Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [80]
I barely have the phone back in my pocket before Espy grabs my arm. “What are you doing?”
I give her a wink. “I don’t have any idea.”
I’m trying to ignore the small fountain twenty feet beyond Manheim’s chair, but it’s difficult to avoid looking at it. An exquisite black onyx representation of the Egyptian god Anubis is sending a stream of water arcing from its muzzle, and I’m positioned at just the right spot for the water to appear to enter Manheim’s left ear and exit out his right. It’s all I can do to keep from laughing because, no matter who this man is, the illusion makes him seem anything but threatening. It’s equivalent to a public speaker imagining the audience in their underwear. I shift in my chair to change perspective and focus on the man who wants me dead.
By the time Manheim arrived, less than five minutes after our phone call, he had reclaimed the trappings of the consummate politician. He greeted me with a gracious smile and a handshake, as if we’re two old school chums reconnecting after several years, but I refuse to exchange pleasantries with Will’s, and possibly Al’s, killer.
We are semisequestered in a small oasis of comfortable chairs in a lounge area somewhere behind the Members Hall, only accessible by traversing a corridor barred to the general public.
A distinct odor of cigars lingers in the air, and this, coupled with the fact that it’s hidden in plain sight, gives the room a Masonic feel. I imagine this is one of the areas where the more senior representatives gather to unwind, to share in a camaraderie that transcends their respective political affiliations. With a start, it occurs to me that this is what I’d been expecting when Reese’s butler led me to the old man’s drawing room.
It bothers me that Espy and I are alone with this man, that we have been whisked away from the more public areas. Still, if I concentrate, I can hear the muffled sounds of people talking and milling about on the other side of the wall, which teases me with an unwarranted sense of safety. If Manheim has a gun equipped with a silencer, it is no help that we’re close to the main transit area. He could pop us both, and the gawking tourists would never know. And yet my impression is that, whatever his other work, the business that involves me is separated from his political service. He will not bring it to this place.
Manheim’s hands rest on the knee of his pressed slacks, and his expression is one of patrician warmth. Esperanza occupies a seat to my right, but beyond a perfunctory greeting back in the lobby, the Aussie has all but ignored her. This isn’t about anyone but Manheim and me.
“Can I ask what brings you to Canberra, Mr. Hawthorne?”
“You can ask, but I think it’s a waste of time. You already know why I’m here.”
At first he offers a smile and a head shake, but then his lips compress and the smile disappears. He leans forward and his eyes flick over me with undisguised distaste. “I’m going to have to ask you to remove your coat.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your coat, Dr. Hawthorne. I need you to take it off.”
I’m sure the look on my face conveys my puzzlement, yet Manheim seems unmoved.
“If you wish this conversation to continue, you will do as I ask.”
His body language leaves no doubt that if I do not comply he will end this meeting. And I’ve come too far to allow something unexpected, something seemingly harmless, to derail this train. I stand and slip out of my coat and then hand it to the Aussie when he reaches for it. He gives the thing a thorough pat-down, even turning the pockets inside out like a jail guard searching for contraband. The effort yields a few receipts and a half-empty pack of chewing gum, and he replaces these and then returns my coat. He looks at Esperanza.
“And you?”
Espy’s first response is to glower at him, but then she, too, seems to sense the tenuousness of the situation. Without a word, she slips out of her jacket and hands it to Manheim. He repeats the pat-down procedure, then returns the garment.
“Satisfied?” she asks.
“Hardly.”
He reaches a hand