days interrogating gang members about a gang-related murder and random muggings? Marieâshe had always called her mother, who had adopted her when she was five, by her first nameâwas in New England visiting a cousin, but Catherine had gone to dinner several times with friends. A couple of times, she had gotten together with Dulcie Oldman, who had been helping her understand her Arapaho heritage, ever since she had discovered last year that she was part Arapaho. She had called Dulcie and gotten her voice mail, and at some point, she had dragged the wine bottle from the back of a kitchen cabinet.
She had just poured another cup of coffee when she glimpsed the name âMathewsâ in the crawl on the TV screen. She moved closer, sipping at the coffee and trying to block out the muted TV voices. The crawl started over. âPolice report body of man found shot to death at home of David Mathews, candidate for governor in Colorado. No further details available. Stay tuned to Channel 9 for breaking news.â
She set the cup down and went looking for her cell phone, which she found on the table next to her bag. A feeling of unreality washed over her, like the feeling sheâd had when she awoke, as if the world were rearranging itself in inexplicable ways. She had covered David Mathewsâs campaign for the Journal , the rallies and speeches, the photo-op visits to retirement homes and veteransâ halls and Little League ballparks. Rumors swirled about the candidateâfinancial improprieties, shady business deals, extramarital affairs. She had never succeeded in running down any of them. They were like the dull throbbing in her head, elusive and maddening and persistent. Mathews ran a well-organized, efficient campaign, and if there was anything to the rumors, the evidence had been buried so deeply she doubted it could ever be uncovered. All sheâd had were notes, conjectures and innuendos, nothing she could write that wouldnât invite a libel suit. But all of her investigative reporterâs instincts told her that something about the perfect candidate was not quite perfect. Now someone had been shot to death in Mathewsâs home.
She punched the button for Marjorieâs number. It was still early, a little before seven by the silver watch that dangled on her wrist. Marjorie Fennerman, Journal managing editor, would not be in yet, but calls would be transferred to her home, and Marjorie would decide which to answer and which to ignore. After three rings, Marjorieâs voice said, âI was just about to call you. Youâve heard the news?â
âWhat exactly is the news?â
âThe night editor heard the police radio and recognized the address. All we know is what youâve seen on TV. Dead body. Male.â
âMathews?â
âThe police arenât saying until they have an ID. Jason is on the way over there.â
âJason? Iâve been on David Mathewsâs campaign since he announced he was running. This is my story.â
âJason has the police beat.â
âHe doesnât know anything about Mathews.â
Catherine listened to the slow, thoughtful breathing at the other end, finally broken by Marjorieâs voice. âGod, itâs too early in the morning for this. Gubernatorial candidate, thirty points ahead in the polls, certain to be elected, has either been shot to death or could be involved in somebody elseâs death. The national news will be all over it, but itâs our story, and I have no intention of being scooped by some carpetbagger from the New York Times . Weâre the experts on Mathews. No doubt the campaign and party hacks will issue a lot of stupid press releases. I want you to get the facts behind the releases, work in the background stuff on Mathews and the campaign. Jason will stay on the police investigation. Oh, and I want to see you when you get back from Mathewsâs house.â
David Mathews