path: root/CH-4.txt

"That's no reason not to vote his way." Charley looked completely serious. For a split second Reese considered launching himself over the massive desk between them and trying to strange Charley for being so pragmatic. It was like the man had no idea what principles were. But then that was part of why Reese depended on him. 

Reese always knew what he should do. 

Charley always knew what Reese needed to do.

"Charley, there are half a dozen reasons," Reese stood up wearily and walked around the front of the desk, slide an ornate fountain pen holder out of the way and sat down on the edge.  "My personal favorite though is that Bill Tyson is an asshole. The biggest asshole in the party if you ask me." Resse crossed his arms and leaned back. His office was bigger than what most junior senators were afforded. Reese knew his father was behind that somehow, though he had never been able to figure out precisely how. In the end he had given up and moved in. But he had insisted on bringing his own desk, his own bookshelves, his own chairs, all from the governors mansion back in TK. The bookshelves were even filled with his own books, most of which Reese had actually read, something that never ceased to amaze reporters who would notice the spine of some poetry volume or a novel and, thinking that Reese wouldn't pick up on a quote, would drop one in casual conversation when they could, to try to trip him up and at a little humor to their otherwise doomed for the back pages pieces. But Reese rarely missed the allusions and never the quotes. His sister was a poet, he read what she sent him. Eventually word got around that TK had a literate junior senator and, at least for now, the press had been almost universally kind. It had even started to move from the back pages. Of course it didn't hurt that he was the same age as John F Kennedy had been at his prime or that he looked the part as well, slightly wavy dark hair that framed a face that had attracted no shortage of dates, though thus far no Mrs. Bradford.

"I could find you plenty of people with reason to say Reese Bradford is an asshole." Charley chuckled. His chair creaked as he leaned back and grinned up at Reese. "Shit, I meet people who think you're an asshole just because of your name." 

Reese cringed, but he knew Charley was right. As usual. It wasn't Reese, or at least it was rarely Reese. Few people who had ever met him had, to the best of his knowledge, ever called him an asshole. Some people didn't like the color of his skin, which was too white to be from Maryland and definitely too white to be running against an incumbent black president. But the reason most people didn't like Reese was because his father was rich, and by extension, in most people's minds, so was he. In truth he was rich. And in truth he had not earned any of the money. In a way I am an asshole, he thought. I should just give it away, give everything away and join a monastery and then after a while come back and say hey everyone, here I am, I have no money, I am poorer than you, will you have me now? But Reese knew they would not. The only thing more offensive to someone struggling to get by than being rich is to be rich and renounce your riches. Fuck you and, oh fuck you again. 

Reese sighed. "Goddamn name." 

Charley groaned. "Please. Spare me the hardships of being a Bradford." 

The smile had left his face and Reese realized that on the family score, even Charley had lost faith in him. 

"Look, just give the asshole your vote. Get his pork bill that no one cares about through the committee no one really cares about and we can nudge someone else to shoot down later if it really bothers you that much. Or you can get over it by then and focus on getting some face time in New Hampshire. Either way, we win and no one really loses." Charley smiled again. "But if you really want to fuck Bill Tyson," Charley raised his hands and sighed, "you can. I mean, don't let me stand in your way. But do recognize that you won't be fucking him very hard or very well. And he will come back on you. He'll turn around in fuck you like sailor on shore leave when we head up to New Hampshire. Shit, you won't even been able to get your face on a milk carton, let alone in the debates."

"All right, fine. I'll let it go... what else is there today?"

Charley pulled up his tablet and skimmed down the list. "A few signatures Ev will bring by when we're finished, a couple meetings this afternoon and, oh, your father called."

                           
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"Let me get this straight, you think you can go through the service records and match the enlistment photos, or whatever photos you have against the guys " Steven was talking with his mouth full again. Chase cringed and wondered how he could fail to realize he was doing it. She had tried to tell herself that maybe the sight of partially dissicated hambuger was art. Living art. She had failed. Now she just insisted they sit side by side at a counter whenever they went out for lunch. 

"That's the plan yes." She sipped her coffee, felt the acid rumbling in her stomach. 

"Well, okay, if you help me with this Parsons case then I'll help you pull these files." Steven pushed back the plate of fries and twisted on his stool to face Chase. "Have you told Littrell what's going on?"

"Of course not." Chase liked her boss. Littrell shared her genuine enthusasim for the work. She had actually spent most of the morning debating whether or not to tell him about her freelance case as she had come to think of it. But she couldn't shake the feeling that that was exactly what her anonymous tipster -- her employer she thought suddenly -- wanted her to do. She didn't want to give them the satisfaction until she had the satisfaction of knowing who they were. "Besides I've already run his name through everything we have. I know as much as you do. Those files you found in the main library are still all I have." Chase turned all the way around and looked out at the street. It was finally Autumn. People had on overcoats, the northern winds were starting to blow. 

"That's not true. There was a handwritten note in the file right?"

Chase nodded.

"That means someone else looked into the case at some point... What sort of paper was it?"

"What?" Chase had only been half listening, watching a man parked across the street, sitting in a green Jaguar, reading a newspaper. "What sort of paper? I don't know, paper."

Steven turned around again. "Pull the file again, figure out what kind of paper it is."

"Why the hell do I care?"

"Because it might give you some clue as to when the person looked into it. Figure out when and you might be able to get Littrell to pull the assignments log and find our who looked into it. Then you can find out what they know." Steven smiled, clearly proud of this leap of logic, which, Chase had to admit, was pretty good.

"All right. I'll do that tomorrow, this afternoon I'm dedicating to your Sgt. Parsons."



Even with Steven's help it took them the rest of the week to match the service photos to the men in Norm Canton's squadron christmas photo. Int he end they came up to two short. One was a short stocky dark haired man sitting on the wing of a P29, legs dangling in the air above the others in the photo. He was one of five that had climbed on the plane which led Chase to think perhaps he was her man, since she considered it unlikely that enlisted men, squardon mechanics would be climbing on the wings of the plane, but she couldn't be sure since most of the men were not in uniform and those that were, she still couldn't make out their ranks. She'd tried putting the image under a microscope, but it hadn't help. She'd scanned it and sent the file to the tech departmnet but they just looked at her like she was insane when she asked if they would enhance the photo. She heard them laughing as she walked down the half to the elevator. '

The other unknown man in the image was squatting down in the very front, sandy hair swept back with pomade. His smile leaped out of the photo and Chase seriously doubted that he was the sort of man anyon would forget. There did seem to be something mischeivus in his eyes though, or perhaps, she thought, I've been spending way to much time staring at this photo. She flung the image across the table and closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose. "Damnit" Her voice startled her in the quiet of her apartment. She got up and opened the fridge looking for something to eat. There was some week old chinese and half a bottle of Rose. She grabbed the wine and flopped down on the couch. She pulled out the cork with her teeth and drank from the bottle. The only way to drink Rose she thought with a giggle.

The note inside the file proved to be from a medium size legal pad varieties of which had, according to Steven's extensive searching, been manufactured for over thirty years. At first she considered this no help at all, but Steven pointed out that while it was unlikely she'd ever know who had put it there she did know that apparently the DPMO had at most started looking into Lt. Lawrence in the early to mid 1970s. In other words it was unlikely any family had been pestering the department after the war. It was unlikely that anyone had missed Lt. Lawrence.

Chase was restless. She opened the back door and went out to the balcony. It was a lovely night, crisp and clear. She stared up at Big Dipper, followed Orion's belt down the horizon were the faint purple of the distant sunset still lingered. She drank more of the wine, sat down in the white pastic chair left by the previous tenant. She could smell the Potomac, she thought about the river, running by somewhere down the hill, running down to the Cheasepeake, join the bay anbd heading out the sea. All that water disappearing into so much more water. All those people disappearing somewhere, disappearing into so much water, so much time.

The chime of her phone broke the peaceful still of the night. She shivered and went inside. It was a number she didn't know.