Fate of the Union

Twenty-two

Joe Reeder sat at the head of a table in the Verdict Chophouse dining room, his daughter Amy to his left, her boyfriend Bobby next to her — the kid wearing a suit for the first time in Reeder’s memory.

But then everybody was dressed up tonight, including Patti Rogers, looking very feminine in a silky-looking dark-blue dress with some neckline and pearls, in the seat to Reeder’s right. An empty chair was between her and Melanie at the far end — they were waiting for Patti’s date.

Melanie’s husband, Donald Graham, couldn’t make it because he’d been called out of town on business. Reeder had tried to sound sincere telling Mel he was disappointed, but she clearly didn’t buy it. If he could have read people half as easily as she did him, he’d have deserved his reputation.

Mel looked fashion-model lovely, as usual, in an emerald designer dress, all of that long brown hair up in a currently fashionable tower. Kind of silly looking, but he wouldn’t tell her that under torture.

His ex sipped her martini, then said, “You just never know about people.”

Reeder said, “You don’t, huh?”

“That Adam Benjamin. You really admired him, didn’t you, Joe? He seemed so strong. So warm. Always made such good sense.”

“Agree to disagree,” Bobby mumbled, and gulped his own beer.

Mel was saying, “Here he was at the head of an entire grassroots movement, richest man in America, and yet... What could make him take his own life?”

Looking like a younger version of her mother, minus the towering hairdo and in a white silk blouse and black skirt, Amy said, “I don’t think that’s so hard to figure out. So many of his friends and associates, wiped out in a crazy shooting spree. At a Holiday Inn Express? What’s that about?”

Eyes narrowing, Bobby — who could really use a haircut, in Reeder’s opinion — said, “I’m telling you, there was something going on there. I bet Benjamin was murdered. I mean, do you survive two assassination attempts and then kill yourself?”

Amy, sipping her sparkling water, shook her head. “Honey, you see conspiracies everywhere.”

“He was a real threat to the left and right both. There’s a very interesting website that suggests elements of both parties came together to get rid of him.”

Reeder said, “It would be one thing they agreed on, anyway.”

Bobby said, “Ms. Rogers, you’re in the FBI, right?”

Rogers smiled a little. “Right.”

“Do you buy what happened to that guy?”

“What guy? Benjamin?”

“No, that Carpenter character. Goes all Manson Family at the Holiday Inn, then days later shows up suddenly a suicide himself. Doesn’t it seem like an awful lot of convenient suicides to you?”

She sipped Chablis. “Not my case, Bob. Sorry.”

He smirked. “And if it was, you still wouldn’t tell me.”

Amy said, “Bobby... be good.”

Holding up a surrender palm, Melanie said, “My fault. I brought up a topic not suitable for friendly discourse at an evening out of fine dining... at my ex-husband’s expense.”

“Hear hear,” they all said, and Rogers lifted her glass to him and everybody followed suit.

Reeder tasted his beer and shrugged. “I’m with Bobby.”

Bobby blinked. “You are?”

“Yeah. I’m a big believer in conspiracies. I mean, hell, it’s only been, what? Five years since they finally cleared Oswald?”

Melanie, brightening, said to Reeder, “Say, I heard from Beth Bryson! She and Christopher just got back from Florida. Said they had a lovely vacation down there.” She shook her head, turned to Reeder. “Too bad you weren’t able to help her out, Joe, where, uh, her husband... you know.”

Reeder nodded, flashed her a sad smile, had more beer.

Unfortunately the real reason behind Chris Bryson’s “suicide” was buried in the general cover-up of the Capitol bombing plot. Nonetheless, Reeder had privately assured Beth and her son that Chris had not taken his life, and that Reeder had personally settled the score.

Not entirely true, because Carpenter’s cronies were still out there. Some day.

Mel said to Rogers, “So, Patti — where’s this guy of yours?”

“He’s just a friend.”

“Sure he is,” Amy said with a wicked little smile.

“Anyway, he marches to his own drummer.”

Reeder said, “Even when a free meal is in the offing?”

Rogers, looking behind her, said, “Here he is...”

A slender, dark-haired, very handsome guy in his early thirties — his suit a sharp gray number over a blue dress shirt, open at the neck — stood poised at the door between the bar area and the dining room.

Rogers waved him their way. He came over and stood shyly behind the empty chair beside her and she smiled up at him, squeezing his elbow.

“Everybody, this is Kevin Lockwood. Kevin...”

And she made the rest of the introductions.

Frowning in confusion as he shook hands with Kevin, Reeder asked, “Haven’t we met?”

Rogers glanced at Reeder with an impish smile. “Joe,” she said, “it’ll come to you.”