the booth.

“Sylvia. She works at the Governor’s office. Andreas, a guest from France”, Milly made the introductions. Sylvia, thought Brendan. A woodland sprite. And she’s with Brull. She’s like the woman at the party after all. Brendan sensed his mind grow vague. He felt a remoteness from events and a tingling in his hands. He feared for his sanity. Brendan’s fear edged toward panic. This French Lothario, he thought hurriedly, connects Milly up with Pam. There’s a link between these two. Pam has some business over there. “What’s your last name?” he asked Andreas. And Rinehart rang a bell for Brendan, distantly as in the news, not a police wanted list.

“Andreas is one of the discoverers of Rejuvenation,” Milly explained.

And why are you having coffee with him? Brendan wanted to ask. “It’s coming to me,” he said. “There was another Frenchman, an older man, with an English name.”

Milly nodded. “Walter Emerson.”

“A genius,” Andreas said.

They didn’t invite Brendan to sit and, politics guiding every syllable and gesture in Albany, Brendan didn’t press the point. A word from the Governor’s office and he’d be working vehicle repairs or the evidence room. He excused himself, saying he had to go home and think.

“Surely you leave your work at the office,” Andreas joked.

Brendan could have said he had to go or simply smiled and said goodbye. His plans weren’t anyone’s business. “Most police work is in the head,” he told Andreas. “We gather evidence, but putting it together takes 24 hours a day. We never stop. I’m sure my French counterparts do the same.” He pasted what he hoped was a doltish expression on his face. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr Rinehart.”

We’ll meet again without the politeness, Andreas thought.