The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [52]
He felt the balance of the precisely machined device and realized the power harnessed in its small, black rectangular body.
The right tool for the right job.
twenty-two
State Senator Eleanor Linwood sat behind her massive, highly polished mahogany desk. Her auburn hair had been colored and re-cut this morning, then gelled and sprayed into place. A man, bent at her side, swiped a makeup brush across the gentle folds of her neck, attempting to lessen their prominence for the TV cameras. With gold reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, she read aloud the lines her speechwriter had prepared. “And let me state right here and now—”
“Senator.” Chief-of-staff Levar Wilson was standing in the doorway, sheaves of dog-eared papers clutched in both hands. “What are you doing?”
She waved off the man applying the makeup. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m practicing, for the press conference.”
“Senator, with all due respect, this is an extremely important speech. The public is going to see you like they’ve never seen you before; you need to make the most of this situation, seize the moment—”
“I’ve delivered hundreds of speeches over the years, Levar—”
“This isn’t a stump speech where you’re angling for votes. You’re telling your constituents they’re safe. That you’re doing everything humanly possible to catch this killer. All the mothers out there are putting the safety of their daughters in your hands. You have to show them you’re strong and in control, that you’re up to the task.”
“Your point?”
“Let’s give it a run-through in the conference room. I need to go over some details with you.”
“Do you really think that’s necessary? I’ve only got thirty-five minutes before—”
“Yes. Please come with me.”
She frowned, then gathered her papers and followed Wilson down the hall. The conference room was rectangular, twice as deep as it was wide, and large enough to accommodate a small army of press people packed a bit more loosely than sardines. A wooden podium stood alone on a raised platform against a brown curtained backdrop.
“There’ll be a cup of water on the podium. Do not touch it. You have to tell the viewers you’re working to the exclusion of everything else to keep them safe. You’re not even going to stop for a glass of water.”
“That’s a bit over the top, Levar.”
“Now,” he said, ignoring her objection, “set the papers down and grasp both edges of the podium. I hope you don’t mind borrowing a bit from the Democrats, but Bill Clinton had this down to a science. He has these large hands and he curled them around the edges of the podium, caressing it, symbolizing that he had a full grasp of the situation.”
“Levar—”
“Go with me on this, Senator. It’ll work.”
She sighed her consternation, then dropped her papers on the podium and took hold of its edges.
“No, no—stand at ease, the podium is merely a prop. Here, picture it this way. The edges of the podium are a woman’s shoulders. Pretend it’s your daughter—”
“I don’t have a daughter,” she said firmly.
“Pretend, Senator. Please.”
“Very well.”
“Hold her shoulders gently, but with authority. She’s upset about something, and you’re about to give her some comforting advice. Look into her eyes. In this case, the camera. Tilt your head,” he said, doing the same with his and waiting for her to follow. “That’s it, now pause for a second. You’re thoughtful, but deliberate. Explain to your daughter that she’s safe and that you’re going to do everything possible to look after her safety.”
Linwood’s eyes softened a bit. Wilson nodded his approval. “Good, perfect. Now, back to your papers. Pick up with the sentence, “And I promise. . . .”
THE TELEVISION ZOOMED IN on the senator’s face; this was true drama, in primetime. And it was all because of him. How flattering. Not his intention, but what the hell. We all got our fifteen minutes of fame sooner or later.
“And I promise