least. This time, though, he wasn’t all that sure she didn’t mean it.
“You never told me not to invest in apartment buildings—”
“Tenements, Patrick—tenements. I…am…a slumlord.”
She pushed herself away from the desk and in turning, caught Doveman’s eye. Just for an instant, but that flash of blue cut into his heart like a steely knife. Easy, baby-girl, his old whiskey-burned eyes said back to her, singing the song he’d sung to her for so many years. Doveman knows how you’re hurtin’. Doveman understands.
But she pivoted away from his eyes, body still tense, not ready to hear him yet. “Well. So now somebody’s died.” Her voice was hard, harsh, trying so hard not to show any emotion at all. “What now? Am I being sued?”
Kaufman shook his head. “No, not yet, anyway. This citizens group—apparently they just want you to meet with them, talk about what needs to be done. They said—”
“So do it.” Phoenix waved a regal hand in Patrick’s direction, apparently forgetting already that he was by her own decree no longer hers to command. “Meet with whoever you need to meet with. Find out what they want and give it to them. And no publicity, do you understand? Whatever it takes— What?” Kaufman was slowly but firmly shaking his head.
“I said you. It’s you they want to meet with. They made that very clear. They want you to meet them at the building where—” Now Phoenix’s head was going back and forth like a mechanical doll’s.
“No. No way José. Not even if Hell freezes over.”
“Then there will be publicity,” Kaufman said flatly. “That they’ve promised, and I think you’d be wise to believe them. The media has already been all over this. Be thankful it’s not an election year, or it would probably be worse. As it is, it’s a five-minute wonder—Young Ghetto Mom Seeks Relief From Heatwave, Dies in Balcony Collapse; Slumlord Sought. Film At Eleven! Tomorrow it’ll be old news.” He paused, rocking slightly in his swivel chair. “Unless, of course, somebody gets hold of the juicy little factoid that the slumlord in question is none other than the rock icon known as Phoenix. Who, by the way, currently happens to be in town preparing to launch a career comeback with a new album and world tour….”
“Tell them here,” Phoenix whispered, after a tense and prolonged silence. Perhaps only Doveman could see that she was trembling. “I’ll meet with them here, in this office—that’s it, or nothing. Let them go to the media if they want. Then they can sue me. And see how long it takes before they get one dime out of me!”
With her panther’s stride she crossed the office and was out the door. While Kaufman let go a hiss of breath, Doveman gave a shrug, picked up his stained and crumpled fedora and followed.
In the elevator, Phoenix leaned like an exhausted marathoner against the back wall. She heard Doveman step on just before the door closed, but he didn’t speak and neither did she. Behind her usual pair of mirrored sunglasses, her eyes were shut tight. There was a brassy taste in her mouth, and a sickening lurch in her stomach that had nothing to do with the elevator’s controlled plunge.
Tenements. Dear God, she owned tenements. She— Joanna Dunn—was a slumlord.
Somewhere God—no, not God. Somewhere the Devil must be laughing.
Momma, we’re cold. Can me and Jonathan and Chrissy get in bed with you?
That was what she remembered most—the cold. But it wasn’t cold that had killed this woman…this Louise Parker. It was the heat. All she’d wanted was a little breath of air.
“Doveman,” she said in a raggedy croak, “I didn’t know.”
He replied, his voice husky with more than the lifelong effects of whiskey and cigarettes, “I know, child. I know.”
Father Frank had tried his best once again to convince Ethan to skip the meeting.
“We promised her no publicity,” the priest had argued. “What if somebody spots you and follows you? The cat will be out of the bag for sure, and there goes any hope we have of a quick resolution.”
Ethan promised to keep a low profile. He was confident he could—he’d gotten very good at eluding reporters over the years. Now and then even his Secret Service agents—to their extreme dismay—found themselves guarding an empty nest.
“I know why you want to go so bad,” Father Frank teased him. “You just want a chance to see Phoenix up close and personal. Hey—you think I don’t know? Whose picture do you think was taped inside my locker door all through high school?”
“Sure, I want to see her,” Ethan said, not smiling back. “I want to see her face.”
He couldn’t have said why it shocked him so profoundly to learn that one of his all-time favorite singer-songwriters—the one responsible for the music that had fueled his idealistic fervor all through college—was, in fact, a slumlord and the person responsible for Louise Parker’s death. Or what he hoped to see in her face—the face that had filled his adolescent dreams—as she confronted Louise Parker’s neighbors. Repudiation, maybe? Say it ain’t so, Joe. He only knew that thinking of his favorite Phoenix songs, like “Fire On The Water” and “City Woman”—more poignant and gut-wrenching than “Pretty Mary” as far as he was concerned—now left him with a bitter taste in his throat, and a very personal sense of betrayal and loss.
So, while wild horses couldn’t have prevented Ethan from attending the meeting in Phoenix’s business manager’s high-rise office, in keeping with his promise to Father Frank, he was doing his best to keep from being noticed. Which was proving to be more difficult than he’d anticipated.
He supposed he couldn’t really blame Phoenix for not wanting to confront the delegation of citizens in the intimate confines of her business manager’s office. Instead, she’d chosen to hold the meeting in one of the building’s conference rooms. Designed for corporate business meetings, its furnishings consisted of a huge expanse of polished tabletop surrounded by sumptuous leather-upholstered chairs. At the head of the table, a polished wooden lectern flanked by potted dracaena plants loomed before a screen worthy of a small multiplex. It was a room designed to intimidate corporate vice presidents; it would have taken much less to awe the small group of people that stood shifting their feet on the plush burgundy carpeting.
Having been shown into the room by an aloof secretary and left to their own devices, the delegates—Father Frank and Ruthie Mendoza, Mrs. Schmidt, Kenny Baumgartner from EMS and six residents from The Gardens, eleven in all including Ethan—rather tentatively selected seats around the huge table. No one spoke; the only sounds were some rustlings and scrapings, nervous throat-clearing, a subaudible hum of tension.
A door, cleverly hidden in the design of the paneling to the left of the movie screen, swished silently open. There was a collective intake of breath, followed by a disappointed exhalation as a tall but slightly built, rather stoop-shouldered man came into the room. He moved without hurry, pausing just short of the lectern to make eye contact with those seated around the table and to introduce himself as Phoenix’s business manager, Patrick Kaufman.
“We come to see Phoenix,” one of the tenants, a balding, heavyset black man in his early sixties said in a loud, belligerent voice, which prompted several of the other delegates to nod and mutter in agreement, much like an evangelical congregation murmuring “Amen.”
The
