The Fixer
Page 44Ivy had told me to stay out of it. But Ivy had told me a lot of things over the years.
Henry had a right to know.
Across from me, he unfolded the picture and studied it for a few seconds, then set it aside and returned his attention to our project.
“Any idea where it was taken?” he asked.
“No. I can identify five of the men.” I indicated which five.
Henry weighed the tennis ball and made a mark in his notebook. “The one next to the president is John Thomas Wilcox’s father.”
That made six.
“And how many of those men are on the list you got from your mother?” I asked Henry. How many of them might have had the opportunity to poison Theo Marquette?
Henry didn’t have to consult his list. He held up two fingers.
I considered the men in the photograph, setting aside Vivvie’s dad and Pierce. The Hardwicke headmaster. The minority whip. The president. The man behind the scenes.
“Which two?” I asked.
William Keyes. That was easy. Given that we were talking about a Keyes Foundation gala, that went without saying.
My heart beat viciously in my chest as I slowly moved my finger to my second guess. Not the headmaster. Not John Thomas’s father. My finger hovered over the president’s face-you-could-trust. After a long moment, I pressed my finger down.
I wanted Henry to tell me that I was wrong.
He didn’t.
CHAPTER 41
At lunch, Henry was nowhere to be seen. He wasn’t at his usual table. Asher hadn’t seen him. Even my short acquaintance with Henry Marquette was enough for me to know that he operated according to a series of predictable algorithms. He did what he was supposed to do. He was reliable. Responsible.
Missing.
I found him in the computer lab. The door closed behind me seconds after I stepped into the room. Henry barely glanced away from the screen.
“I’m trying to narrow down a time frame on the photograph,” he told me. “Look at this.” He pulled up two digital images. “Congressman Wilcox shaved his mustache off last spring, so wherever the picture you found was taken, it’s recent. Six months ago or less.”
I processed that. Six months ago or less, Judge Pierce and Vivvie’s father had been in the same place at the same time.
“It might not mean anything.” I wanted to be the voice of reason, but I didn’t feel reasonable. I felt like we were standing on the verge of something cavernous and unthinkable and real. “The picture. The guest list for that party. It might not mean anything,” I continued, grappling for objectivity like a climber trying to hold on to the edge of a cliff. “We don’t know for sure that someone poisoned your grandfather at the gala that night, let alone if it was someone in that picture. The fact that the president and William Keyes were the only ones in both places could be a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences, Tess. Sometime in the last six months, the man who killed my grandfather and the one who paid him to do it had a little sit-down. I’ve looked for another connection between Bharani and Pierce. I skipped my morning classes to look, Tess, and I couldn’t find anything. The only connection is this photo. This meeting, whatever it was.”
I was surprised that Henry Marquette had skipped class. I wasn’t surprised that his next move had been the same as mine: to look for connections, to figure out what—besides the murder—tied the judge and Vivvie’s father together.
“There was another number on that disposable phone.” Henry was implacable. “That means there is at least one other person involved.”
Someone with access to the justice. Someone who could get close enough to poison him. Someone who could make sure Pierce was positioned to be nominated in his place.
“We don’t know a lot of things, Tess.” Henry’s voice was curt. I was starting to recognize that tone as an indication that he was clamping down on his emotions, refusing to let them gain control. “We don’t know if Pierce approached Vivvie’s dad or the other way around. We don’t know who masterminded this whole thing.” He paused. “We don’t know who your sister is working for now.”
That took me off guard.
“We don’t know what her endgame is,” Henry continued forcefully.
My mouth felt like it had been filled with sawdust. “What are you saying, Henry?”
“Your sister solves problems. Professionally. Whoever the other number on that phone belonged to, I’d say they have a pretty big problem right now, wouldn’t you?”
“Your grandfather and Ivy were friends. She would never—”
“What do you think fixers do, Tess?” Henry’s voice was maddeningly calm. “They cover things up. Even if there’s a cost. Even if they have to break a few laws to do it.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said fiercely.
“Vivvie’s father’s suicide didn’t make the papers,” Henry continued. He was like a train chugging its way toward a tunnel at a steady pace. Never slowing down. Never stopping. “Someone kept that away from the press.”
I thought of Ivy, wrangling the press outside Justice Marquette’s wake. If my sister wanted to keep something like that out of the papers, could she?
Yes.
“Everyone knows your sister works for Georgia Nolan,” Henry said. “Can you honestly tell me she doesn’t troubleshoot for the president, too?” He didn’t give me a chance to answer. “And William Keyes? He’s rich. Rich enough to pay her whatever it takes for her to protect him and his image.”
“She’s not working for Keyes.” It took everything I had not to raise my voice. “They don’t even get along.”
“Then why did his son pick you up from school last week?” Henry arched an eyebrow at me. “Word travels fast at Hardwicke, Tess. Whether you like it or not, you have to accept that there’s at least a possibility that your sister may have a conflict of interest here. And the side she comes down on may not be the right one.”